Flipping her long blonde hair over one shoulder and pretending to be absorbed in her phone, Angel wove her way through the picnickers scattered over the grass and found herself a shady spot under a horse-chestnut tree, all green leaves and white candles. The sun played havoc with skin, everyone knew that, and right now she was too poor to start a Botox habit. Angel leant back into the grass and stared up at the blue flecks of sky peeking through the shady canopy. Stretched out like this, her stomach looked pancake flat. Maybe once she got to Andi’s she could indulge just a little? In the meantime she’d text Gemma back and find out what the latest trauma was. Taking a deep breath, and praying that her friend wasn’t knee-deep in firemen, Angel began to dial.
Chapter 7
By the time she arrived home Gemma knew the premise for Callum South’s new show off by heart. As she trudged along Tooting High Street, dodging puddles and narrowly missing having her eye poked out by an old lady’s brolly, she was willing to swap the traffic and leaden skies for golden sand and sharp Cornish air right there and then. She was sick and tired of recession gloom – why else would she have spent the day freezing her butt off in an arctic studio – it was time to try something else, time to be a little bit creative.
Sod it. Things in London weren’t exactly working out the way they were supposed to. A dramatic change was needed, or she’d still be modelling granny pants when she really was a granny.
With Emily’s taunts still ringing in her ears, Gemma stood in the queue for the 219 and scrutinised her reflection in the bus shelter. She’d avoided mirrors for so long that it was something of a shock to see what she really looked like. Lord. She wasn’t that big surely? Her stomach didn’t really stick out that much, did it?
Gemma gulped and looked away. Either she had reverse body-dysmorphic disorder or else the Perspex was distorting her reflection. Yes, that was probably it. And her coat was quite padded; to be fair, it had never really done up properly across her boobs. Sizes just weren’t that accurate, that was the trouble. Weren’t they modelled on women from the 1950s who were still skinny from all that rationing?
Gemma sucked in her cheeks. Phew! Her cheekbones were still there; they’d just got a bit buried, that was all. A few days of calorie counting and they’d be sharp enough to ski off. That 5:2 diet was meant to be brilliant. How hard could it be to fast for a couple of days a week? Not hard at all if you knew you could eat whatever you liked for the remaining five days. Simples!
And her bum wasn’t big: it was just… curvy. Curvy butts were really fashionable; just ask Pippa Middleton! Gemma twisted round to get a really good look and decided that what was good enough for the future queen’s sister was certainly good enough for her. Hey, if her plan came off and she got famous, maybe she’d even get to meet Prince Harry? You never knew…
For a few wonderful minutes Gemma was lost in a daydream where she floated through Westminster Abbey while the nation looked on in admiration at her stunning dress and backside. “Princess Gemma” certainly had a ring to it and was a million times better than being saddled with “Ginormous Gemma”. Yep, thanks for that one, parents.
Gemma was so lost in her daydreams that it was a surprise to find the bus pulling up. Catapulted out of her sumptuous wedding breakfast at Buckingham Palace – there was no way she was calorie counting on her wedding day – and back into rainy Tooting, Gemma clambered on board and squeezed herself into the aisle. London buses in rush hour were always a nightmare. Once she was a TV star she’d be chauffeur driven everywhere and never play sardines on a crowded bus again. Ten years of living in the capital and travelling with your face wedged into a stranger’s armpit was more than enough for anybody. Cornwall was looking like a better option with every second that passed.
It wasn’t that she was greedy, thought Gemma sadly as she clambered on board and the bus splashed its way through the sodden streets: she just had a slower metabolism than lots of other people. It was pure bad luck. Lots of people ate way more than she did and were pencil thin. Take Angel’s sister Andi, for example. She was always eating yet had the kind of figure models envied. Gemma had asked Andi what her secret was and Andi, without missing a beat, had replied “Stress.”
Stress? Gemma wasn’t buying into that. She was very stressed herself, actually. Every time she opened a bank statement she nearly passed out, and her last game of cashpoint Russian roulette was definitely responsible for her first grey hairs. So if Andi’s theory was correct, Gemma should be a size zero.
