“Yeah, right. Like when you said you were in London at a Dangers game when they were playing at Old Trafford?” As soon as she’d hurled these words at Cal Gemma would have given anything to snatch them back, but that was impossible. She’d opened the lid on her personal Pandora’s Box now, and there was no reclosing it.
“You’ve been checking up on me?” Cal ran a hand through his curls, making them stand on end in outrage. “Jaysus, Gemma. What the feck is going on with you?”
“What’s going on with me? That’s rich coming from the man who’s taking secret calls from his ex and who clears the web-browser history! Don’t look so surprised! I’m just not as stupid as you think I am. And I wasn’t checking up on you either. A call came through to your phone and – surprise, surprise – it was bloody Aoife. Don’t tell me; she’s coming for Christmas too, is she?”
“Bloody hell, Gemma!” Cal was staring at her in horror. “Is that really what you think of me? Do you really think I’m the sort of man who’d treat you like that?”
Gemma looked away, unable to bear seeing the hurt on his face.
“I don’t know anymore,” she whispered. “I’m so confused. We never spend time together, you’re so secretive and then Aoife’s phoning.”
Cal raised his eyes to the strip lights. “Aw, feck it, Gemma! Not this again. How many times do I have to tell you? There is nothing going on between me and Aoife! There never really was and I can promise you one hundred percent that there never will be. You’re being fecking ridiculous.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Gemma said sarcastically. “It’s nice to know you’re taking my feelings seriously. Why were you in London again?”
Cal exhaled gustily. “Sure, and can’t you just trust me? Look, Gemma, just give me until the New Year. I can’t change my contract this late in the day and I’m not going to let the others down either. Let’s get Christmas over and done with and once my contract finishes on the first we’ll celebrate without a load of cameras up our arses.”
“You’re asking me to postpone Christmas and my birthday until a stupid reality-TV show is over?” Gemma couldn’t believe it. Just how insensitive could a man be?
“Surely it isn’t the dates that matter but that we’re together?” said Cal softly. “And that I love you more than anything? Even soda bread and Irish butter?”
He held out his arms to her, and for a second Gemma wavered. She wanted nothing more than to say yes and throw herself into Cal’s embrace, bury her face in his chest and feel his heart beating against her cheek, but there were still far too many questions left unanswered. He was keeping something from her.
“Can’t you tell me what you were doing in London?” she said.
A shuttered expression came over Cal’s face and his arms fell to his side.
“If you can’t trust me when I say that I wasn’t there to cheat on you with Aoife, then I’m not sure I know where we’re going,” he said. “Jaysus, Gemma, just trust me. Let me get Christmas out the way and then I swear on my mammy’s life everything will be good again; better than good.”
“So that’s it? You’re still going to spend Christmas at Kenniston?” Gemma responded incredulously. “After everything I’ve said?”
Cal nodded. His eyes locked with hers. “I won’t break my word, Gemma, not even for you.”
There was a knot tightening in Gemma’s throat. “Fine. I hope you enjoy it, because I won’t be there. I’m not tied into any stupid contract. I’ll have Christmas, and my birthday, on my own.”
“You’re being really unfair,” said Cal. “All I’m asking for is a fortnight. After that, I promise, it’s just you and me. It’ll be grand.”
“And all I’m asking is that you put me first,” Gemma shot back. “I think that would be grand.”
It was stalemate. They stared miserably at each other, neither prepared to back down. Then Cal sighed.
“I’m going back. There’s filming to do, so.”
The air snapped and crackled with words unsaid. Cal smiled sadly then turned and pushed the door open, leaving Gemma all alone in the bakery with their ugly words echoing through her mind. It was the first fight they’d ever had where they hadn’t been able to resolve matters with a kiss and a joke. As she mopped her eyes with kitchen towel, Gemma just couldn’t believe that Cal would put the show above her. She had a horrible feeling that this was something that couldn’t be put right.
She crossed the kitchen and opened up her fridge. At the bottom was a giant bar of chocolate, supposedly for adding into butter icing. Well, not anymore. Men might let you down, Gemma thought sadly as she broke off a chunk, but at least Dairy Milk had yet to fail her.
