The Truth About Gemma Grey: A feel-good, romantic comedy you won't be able to put down

by Sophie Ranald

  “And lots and lots of toys,” Charlie said.

  “But she’s already got a favourite,” said Gus.

  The camera cut to the puppy, crouched on the floor, determinedly chewing something.

  “She’s teething, the vet says,” Charlie said. “He said we basically need to lock away everything we don’t want destroyed.”

  “Charles here has put his trainer collection into a safe-deposit box in the Cayman Islands,” said Gus.

  Charlie threw a pillow at his head and the two of them wrestled briefly on the red sofa.

  “No, but seriously,” Charlie said. “Look at her! Seek and destroy!”

  Gus threw the toy across the room and the camera shakily followed it as the puppy sprinted after her quarry and fell upon it. I watched as Gus went after her and pulled one end of it and Taylor, growling a tiny puppy growl, pulled back. I could hear Charlie laughing as he zoomed in on them.

  The toy looked different from all Taylor’s other new, brightly coloured things – it was greige and a bit shapeless, but the puppy was moving so quickly, shaking her head and struggling to get a purchase with her back legs on the slippery floor, that it was hard to tell what it was.

  Then Charlie got the focus sorted, and I could see properly.

  It was Stanley.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It was Friday evening, late opening at Brush, the swankiest hair salon I’d ever been to. The room was crowded, but the vibe was buzzy rather than frenetic. I’d been greeted by name and given a cocktail and a stack of glossy magazines, and seated at the colourist’s station while I waited for her to finish with her previous client. And now, she was standing behind me, examining my hair with an expert eye that was rather more critical than I would have liked.

  “So, I was thinking maybe I could go platinum,” I said. “Not, you know, Gwen Stefani blonde, but properly silver. Or even blue, or indigo.”

  “I’m not sure I’d recommend that.” Gentle, expert hands lifted up a lock of my hair. I could see them in the mirror, gold nails catching the light from the chandelier as they parted the strands, assessing and analysing. “Jesus. You haven’t been using professional products, have you, Gemma? What have you been putting on your poor hair, Fairy liquid?”

  “Just normal stuff,” I muttered. “You know, from Boots? Are you saying you can’t do it?”

  “I’m saying I won’t,” she said. “Honestly. You have such beautiful hair, but you haven’t been taking care of it, you’ve let it get far too long for its condition or your face shape, and now you want to bleach the hell out of it? I’d be doing both of us a terrible disservice if I allowed that.”

  She peered more closely at my hair, and her face in the mirror went from disapproving to downright accusatory. “Gemma. You’ve been using box colours, haven’t you? I can see the product build-up – look. See the difference in the colour between the mid-lengths and the ends? Stripping all this out would take ages and wreck what little condition you’ve got left. We’re going to have to take at least four inches off as it is.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “I came all the way here because you invited me for a colour and cut, and now you’re giving me a massive telling-off. Don’t you know who I am?”

  “I give all my clients the same advice,” she said. “The right advice. And in your case, it’s keeping the colour warm, with just a few foils – yes, I know that’s totally 2014, but so is your hair. When you’re tired of it, we can cut it off. And today, we’re going to be cutting off lots already. Then we’ll do a treatment to add some protein back. And you need to sort out your diet, because your hair is telling me it’s not good, even if you’re not.”

  “Can I have another French 75, at least?” I said.

  “I don’t see why not,” she said. “But you should have a glass of water, too. Your skin’s looking a bit dehydrated. Toby will get it for you while I mix your colour.”

  She gave my hair a final, despairing tweak between her fingertips and sighed. I’m pretty sure she rolled her eyes to heaven, but I didn’t quite see, because I was rolling mine, too.

  “Thanks, Mum,” I said.