Maybe she should dig out one of her exercise DVDs? Gemma had an impressive collection ranging from Essexercise to Davina’s workouts. She’d watched them all, just to get the idea of what was required – after all, these things had to be taken seriously – and she’d thought long and hard about which one to do. It was the thought that counted, after all. But somehow she’d never quite got around to doing any of them. Davina Fit currently made a very useful coaster, while Zumba Challenge was propping up the wonky coffee table. But not for much longer. The time for change was nigh!
As the bus crawled through the traffic, Gemma took her phone out and looked up Callum South again. There it was in all its Googled glory: the outline of his new ITV2 reality show. Gemma read it over and over again, and with every word she felt more excited. Her imagination was full of sunshine and seafood and gorgeous twinkly-eyed Callum. Even though she was soaked through to her size-sixteen knickers and her sodden hair was plastered against her head, Gemma hardly noticed. Neither did she notice the traffic swishing by, headlights turning the puddles into diamonds. Even the soggy pigeons and trundling buses vanished. Instead of Tooting Broadway, Gemma saw the wide estuary of the Camel River, all glittering sapphire water and gleaming powerboats, and her heart skipped a beat.
This new get-fit reality show had her name written all over it! Hadn’t Chloe just told her to lose weight and get herself onto the telly? If she could only win a role on this show she could kill two birds with one stone. She’d soon be a size ten and she’d be on the television too. It was perfect!
Finally the bus drew up at Gemma’s stop just off Fulham Broadway. With relief she gathered up her things and soon was splashing through the puddles.
Catching sight of her reflection in the bakery window made Gemma sigh even harder. It was another unwritten universal rule that depressed fat girls should never look in bakery windows. Such an activity never ended well…
See, here she was already pushing open the door and walking into the pastry-scented fug as though tugged in by an invisible Star Trek style tractor beam. There was no hope for her diet now. Those cheese straws were already making her mouth water. And the iced buns looked delicious. Just one wouldn’t hurt, would it? And there were strawberries on the meringues, which surely counted towards one of her five a day?
“Hello, Gemma love! We wondered where you were. Have you been working today?”
OK, thought Gemma resignedly, when you were on first-name terms with the bakery staff it was a sure sign there was a problem. As was the fact that they had already put aside two sausage-and-bean melts for her. She’d have to buy them now. It would be ungrateful not to. Anyway, if Heading South was based on transforming blobs into stunning babes, then surely the blobbier she was the better? When Angel had called her back just now, she’d thought the idea was blinding and was all for throwing her lot in with Gemma.
“It’s like a sign from God!” she’d squealed when Gemma had tentatively sounded out her plan. “I’ve been sacked, so there’s nothing for me to stay here for. Why don’t we go together?”
Once Gemma had commiserated and they’d enjoyed a mutual bitching session about Mrs Yuri, they got down to the practicalities. The lease on their basement flat was up at the end of the month, so it was the perfect time to move on. Gemma knew a family friend with a caravan just outside Rock; although it didn’t have the glamour of one of the sugar-almond-hued cottages in the town, it would at least be within their budget. Surely the two of them together would be able to p
ick up some seasonal work, split the rent and have an awful lot of fun! At this thought Gemma’s heart rose like the loaves in the bakery oven.
“I used to love Rock when I was a kid. It would be a blast to go back,” Angel had carried on, sounding more and more excited with every word. “Mum and Dad…” She’d paused and Gemma had just let the silence remain because Angel rarely mentioned her family. Then her friend had shrugged and continued.
“Anyway, before Mummy was ill they always rented this gorgeous house overlooking the river. We used to spend every summer there and we absolutely loved it. We’d play on the beach all day and we spent hours catching crabs off the pontoon. Andi used to like the boats best and she’d spend hours just watching them out at sea. In the evening we’d have chips right out of the paper. Nothing ever tasted so good.”
