[Escape 01.0] Escape for the Summer

by Ruth Saberton

  “I hear Val Kilmer’s looking very porky these days,” Gemma offered. To cheer herself up the other day when her size-fourteen jeans had refused to do up, she’d Googled fat celebrities. Cal had featured heavily – no pun intended – as had various once-gorgeous A-listers. It made her feel better and alarmed all at the same time. At least they’d all had the head start of being attractive in the first place, whereas she’d always been average on a good day, wearing Spanx and with her hair done.

  “Sure, I remember how ripped he was in that volleyball scene with Tom Cruise in Top Gun. Now he looks like he’s eaten Tom. Poor bastard. It’s hard work keeping the weight off when you love food,” Cal sighed wearily as he turned the car in the direction of Watergate Bay. “Every day is like a food war for me. I’ve signed this watertight contract with Leopard TV, and I have to lose three stone by the end of the summer otherwise they’ll drop me, and Claire from Steps will be drafted in before you can say ‘Tragedy’.”

  Now it was Gemma’s turn to sigh. “You and me both. I’m an actress but I’m far too fat to get any work, according to my agent. She’s refused to put me up for any roles unless I’m a size ten by September.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re not fat. You’re gorgeous, so you are,” Cal said gallantly.

  Gemma looked down at her thighs, which were spilling over the edge of the cream leather passenger seat. “Thanks, but I think we both know that’s patently untrue. I am fat and I do need to lose weight.”

  “You’re curvy and sexy.” Cal’s eyes were hidden behind his Prada shades, but Gemma felt them flicker over her body and her face grew warm. Instinctively she sucked in her stomach and wished she wasn’t wearing a scoop-necked top from which her boobs always fought to escape like scoops of troublesome vanilla ice cream. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you in that bakery, so I couldn’t.”

  Gemma was crap at accepting compliments, especially from men, and even more especially from attractive ones. And Callum South, three stones overweight or not, was still a very attractive man. She supposed that if she’d practised the mirror exercises more faithfully she might be better at it. To deflect attention away from any discussion of her looks, she took her usual tack and cracked a joke.

  “That’s blatantly untrue. You only had eyes for the sausage rolls!”

  Cal bantered back, “I was more interested in the baps!” Then, seeing her blushing, he said gently, “Seriously, though. Don’t put yourself down. If you’re a good actress then you’re a good actress. Weight shouldn’t come into it.”

  “Yeah, right. Tell that to all those size-zero actresses. The trouble is I love cooking and I love food. It’s a nightmare.”

  They were whizzing down Tregurrian Hill, the sea a glittering Maggie Thatcher blue before them.

  “Tell me about it,” said Cal bleakly. “When I couldn’t play football anymore it was such a relief to kick back for a bit and enjoy my grub. My grandmammy makes the best sausage coddle in the world and her soda bread’s to die for. But I had to earn some money somehow; houses in Brentwood don’t come cheap, and have you filled up a Range Rover lately? Jaysus!”

  Gemma had to admit that she hadn’t ever filled up a Range Rover, lately or otherwise.

  “So the reality show was a godsend,” he explained. “It pays the bills and the costs for my grandmammy’s nursing home back in Cork. My agent was thrilled when I first hit sixteen stone because Peter Andre was off for the summer and ITV2 had a spare slot. Before I knew it, the contracts were through, I’d practically signed in blood and I was on the treadmill, literally and metaphorically. No more making bread and plastering it in mammy’s butter; no more cheesy chips and no more cakes. Just rabbit food and diets.”

  He looked so forlorn at this that Gemma’s tender heart went right out to him. She knew from bitter experience just how grumpy she got when she was trying to diet.

  “Can’t you just give it all up and try something else?” she suggested.

  Cal shook his head. “I’m a footballer. What else can I do? I haven’t a GCSE to my name, I can’t act – although, to be sure, that’s never stopped Vinnie – and I can’t think of another talent I have apart from making bread. I can’t give up the reality show because then the whole fecking house of cards comes falling down. That was why I panicked and pretended that I’d never seen you. If Leopard TV find out I’m cheating, then it’s the end of my contract.”

  Gemma was confused. “But you put on weight before, after the boot-camp show.”

