‘Well, that was fun,’ Salma grins. ‘Shall we get back toDie HardbeforeBook Boyfriendstarts?’ She waves at the frozen image of Bruce Willis on the screen.
I giggle. ‘Ugh, you meanDefinitely Would’ve Died Very Hard In Multiple Ways Ten Minutes In,’ I correct and then dive for the sofa. ‘Press play!’
I glance over at Harry as the action begins. He looks like he might cry and I suppress the urge to laugh at him again.
Chapter EightJEMMA
It’s got to be a woman, right?
Only women have imaginations like this. Only a woman would be so madly in love with a romance book that she’d write a note to a stranger about it. Surely. But she –they– haven’t technically given me any specific reason to think they’re female.
I’d formed a picture in my head of Karen over these last few weeks. My mysterious ‘TGTBT co-fan’ is a tall, elegant brunette; about the same age as me. She’s got big hips and a wide, unthreatening smile. I try now to picture someone else – a man – and everything goes wibbly. Suddenly the notes don’t feel as fun and silly. They seem – I don’t know –charged.
Is there a chance I’ve been swapping notes for a month… with a man?
I dump wet cutlery onto the draining board, trying not to feel resentful as I reach for dirty plates in the sink. WhenI left the house this morning, everything was clean and tidy. Clara hasn’t even had the decency to wash up her crap, despite clearly doing nothing with her day. I can’t believe how at home she’s made herself in just a couple of weeks – inmyhome.
And now she and the others have made me doubt everything about my pen pal.
I mean, if Salma’s right – if the notes are flirtatious – then, apart from anything else, it’s just not an effective way of doing it. What if someone else had checked the book out? What if the note had fallen out without me noticing?
I scrub at a particularly stubborn bit of crud on the back of a plate. How does Clara even get food on theback of a plate? It’s almost like a talent how messy she is.
Behind me I hear my sister saunter into the kitchen, casually opening the fridge to inspect its contents. I bet she’s been in that furry onesie all day. It must be filthy by now.
I internally sigh, trying to swallow down the resentment. It’s not her fault I’m a petty, tidy person.
‘It starts in a few minutes!’ Clara calls excitedly across the kitchen. ‘Book Boyfriend, I mean. You’re coming in, right?’ She pauses when I don’t react. ‘You will give it a chance, won’t you?’ She sounds almost nervous, like she’s asking me on a date.
‘Sure!’ I try to match her brightness, because she’strying. But I’m dreading this.Too Good to Be Truejust won’t translate well on TV. It’s too multi-levelled and layered. It’s a bloody onion of a book. An uncooked, inedible, undigestible onionthat sits in the fridge – in the salad drawer – waiting to be peeled by the right pair of adoring hands and added to some kind of vegetable medley.
I’ve lost track of my own analogy.
Back in the late noughties, they actually tried to do a straight-to-TV film of the book, not long after it was published. It was bad. I mean, it was good-bad. Camp and kitsch with model-gorgeous leads who spent their screen time eye-boning the camera. The movie was hard-trashed by critics – those who bothered to review it, that is – but it kind of has a special place in my heart. It’s a bit pure and well meaning in its cheesiness.Andthey didn’t feel the need to rename it.
‘Have you had dinner?’ I immediately regret asking Clara the question. What am I, going to offer to make her food now? After she’s sat around in her onesie all day, watching TV and ignoring all the mess she was leaving in her wake? Up her fucking bollocks I am.
I turn to face her and my bravado slips. She looks a bit pale. She needs looking after, she always has.
She shrugs. ‘Kinda.’ She regards me with big sad, cow eyes. ‘I mean, I’ve sort of been grazing all day. For lunch I had a Toblerone I found in the cupboard, followed by some leftover spaghetti that was in the fridge. Then I had eight Ferrero Rochers, three of those mini Malteser Reindeers’ – she pauses – ‘which I assume were Christmas leftovers, so I hope they weren’t out of date.’ She waves her hand, not really caring. ‘And then I had a Marmite sandwich because I’d overdosed on sweet stuff, but after the salty sandwich Ifancied sugar again, so I had some biscuits I found in Harry’s room. He also had a packet of beef Hula Hoops, which were delicious but now I keep burping. And they’re like beefy, starchy, almostsolidburps, y’know what I mean?’ She gently punches herself in the chest, releasing more beefy gas into the room as I stare at her, my disgust growing. She swallows hard. ‘I was going to come find some kind of vegetable or fruit because I worry about scurvy, y’know? But I didn’t want to take the piss by stealing food.’ She brightens. ‘But if you’re making dinner, I wouldn’t say no!’
There is a long silence between us before I find my words.
‘You ate my Toblerone?!’
She grimaces. ‘Oh, god, that was yours? I thought maybe it was Salma or Harry’s, and I’m totally going to replace it, I swear.’ She checks her watch. ‘Look!’ She changes the subject quickly and smoothly. ‘It’s time for the show!’
She flees the room, heading for the living room where I hear her flicking through channels, adverts booming for suntan lotion and garden centres. ‘Starting in two,’ she yells through as I breathe, trying to steady myself.
OK, so far, living with my sister again has been hell, but we just need to find our rhythm. We survived eighteen years when we were kids; we can manage a few months while she gets back on her feet.
I head for the living room, fighting a craving for beef Hula Hoops that will never again be satisfied. Flopping onto the sofa, I fold my feet under myself as the opening credits begin to roll on the TV.
And that is all I can manage.
I know immediately that I will – that Ido– hate the adaptation. The music they’ve used and the font on the credits immediately grate, and they open with a scene I recognize as halfway through the book where the heroine – Julianna – is waiting on a date. Yeugh, how dare they.
I leave the room and head for the kettle, furiously filling it too full of water.
