No point asking if she and Cal could have central heating installed at the Lion Lodge then, thought Gemma bleakly. Thick socks and thermals it was. No wonder they rarely had sex. By the time the layers were off they’d completely forgotten what it was they were up to in the first place.
“Come on then,” said Angel suddenly, unbuckling her seatbelt and opening the car door. “What are you waiting for?”
“What do you mean? Why are you getting out?” Gemma was confused.
“I haven’t driven this far just to sit in the Land Rover.” Angel was out of the vehicle now and striding towards the cottage, or striding as much as it was possible to stride in purple spiky-heeled ankle boots on muddy grass. “Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “Let’s check it out. You never know, it may still be for sale!”
Shoving the passenger door open, Gemma followed her friend up across the garden – although she really didn’t see the point. Even if the house was being flipped around and put back onto the open market it would command a huge price and be way out of her league. The joy of it being a ruin had been that firstly she and Cal could afford it and secondly they could have fun doing it up together and putting their own touches onto it. Now the cottage belonged to somebody else and her dream of a future there with Cal was in pieces.
Gemma really hoped this wasn’t an omen…
Angel, balancing precariously on a water butt, was now peering in through a window. One false-nailed hand clutched the lintel while the other fiddled with the latch; she looked like a well-dressed Goldilocks.
“What’s that face for?” Angel asked when Gemma joined her.
“Angel, you can’t go breaking in!” Gemma cast a nervous glance around the darkening garden.
“I’m not breaking in. I’m just having a look. Don’t you want to know what it’s like inside?”
“Not really,” said Gemma. She liked the way she’d imagined the cottage. Why spoil that by hearing about designer furniture and the ubiquitous Farrow & Ball paint?
“Damn! There goes my nail! I thought I nearly had it then, too.” Angel held up her hand and looked sorrowfully at her index finger, which seemed rather bald and stumpy compared to its fellows. “It’s on the floor. Can you see if you can find it? I’ll glue it back on when we’re home.”
And so it came to this, Gemma reflected, that she was scrabbling around in the mud looking for her best friend’s acrylic nail, outside what had until minutes before been her dream cottage. Her own nails were soon covered in dirt and the knees of her jeans were grubby too. She sighed. There wasn’t even the prospect of a hot bath to look forward to: the water at the Lion Lodge was a lukewarm trickle and turned glacial the second it splashed into the huge enamel bath. The bathroom itself was freezing as well, and although an asthmatic fan heater wheezed dusty puffs of air into the room, it made little difference. This had been fine in the spring when they’d first moved in. Buoyed up by the privacy and the sunshine streaming through the windows in golden ribbons, the lack of heating really hadn’t seemed an issue. Fast-forward several months and it was a very different story. Lately, Cal and Gemma had taken to strip-washing by the fire with flannels and bowls of hot water, like something out of the Victorian era. Cal had joked that they were only a step away from getting a tin bath. At least, Gemma hoped that was a joke.
She brushed the dirt from her trousers and sighed. It just went to show that there really was no such thing as a free house. No wonder Laurence had looked at them as though they were mad when they’d insisted on moving in.
“There’s nothing to see anyway,” Angel reported, derailing Gemma’s train of thought. “It’s totally empty inside: just bare walls and wires hanging out.” She inspected her fingers again sadly. “Looks like I’ve sacrificed a nail for nothing. Give us a hand getting down, Gem. I don’t want to trash any more.”
It was just as Gemma was trying to help Angel down – the spike-heeled boots making it difficult for her friend to balance, and Angel’s dress being rather too tight for parkour – that the front door of the house opened and a smartly dressed woman stepped onto the newly laid garden path. She was city-chic in a sharp black trouser suit and killer red heels, which were teamed beautifully with her short ebony bob and crimson mouth. A briefcase was held loosely in one hand and a large bunch of keys was suspended in the other. She was pausing to lock the house when she caught sight of Angel swaying drunkenly on top of the water butt. Her eyes widened.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Gemma had a horrible sensation as though somebody had dropped a scoop of ice cream down her chest – a sensation totally at odds with the hot flush sweeping up her neck. She was just about to open her mouth and explain that this wasn’t what it looked like when Angel overbalanced. The next thing Gemma knew, she was sprawled face first in the mud with her best friend on top of her. Winded, she closed her eyes and prayed that the kindly Cornish earth would swallow her up, right here and right now.