  “So it didn’t work out with them, then?” Mum said, twenty minutes later, folding foil around a section of my hair. I noticed, as I had so often before, how easy it was to talk to Mum in the salon while she was doing my hair, because all around us other clients were spilling the most intimate details of their lives to their stylists. I’d felt quite comfortable telling her what Shivvy had told me about Jack and Olivia. No one would even bother listening to what I saying, even if they could hear me over the roar of high-powered hairdryers and the Doors playing in the background. And also, with her standing behind me, I didn’t have to look into her eyes and see whatever judgements she might be making; I could just wait for her wise, measured response, as hairdresserly as it was motherly.

  “Apparently not,” I said. “But I don’t know – all I’ve got to go on is what Shivvy said. And I don’t trust her; I never have.”

  “Mmm,” Mum said.

  “Jack hasn’t posted anything on Instagram for a couple of weeks,” I said. “Olivia’s just wanking on about yoga and organic veganberries, same as usual.”

  “I never liked that girl,” Mum said. “But she does know how to take care of herself. You could do with a few organic veganberries yourself, sweetie. You’re very thin. But anyway, Charlie – are you having fun together?”

  My throat closed up. I didn’t know how to tell Mum how I was feeling about Charlie. If it had just been the misgivings I had about our relationship, Gus’s resentful presence, the pressure from Sloane to model cheerful togetherness without any hint of actual sex – the chasm I’d felt opening between my online life and my real one, in which work happened, Hannah and Richard happened, Raffy happened… I didn’t know if I could. But I could try.

  But then there was Stanley. And I know exactly how silly and pathetic this sounds, but what had happened to Stanley was the single biggest thing that was making me think that I couldn’t carry on going out with Charlie. Like I said – pathetic. As far as Charlie was concerned, Stanley was just a toy; just a shabby old bear who sometimes appeared in my videos, who I’d brought one day to the flat in my bag. I suppose he thought it was an affectation – something to make me seem more childlike and appealing to my viewers. He couldn’t know just how important Stanley was to me. But at the same time, he should have known. And every time I thought of Stanley being mauled by the puppy, and Charlie and Gus laughing about it, it made me cry.

  And Mum would get it – she totally would. Whenever I packed my bag to go back to uni after holidays, Mum would hover around asking me if I needed help folding my clothes and giving me samples of hair products from the salon and generally being a mum, and every time, when I was finally all packed and ready to go, she’d say, “Don’t forget Stanley.” (As if, mother!)

  Because she knew. When I was little, I used to make her tell me over and over again the story of how when I was a baby and screaming the place down and no amount of shushing and bouncing from her (or even from Dad, when he was there) would shut me up, she’d stick me in my Moses basket with Stanley and go out into the garden for a fag, to get a bit of peace and quiet (and stop herself screaming the place down too, I realised when I was a bit older), and when she came back she’d find me contentedly sucking one of his ears. She’d seen me in floods of tears on my first day of school, because Stanley wasn’t allowed to come too. She’d heard the endless conversations I had with him (one-sided, admittedly), in which I narrated out loud the adventures we had together, and she’d read the stories I filled numerous exercise books with about them (reader, I present that neglected classic Gemma and Stanley Explore the Amazon).

  I knew she would understand how I felt, and I knew a part of her would feel the same. And so I couldn’t tell her that Stanley wasn’t part of my life any more.

  Instead I said, “Charlie’s fun. But I don’t know whether it’s serious really – not lik
e I thought Jack and me were.”

  Mum said, “Jack’s a lovely boy. I’m sure Charlie is too. You’re sensible, sweetheart, you’ve got good judgement. But at your age, relationships are about finding out who you are, as much as about being with someone else. Does that even make sense?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “You see, Darren and me,” Mum said, carefully folding another piece of foil around another strand of my hair. “When I met him, he seemed so glamorous. He had whole armies of girls after him, and it was me he picked. I was so thrilled that this older man – he was twenty-six and I was only twenty-one, so not a big difference, but it felt like lightyears – was paying attention to me. He knew everyone, he had lots of money, he took me to clubs and restaurants I’d never have been able to get into on my own.”

