Gemma sighed. The way she was performing today, a three-year-old would probably have done a better job. Dipping a palette knife into hot water, she began the soul-destroying task of scraping off the frosted In the Night Garden scene that she’d just spent the last twenty minutes struggling to perfect. She really ought to focus on Igglepiggle and Upsy Daisy, but all she could think about was Cal.
Why hadn’t he called? Gemma put the knife down and checked her phone for the umpteenth time, but the little flame of hope that maybe the iPhone had beeped so quietly to itself that she’d missed it died quickly when she saw that the screen was stubbornly blank. Was Cal angry with her? Did he blame her for what had happened? Was he at this very moment wishing he’d never met Gemma Pengelley? Or, even worse, was he so upset and broken by the events of the day before that he was unable to even face talking to her? Gemma hated to think of this scenario even more than she hated to think that maybe he was avoiding her. Cal was such a big personality, in all senses of the word, and she couldn’t bear to think of him being alone and miserable. Knowing Mike and the rest of the entourage, he’d be punished by having to pound on a treadmill or gnaw endless celery sticks like a masticating Sisyphus.
The press had been savage. Dee’s copies of the tabloids lay in a well-thumbed, chocolate-fingerprint-covered pile on the shop counter. After reading several of the red tops, Gemma had felt queasy and unable to face sampling the saffron buns and fairy cakes. Most of her formative years had been spent longing for fame and press exposure, so it was a shock to finally be handed it on a plate – or in this case in a Big Mac box. Headlines like I’m Loving It – too much, Cal-ories and her personal favourite Who’s Fat Girl? were doing things for Gemma’s appetite that Weight Watchers could only dream of.
Angel, who’d reappeared ridiculously loved up with an adoring Laurence in tow and babbling on about some brilliant idea, had been weirdly delighted by the press attention.
“We must get hold of Cal!” she’d shrieked, bounding around the caravan like a demented creature. “Oh my God! Talk about timing! This is perfect!”
It was the oddest definition of perfect Gemma had ever come across. She’d ignored Angel’s plea for Cal’s phone number and stomped off to rehearsal, where she’d fluffed her lines and generally made a total mess of the part. She had to get a grip, Gemma decided. The first performance was only days away and after all the effort that had gone into it she couldn’t blow it now. So it might only be an amateur production in a small Cornish town, but everyone had worked so hard and there was no way Gemma could let them down. As she mopped up congealing cake mixture, Gemma thought that just as Viola “sat like patience on a monument”, eating her heart out for Orsino, it was ironic that she’d be doing the same for Cal. Her only consolation was that it would hopefully make for a stellar performance. What she’d do when the play, and indeed the summer, was over was anyone’s guess.
She’d worry about that later.
Angel, on the other hand, didn’t seem at all concerned about the future. Gemma had, to her amazement, heard the story about Laurence being as stony broke as her friend – and although there was a certain poetic justice in the situation, she couldn’t help being alarmed. After all, hadn’t the whole point of Rock for Angel been Project Rich Guy? She would have expected her best friend to be furious and straight back to the drawing board, but instead Angel seemed thrilled and unable to let go of Laurence’s hand for a nanosecond. It was all very unusual and, quite frankly, disconcerting.
Angel’s behaviour was nearly as peculiar as her sister’s, Gemma decided as, placing the iPhone out of reach, she returned to the sink and started to rinse out bowls of bilious green and pink icing. Most uncharacteristically, Andi had stayed out all night with none other than Travis Chumley, he of the ridiculous hair and dubious maritime skills. In a million years Gemma would never have pegged the bumptious northerner as Andi’s type. With his flashy cars, ludicrously expensive watch and bulging wallet, she’d have placed her last penny on him being far more Angel’s cup of tea. Andi was brainy and sensitive and, with her gorgeous figure and cloud of tumbling red curls, she looked just like a girl from a Rossetti painting – albeit one who wore jeans and a worried expression. Stacking the empty bowls to drain, Gemma decided that she would have staked her life on Andi carrying a torch for the dark and brooding Jonty. He might not have two pennies to rub together but he had an undeniable presence, and when he looked at Andi his eyes seemed to light up from the inside. Gemma smiled in spite of her misery. Oh, who was she kidding? Jonty was bloody gorgeous: he looked as though he’d stepped straight out of a Calvin Klein advert, with his Gillette-sharp cheekbones, striking eyes and slow sexy smile. She’d seen how other women followed him with their gaze (even while they were seated with their wealthy partners), as he strode across the pontoon. She wouldn’t have blamed Andi in the slightest for falling for him. But no, it seemed that Travis Chumley had mysteriously found his way into Andi’s heart.
