“I don’t care about any of that,” Andi told him. “I only care about you.” Oh sod it. It was time to lay her heart on the line. She’d already written it all over the beach, so there was no point hiding it. “I love you, Jonty. Nothing else matters apart from that.”
For a moment they just stared at one another. Then a smile lit his face just like the sun that was punching through the leaden clouds, and, stepping forward, he folded Andi into his arms.
The relief she felt was incredible. This was where she was supposed to be. Her harbour. Her home. Her Jonty. As though it had been waiting all day just for this very moment, egg-yolk yellow light spilled onto the beach, burnishing Jonty’s skin and turning his freckles to gold dust. Suddenly the whole world was filled with sunshine.
“I feel exactly the same way,” he said, tightening his arms and pulling her close so that she could feel every ripple of his body. Delicious shivers of desire Mexican-waved across her skin.
“You love me too?” The words fell from her lips before she could stop them.
Jonty brushed the hair away from her face. “I love everything about you, Andi Evans. I love the Andi that PMB bantered with. I love the Andi who learned to drive a boat. I love the Andi who worked like a maniac to make herself solvent and refused to give up.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Actually, I think I’ve loved you since you first tried to wrestle the FT from me!”
“The cheek! I was there first—” Andi feigned indignation, but her protests were soon silenced because Jonty was kissing her and she was kissing him back, softly at first but then with ever-increasing urgency as time seemed to slow and transport them to a place where there were no more misunderstandings.
“About what you did for me,” Andi began when they broke apart.
Jonty laid a finger on her lips. “I did it because I wanted to. There was no agenda. Can we leave all that for now? How about you and I forget about Tom and Jax and all the rest of the crap and just think about us for a change? And I mean absolutely nothing else. We can go away somewhere quiet where it’s just us, somewhere with no exes, sisters or interruptions.”
The way he said this, with those eyes holding hers, made Andi want nothing more. The images of a dark river, a soft breeze and billowing white curtains flashed through her memory and her pulse quickened.
Jonty held out his hand. “Do you trust me?”
She took it in hers, lacing their fingers together. “Of course I do.” She always had, Andi realised. From the moment they’d first met she’d instinctively trusted him. If she had only listened to her intuition she could have saved them both a lot of heartache.
He raised their linked hands, dropping a kiss onto her knuckles. “So you’ll come on a mystery flight?”
She squeezed his fingers. “Try stopping me.”
Hand in hand they retraced Jonty’s footsteps towards the helicopter, their two sets of prints in the sand side by side and closer than words. Just the way it should be.
“Ready to spread your wings and fly?” Jonty asked, and Andi nodded, knowing she would follow him to the end of the world if he asked. It didn’t matter where they went. All that mattered was that they were together. And with Jonty Andi knew that she would fly, in every way a person should.
Up into the sky rose the blue helicopter, hovering high above the beach and the two miniature figures next to a matchbox-sized car waving and cheering. It banked left and flew low over the Camel Estuary, where two small boys rode the wake of a boat while their father sounded the horn in greeting. Then it swooped towards the town, circled Ocean View and headed towards the limitless horizon...
Jonty smiled at her. “Ready?”
Andi smiled back. Her heart was so full of love and excitement that she could have flown without the helicopter. With Jonty beside her she knew she was more than ready for whatever might come next.
“Ready!” she replied firmly.
And bidding Angel, Gemma and their Cornish escape a silent thank you, Andi Evans flew up and away into the bright blue sky of her future.
Chapter 51
One Year Later
The National Television Awards
“And the award for Best Reality TV Show goes to...” the famous comedian paused for dramatic effect while the cameras panned across the audience, settling on the expectant faces of the UK’s most celebrated household names, all of whom were trying their hardest to look nonchalant. When the floor manager gave the nod, the comedian peeled the envelope open with painstaking slowness, before fixing the cameras with a blinding white grin. “I bloody love this show! Best Reality TV Show – it’s Bread and Butlers!”
