Thank God she didn’t know about the handcuffs!
“Hello Moira,” Gemma said eventually, when it became clear that Mammy South wasn’t going to bother greeting her. She stitched a smile onto her face, although it probably looked far more like a snarl. “How wonderful to see you.”
Moira South grudgingly ripped her attention away from Cal. Her eyes swept Gemma like one of her horse-trading forebears assessing a nag and instantly finding all its faults. Not Irish, not Catholic, not married, not Aoife…
“Hello, Gemma. Grand to see you again. You’re looking… well,” she said, pointedly.
Gemma gritted her teeth because everybody knew that well meant fat. Don’t rise to it, she told herself; don’t give her the satisfaction.
“You too,” she said, so sweetly it was like somebody had dropped a sack of icing sugar in the room. “Welcome back to Kenniston.”
“Oi! Mammy!” came a shout from outside. “I need a slash! I’m dying, so I am. Shall I go in the flower pot?”
“Fergus!” shrieked one of the identikit twins, all orphan-Annie red curls and freckles. “You’re a disgusting dirty fecker!”
Cal laughed. “Ah, it’s grand to see the young ones, Mammy. They’re full of fun as always.”
Fun wasn’t the adjective that Gemma would have used. Mindful of the proving dough and the focaccia, she said, “Cal, why don’t you go and show your folks up to their rooms? Then Fergus can use the loo and you can all settle in.”
Mammy South’s eyes snapped to Gemma.
“Rooms? What is this now, some fancy hotel?” She rounded on Cal. “You’re putting your family in a hotel? You’re getting rid of us? Are you ashamed?”
“No, Mammy,” Cal soothed. “Angel and Laurence have kindly said that you can stay at the big house. There’s far more room there and it’s much more comfortable. I’ll get your things carried up. Dwayne, give us a hand, mate?”
Dwayne, who’d been watching the scene unfold with the kind of attention a cobra gives its prey, nodded and stepped forward – but Mammy South held up her hand and stopped him in his tracks with one hard stare.
“I haven’t travelled all this way to be palmed off on your friends,” she told Cal. “It’s far from stately homes and airs and graces that you were raised, Callum South. No, we are not staying in the big house.”
“So where are you going to stay?” Cal asked.
Mammy South raised her doughy chin. “We’re family, and isn’t Christmas a time for family? Real family, that is.” She paused and then looked straight at Gemma. It was the female equivalent of throwing down a glove. “Sure, and where else would we go at Christmas, son? We’re going to stay with you!”
Chapter 14
As if things between Gemma and Cal weren’t already strained enough, the arrival of Mammy South highlighted everything that had already been driving Gemma wild. It was bad enough seeing the man she loved regressing to a twelve-year-old mummy’s boy; no wonder Cal made so much mess and had a total inability to pick his underpants and socks up off the floor, when his mother ran around after him as though he was the Pope, Baby Jesus and Brad bloody Pitt all rolled into one curly-haired package. But it was worse again still being saddled with Mammy South at the Lion Lodge, where she sniffed at the dust, was horrified at the lack of food in the fridge and generally occupied herself by finding fault with everything from the get-go.
It was one thing for Gemma to complain about the damp and the cold and the lukewarm water, given that she lived here and had to put up with it. Yet it was quite another entirely to have Cal’s mother snooping through the cupboards and looking as though she had a bad smell under her nose (although she may well have done; the damp in the spare room was pretty shocking), and criticising everything from the way Gemma made tea (so weak – was that an English thing?) to her choice of fairy lights (colours were rather vulgar, but then in England she supposed people did things differently). Gemma wasn’t sure what the word was for murdering your almost mother-in-law, but she was pretty sure she’d soon find out.
Thank goodness they only had one guest room and were spared the total carnage of an invasion by the pack of wild creatures otherwise known as Cal’s siblings. They’d all ended up staying at Kenniston, much to Dwayne’s delight – and Laurence’s horror, which was fair enough seeing as the house had only just been restored. Gemma felt his pain, albeit she was certain it was less than hers, as she was being constantly bombarded by Mammy South’s disparaging comments. Still, if Laurence insisted on playing the reality-TV game then he really oughtn’t to be surprised when it turned around and bit him on the bum. If anyone had taken the time to ask Gemma whether or not it was a good idea to take the entire South clan out of Cork for Christmas, then she would have told them exactly why it was the worst idea since the captain of the Titanic said “full steam ahead”. If nobody had thought to ask her, then maybe, just maybe, they deserved all they got.
By now Angel would be tearing her long blonde extensions out as the junior members of the South family ran riot through Kenniston. Well, that served her right for going along with the crazy plan of inviting them all for the festive period, and for taking Cal’s side over the Christmas and birthday holiday. With any luck, reflected Gemma darkly, Dougal was drinking his way through what was left of the priceless wine cellar, the twins were playing dress-up with Angel’s designer wardrobe and the sulky teenage sisters had sneaked off clubbing with Craig and co. while the other brothers went joyriding on the Segway.
Oh dear, Gemma thought despairingly, she was turning into a really nasty person. This was the effect that living her life under the microscope of Bread and Butlers was having on her – and why she and Cal had to leave if there was any hope of a future together.
It was now Tuesday afternoon, and although Cal’s mother had only been in situ for less than twenty-four hours, already she had accidentally rummaged through Gemma and Cal’s wardrobe and unearthed the Pulse bag, which had upset her so much that Cal had had to pour her a drink. Apparently she had never seen such filth in her life – and she’d required a serious amount of Baileys to get over the shock of her precious boy living in sin with such a trollop. Mysteriously though, Gemma’s copy of Fifty Shades had vanished from her bedside table.