Gemma paused, tea towel in hand. After Tom she’d really hoped Andi would have found a man who was worthy of her. Maybe Travis had hidden depths, although from what she’d seen of him so far they were very well hidden indeed!
Still musing on the intricacies of her friends’ love lives, Gemma turned on Pirate FM, fished out her battered copy of Twelfth Night and began to measure out icing sugar, butter and drops of colouring to begin again. While she beat the mixture she propped her lines against the packet of Silver Spoon and went over her scenes, determined that at tonight’s rehearsal she’d be word perfect. Wow. It was amazing just how well rhyme went with beating buttercream into submission! Soon she was deep into Act Four, the creamy icing was rising into emerald peaks and Cal’s lack of communication was almost forgotten.
Gemma was so lost in Shakespeare that she didn’t hear the shop bell tinkle or the tap tap of designer shoes tripping across the tiles and into the kitchen. It was only when a harsh sob interrupted Viola’s conversation with Olivia that Gemma looked up and realised she was no longer alone.
Emily, stick-insect model and Cal’s co-star, was standing at the far side of the kitchen.
The spoon clattered into the bowl and Gemma’s heart skipped a beat. Lord, how on earth had Emily crept up on her? It was like something out of Fatal Attraction.
“My God! You made me jump!” Gemma put her hand on her chest and stared at the other girl. “What on earth are you doing here?”
But Emily didn’t speak. Instead her eyes narrowed and her mouth set in a tight line. Gemma felt a prickle of unease. Rather than being her usual arrogant self, all glossy straightened hair and perfect make-up, today Emily looked as though she was fraying around the edges. Her eyes were red, her hair was a mass of tangles, and a crop of spots had appeared on her chin. She looked awful.
“How could you let this happen to Cal?” Emily spat.
Gemma felt sick. Was Cal all right?
“Has something happened to Cal?” she whispered.
“Of course it has, you stupid bitch,” snarled Emily. “As if you don’t know! It’s all your fault! If it hadn’t been for you, Cal would be fine!”
Everything stopped. Gemma was afraid to move. The radio chattered away to itself. Emily seem poised to spring at her; every sinew in the girl’s body was coiled and tense. Gemma gulped. She hoped there weren’t any stray knives lying around. Never mind boiling bunnies. From the expression on Emily’s face, Dee was quite likely to come back and find Gemma bubbling away on the hob.
Abruptly Emily stepped forward and swept her arm across the table. Gemma shrank back as a rush of utensils, bowls and packets flew upwards, crashing onto the tiles and the opposite walls. Icing sugar clouded the air, tingling against Gemma’s teeth and dusting everything. Green buttercream smattered every surface as though Shrek had sneezed, while sharp ceramic shards littered the floor like broken shark’s teeth. Gemma couldn’t believe this display of violence, and for a moment she was afraid to move.
My God! Who would have though
t that skinny Emily had that much strength?
Emily crossed the room in a couple of strides, halting only inches away from Gemma. Although she knew she was bigger and stronger, Gemma was afraid because the other girl seemed to have totally lost control. She shrank back against the cooker, little caring that the heat was burning into her calves.
“It’s all your fault!” hissed Emily. Fury twisted her face, blurring those pure lines that sold products and graced magazine covers, until she was unrecognisable. “You’ve ruined everything, you stupid fat cow! If it hadn’t been for you everything would have been fine!”
Gemma felt sick. She didn’t know what had happened, but it must have had something to do with the McDonald’s fiasco.
“Is Cal hurt?” she whispered. Something inside her died at the thought.
“He’s ruined! That’s what he is! All because of you!” Emily jabbed a bony finger into Gemma’s shoulder. He’s going to lose everything and it’s all your fault!”
