Oh God. No wonder she was so fat. Even her romantic fantasies involved grub. Maybe she should just get off with the Little Chef and be done with it? It was just as well she was here to try and get herself featured on a weight-loss show.
“Anyway, probably best you do stay around,” Angel said, fishing change out of her Radley purse. “Andi won’t be far away and I don’t like to think of her being on her own at the moment. She’s having a tough time.”
Gemma nodded. She didn’t know Andi that well but she sympathised with her and had been trying really hard to cheer her up the best way she knew how – by cooking delicious cakes.
“She knows where we’re staying,” Angel added, “but if I know my sister she’ll probably be trying to get a signal on her BlackBerry and figure out what the FTSE’s doing or something. Let’s hope she can kick back a bit here or else we’re all in trouble.”
Having settled the bill, the girls parted: Angel headed down to the beach to hop on the water taxi while Gemma meandered back through the town. It had been several years since Gemma had last visited and she was surprised by how many new buildings had appeared. Several old timber-framed houses had vanished and vast glass and wood structures had sprung up in their place, their windows blinking in the late afternoon sunshine like bright eyes enjoying unrivalled views over the town. Outside them on immaculately raked gravel drives Aston Martins nestled next to Range Rover Sports and funky new Beetle convertibles, the Rock teenage driver’s weapon of choice. Warmed by the sun and charmed by the views that met her at every turn like a living tapestry, Gemma spent a happy couple of hours wandering through the town. Not once did she bump into Andi, which surprised her because the town wasn’t very big. Gemma had heard Andi crying quietly the night before and she really felt for her friend’s sister. She’d soaked a few pillows herself when Nick had dumped her. It wasn’t nice. Maybe Angel’s practical approach did make more sense?
Gemma was just about to retrace her steps to the car, via the beach again just in case Andi was there, when the smell of pasties stopped her in her tracks. For a second she was transported back to her mother’s kitchen, doing her homework at the old oak table while Demelza Pengelley fried up onions, swede, potato and beef in an ancient skillet. Just the thought of how the golden pastry rose in the Aga made her mouth water. Oh God. A real Cornish pasty! Not one of those limp and pallid imposters they tried to fob her off with in London! Gemma’s stomach rumbled. Maybe she should buy one just as a welcome-back-to-Kernow treat? One wouldn’t hurt, would it?
It was as though her feet had a life all of their own. Before she even knew what she was doing Gemma found herself following the meaty aroma through the main street and up a tiny side road, so small and narrow that she might have overlooked it if she hadn’t been so intent upon her quest. Up the street she walked, her strides gaining a pace that Davina, Josie and Jordan’s workouts had never inspired. At last she saw it: a shop with a small steamed-up window and faded awning shimmering in the evening sun like a mirage.
Rock Cakes.
Cakes, buns and sausage rolls; Gemma didn’t care about those right now. All she knew was that she had to get to those pasties! She had to sink her teeth into the soft pastry, feel it crumbling and flaking against her lips, gasp when the hot air puffed against her tongue.
Who needed men when there were pasties in the world?
Like an Olympian only seconds from the finish line, Gemma picked up speed. Nothing mattered now except getting her hands on those pasties. She’d buy one each for Andi and Angel too. That wasn’t being greedy: it was finding dinner.
If Gemma could diet half as well as she could make excuses she knew she’d be a size zero by bedtime…
Three steps, two steps, one step and she was there! Almost giddy with relief, Gemma launched herself at the door, seconds away from her goal and fuelled by a ferocious hunger. In seconds she would be biting down into pastry…
But unfortunately Gemma’s pasty vision stopped her from actually looking where she was going. Just as she shoved the bakery door open a plump man was stepping out of the shop, his arms filled with fat sweating packages and boxes of cream cakes. The door slammed into his stomach with such force that the goodies he was holding flew into the air. Sausage rolls, saffron buns and éclairs rained a calorie shower; cream splattered the floor and pastry drifted like flaky autumn leaves.
It was carb carnage.