  Mum had told me this stuff before, but I’d never really thought about it in the context of my own life, other than to think that as soon as she heard Dad’s name was Darren, she should have run for the hills. Now, though, I wondered whether Charlie’s fame, his good looks and glamorous life were a part – even the biggest part – of why I was going out with him. I didn’t think so – I never had thought so. It was his sweetness, his sexiness, his ability to make me laugh that I liked, I told myself. The rest was just gravy.

  “Anyway,” Mum went on, “of course if I’d taken the time to get to know him better, I’d have realised that he was completely wrong for me. But then I had you – which I don’t regret one tiny bit, of course – and it was too late for me to change my mind, because even after he left, he’d always be your father. But if I’d been sensible about it – even a little bit sensible – I’d have realised that I was far too young to settle down with anyone, even if I’d met someone who was perfect for me, because you’re changing so much in your early twenties it’ll probably be about six weeks before they’re not perfect any more.”

  I watched my refection in the mirror nod in agreement – although what I was actually thinking was that I was exactly the same now as I’d always been. It was my circumstances and the people around me that had changed, I thought, not my actual self.

  “And there’s nothing wrong with being single, you know,” Mum said. “Look at me. I’ve been single for years and I’m perfectly happy.”

  “How come you go on all those Guardian Soulmates dates then?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  “I’m allowed to keep my options open, aren’t I?” Mum said. “George Clooney and Amal might split up and he might come looking for love on Soulmates. Anything could happen. Besides, I like meeting new people, even if some of them are… not exactly every single woman’s dream come true. But unless – until – I meet someone who I really, really feel makes my life so much better that I can’t imagine it without him in it, I’ll carry on on my own. And if no one comes along, I’ll get a cat.”

  I took another sip of my fizzy cocktail, impressed by her pragmatism. But then, I reminded myself, Mum was old. She’d been married, she’d had a child, she’d done the whole romance thing. She and Dad has had a totally fabulous wedding with her in a white frock (hideous, admittedly, with a sweetheart neckline and a fishtail skirt). She could afford to turn her back on relationships and be super-fussy. I couldn’t. If I was single now, who was to say I wouldn’t stay single forever and ever?

  “Right,” Mum said. “I’ll leave you to cook for twenty-five minutes, then we’ll stick on a toner and a treatment, and then I am cutting off those ends, and nothing you can say or do will stop me.”

  An hour later, Mum whisked the nylon gown off my shoulders, gave my hair a final swish through with a paddle brush, and said, “There. Now that’s a bit of an improvement, isn’t it?”

  When I’d arrived in the salon, my hair had been more than halfway down my back, way below my bra strap, and mostly a kind of streaky, dirty blonde that was meant to be a bit Cara Delevigne but, thanks to me leaving it way too long between colours, was more Cruella de Vil. Now it was six inches shorter, a coppery caramel colour, and seriously shiny in spite of being all sort of beachy and un-done. It made my eyes look really green, although they’re actually a rather dull in-between hazel.

  “What do you think?” Mum said.

  “It’s way too short,” I said. “Seriously, I’ve got hardly any hair left.”

  “Nonsense,” Mum said. “It looks longer than it did before, straggling down your back like that. It’s got proper structure now, and movement. And more importantly, it’s got a bit of condition back. Now I’m going to give you some products and you must promise to use them, and not leave it any longer than six weeks before you come and see me again. Right?”

  “Right,” I said. Then I gave her a massive hug. “I love it really,” I said. “You’re quite good at hair, you know. You could do it for an actual job.”

  “It helps to have such a pretty model,” Mum said, glancing at her watch. “I’ve got another client coming in five minutes, then I’m done for the night. Shall I pick up a bottle of wine and some Wagamama on the way home?”

  I was about to say that sounded like a pretty amazing plan to me, when the bell over the salon door pinged and a voice behind me said, “I haven’t got an appointment, but is there any chance you could fit me in for a cut?”