Chapter 13
If rowing with Cal and then eating her way through the rest of her chocolate advent calendar hadn’t been miserable enough, the next two days spent circling each other and speaking with icy politeness were even worse. Cal wasn’t going to back down and Gemma, who felt that she was totally in the right, had no intention of changing her mind either.
No, as far as Gemma was concerned it was a simple choice: Cal either wanted to spend Christmas with her or he didn’t. He could dress it up any way he liked and make all the excuses under the sun. Gemma knew the truth. If he’d really wanted to spend Christmas with her then Cal would have phoned Anton Yuri and pleaded his case. Nothing was impossible. The simple and very painful truth was that Cal preferred to be with his family and at Kenniston than with her in a romantic Cornish cottage. Well, fine. He could spend Christmas with them and she would take herself somewhere else. Gemma was sick of being at the bottom of Cal’s list of priorities, and if she heard the words “under contract” one more time, she’d scream.
Since their big argument on the night of the supper party, Cal had tried hard to persuade Gemma that if she would only wait until after Christmas everything would be fine. Quite how this was going to happen he didn’t clarify, but he was adamant that things really were going to change. Gemma didn’t believe him and, after several attempts, Cal had given up trying to convince her. The sadness in his eyes broke her heart and she missed snuggling up with him and chatting together about anything and everything more than she could ever say, but Gemma knew she had to make a stand. If she didn’t then this would be the pattern for the rest of her life – and she knew that she couldn’t live like that. Feeling that you were right at the bottom of the heap all the time was not very nice.
“You’re being really unfair,” Angel had kept saying earlier on that day. She’d seemed determined to plead Cal’s case, which had started to grate with Gemma – and she’d also kept swiping icing from the bowl, which was unhygienic and even more irritating.
“Cal’s only doing this for you and him,” she’d added, licking icing from her fingers. “Mmm. Sod the diet; this is yum!”
“So he keeps saying, but he never quite manages to explain how. Take your fingers away from that bowl!” Gemma had shot back, whacking Angel’s knuckles with her wooden spoon. “Missing my birthday and cancelling Christmas is a bloody funny way to show he cares. Besides, I’ve got a bone to pick with you too, since you conveniently forgot to tell me the Souths were coming for Christmas.”
“I wanted to tell you but I knew you’d go mental,” Angel had muttered sulkily. “And I was right, wasn’t I? You’re so moody lately, Gem. It’s like you’ve got PMT on steroids.”
Gemma had chosen to ignore this comment. If she was moody then it was with bloody good reason!
“Don’t give me that. You know Mammy South is good for the ratings and you didn’t want me to put the kibosh on it, more like,” she’d retorted instead, and Angel had looked genuinely hurt.
“I’d never think like that, Gem! I only want you to be happy. Maybe Cal’s invited his family here for a reason?”
“He really wants to ruin our Christmas?”
Angel had stared at her. “Since when did you get so cynical?”
Gemma had shrugged. “Since Cal decided to put Bread
and bloody Butlers before everything and everyone else?”
“You’re not being fair,” Angel had said again. Gemma had pulled a face. Best friends were supposed to join in when a bit of boyfriend-bashing was in order, not take their sides. Honestly, it was bizarre how Angel was suddenly Cal’s biggest fan. At this rate she’d soon be wearing a Team Cal tee shirt. Gemma supposed it was a Bread and Butlers loyalty thing. Well, fine. Let Angel be on Cal’s side if she wanted. Gemma wasn’t particularly pleased with her best friend either.
Angel had flounced off in high dudgeon at this point. For a second Gemma had felt a tiny prickle of guilt that maybe she was being a bit hard on Cal. After all, he was a real family man – this was one of the many things she loved about him – and Christmas was all about families. But then she’d remembered that Cal still hadn’t explained what he’d been doing in London or why Aoife had been calling. No, he was well and truly in the wrong.