“Yes!” Angel, Lady Kenniston, shot out of her chair and punched the air, a dangerous activity that threatened to bounce her from her stunning strapless Stella McCartney gown. Beaming at all the TOWIE stars, celebrity chefs and ex glamour models pretending to look thrilled for her, Angel tossed her golden mane back from her flushed face and flung her arms around Laurence.
“Oh my God! We did it! We really did it!”
In her wildest dreams – and Angel’s dreams were pretty wild, it had to be said – she had never imagined that her idea would be anywhere near this successful. Almost from the second the first episode aired, the nation had gone crazy for Bread and Butlers. With Callum South’s popularity, the stunning setting of Kenniston, an eccentric cast and constant disasters, the ingredients had been as successful as Cal and Gemma’s fledgling bakery business that the show followed. Sprinkle into that Angel’s stunning looks, Laurence’s blue blood and the ongoing stresses of trying to save a crumbling mansion, and it made for compulsive viewing. The everyday dramas, the rows, and the excitement that had built after Laurence’s dramatic on-screen proposal for the Bread and Butlers summer wedding had all raised the show high in the ratings.
Mr Yuri had been right. It did not fail. As the cheers rang out, the oligarch beamed. He’d already seen Joanna Lumley and had chatted to Katie Price; he was having the time of his life!
“We certainly did do it!” Laurence kissed his wife back while the room erupted. Since the episode where they’d been married amid the half-restored splendour of Kenniston and with three beribboned Labradors and a bemused Gemma as flower girls, Laurence and Angel had scarcely been out of the press. The British public had gone crazy for them; a week rarely passed when they weren’t featured in a tabloid or in Heat magazine. Apart from Angel being voted FHM’s sexiest woman of the year (take that, Kelly Brook) and regularly bumping into Peter Andre (she was far too busy now to attend any of his barbecues, no matter how many times he invited her), the high point so far had probably been when Tom, fresh from his community service and suspended fraud sentence, had sent his CV to Kenniston. As if! Was ever a man so deluded? Angel had filed it in the bin.
“Jaysus, you two! Snog later,” Cal said to Angel and Laurence. His DJ strained a little at the buttons, but this was no longer an issue now that he was the face of a successful artisan bakery and more famous for focaccia than football. His brown eyes twinkled. “This is your big moment.”
“Go on!” urged Gemma. Unlike her partner she seldom appeared on the show, preferring to support Cal from the wings. Her recipe book, however, based on the show, was proving to be a huge bestseller – and she was already being hailed as the new Nigella. Although Gemma was still curvy, happiness and (judging from all the early nights they had, thought Angel with a smile) lots of good sex had slimmed her down to the size fourteen she’d always longed to be. Gemma still acted in an amateur group but most of her time was spent behind the scenes, running the business and helping with Kenniston. Walking from one end of the house to the other non-stop was also a workout in itself. Angel reckoned that Gemma must trek miles every day. Maybe she should buy her friend a Segway? That could be great TV material! And Laurence’s ma, who’d turned out to be a most unlikely star of the show, would be an absolute hoot on it. She made a mental note to look into it as soon as the award ceremony was over and text the production
team. Honestly! Her brain hadn’t had a minute off since she’d first thought up Bread and Butlers.
Claridge’s ballroom was still ringing with cheers. On the huge VT screen Angel saw a close-up of her smiling face, interspersed with clips from the show: Cal covered in flour kissing an equally floury Gemma, Laurence in a morning suit waiting nervously at the church, Angel in her underwear talking to the blushing builders, the dogs eating the cupcakes for a society soirée... Scene after scene flickered across the screen, a celluloid record of the best year of her life.
The cameras were panning back to her now. This was it, the moment where she would sweep through the gathered TV royalty and stand on the stage. It was the moment she’d dreamed about for so long; yet now it was here Angel was frozen. She glanced around the table, from face to face, and a knot formed in her throat at the thought of just how dear these people had become. Even Mr Yuri – although he still looked a bit like a pig in a suit – had been an invaluable ally, and Travis too had turned out to have quite a flair for television production. She couldn’t have done it without any of them, but there was one person without whom Angel knew she would never have made it this far. One person who had always supported her and looked out for her.