“There’s my nail!” she heard Angel exclaim in delight. Eight and a half stone leapt off Gemma’s back and, spitting out dirt and grass, Gemma was able to push herself up onto her hands and knees. A pair of bright red shoes, which were no doubt hugely expensive designer ones, stopped right in her line of vision.
“This is private property,” said an unamused American voice. “You’ve got no right whatsoever to be here. You get me?”
Gemma looked up. The woman, tall and slim and in her mid thirties, was staring down at her. It was safe to say that the expression on her face was not welcoming. Gemma quailed. She “got it”, all right. She opened her mouth to try to apologise, but this was easier said than done given that it was full of dirt.
Angel – who was already on her feet and still immaculate, thanks to landing on her best friend – was introducing herself as though at a garden party. “So sorry about that,” she said brightly, going into her full-on, wide-eyed, warm-smile Charming mode. It had never been known to fail, and Gemma had seen it get her friend out of all kinds of situations. She wished she could bottle whatever it was that Angel had, so that she could sell it; she could buy and renovate a hundred cottages with the profits.
“How do you do? I’m Angel Elliott, Viscountess Kenniston,” Angel continued, sounding like something from the BBC in the 1950s – although Gemma had a sinking suspicion that playing the archetypal Brit probably wasn’t going to impress this particular American. With her lean figure and razored bob, she hardly looked the type to melt just because someone talked like Penelope Keith. Angel held out her hand. “That was so bad mannered of us!”
The woman didn’t dispute this. Neither did she shake hands or acknowledge the title, which was unusual because in Gemma’s experience people usually went crazy for it. Maybe that was a British thing and Americans didn’t get titles – or real ones, anyway? After all, they’d had Lady Gaga for years. Instead, the woman glowered at Angel, who looked shocked by the failure of her charm offensive and the lack of recognition.
“This is private property,” the woman repeated coldly, dropping her car keys into one of her tailored pockets and retrieving a phone from another. Her eyes flickered over Gemma, who by now was on her feet and trying not to get mud everywhere. The woman’s thumb was poised above the keypad of her BlackBerry. “I ought to call the police.”
“There’s really no need,” Gemma said quickly. The last thing she needed was PC Puckey turning up and then telling the whole village that Gemma Pengelley had turned into a burglar since she went up country. “Although if you did call the police,” she continued, “the local bobby would know me anyway and be able to tell you I’m from this area. We really weren’t up to anything sinister, I promise! It’s just that I used to play here as a kid and I was really surprised to see that it’s been renovated. We were only looking.”
“Looking,” repeated the woman. She seemed distinctly unimpressed. “And that gives you the right to trespass?”
“Actually,” Angel said, recovered n
ow and looking miffed, “in Britain we have the right to roam.” She knew this for a fact; it drove Laurence mad to have ramblers traipsing through the estate, and he was always moaning about it both on and off camera.
“Not all over this goddamn cottage it doesn’t,” the woman shot back. She pinned Angel with a steely gaze. “And I don’t think you have the right to climb on people’s property and peer in their windows either, do you? That is, unless something very strange has happened since I graduated from law school?”
Law school? Of course, Gemma should have known. Only bankers and city lawyers could afford to buy the plum Cornish properties these days.
“I’m so sorry.” Gemma was mortified. “We’re leaving right now, aren’t we Angel?”
But Angel, unperturbed that they might have a lawsuit slapped on them at any moment, didn’t budge. “Is the cottage being put back on the market once it’s finished?” she asked. “Only, my friend really loves it. Her partner’s a Premier League footballer, you know. That’s soccer to you, I think? Smaller balls and no padding and fit guys like David Beckham?”
The lawyer stared at her. She couldn’t have looked more confused if Angel had started speaking in Swahili.
“You must have heard of David Beckham?” Angel was saying incredulously. “He was in the States for yonks! And his wife? She was Posh Spice. You had the Spice Girls, right? She’s Posh Spice but she designs clothes now. They’re amazing. I’ve got this dress of hers and it was worth every penny, even though my husband Laurence thinks it looks like it came from Topshop. I guess you guys all shop in Wal-Mart though?”