  “Different show, different contract,” Cal explained. Then he shuddered. “The boot camp. Jaysus, that was hell on earth. But at least I was locked up and couldn’t get out. This time I have to lose weight through summer sports and exercise. If I don’t then there’s no show. The fridge is all but padlocked, I usually have a camera crew everywhere I go and then I’ve got a personal trainer yelling at me. I only gave them the slip that day because Nicky, my trainer, had to have a tooth out and the crew were filming cutaways in town. Sure, but I saw my chance and took it. I could have killed for a cream horn!”

  “So when I showed up with the cake I totally blew your cover,” Gemma finished for him. “And that would have meant game over.”

  Cal pulled the car up outside a long building of glass and wood, so close to the sea that it was practically paddling.

  “You got it,” he said. “Look, I’m not proud about how I behaved. I was a total prick and nothing like a gentleman. I really wanted to apologise. I’m not normally such a moron, I promise. I was also half bloody starved and the sight of your cake nearly sent me over the edge. Especially after all that running; for the last few months the most exercise I’d had was lifting my fork to my mouth!”

  A strange thing had happened: during the distance between Rock and Watergate Bay all of Gemma’s anger had vanished like the river mist in the morning sunshine. Now she felt nothing but sympathy for Cal. Like her he was stuck in a body that refused to play ball (literally, in Cal’s case) and was a slave to a passion for all things gastronomic. In the metabolism lottery they’d both had a bad time.

  In other words they were kindred spirits.

  As he killed the engine she turned to him and said, “Look, it’s fine. You can stop apologising. I totally understand why you did what you did.”

  “You do?” He exhaled slowly. “And you don’t think I’m a total knob?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Gemma said. She was still sore about being made to feel like some kind of deranged stalker.

  Cal laughed. He had a nice laugh; it was warm and ripply like the sand on the beach.

  “Fair enough. Now listen, I know we’re diet buddies and I am strictly not supposed to be eating anything unless it’s on Bugs Bunny’s menu, but what do you say to having a spot of lunch now? On me for being such a tosser. We can always start our respective career-saving diets afterwards.”

  Gemma thought her career was so far gone that even Charlie Fairhead couldn’t revive it. One more meal couldn’t possibly make any difference.

  “I’d love to,” she said warmly. “But aren’t you worried you’ll get spotted?”

  He gestured to his wrap-around shades and baseball cap. “I’m incognito. Besides, my mate says he’ll give us a private area. He’s got it all sorted.” Keys in hand, he pushed open the door and smiled at her. “Shall we?”

  “Shall we what?”

  “Shall we go to lunch?” Cal said patiently.

  Gemma was confused. Watergate Bay was a breathtaking sweep of gold and blue, as though a giant with a Cal-sized appetite had taken a massive bite out of the lush green hillside. Breakers rolled in carrying surfers towards the shore and a lone dog bounded across the sand – but restaurants were thin on the ground.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “Where do you think?” Cal said. He pointed to the long low modern building, all vast windows, wooden cladding and breathtaking views of the Atlantic. “There, of course.”

  Gemma frowned. “I thought you sai
d we were going to your mate’s place? That’s Fifteen Cornwall.”

  He started to laugh. “I know. And it is my mate’s place. I called Jamie earlier and explained everything. He said it was no problem to find us a private space. He’s sound; he won’t give us away.”

  “Your mate is Jamie Oliver?” Gemma said and then wanted to wallop herself on the head with the nearest copy of The Naked Chef cookbook. Duh. He was Callum South, one of the most famous faces in Britain; of course he was friends with other celebs. It was just that in the car they’d chatted so easily that she had totally forgotten who he was; he’d just become Cal, a nice guy who loved his food.

  “Yep,” said Cal, “and he is dying to meet you. Tore me off a strip for being so rude about the cake. Said that to carry a cream sponge up a hill in June meant you were ‘pukka’.”

  She was pukka? Gemma liked that idea almost as much as she liked the idea of tucking into a massive plate of butternut squash and walnut tortellini!

  “In that case,” she replied, with a huge smile, “what on earth are we waiting for?”

