Yes, I know. This series is for dead famous people, and Gemma isn’t dead, and nobody’s heard of her. But she’s mine. I wrote her, and she’s off to Ibiza tomorrow, so I asked her over for a cup of tea while she was still around.
She turned up with a huge suitcase! I suggested she might want to leave it in the hall, but she said she’d rather not. She then proceeded to wheel it out onto the terrace, and sat with her hands on it the entire time, the way you do on a train.
Francesca: You could have left that at home, you know.
Gemma: I know. It’s silly. But I’d rather know where it is. What if someone broke in and stole it tonight, while I was here? My whole life is in there. Well, not my whole life, obviously. But everything I found worth keeping.
Francesca: What time is the flight?
Gemma: It’s at ten past two in the afternoon. I have to change in Barcelona, so hopefully the first flight won’t be delayed; if I miss the connection I’m sure I’ll find myself overthinking why I did. You know, like maybe I’m not supposed to move there.
Francesca: You’ll be fine! But tell me. Ibiza. At forty. Why on earth?
Gemma: That’s what everyone keeps saying. Also, when they say Ibiza, their nostrils go all pinched, like just the word is dodgy. Or they look at me like I’m joining the circus. Even the lady at the supermarket said, “how brave” and then she nodded slowly, and said it again just before I walked away.
Francesca: Are you brave?
Gemma: Oh, my goodness, no! But I can’t stay here any longer. Also, some of my best friends are there. And it’s warm, and nobody knows me. That’s the main thing. Nobody has witnessed me make a fool of myself in high circles. You know, like say the first thing that comes into my head. Or wear something in an inappropriate colour. Or seen me cry in the Coop, mascara smudged all over my face.
Francesca: Was that because of the divorce?
Gemma: Yes, the divorce. In the yogurt aisle. Richard’s colleague’s wife saw me. Ugh. But I’m fine now. I’ll be fine. Fine. I say it a lot, probably because I’m still trying to convince myself.
Francesca: What did you pack?
Gemma: My paints and my art supplies. Some of my favourite books. Comfortable shoes. And some nice lingerie, although goodness knows why. It just seemed a shame to get rid of it. I want to reinvent myself, creatively speaking, that is. Basically, I want to swim in the sea, hang out with my friends Celeste and Laura, and earn my own money painting chandeliers. I’ve actually already got a few commissions, which is great!
Francesca: And?
Gemma: What do you mean?
Francesca: Any partying?
Gemma: Pff. Maybe a little dancing, but no wild and crazy late nights. I feel pretty ragged after everything that’s happened and need to chill.
Francesca: Mm.
Gemma: What?
Francesca: Nothing, really. Another chocolate biscuit?
Gemma: Yes. But why did you pull a face?
Francesca: I didn’t. What music do you like?
Gemma: All sorts. Mostly pop, though, of course. Nobody in particular.
Francesca: Gemma!
Gemma: Oh, all right. There’s one singer I love. He’s Spanish. I’m not telling you who, because you’ll look him up and then you’ll look at me, and I’ve already been told how I look when I talk about him. I know all his songs. Every single one. Even the ones in Spanish, and I don’t even speak Spanish well enough to know exactly what he’s singing about. Some of his songs could be about tractors, for all I know.
Francesca: What would you do if you met him?
Gemma: I would never meet him! I mean, where on earth would that happen? But if I did, I might be normal. I suppose I’d nod a lot. And probably go bright red. Pff.
Francesca: What seat are you in tomorrow?
Gemma: Why do you want to know that?
Francesca: I’m just curious.
Gemma: You’re weird. And why have you been looking at me funny since I got here? Like you know me.
Francesca: Well, I do. I’ve known you for ages!
Gemma: Have you really?
Francesca: Final question. What do you hope to get out of moving to Ibiza?
Gemma: Honestly? Some peace and quiet. A quiet, uneventful flight, followed by a quiet life for a while. Surely that’s not too much to ask for, right?
I told her it wasn’t. I gave her a big hug, and wished her a lovely quiet flight.
Now I feel kind of bad. Like, maybe I should have warned her?
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