And then a tide of invective was unleashed as Emily hurled accusations at Gemma about how Cal had lost all of his TV contracts, then his lucrative sponsorship deals with sportswear companies and Weight Busters, and finally about how Emily’s big break, the chance she’d been working towards for years to really make it into television, was well and truly over.
“All because you couldn’t stop stuffing your big fat face!” she finished, concave chest heaving and eyes bright with spite. “My God, look at you! With your cakes and your burgers and your revolting fat body! Don’t you realise what a joke you are? Didn’t you know that was all you ever were to Cal, just a laugh? He probably thought you were the only person who could make him look thinner!”
“That’s not true,” whispered Gemma. Cal was her friend. She knew he was.
Emily’s eyes raked her body scornfully. “Of course it is. You’re a joke. Don’t kid yourself that he ever really took you seriously. You were just somebody to scoff a pie with. And look where that got him. Hanging out with you has cost Cal his career. It’s cost him everything! He wishes he’d never met you! And so do I!”
A burning wave of shame swept over Gemma, but not from Emily’s cruel personal attack. No, Gemma knew she had body issues, but the weird thing was that since she’d arrived in Rock she’d started to make peace with those. Rather, she felt ashamed that she’d supported Cal’s quest to break his diet – encouraged it, even – and guilty too. No wonder Cal hadn’t been in touch. He must be desperately upset and worried. He’d told her how precarious his finances were.
“You know I’m right,” said Emily, when Gemma didn’t respond. “You’ve ruined Callum South’s career and mine. I know you won’t care about me, but I hope you’re proud of yourself for wrecking his life! No wonder he wishes he’d never met you.”
Gemma flinched. She didn’t want to believe this, but Cal’s silence since yesterday spoke volumes.
“I never meant any of this to happen,” she said. Her voice was faint.
“Well it has. You’ve ruined everything.” Emily stalked from the room, pausing in the doorway to survey the devastation. “Everything!”
She spun on her heel. Moments later the shop bell tinkled and Gemma was left alone. The kitchen was quiet again apart from the radio.
Gemma stood still for a moment. Then her eyes filled and the ruined kitchen swam. The truth hit her with gale force. She was a laughing stock and she really had ruined Callum’s career, however unintentionally. No wonder the iPhone had been silent. Callum couldn’t bear to speak to her because he blamed her too. He wouldn’t be calling in a hurry. Emily was right: she’d spoiled everything.
With tears spilling down her cheeks Gemma bent down and began to pick up the broken bowl. The broken pieces of her heart would have to wait.
Chapter 40
“You’re late,” were Jax’s opening words when a breathless Andi knocked on the door of the elegant Victorian townhouse the older woman had rented for August. “You do realise I won’t be paying you for the time you’ve missed?”
Andi, still out of breath from running most of the way from Trendaway Farm to Rock, glanced down at her watch. It was three minutes past the hour. Oh dear. She feared this set the tone for the evening.
“I’m really sorry,” she apologised, following Jax through into a stunning glass and chrome atrium, filled with white fairy lights, lush potted palms and tables covered in neat rows of sparkling champagne glasses. The caterers were already hard at work unloading food onto trestle tables. Glancing over, Andi saw helpings of pink prawns swimming in garlic mayonnaise, glistening black caviar piled onto blinis and, to top it all, several large lobsters standing guard over steaming vats of bisque. Goodness, Jax was really pushing the boat out to impress.
“It’s been a really busy day,” Andi attempted to explain when Jax didn’t reply. She actually thought she’d done incredibly well to make it at all. Her hangover had really kicked in. No amount of coffee had been able to revive her and it had felt as though Cornwall Council’s road gang were using pneumatic drills inside her skull. Mel had taken one look at Andi’s green face and packed her off home straight away. She’d spent most of the day tucked up in her bunk sleeping it off. Now, after lots of water and Nurofen, she was feeling slightly more human – but her temples were still pounding and the sight of all the food made her feel queasy.