  I froze, then very, very slowly turned around. Jack was standing by the reception desk.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Carly, the receptionist, said, “but we’re closing in an hour and we’re fully booked for the rest of the evening. Fridays are always so busy. Maybe you’d like to come in next week?”

  “That’s okay,” Jack said, sidling back towards the door. “It’s completely fine. Really. I’ll ring next week, or drop in. I…”

  But he’d reckoned without Mum. She descended on him like vultures would descend on dying antelope if they knew how to do it so casually that the antelope would think it was just going to be given a head massage, or something.

  “Jack!” she said. “I hardly recognised you. You look so tanned, and your hair… How sweet of you to pop in. But we’re rushed off our feet here tonight, so we can’t… but Gemma’s here…”

  And she glided away, leaving Jack and me staring at each other.

  Jack said, “Hi.”

  I said, “Hello.”

  Jack said, “I thought…” at the same moment I said, “I was just…”

  Then our eyes met, and we both laughed. It was an awkward, uncomfortable laugh, but still.

  Jack said, “Shall we go for a drink?”

  I said, “Okay. That would be nice.”

  I looked around for Mum, to tell her that I was going to be late for our Sauvignon and udon rendezvous, but she’d disappeared discreetly off to mix a colour for her last client.

  “All Bar One?” Jack said.

  I remembered the last time we’d been there, the night that was supposed to be a celebration of my new job but instead turned out to be the beginning of the end of our relationship, and shook my head.

  “Bearded Clam?” I suggested.

  “But isn’t it karaoke night?” Jack said.

  “That’s Saturday, remember?” I said. “We’re safe.”

  It was really weird how, walking down the familiar street with him, our shoulders almost but not quite touching, going to the bar and ordering a glass of wine for me and a pint of Guinness for him, it felt like the past five months hadn’t happened – like we were still together, my hopes for our future still intact.

  We pushed our way to the last spare table and sat down, resting our elbows on its slightly sticky surface. Jack took a deep gulp of his drink.

  “God, that’s good,” he said. “I’ve missed this stuff.”

  “Surely you can get Guinness all over the place?” I said. “It’s a global mega brand, isn’t it?”

  Jack said, “Yes, but I – we – I mean, Liv, mostly, wanted to have an authentic experience. So we ended up drinking local drinks in little local bars and eating local food, and some of it was really gross. The first t
hing I did when I got home was go to the chippy.”

  Part of me longed to question him further about Olivia, but another, more tactful – or perhaps more cowardly – part shied away from the topic.

  I said, “So what happened? To make you come back, I mean?”

  Jack said, “We’d just arrived in Santiago from Sydney, and we got the bus from the airport. It’s a twelve-hour flight and I was totally shattered. I was sat next to a woman with a baby on the plane and I swear it didn’t stop screaming once. Oh wait – it did once, but that was to puke all over me.”

  “Ugh,” I said. “Nightmare. Where even is Santiago?”

  “Chile,” Jack said. “Anyway, so we got the bus into town. All the blogs and stuff say to keep your bag with you, but we just weren’t thinking, because we were so knackered. And we fell asleep on the bus, and only woke up at the main bus station when the guy told as we had to get off. And when we did – no bags.”

  “Oh my God, how awful,” I said.

  “I know, right?” Jack said. “There I was in the middle of this strange city, totally jetlagged, covered in baby puke, with no clothes to change into. And the worst thing was, I had no money either, and no passport, because like a total div I’d put my wallet in my bag instead of keeping it on me in my pocket.”

  “Shit,” I said. “So what happened?”

  Jack grimaced. “Liv went absolutely mental. Like, seriously, Gemma, I’ve never seen anyone so pissed off. So there I was in the middle of this strange city, covered in baby puke, with no money and no passport and my girl— with Liv screaming at me and telling me I was the biggest fucking idiot on the planet.”

  It seemed as if, in getting the story of Jack’s travels, I was going to get the story of his and Olivia’s relationship too, whether I wanted to hear it or not. I took another gulp of wine and said nothing.