But it wasn’t the mess that made Gemma cry out in horror. If the only problem were the mess she would have been fine. No, it was worse than that. Much worse. The man she had crashed into and covered in food was none other than Callum South.
Chapter 12
“Here we go! Two bog standard coffees and a couple of slices of carrot cake.”
Jonty placed two white mugs, a packet of biscuits and some huge wodges of cake onto the weathered picnic table and motioned at Andi to take a seat. This was easier said than done because the splintering wood was smattered with seagull droppings, but eventually she managed to find a fairly safe patch. Once seated, she wrapped her hands around the chunky ceramic.
“Believe me, this is great,” she told him with a grateful smile. “Any coffee, bog standard or otherwise, is more than welcome. And the cake looks great too, so thanks.”
He smiled back. Although his eyes were hidden behind shades, Andi could already tell that they were crinkling and twinkly. Jonty, FT angel, seemed to smile a lot.
“My pleasure. But you’ve probably already gathered there’s nothing much on offer here that isn’t bog standard,” he said, swinging his tanned legs over the bench and then reaching for the sugar bowl. “There’s nothing posh like a latte, I’m afraid.”
He was right: Andi had already gathered this. The café was, as Jonty had warned her earlier on, basic. They had walked a little way out of Rock, leaving behind the more stylish establishments with their distressed tables and chairs and loops of shabby-chic bunting, and climbed the hill to an industrial estate. Jonty wound his way between the units, chatting easily about the small boatyard they passed and filling her in on which royals had been taught to waterski by the tousle-haired owner who waved cheerily at them. Angel would love to hear all this, Andi thought, but she wouldn’t have been quite so impressed with the ex shellfish-packing unit – still complete with eau de seafood – that now served as workman’s café to the marine engineers and ski instructors. A tea urn, a chiller cabinet with a few exhausted ham sandwiches, and some plastic tables completed the look. Outside, two ancient picnic tables had been abandoned on a patch of grass at such an acute angle that they listed drunkenly.
They did have a sign up advertising a vacancy for part-time staff though. Andi had made enough cups of coffee for her office colleagues in the past to feel confident that she could cope with the job. She’d make an enquiry before they left. You never know, she thought, maybe I’ll be able to pick up some work?
In the meantime Andi was eternally grateful to Jonty for the coffee and cake. Several calls to Angel had gone unanswered and until she found her sister she was penniless. Any coffee, unsophisticated or otherwise, was very much appreciated. Lattes were out of her budget for the foreseeable future; that was for sure. As were food, rent and basic survival, unless she managed to get her act together somehow. This carrot cake would have to last her until Angel or Gemma went shopping. Since Angel existed on thin air and Gemma would guzzle all the food before it even reached the fridge, Andi was very happy to see that cake.
“Honestly, this is great,” she assured him.
Jonty had helped himself to several packets of sugar. Ripping each packet open with strong white teeth, he tipped the lot into his mug and swirled the liquid around with enthusiasm. “I really like it here. It’s honest, you know? Real. And you don’t need to remortgage just to buy a couple of coffees. I’m working on my boat at the minute too, so I’m up here a lot. To be honest, I probably don’t have blood anymore – I just have Nescafé flowing through my veins!”
Andi lau
ghed. She’d felt similar when she’d been wrapping up the Safe T Net accounts. At one point she’d almost contemplated bypassing the water altogether and just spooning the coffee granules straight into her mouth. What a waste of all her efforts that project had turned out to be.
“What sort of boat is it?” she asked, determined not to spoil the sunny afternoon by dwelling on Alan and his lies.
The boatyard they’d passed had been crammed full of all types of watercraft, from graceful yachts with glowing wooden decks and sweet little portholes to huge gleaming powerboats with fuel-guzzling engines and propellers that were bigger than she was. All status symbols of course; after all, this was Rock and what did any wealthy holidaying exec need to broadcast his success more in this town than a flashy boat?
“Nothing very glamorous, I’m afraid,” Jonty told her, pushing his sunglasses back onto his head. His turquoise eyes were bright with enthusiasm. “She’s just a little fibreglass boat, called a Glastron, about fourteen feet long. She’s hardly a gin palace but she’s the perfect size for scooting around the estuary and popping out to sea on a calm day. Or rather she will be once I’ve finished working on her.”