Gemma had nodded, her mouth watering at the thought of chips. She too had spent many sunburned days on the beach at Rock and gone home salty, sleepy and full of food. The place had changed a bit since then though: the chips would be hand cut these days, organic and served with slithers of expensive fish. Jamie, Rick and Hugh had certainly put their stamp on the South West.
“It’s changed though,” she’d said. “The place is really upmarket now.”
“Good, that’s exactly what we want,” Angel had replied decisively. “Project Rich Guy isn’t going to happen in Tooting bloody Bec, that’s for sure. If Rock is where the rich and famous hang out for the summer then it’s time we got ourselves down there too. You can get yourself a role on Callum’s show and I’ll find myself a prince or something. Simples!”
Was it really that easy? Gemma wasn’t so sure. She hated to be the one to rain all over her friend’s parade, but experience had taught her that life was often a bit more complicated.
“Rock’s expensive,” she’d warned. “We’ll have to really be careful with our money. I only have a few hundred quid left in savings.”
“That’s a few hundred more than me,” Angel had said cheerfully. “I’ll borrow some off Andi. That’ll tide us over for a bit. In the meantime there’s bound to be oodles of work. Just think of all those rich women who want facials! Summer in Cornwall! I can’t wait!”
Angel had rung off, en route to find Andi and blag a loan, and Gemma had made her way to the bus stop. Just the thought of a summer back at home, waking to the call of the gulls rather than the wail of sirens, perked her up. She could hardly wait for Angel to get home so that they could start putting their plan together. The idea of lemon sunshine, sharp salty air, glittering water and watermelon slices of beach made Gemma tingle with excitement. She hardly dared hope that in just a few days’ time she could be back in Cornwall.
Two sausage-and-bean melts and one doughnut later, Gemma let herself into the basement flat. There was no sign of Angel. Only a trail of glossy magazines and plates evidenced that she had been in at all. Gemma sighed; her friend was terribly messy. Angel left more devastation in her wake than the most severe hurricane.
She shrugged off her wet gear and stomped into the kitchen. After one hot chocolate and four rock cakes she felt ready to boot up her laptop and embark on some research for their brainwave.
So it wasn’t Shakespeare or the dazzling film career that she had once dreamed of, but it was a start. If her dad’s farmer friend still owned that caravan just outside Rock then maybe, just maybe, things were going to change for both her and Angel. Feeling hopeful, she composed an email to him and then sent it into the ether with a prayer.
There, it was done – and Gemma sensed that this was the start of something good.
Chapter 8
Andi was so lost in thought that she didn’t quite know how she made it home. One moment she was in Starbucks, and the next she was back in Clapham, surfacing from the Tube as though awakening from a dream. Not that she really lived in Clapham anyway; no, strictly speaking it was Balham, although Tom would rather poke his eyes out than admit that. She’d tried arguing this point once and he’d sulked for days. As sure as Andi was that Coventry was a lovely place, she’d no wish to live there and had finally cracked. Now she agreed that they lived in Clapham, even if it was the tatty end near the gasworks, and everybody was happy. Or at least until the astronomical rent was due.
At the thought of rent, her stomach lurched. How the hell was she going to pay it if her account really was empty? Tom had better have a bloody good explanation.
That was strange: the curtains were drawn at their attic window. Was Tom poorly? Or maybe he’d gone out and had forgotten to open them? Or maybe he was still in bed? She hadn’t worked from home since the Safe T Net job had started. He could sleep all day for all Andi knew.
“Tom?” she called, ditching her keys in the fruit bowl and heading for the kettle. “Tom? It’s me!”
Odd. There was no reply. He wasn’t due anywhere, not as far as she could remember. It was only Monday and he hadn’t got a casting until Thursday. Their flat was so small you couldn’t swing a gerbil in it, so he had to be in the bedroom. The kettle was still warm. He’d probably made a cup of coffee and gone back to bed. They were going to need to have a serious heart-to-heart now about his finding work. Any work.
She flicked the kettle back on and lobbed a tea bag into a mug. A hit of PG tips was definitely required if she was going to tackle the important question of Where the bloody hell was her money? There were even bigger questions too, which she knew she’d ignored for far too long. It was time now for total honesty.