  Chapter 24

  Andi was beginning to worry about her sister. Truth be told, to say that she was beginning to worry was pushing it; she’d been worrying about Angel from the moment her mother had brought home the demanding baby, and nothing much had really changed in the past twenty-seven years. It was probably more accurate to say that Andi was worrying even more than usual about Angel. The endless late nights, rapidly expanding designer wardrobe and uncharacteristic secrecy were ringing all sorts of alarm bells. There was a man involved too, judging by the manic glitter in Angel’s eyes and the increasingly elaborate outfits, but who this might be was a mystery: so far Angel was keeping him well and truly under wraps. Usually Angel talked so much her tongue could power the National Grid, so her sudden silence was both unprecedented and disconcerting. Andi hoped that Angel hadn’t got herself in a mess. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  No, Andi had decided yesterday – as she’d looked up from her desk to gaze out over the estuary and caught sight of her bikini-clad sister posing on the biggest, flashiest RIB imaginable – it was time they caught up and talked properly. She had no idea who Angel was spending time with or what she was doing. On the few occasions they had passed one another in the caravan, her sister had mentioned something about working as a beautician, which might explain the money – but when Andi had asked about the tall dark man she’d glimpsed her sister with on the boat, Angel had just shrugged and changed the subject.

  Andi was probably just being paranoid, and spending far too many evenings flicking through Gemma’s copies of Take a Break, but you heard such awful things about young girls getting themselves mixed up in all sorts of trouble and she couldn’t help worrying about Angel. Her sister might look streetwise and as though she’d just strolled off the set of TOWIE, but in reality she was pretty naive. All the romcoms and pink books had convinced her that there really was a knight in shining armour out there when, as Tom had proven only too well, the disappointing truth was that he was more likely to be a tosser in tinfoil.

  “Speak to her,” was Jonty’s advice when Andi shared her worries with him. She seemed to do a lot of that, because he was just so easy to talk to. They’d fallen into the habit of meeting up most afternoons after work at the boatyard, where Jonty would take a break from slaving over the Glastron to have a coffee and share a bun. Her caffeine levels were probably dangerously high and all the Danish pastries were playing havoc with her waistline, but perching on the engine crane while he worked and they chatted about everything under the sun had quickly become one of her favourite things about living in Rock. London, Tom and her debts seemed a world away when she was hanging out with Jonty.

  Tom was a subject that Andi hadn’t yet raised with her new friend, partly because it was still too painful and partly because it felt like another life. There was also a sharp edge of humiliation involved; how ever had she been so stupid as to trust him with her heart and her finances? It didn’t say much for her judgement. She’d behaved like such a muppet they could probably have given her a role on Sesame Street. And then there was the issue of losing her job too, which she had also kept to herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Jonty or that she in any way thought he’d judge her: it was just that it was good to leave that part of her life behind.

  In fairness, Jonty didn’t really talk much about his past either. Andi knew there’d been a break-up with the mysterious Jax and suspected from what he didn’t say that he had been deeply hurt. There had been a business at some point too, but Jonty never really spoke about that either, and Andi couldn’t blame him. Like her, he was in Rock to heal, and rehashing the past wasn’t the way forward. In fact Jonty often pointed out that if the past was really so great it wouldn’t be in the past. Andi smiled; this had become their maxim and they often quoted it at one another. If Jonty had any idea just how messy her past was he’d probably run for the hills and, because Andi was enjoying their uncomplicated friendship so much, she was determined to keep her past well and truly under wraps. Little by little she was starting to pay back some of the debts Tom had run up, and at night she often lay awake racking her brains to come up with ways she could clear her name with Safe T Net, but so far inspiration had failed to strike. Sometimes she was sorely tempted to tell Jonty everything and ask his advice, but the fear of spoiling everything held her back. Andi didn’t think she could bear it if he didn’t believe she was innocent. No, it was much better to keep things simple.

  In contrast, her relationship with Angel was anything but uncomplicated. Angel was more elusive than the Scarlet Pimpernel and Andi had spent days seeking her here, there and everywhere before eventually pinning her down. Finally she’d managed to find a window in Angel’s manic schedule to meet up for a coffee – her sister was so busy she made the Tasmanian Devil look chilled. So today, which was her day off, Andi was wandering through the town to meet Angel in The Wharf Café rather than relaxing somewhere with a book.