What Andi knew about boats could fit on a postage stamp, and there’d still be room left over. She liked looking at them though. When they’d been in Rock as children her father had spent one summer tearing up and down the estuary on a speedboat, the latest in a long line of intense and short-lived passions. Andi and Angel had loved every adrenalin-filled second and had been bitterly disappointed when Alex sold it.
“Is there a lot to do?” she asked politely. Quite what you did with a boat Andi had no idea. You didn’t really come across that many in Clapham.
He laughed. “You could say that! I found her in a garden where she’d been for about six years. She’d made a lovely container for geraniums. She’s ten years older than me but I figure that with a bit of TLC she’ll be able to return to her former retro glory. I bought her a few years back as a project but work kind of got in the way so she’s just been sitting in a shed, looking more like a plant pot than a boat. I’m lucky Rock in Bloom haven’t pinched her!”
“So you’re not working?” Andi asked and then could have kicked herself. Who knew better than her about how sensitive an issue this could be? She’d assumed that he was just a bit of a beach bum, spending the summer tinkering with boats and topping up his money with a spot of bar work. His tan suggested that he spent time outside rather than in the office and his clothes weren’t designer garments. Talk about making assumptions. For all she knew Jonty could have been laid off too. Luckily he didn’t seem worried by her question. Instead he was busily dunking digestives into his mug.
“I’m kind of between jobs at the minute,” he said through a mouthful of biscuit, “so I thought I’d finish an old project before I get my teeth into a new one. I’m having some time out and my brother-in-law, the workaholic one I told you about, is letting me crash in the pool house for the summer. I’ll do a few bits and pieces about the place and take the kids out wakeboarding and skiing. Knowing my sister, I’ll probably end up walking the dogs and doing the shopping too! Mel loves to organise everybody.”
“So the doing up the boat will be an escape.” Andi knew all about life with a demanding sibling. She had the empty purse and grey hairs to prove it.
Jonty looked bashful. “Look, you can laugh if you like at this, but having one of these boats has been a dream of mine ever since I saw Live and Let Die when I was a kid. Back when Bond was about a bit more than Daniel Craig’s swimming trunks, I watched that speedboat leap out of the river and I knew when I grew up I had to have one. It’s just taken a little longer than I’d imagined.”
“So I’m having coffee with James Bond?”
“This coffee is definitely stirred not shaken,” he joked. “Besides, aren’t all men James Bond in their heads?”
“I’m the last person who could tell you what goes on in a man’s head,” said Andi darkly.
Jonty raised an eyebrow Roger Moore style. “I sense issues?”
“No more than anyone else.” There was no way Andi was going to be drawn into discussing her personal life with a total stranger, even one who was easy to chat to and had bought her an FT. To change the subject she said, “So when you’re not being a secret agent, what do you do?”
Jonty shrugged. “It’s very boring to be honest. I used to work in ICT. Real nerdy stuff. I’m not nearly so glam as my brother-in-law. He does all sorts of exciting things. You might have heard of him? Simon Rothwell? Last week he was overseeing the merger of two major television companies, and the last I heard he’d been asked to be the chairman of Mermaid Media.”
Andi was impressed. No wonder Jonty’s brother-in-law had wanted the Financial Times. Mermaid Media was huge. Not only did they own television and film companies but they also owned Vidz and Gamz! – Britain’s biggest video-games chain store. She’d seen their share prices rocket over the past eighteen months.
“In that case he’d better have this back,” she said, sliding the Financial Times back across the picnic table.
“Christ, no!” Jonty looked horrified. “I told you earlier: Mel will go mental if she catches Si working when they’re supposed to be having family time. That’s the whole point of them being down here for the summer. He’s promised her that he’ll take some time out. Anyway, don’t you need it? You seemed really frantic earlier on.”