So the weekend had limped by in a stalemate, with neither her boyfriend nor her best friend talking to her. Luckily Cal had been filming for most of it, so Gemma had buried her misery in finishing off work on the two elaborate Christmas cakes that her friend Dee from Rock had commissioned for wealthy customers. This was the time of year when Cornish villages came back to life as the second-homers drove down from London in their big four-by-fours, their boots crammed with gift hampers from Fortnum’s, and opened up their cottages for the festive season. Harbourside houses, shuttered and dark since September, spilled light into the darkness once more and boasted huge Christmas trees and swathes of fairy lights. The locals galvanised themselves for a few frenetic weeks of action and opened up their shops, switched the ovens on in the restaurants and stoked up the log fires in the pubs so that Barbour-socked feet could toast in front of them. For a couple of weeks the county would buzz, before the New Year arrived and the holidaying crowds returned to their merchant banks and private schools. Dee, who ran the local bakery Rock Cakes, was practically rubbing her hands together when Christmas arrived – and the mini season was good news for Gemma too, because it brought in extra orders for Pengelleys.
Today was a glacial December Monday, so cold that Craig and his builder crew were actually wearing sweaters and hats as they toiled high up on the Kenniston roof, and the parkland was iced with a heavy hoar frost, making it look just like one of Gemma’s Christmas cakes, complete with wide-eyed fallow deer and plump red-breasted robins. It was mid morning and Gemma and Cal were both in the Kenniston bakery, studiously ignoring one another as they worked, when Dwayne the producer strutted in.
Cal looked up from the Parmesan and cherry-tomato bread he was painstakingly hand glazing, and a frown dipped between his brows. He hated being interrupted when he was working and the all-access contract was a constant source of irritation to him. Good, Gemma found herself thinking nastily. I hope you get as fed up with it as I am!
“I’ve finished going through the edits for the Christmas Eve episode,” Dwayne announced to Cal, ignoring Gemma as usual; since she wasn’t in the show, she was of zero interest to him. “Angel wants you to come and view the footage before we link it to the network.”
“For feck’s sake, can’t you see I’m working?” Cal barked. His hand slipped and golden egg yolk sloshed across the work surface. “Jaysus, that’s great.” Turning to Dwayne, he said, “I’m sure it’s grand. Just send it.”
“Fine,” said Dwayne. He ticked something off on his clipboard with the flashy Montblanc pen he loved to brandish like Harry Potter’s wand. There was a triumphant sneer on his face, or maybe he always looked like that? Gemma generally tried to steer clear of Dwayne. He might have done wonders for the viewing figures – great news for the cast, who were on a ratings-related pay scheme – but this didn’t make him a particularly nice human being.
“Now, about the live Christmas episode,” he began.
Cal shot a nervous look at Gemma. Honestly, what did he think she was going to do? Beat Dwayne to death with her wooden spoon for mentioning the dreaded C word? One look at Cal’s worried face suggested that this was exactly what he thought. She had been a bit emotional lately. “Like PMT on steroids” was how Angel had put it, which felt about right.
“It all sounds grand, but can we talk about it later?” he said quickly. “I need to get on with these. The delivery van arrives soon.”
Before Dwayne could delay Cal any further, a minibus taxi scrunched over the gravel and pulled up outside the bakery. The doors flew open and out poured a tangle of suitcases, arms, legs, snub-nosed smiling faces, wild blond and copper curls and language that would make Gordon Ramsay wince. Then the doors slammed shut again and the taxi practically wheel-spun out of the courtyard, the traumatised driver heading back to the nearest town and safety.
Gemma’s heart plopped into her Uggs. The South clan had arrived for Christmas.
“Ah Dougal, ya fecker! You trod on my toes, so!”
“Mam! Mam! Did you hear that? Our Aisling just said ‘fecker’!”
“Stop telling tales, you little shit!”
Thump. Bash. Shriek. Wail.
“Dougal! Aisling! Stop your noise now, or I’ll brain the pair of you, God help me I will!” roared a voice that could crack rock. A large woman with Cal’s hair and stocky frame lumbered towards the squabbling pair and dealt them both glares that stopped them in their tracks. Bright boot-button eyes swept Kenniston in the style of Robocop assessing a crime scene, and her lips pursed like a cat’s bum.
