those fatties who can’t stop scoffing, and the men who convince them fat is sexy? Who are worse? Chubby eaters or chubby chasers?”
I flinched. “Yeah, I saw that bit. Horrible cow.” They’d stuck mine and Jason’s faces over the poll options, and mine let out an oink whenever someone selected chubby eaters. I’d nearly cried over it, but I didn’t want to give the stuck-up cow the satisfaction.
“Well, the people have spoken. Turns out another poll sprung up. Who are worse? Chubby eaters, chubby chasers, or spiteful bitches who can’t help but fat-shame? She came in at 98% of the vote. Her next article Why hot men should never date ugly women got annihilated in the comments, it was a full-on freak-out, everyone and their mother posted.”
I smiled. “I haven’t seen that one.”
“What about the Twitter trend?”
I shook my head. “Last thing I saw trending was #chubbychaser, it was all over Jason’s feed.”
“Not anymore. There’s a new hashtag kicking off. #loveyourcurves. It was trending worldwide last night!”
I bloomed, happy. “That’s amazing.”
“Not as amazing as the latest variation this morning.” Cara grinned. “#SupportGemma.”
I laughed. “Surely not, that’s crazy. Ridiculous.”
She pulled out her phone to demonstrate, and sure enough the hashtags were trending. It felt so weird to see my name there, and weirder still to read all the positive comments. Not everyone hated. Not everyone judged. It welled me up, and Cara put an arm around my shoulder. “Hey, Figi, you’re famous, in a good way this time! This is awesome!”
“I thought everyone hated me.”
“Only the idiots ready to gore anyone who doesn’t fit the mould. It seems April Redfern isn’t so clean cut as it first appeared, apparently there are rumours of her fucking her stylist, her agent, too. Apparently there’s a sex tape buried somewhere online.”
My eyes must have been like saucers. “Are you for real?”
She nodded. “Too right I’m for real.”
I gripped my knees, steadying myself as I thought it all out. “Jason’s in a bad way, his friend Steve called me earlier.”
Her expression darkened. “I saw Jason’s face when they sent him off, it’s been playing on all the shitty news channels. Bad day for him, hey?”
“Shit day for him.” I chewed on my thumbnail. “This is a nightmare. I sent him away because I was scared of all this happening, only it happened anyway.”
“I thought you were dead set on never being a footballer’s wife?”
The idea turned my brain to mush. “I am. I was.”
“And now?” Chocolate pools searched for answers. “What do you want now, Figi?”
Tears again, stupid fucking tears. “I miss him so much, Cara. Ridiculous, I know.”
“Not ridiculous.” She smiled. “Real. It’s ok to be real, Gemma, it’s why people are rallying for you.”
I checked out the Twitter feed again and it was all so obvious, so fucking obvious. “I have to go to him. Cobham, tomorrow, like Steve said. He might not be staying, not if they bin him for the rest of the season.”
“Cobham? What time?”
“Too early to get a train. Shit, a taxi will be expensive, too.”
“You can get his autograph, right? Jason’s?”
I stared at her, puzzled. “...Yeah... I would guess so...”
“Then I might well have a solution...” She paced away to the kitchen with her phone to her ear, muttering and laughing and making little mewls that sounded suspiciously like begging. I chewed my nails, trying not to eavesdrop. “Ok, I’ve got it. Lift at six a.m. Will be quite a carful.”
“A carful?”
She nodded. “You met Cat, right? At burlesque night? Green eyes?”
“Yeah, I met her.”
“Her mum’s guy is Singers crazy! Singers and bingo, don’t ask. He’d go crazy for a Jason Redfern autograph.”
“She’s going to drive me? To Cobham? At six a.m.?”
She smiled. “Not her exactly... just wait and see.”
***
Chapter Twenty Two
Gemma
A big black car pulled onto the yard at ten to six. I peered out of the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the passengers before I bounded on down the stairs. Cara was waiting for me, practically jumping on the spot with excitement. She bundled me into the back, pushing the remaining messy curls up under my hat.
The guy in the driver’s seat was a hulk of a man. Stern eyes met mine in the rearview, and instinctively I settled down into my seat.
“Gemma, this is Masque,” Cara said. “You know Cat already.”
“James,” the man said. “We’re not at Explicit now, Cara.” His eyes sought mine again, just for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear about the tabloid hounding. I hate people invading my privacy,