  It was another glorious day, the British summer having come up with the goods for once, and a Selfridges-yellow sun was blazing down onto the town from a sky the bright blue of a child’s painting. Holidaymakers crowded the street, munching pasties – steak and Stilton or pollo con pesto, none of the bog-standard meat-and-potato variety here – and pouring into the shops. The beach was smothered with sun worshippers while the estuary teemed with all kinds of boats, from little tenders to flashy RIBs to graceful sailing boats. Andi paused at the slipway and watched for a moment, entranced by the moving picture. It really was a gorgeous day. Jonty was hoping to launch his boat for the first time that afternoon and said the smooth water and warm southerly breeze would make conditions out on the water absolutely perfect.

  Andi was no sailor herself – Balham was a little short on places for boating, unless you counted floating paper ones on Tooting Lido – but she was surprisingly excited about this afternoon’s watery adventure. She’d enjoyed watching the little boat being coaxed back to life under Jonty’s loving care. His attention to detail bordered on perfectionism and when he worked there was such intensity to him that the air practically crackled. Andi had found herself wondering whether he applied the same attention and passion to everything he did, and had to bring herself up short. That train of thought was being derailed right now. The last thing she needed was another set of complications.

  So, back to the business in hand, namely catching up with Angel and finding out exactly what her little sister was up to. This afternoon’s sailing trip, the picnic Andi was going to buy on her way back down through the town to meet Jonty at the beach, and the strange warm glow she felt whenever she thought about spending time with him – all these things would have to wait until later on. At this point in time her sister was her priority.

  The Wharf Café was doing a roaring trade on such a sunshiny morning. As Andi queued for her latte she glanced around at the stylish clientele, all Musto sailing gear, Sebago deck shoes
and hundreds of pounds worth of sunglasses perched upon immaculately streaked hair. Oh dear, maybe she was a little underdressed in her cut-off jeans, white vest and old DM sandals? At least she had shades wedged into her red curls (even if they were only a fiver’s worth from Asda) and a tan, albeit from tramping up the hills in the Cornish sunshine rather than lolling on a Kensington sunbed. Grabbing a paper and heading out onto the balcony, Andi reflected that it was just as well Jonty didn’t give a hoot about status symbols or how his coffee-drinking pal looked, because there was no way she could ever compete with this glamorous summer crowd.

  As always, Angel was late, so Andi found herself a seat, ordered coffee and cake, and settled down with her paper. Being in Cornwall and staying in a caravan without a television or Internet access was like living on another planet. Angel and Gemma were suffering from serious Facebook withdrawal. For Andi, too, the outside world had started to retreat: she had no idea how long it was since she’d last read the financial pages or kept up with current affairs. She’d been far too busy working for Simon and spending time with Jonty to even think about buying the FT, let alone reading it avidly from cover to cover. Knowing from experience that Angel would be at least half an hour late, she flicked through the Mail, bypassing moral outrage stories and bonkers new education initiatives, until she found the financial pages. With her shades firmly in place and her face turned towards the sunshine, she lost herself in the old familiar language of facts and figures.

  Andi became particularly engrossed in a piece about Safe T Net – apparently the company’s going public had rocketed the CEO, Mr Smug Sports Car, practically to the top of the UK’s rich list. According to the Mail, which Andi reckoned she had to take with a whole salt cellar’s worth of Cornish sea salt, he was now worth over five-hundred million pounds. Five-hundred million pounds? She rubbed her eyes until she literally saw stars. How on earth did anyone contemplate having that kind of money? And whatever would you spend it all on? Although the black hole of her overdraft still caused Andi to wake up in the small hours with a racing heart and an overwhelming sense of doom, she wasn’t sure she would like to have that amount of wealth. And almost overnight too. How would you ever know who was genuine? Or who to trust? And what could there possibly be to get out of bed for in the morning when you’d already made a small fortune in interest alone by the time you’d opened your eyes? No, Andi decided as she folded up the paper and turned her attention back to the busy seascape across the road, she was glad she hadn’t been burdened with that kind of responsibility. Her sister, on the other hand, wouldn’t have had any such qualms. In fact for Angel five-hundred million pounds would probably just about cover her shoe budget. Whoever the mystery man was, Andi hoped he was rich.