Jax gave Andi scathing a look, which suggested she could see through the neatly tied back hair, white smock top and agnès b. trousers to the hung-over wreck beneath. Dressed in a stunning black dress slashed so low that it showed both kinds of cleavage, and with her hair straightened to within an inch of its life and her face beautifully made up, Jax looked the antithesis of how Andi felt.
“There’s a lot to do,” she said curtly. “The guests arrive at half seven. I need you to take their bags and coats when they arrive and then pass around the canapés. I’m expecting most people to walk through and be on the terrace, so make sure you’re there and on hand to refill their glasses too. Afterwards you can wash the dishes and glasses so they’re clean to return.”
Andi waited for a please but it didn’t come. With a sinking heart she followed the older woman through the atrium and out onto the terrace where once again it seemed no expense was to be spared. Citronella torches were already lit to keep the midges at bay and a string quartet was warming up by a forest of potted bay trees. Jax was going all out to impress her neighbours; that was for certain. As well as Andi there were several other local women she recognised, dressed in waitressing attire. Surely she was surplus to requirements?
Or was Jax putting her very firmly in her place? As she busied herself pouring champagne, the thought of alcohol making her stomach lurch alarmingly, Andi had to admire Jax’s logic. She wanted Jonty back, that much was obvious, and she hated and was threatened by his friendship with Andi. However misplaced this insecurity was, to be the beautiful queen bee at an elegant party while Andi looked dowdy and served the drinks was a stroke of genius that would have impressed Machiavelli. While Jax barked orders, Andi gritted her teeth and thought that if it hadn’t been for all her debts she’d have told Jax exactly where she could shove her lobsters. Not for the first time, she cursed Tom.
At about half seven the first of the guests started to arrive and Andi was busy collecting pashminas and more designer bags than the ground floor of Selfridges could boast, as the great and good of Rock arrived for the free Taittinger and food. Before long the terrace had filled with guests and she was rushed off her feet offering drinks and canapés while Jax drifted from guest to guest, feigning interest but with her eyes always sifting through the crowds. In between asking people if they wanted a drink or a canapé, Andi amused herself with some people spotting. It was like a who’s who of Rock’s high society. So far she’d spied two celebrity chefs, somebody who looked very much like Martin Clunes and, believe it or not, Angel’s old nemesis Mr Yuri. With a gulp and hoping desperately that he’d visited Cornwall for a holiday rather than to fit her
sister out with a pair of concrete boots, Andi concentrated on pouring champagne and being generally invisible.
Finally, and much champagne-pouring later, Simon and Mel arrived. Relieved to see friendly faces, Andi left her work for a moment and joined them in the garden.
“Champagne? Canapé?” she asked.
Mel looked taken aback to see her. “Andi? What on earth are you doing serving drinks for Evil Edna?”
“Earning some extra pennies,” said Andi with a grin. “Beggars can’t be choosers. I didn’t expect to see you here though. I thought you weren’t a fan of Jax?”
“Believe me, I’m not.” Mel took two glasses of Taittinger. Draining one and then the other in swift succession, she added, “That’s better. Now I can face the next hour.”
“My wife only came because she wants a nosy at Jax’s house,” grinned Si. “It’s one up from watching Come Dine With Me, for her!”
Mel walloped him. “Don’t be a bugger. You know full well I’ve come to make sure Jonty isn’t eaten alive. I don’t trust that woman an inch.” She waved her hand in the direction of the atrium, lit up now by the candles and fairy lights as dusk had fallen. “I mean, just look at her!”
Andi followed Mel’s gesture and her stomach slowly looped the loop when she glanced into the atrium and saw that Jonty had arrived. He stood framed in the glass of the atrium, a slim but powerful figure dressed in a white Quiksilver shirt and faded jeans. In his simple yet stylish surf dude’s outfit, Jonty stood out from everyone else in their Armani and Ralph Lauren. Jax had cornered him already and even from a distance it was clear that they were deep in conversation. Jax had her hand on his chest and her head was tilted up at him, giving Jonty the full benefit of her tanned cleavage. Jonty, though, was too busy saying something back, in between much head shaking and waving of hands, to be distracted by the barely-there frock. His attention was one-hundred percent focused on whatever it was he was saying.
[Escape 01.0] Escape for the Summer Page 35