Earlier on Andi had been frantic. Now with the late afternoon sun warming her face, and with cake filling her stomach, she didn’t feel quite as hysterical. If she was offered some work at the café then that sickening, lurching sense of panic might subside too.
“It’s fine. To be honest it was more habit than anything else. I’m just so used to reading the FT for work that it’s become second nature.”
“You’re on holiday. Leave all that behind. There’s more to life than work.”
This was easy for him to say, Andi thought bitterly. Crumbling a piece of cake between her fingers she stole a look at him from behind her fringe. With his golden tan, cinnamon dusting of freckles and sprinkle of dark stubble, Jonty was certainly the typical Rock guy. The town was full of men like him – a bit surfy and a bit boaty. They dropped out and did bits and pieces all summer, cut a dash zooming across the estuary on their waterskis, tinkered with boat engines for some cash in hand, chatted up the tourists in the bars and claimed the dole all winter. No, for guys like Jonty there probably was a lot more to life than work. Right now though Andi couldn’t quite imagine for the life of her what this might be.
“I’m not on holiday exactly,” she said.
Jonty didn’t reply, perhaps sensing that she had more to add. Andi pushed a lock of hair back behind her ear and sighed. Oh sod it, what did it matter? She’d probably never see him again anyway.
“I lost my job,” she explained. “I’m a casualty of the recession, apparently. My sister and her friend are here for the summer so I’ve tagged along. The master plan is that I can get a summer job and buy myself a bit of time. A bit like you, I’m working out what to do next.”
She pushed her plate away and stood up. Suddenly, sitting chatting and scoffing cake seemed like the most ridiculous, indulgent luxury when she had to find work. “In fact, there’s no time like the present, is there? I’m going to go and ask about the vacancy here.”
Jonty reached out and put a hand on her arm. His fingers were strong and suntanned against her own pale skin.
“Christ! Don’t do that! Angie’s a tartar! You’d have an easier time working for Attila the Hun! Honestly, I’m not exaggerating. The last girl who worked here lasted about twenty minutes.”
Andi pulled a face. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Jonty’s hand was still on her arm. Awkwardly he removed it.
“Look, tell me to get lost if you like, but you certainly don’t strike me as a beggar and I don’t think slaving over a tea urn is your great calling in life either. There’s
got to be something else you can try? What do you usually do, when you’re not drinking coffee with strangers you’ve practically wrestled to the ground for their FT?”
Andi laughed in spite of herself.
“That’s more like it,” he said. “Come on, sit down. Chill for a bit. Believe me, that job will still be there tomorrow. Nobody else in Rock would dream of working for Angie. What exactly do you do?”
For a split second she almost told him everything, all about Hart Frozer and Alan and the unfairness of losing her job. Then, luckily, her brain engaged and stopped her tongue in time. There was no way she was blabbing about it all to a total stranger. Besides, Rock was supposed to be her fresh start. Neither was she was admitting to being a qualified accountant, not when Jonty’s brother-in-law was such an eminent one, the Harrods to her Primark of accounting. Hart Frozer may well have been one of the UK’s premier accountancy consultants but it hardly compared. There was no way she wanted to admit that she’d been fired. However unfair and untrue it was, mud had a nasty way of sticking.
“I’m a bookkeeper,” she said, sinking back onto the bench and pretending to find the splintering tabletop fascinating. “I do a bit of everything really, from accounts to odds and ends for my boss.”
Jonty stared at her thoughtfully. “A bit like a PA?”
Andi liked this idea. She’d been Zoe’s bitch, after all, which was practically the same thing.
“I guess so.”
“A PA who does accounts and who reads the Financial Times?” Jonty said slowly. “Andi, this is a bit of a long shot, and it might not come to anything, but would you mind if I mentioned you to Simon?”
Andi was confused. “Mention me to your brother-in-law? Why?”
His brow crinkled thoughtfully. “I just think he might have some work for you.”
“Walking dogs and babysitting?” Andi guessed anything was worth a try. She’d never seen herself as the Mary Poppins type but then again she’d never imagined that she’d be thrown out of Hart Frozer either.
[Escape 01.0] Escape for the Summer Page 10