While the tea brewed Andi wandered across the flat to the bedroom, stopping only to scoop up some washing draped across the back of the sofa rather than folded up, the way she always left it. So she was a bit of a neat freak? It wasn’t a crime!
Hang on, though, this was odd laundry. Tom’s tee shirt didn’t smell very clean and she sure he was wearing those Ralph Lauren shorts when she’d left for work that morning. And Andi didn’t recognise that bra...
There was a loud whooshing in her ears and the laminate floor dipped and rolled like a stormy sea. Andi clutched the sofa for support and for a hideous moment she thought she might pass out. That bra was hot pink and frilly. Andi’s head could fit in one of the cups, maybe even her entire body.
With a thudding heart she stepped forward and flung open the bedroom door.
“Andi!” gasped Tom, when he caught sight of her over his shoulder. “This isn’t what you think!”
Andi couldn’t help it. She laughed. Unless this was a game of naked Twister and they’d forgotten to fetch the board, she was pretty certain it was exactly what she thought. Tom looked ridiculous with his boxers around his ankles and his naked buttocks poised in mid-air like peeled hard-boiled eggs. Beneath him, Gina from the flat below turned the same colour as her abandoned bra. She’d come home from work unexpectedly and caught her boyfriend shagging a girl with boobs as big as her head and the IQ of a lettuce. What a pathetic, sordid, obvious cliché.
Tom, scrabbling to his feet, hopped after Andi while attempting to yank up his boxers.
“Babe! Wait! Shit! Ouch!” In his haste he cannoned off the bedside table and head-butted the wall. Andi hoped it bloody well hurt. “This isn’t what it looks like!”
Andi whipped round. Suddenly the laughter subsided, replaced by a blast of anger as white hot as the reactive core of Sellafield. How dare he? She’d been slaving her guts out and having to tolerate slimes like Alan and bitchy Zoe just so that her boyfriend could hone his art in so-called Clapham – and in return he was screwing the neighbour, in between Loose Women and the lunchtime news.
“It’s exactly what it looks like! How long have you been shagging her?”
A hurt expression settled across Tom’s features.
“Babes, I know you’re not going to believe me but this is the first ever time. I swear it!”
He was right. Andi was not going to believe it.
“God, you’re pathetic,” she said.
“Come on, don’t be like this!” Tom finally tugged on his b
oxers. Gina was totally forgotten. “It’s a mistake! It doesn’t mean anything! What can I say to prove it means nothing?” He widened his eyes beseechingly before brightening visibly as an idea occurred. “I know! Of course! What else? Andi, sweetheart, I love you. Will you marry me?”
Was he totally insane? Who on earth got caught cheating and then proposed? It was like something from a bad soap opera. Then Andi remembered he’d been preparing for an EastEnders audition. Talk about method acting. In a moment he’d be telling her that they could go for a right old knees-up in the square and have a chat with Dot Cotton. Maybe they could even have a wedding reception in the Vic? Oh dear God. Had the last eighteen months with Tom been based on nothing more than him acting the part of her boyfriend?
“Get up, Tom,” Andi said wearily. “You’re being ridiculous. Of course I won’t marry you. I’ve just caught you screwing another woman.”
“But can explain! It doesn’t mean anything!”
There was a lump in Andi’s throat because it meant something to her. She balled her hands into fists, the nails digging into her palms as she fought to keep control. She knew things hadn’t been going well but nothing had prepared her for this.
“How long has it been going on?” she asked.
For a moment Tom paused, teetering on the brink of a lie, then he exhaled slowly. He could tell there was no way he could talk his way out of this one.
“A couple of months. Four? Maybe five? Since you started that Safe T Net job. I never saw you once that began. You never have time for me these days, do you? All you care about is work.”
Andi felt like he’d punched her in guts. She’d been working for them! Every hour that she’d sweated over her computer had been about putting money towards their future. How deluded was she? Or perhaps Tom was a better actor than she’d given him credit for?
[Escape 01.0] Escape for the Summer Page 6