Angel was not doing US–Anglo relations any favours, Gemma thought despairingly.
“Come on, Angel; time we left,” she said, grabbing her friend’s arm.
But Angel shook her off. When the bit was between her whitened teeth there was no stopping her.
“Seriously, Gemma’s boyfriend is a top footballer. He earns loads of money!”
Now, if this were true it would be great. Sadly it wasn’t. Apart from being an ex-footballer with a greater passion for pizza than the pitch, scandal and lawsuits had claimed a huge chunk of Cal’s cash. Angel’s well-meaning hyperbole couldn’t have been further off the mark. If Cal had been right up there with the likes of Beckham and Rooney for wads of cash, then would she really be washing from a bucket of kettle water when she got home that evening? The depressing truth was that although Cal had earned amazing money, he’d also been very good at spending it too. A combination of bad financial advice, too much booze, a very generous nature and a global recession had seen most of his wealth wiped out. Add to this his huge tax bill (which made Kerry Katona’s look like a pocket-money sum) and a family who constantly bled him dry, and there you had it: one skint footballer.
Mrs Black Bob wasn’t impressed anyway. “I’m afraid it doesn’t matter who you are or how much money you have. This cottage has been sold and it’s privately owned. Now, I’d really appreciate it if you could both vacate the property. If not, I will have no choice about pressing charges for trespass.”
Neither Gemma nor Angel needed asking twice; this woman looked like she meant business. Moments later they were back in the car. As Angel floored the gas pedal – mud and gravel spinning as though the Defender was an F1 car – Gemma turned around in her seat and took her last look at Penmerryn. Dusk was falling now, and a small slice of moonlight silvered the creek. As the shadows thickened and the car headed up the hill, she watched the cottage and her dreams grow smaller and smaller before they finally vanished.
Chapter 6
The Lion Lodge was empty when Gemma and Angel arrived back in Devon. It wasn’t the darkness of the house that told Gemma this – the wiring was old and often fused – but rather the knowledge that Cal was up at Kenniston filming this evening.
“Come and join in,” Angel pleaded. “I promise we won’t include any footage of you. It’s going to be so much fun. Builder Craig is having his twenty-first birthday party and he’s totally convinced that Kelly Brook is going to jump out of his cake.”
In spite of her resolve to have nothing to do with reality TV ever again, Gemma couldn’t help being intrigued. Builder Craig, recently signed model and hot telly totty, was vain enough to believe this. “And is she?”
Angel snorted. “Hardly! No, Elly from the village teashop is going to jump out of the cake. She really fancies him, which you’d know if you watched the show, and hopefully he’ll be pleased. If not, it’ll make good TV.”
And this, Gemma reminded herself, was why she’d stepped away from being in Bread and Butlers. She was tired of having her life manipulated for the sake of ratings. She wondered when it was that she’d started feeling like this while her best friend became more and more obsessed with the show. Maybe she was boring? Or was it a turning-thirty thing? On Christmas Day, two weeks from now, it would be her big birthday. Surely she ought to be a little more excited?
“Come on, you’ll have fun,” urged Angel. “It’ll do you good to come out for the evening, and God knows we need a laugh after meeting that miserable old boot earlier. Blimey, she was like a female Bond villain, wasn’t she? Did you get a good look at her shoes while you were on the ground? Were there spikes in them?”
The memory of being covered in mud and caught red-handed trying to peer into the scary lawyer’s house was one that would probably have Gemma in therapy for years. Apart from the fact that she’d made a total fool of herself, Gemma knew they’d been completely in the wrong and this made her feel hot all over. It was all water off a duck’s back to Angel, though; she really didn’t understand why Gemma was so upset. For Gemma, it was far too painful to share her shattered dreams, so instead she’d spent the journey back to Kenniston Hall working her way through a family-sized pack of peanut M&Ms while Angel sang along to ABBA’s greatest hits. Now she felt not only miserable but sick too.
If there was a party mood, Gemma thought, then she was the antithesis of it.