“Now where’s that brother of yours? Cal! Cal!”
At this hollering the pigeons in Stag Wood took instant flight and were soon half a mile away. Gemma didn’t blame them at all; Cal’s mother had exactly the same effect on her.
Dwayne was clasping his hands. He looked as though he’d just found the Holy Grail – and in reality-TV terms he probably had, because this lot made the Osbournes look shy and retiring.
Cal glanced at her, stricken. “Feck! I didn’t think they were due until this evening. This focaccia’s not finished yet and I’ve still got to prove the next lot of dough.”
Outside, one of the little Souths was already shinning up the scaffolding like a monkey, while one of the sisters stared open-mouthed at Craig. Dwayne’s eyes were as large as saucers.
“Fergus! Will you get down from there!” boomed Mammy South. She was marching towards the bakery now, a woman on a mission, and poor Cal was frozen. Quietly untying his apron and tugging the cap from his curly head, Gemma took pity on him. She might be annoyed with Cal right now but she knew how much his family meant to him.
“Go on,” she said, giving him a gentle shove, “I’ll finish up here.”
“Really?” Cal looked so surprised that it gave Gemma a real jolt. Perhaps she was being unreasonable?
“Really. Go on, quickly! Before she comes in here and starts telling us we’re doing it all wrong and only Granny South, God rest her soul and ten Hail Marys, could have made anything like decent soda bread!”
They looked at each other and started to laugh.
“Sure, and that’s a grand accent you have,” grinned Cal. “Thanks, Gem. Look, I know things aren’t right at the moment, and I will make it up to you, I promise.”
“Never mind that now,” said Gemma.
Cal hesitated, torn between wanting to race outside and join in the chaos and saying something. The need to talk won.
“Can we try and pretend that it’s all grand? Just while me mammy’s here?”
She bit her lip. “Lie, you mean?”
“Ah, Gem, not lie, just act a wee bit? I keep telling you, give me until the New Year and it’ll all be grand. Try and bear with my mammy; she means well.”
To Gemma this was a bit like saying the Germans meant well when they invaded Poland. Mammy South did not mean well and she wouldn’t be happy until Cal had put a ring on Aoife’s slender finger; of that Gemma was certain. Still, there was no point going into all this now – and certainly not while Dwayne was there, with his ears flappi
ng.
“I’ll be nice to your mum, don’t worry,” she promised, crossing her fingers behind her back. “The rest we’ll talk about when we’re back home and on our own. Now go and say hello and leave all this to me.”
Gemma would have said anything at this point. She just wanted Cal out before – oh. Too late. Mammy South was in the bakery now and it was full steam ahead towards her firstborn. Seconds later she was clutching Cal to her enormous bosom and weeping noisily.
“My boy, my boy! Let me look at you, my darlin’.” She stepped back and observed Cal critically through narrowed beady eyes, tutting as she turned him left and right like a jeweller assessing a precious stone. “You’re looking pale,” she declared. “You’re working too hard, my boy.”
“Aw, Mammy, you know how it is, so,” said Cal, and Gemma rolled her eyes. Here we go, she thought despairingly; time for her sexy, gorgeous, successful man to regress to a twelve-year-old. He’d be climbing on her lap in a minute.
“And you’ve lost weight, so you have. You’re getting far too thin. You’re not eating properly, Callum. I blame all that diet muck.” Mammy South was shaking her head disapprovingly. Her eyes slid to Gemma, flickered over her and then darted back to the apple of her eye, who was beaming like a loon. “Don’t worry, son. I’m here now. I’ll look after you.”
Err, either Mammy South was going blind in her old age or this was a deliberate dig at Gemma for not looking after her precious firstborn. No way was Cal looking thin! He might not have put on as much weight as Gemma had lately but he was still on the cuddly side. Thin? Diet muck? How dare she? Gemma waited for Cal to grow a set and tell his mother that he was fine, but she would have been waiting a very long time: he seemed perfectly content just to stand there and have his hair ruffled while his mother inspected him for Gemma-inflicted damage.
Escape for Christmas: A Novella (The Escape Series Book 2) Page 11