Applause rippled though the auditorium as Angel glided across the stage. The comedian dropped a kiss onto her cheek and tried to squeeze her backside, yelping when her sharp elbow caught him in the ribs. Angel smiled sweetly at the camera. She’d learned a lot this year. Clutching his chest, the comedian stepped back so that Angel could take the podium, and the audience fell silent.
“I’m not going to make you listen to a long speech,” Angel promised them. “I just want to say a big thank you to everyone who’s voted for us and supported the show. We love every minute of sharing our lives with you all. Although, I must admit that I could do without everyone seeing me without my make-up on such a regular basis. Laurence doesn’t have a choice – he married me – but the rest of you don’t deserve it!”
There was laughter at this. Angel always looked amazing with or without her foundation.
Angel clutched the award to her chest. “This is the part where I could do a Gwyneth Paltrow; there are so many people that deserve thanks, from my gorgeous husband right through to the fantastic crew. But before I do finish, there is one very special person I want to thank tonight. This is the person I owe everything to. She’s always been there, always believed in me and encouraged me. When our mother died she put her own grief aside and looked after me. I guess she’s been doing it ever since in one way or another. She’s always put me first.”
The auditorium was silent. On the big screen Angel’s eyes shimmered with emotion. “She can’t be here tonight because she’s in Mumbai with her partner, Jonty Teague, and working with the Safe T Net Safe Sight charity, but I want everyone to know just how much she means to me and how much I love her.” She raised the golden trophy and spoke directly to the camera. “Andi Evans, sister, best friend and fellow Rock chick, this is for you!”
The room erupted into applause and Angel’s heart swelled with pride as she rejoined her table.
“That was wonderful,” said Gemma, hugging her tightly. “Didn’t I tell you that going to Cornwall was the start of amazing things? And just look at how it turned out for all of us.”
Nodding, Angel hugged her back. Three girls, two hundred miles and one golden summer. Gemma had been right all along: their escape to Cornwall had been the start of wonderful adventures – and as she smiled at her friends, Angel knew for certain there were plenty more to come.
The End
Chapter 1
Summer Penhalligan was only five years old when she stood on the stage of the Polwenna Bay Village Hall and sang Somewhere over the Rainbow, but even before the final verse was over her mother knew she was destined for fame and fortune, far away from Cornwall and in the bright lights of the West End. Nothing was going to get in the way of Susie Penhalligan’s dreams – least of all her daughter.
Summer had spent most of her childhood learning lines, being trundled up and down the county to rehearsals and practicing ballet and tap until her feet hurt. While her siblings had spent their time playing on the beach or surfing – or, later on, drinking scrumpy in The Ship – Summer had focused on her acting and tried not to care that she was missing out on what looked like a lot of fun. On the odd occasion when she’d felt like missing a dance class or Saturday rehearsal to spend time with her best friend Morwenna, just the thought of her mother’s disappointment had been enough to stop Summer in her tracks. Susie had lived and breathed Summer’s acting, thinking nothing of driving her daughter hundreds of miles to auditions or classes in their exhausted Ford Fiesta, and she’d saved every penny from her job cleaning holiday cottages to help pay for it all. Even Summer’s father Eddie, a gruff fisherman who spent more time propping up the bar than he ever did at home, would sometimes make it to a show and then boast drunkenly to all and sundry in The Ship that his girl was going to make them proud. Summer had always known that she had to succeed. Letting her parents down hadn’t been an option.
Fortunately hard work, dedication and talent had been in Summer’s favour, and so had her striking looks and slim figure. Like all of the Penhalligan family, Summer had been blessed with a combination of inky black hair and olive skin – rumoured to be the legacy of a Spanish Armada survivor who’d been washed ashore in Cornwall and had found comfort in the arms of a local girl – and eyes as sea green as the waves that danced beyond the harbour wall.