“Look! The party’s started,” said Angel, pointing across the parkland to where Kenniston Hall was lit up like Oxford Street. “Come on, Gem. Cal will be thrilled to see you.”
“I doubt it. He’ll be far too busy working,” Gemma said bitterly, and Angel frowned.
“Now I’m really worried. Babes, Cal adores you. Why on earth would you think anything else?”
Gemma shrugged. No sex? Cal working long hours? Never seeing one another? His mother always singing the praises of his sainted ex-girlfriend? Take your pick, she thought.
“Is it the no-sex thing?” Angel asked. “Because,” she leaned behind her seat, rummaged around and then pulled out the lilac bag, “don’t forget this! Honestly, Gem, once you’ve got this lot on there’s no way he’s going to say no! He’s a man.”
Flinging the bag at Gemma, Angel gave her a little shove.
“Go in, get yourself all moisturised and plucked and dressed up, light a few candles and I’ll make sure Cal leaves early. And when you’re grinning from ear to ear tomorrow don’t think I won’t say ‘I told you so’!”
Gemma had learned a long time ago that arguing with Angel was pointless, so she took the bag, mumbled something and then stepped out onto the rutted track that masqueraded as Kenniston’s drive. The reflection of the mansion’s illuminated windows trembled in the black lake like a scene from The Great Gatsby, the party inside probably every bit as extravagant. Lady Daphne had mentioned riding her horse up the stairs but Laurence had vetoed this, details Gemma knew because Cal had retold the scene in such a way that they’d wept with laughter.
She tightened her grip on the carrier bag. See? They still had good times and the spark was still there between them; she knew it was. All she needed to do was to find a way of reigniting it.
As the taillights of Angel’s car retreated up the drive, Gemma pushed the front door open and let herself into the hall. As usual Cal had forgotten to lock the door and for a moment she felt irritated before reminding herself that any self-respecting b
urglar would take one look at the threadbare carpets, the black mould and the sinister wallpaper swellings that brought to mind that classic scene in Alien and flee for the hills.
Sensible burglar.
Gemma dumped her bags at the bottom of the stairs and meandered along the dark passageway to the kitchen. The electricity circuit was working for once, and soon the kettle had boiled and Gemma was preparing a cup of tea and a hot-water bottle to take upstairs. For a moment she’d toyed with the idea of curling up on the big squashy sofa in the sitting room and turning on the Christmas-tree lights. The Lion Lodge was actually a very pretty house and the sitting room was her favourite spot, with its big fireplace, full-height sash windows and ceiling that reminded her of icing on a wedding cake. Last weekend Laurence had delivered an enormous tree cut from the estate, which had resulted in Gemma and Cal having a trolley dash through Homebase for decorations. As she’d lobbed in baubles and tinsel and strings of coloured lights, Gemma’s imagination had been full of romantic images of her and Cal cosied up by the tree drinking mulled wine and stealing kisses in the glow of the fairy lights. Sadly a fantasy was what this had remained, because the sitting room with its high ceiling and rattling draughty windows was perishingly cold. Of course, there ought to have been a huge fire burning in the massive fireplace, but as neither Cal nor Gemma were big on chopping wood this was yet to happen. So the room remained cold – which was good news for the tree, but very bad news for romance.
Awkwardly clutching her tea and hot-water bottle, plus the shopping bag and a packet of chocolate digestives, Gemma headed upstairs for the bedroom where she and Cal tended to hole up in the style of two explorers in the Antarctic. Gemma switched on the trusty fan heater, picked up Cal’s laptop and plucked Fifty Shades from the bag. Two big feather duvets topped their bed; lobbing the hot-water bottle in first, she dived into them, wincing as the cold bedding brushed her skin. Eventually, with the lamps on and her toes defrosting, and chomping on her fourth biscuit (Gemma figured that she was eating more these days because it was so bloody cold in the house), she flipped the laptop open. A bit of Facebooking was always amusing, but Gemma had a more serious purpose in mind: Cal’s ancient computer tended to run very hot, and with it balanced on her knees she would have an extra layer of warmth.
Escape for Christmas: A Novella (The Escape Series Book 2) Page 5