It had broken Summer’s heart to leave her family and friends behind, especially one friend in particular, whom even now she couldn’t think about without her chest constricting. Nevertheless, she’d left Cornwall shortly after her sixteenth birthday and set off for London, where (to her mother’s immense pride) she’d managed to secure a place at a top drama school. In the twelve years since, Summer had scarcely had time to breathe. She could certainly count on one hand the amount of times she’d been free to return home.
Home. When she’d first arrived in London, just the thought of Cornwall had been enough to make her eyes prickle. Whenever she’d allowed herself to dwell too much on everything she’d left behind, from the higgledy-piggledy rooftops to the ceaseless crash of the waves breaking on the rocks below her bedroom window, Summer had started to panic – and she’d had to think very hard indeed about how many sacrifices her family had made to send her all the way up country to drama school. Each time she’d thought about that one person in particular, the person whose hurt and anger had made Summer feel as though her own heart was being clawed out, she’d had to screw her eyes tightly shut and concentrate on how proud everyone at home was and just how much they’d given up so that she could be here. It would have been selfish and ungrateful to turn tail to Paddington Station and hurl herself onto the first train home.
Sometimes Summer had resorted to pulling one of her precious Topshop earrings out of her earlobe and digging it into her arm, until the bite of metal managed to blunt the homesickness. Then, when her emotions were back under control, she’d always give herself a stern lecture: about how her mother had toiled for her, clearing the mess left behind by the Range Rover-driving holidaymakers who rented the prettiest cottages down by the harbour, and about how her brothers had chosen to go to sea with Eddie and put money into the family pot rather than take their A levels. She couldn’t let them all down. Ironically, even her friend Morwenna had once sacrificed the money she’d saved for a new saddle so that she could buy Summer a beautiful collector’s edition of Shakespeare’s plays.
As it turned out, though, Mo and the rest of the Tremaine family had ended up letting Summer down in just about the worst way possible…
In those early, lonely days, thinking about her best friend had often meant another earring jab. The two girls had grown up together and been closer than sisters. Although Morwenna was as fair skinned as Summer was dark, they’d often liked to imagine that they were twins. Back then it
was certainly true that wherever one girl was, the other was never far away. Even more than a decade on, Summer often still found herself thinking that she must tell Morwenna about some incident or other, or feeling her heart lift when she caught sight of a curly red head in a crowd. The subsequent realisation that the friendship was long gone was every bit as painful as if the loss had happened yesterday. Mo and Summer no longer spoke – and they probably never would again.
In desperation, Summer had thrown herself into her studies, and before long the excitement of her new life in the city had been a balm to the homesickness. The longer she stayed away from Polwenna Bay, the less upsetting the memories became. It was easier not to think about home, Summer had soon learned, to shut the door firmly on the longing to be back and to refuse to dwell on it. Besides, it couldn’t have been made any clearer that she was no longer wanted.
There were many advantages to having years of acting classes under her belt; not least of these was discovering that if she played the part of a confident and sassy city chick, she could pretty much convince everyone around her and possibly even herself too. Elocution and acting classes had soon smoothed away the warm Cornish drawl from her voice and with practice Summer had managed to erase Polwenna Bay from her heart as well, or at least lock it away in a very small corner that she was determined to seldom visit.
As time slid past in that imperceptible yet alarming way that years do, Summer found that if she did ever miss the calling of the gulls, the tang of salt in the air or the lemon-sharp light of the bay, then she was able to console herself with the knowledge that at least she’d managed to find the fame that her mother had craved for her.
Had she made her family proud? Summer wasn’t so sure. Maybe proud wasn’t quite the right word; somehow Summer doubted that her Shakespeare-loving mother approved of the direction Summer’s career path had taken in the end. Her father had been utterly mortified – no more bragging in the pub from him, she imagined – but at least she’d managed to pay off their mortgage and could make sure they were taken care of. Her brothers were less delicate and had readily accepted the down payment on their new trawler, Penhalligan Girl, but Cornwall was a small place and people had long memories, so Summer stayed away. Her face was on billboards and magazines the length and breadth of Britain; she belonged to that small and very select group of celebrities known solely by their first names, and she lived a lifestyle that most people could only dream of.
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