Once Mammy South was sufficiently recovered from this trauma, she’d insisted on being driven to the village shop, where she’d purchased all kinds of carbohydrate-laden rubbish that Gemma knew would make Cal put on a stone as soon as he looked at it. Then she’d spent ages clattering around in the kitchen making a concoction out of corned beef and Guinness, which was apparently Cal’s favourite, and some sort of suety pudding spotted with currants.
“Sure, but she means well,” was all Cal could say when Gemma hissed at him that his mother was totally taking over. Already Gemma had fished a packet of Earl Grey out of the bin, as well as the box of Bran Flakes that she’d been trying to wean Cal onto.
Gemma gave up and left him to eat sausage coddle and soda bread and goodness knows what other stodge his mother had made. She stomped up the drive to Kenniston in a very bad mood indeed, and even the beautiful wintery landscape couldn’t cheer her up. There were five days to go until Christmas (counting today), but Gemma didn’t think she’d ever felt less festive in her life.
At least the bakery provided some respite. Cal had taken the whole day off to be with his mother (yet another sore point, because Gemma was always pleading with him to have a day off so they could spend some time together), and Daisy and a couple of the other staff were busy filling in for him. The bakery thrummed with industry and Gemma was able to lose herself for a few blissful hours working on her final orders. By the time the sky outside the windows had turned indigo and a big moon was floating over the parkland like a silver balloon, she was feeling slightly better. The last cakes were ready for Dee and that was it; she was finished until the New Year.
“Gemma, darling, there you are!” Lady Daphne strode into the bakery towing a mutinous South twin in e
ach hand, her long aristocratic fingers clamped around their wrists like manacles. “No, Shannon. No, Kathleen! You are staying right with me! I caught them doodling on the walls in the drawing room,” she explained with a weary lift of her brows. “What do they think we are? Longleat?”
“There’s already pictures on the ceiling, so,” muttered Shannon – or was it Kathleen? It was pretty hard to tell: they were identical with their freckles, snub noses and wicked dimpled grins.
Lady Daphne sighed. “That’s a trompe l’oeil by Louis Laguerre. He didn’t ever paint Sponge Bob, as far as I’m aware. Still, girls, if you’re very good there is a blank wall in my bedroom and I love Sponge Bob and Bart Simpson too. You could always paint there if you promise not to touch the other walls?”
The twins cheered. They adored Daphne.
“You make it look so easy,” Gemma said enviously.
“Darling, it isn’t hard. Just have fun with them,” Laurence’s mother said. “That’s what it’s all about, after all, isn’t it?”
Was it? Gemma was no longer so sure. Somewhere along the way she’d lost sight of that. There had been a time when she and Cal had laughed non-stop; sometimes they’d each begged the other to relent because their ribs hurt too much and their jaws ached. Now, though, as she stood in the amazing state-of-the-art bakery that they’d designed and built together, with her beautiful cakes all ready to go and battalions of bread baskets lined up waiting for Cal’s next batch for a smart New Forest boutique hotel, she realised she couldn’t remember the last time they’d laughed together.
When had it stopped being fun? When had work become more important to Cal than spending time with her?
“We’re about to decorate the tree,” Daphne was saying. “You’re the only one who’s missing, so I had to come and find you. Everybody has to join in. It’s the tradition.”
The Kenniston tree was a big deal. Cut from the estate, it was over ten feet tall and took pride of place in the Great Hall. For the past two Christmases Gemma had loved seeing the tree come to life as everybody from Viscount Laurence to Doris the cleaner looped it with strands of lights and dangled decorations from the spiky limbs. A log fire crackled in the enormous hearth, plates piled high with Gemma’s melt-in-the-mouth mince pies emptied in seconds, and the mulled wine flowed. Carols played, people laughed and chatted, and the magic of Christmas filled the room. Decorating the Kenniston tree really meant that the festive season had arrived. Previously Gemma had loved this unofficial Christmas party; she and Cal had handed out the mince pies, scoffed a fair few too, and stolen kisses powdered with sugary pastry crumbs when they’d bumped into each other on their rounds. Once the food had gone they’d road-tested the swathes of mistletoe that had dangled from the chandelier, sipped gloopy mulled wine and then joined in with singing Christmas carols under the tree. Today though, these memories made Gemma’s throat clot with sadness. She’d been missing from the gathering and only Lady Daphne had thought to come and find her. Cal hadn’t even noticed she wasn’t there.
“I know you don’t want to be filmed, darling,” Lady D continued, “and I promise that you won’t be, but you’re such a part of our family here. We can’t possibly do this without you.”
“Decorating the tree! Yay! Come on, Gemma!” cried Shannon and Kathleen – and almost before Gemma knew what was happening they broke free from Daphne and grabbed her hands, tugging her out of the bakery and into the courtyard.
The cold air stung her cheeks and her breath rose like smoke. Stars dusted the sky like glitter and already Jack Frost was scraping the countryside with chilly fingers. Chatter and the strains of carols drifted over from the big house, and as the twins towed her up the steps to the huge entrance hall with its marble floors and sweeping staircase, the Christmas tree was already shimmering with hundreds of white lights. In spite of everything that had happened recently, Gemma’s heart lifted. After all, it was Christmas, wasn’t it? And everything was always perfect at Christmas. That was part of the magic.
The Great Hall was full of people. The crew were filming like crazy and Gemma didn’t blame them one bit because this scene could have come straight from a Richard Curtis movie. Every generic convention was neatly ticked off, from the beautiful Lady Kenniston – Angel Elliott – who looked stunning in a peacock-hued ballgown, to the plethora of quirky characters milling around with arms full of tinsel. All that was missing was Hugh Grant and some very convenient seasonal snowfall.
Big wicker baskets overflowing with baubles and decorations were lined up by the foot of the tree. Gemma was just about to go and help herself to a handful when she caught sight of Cal by the foot of the stairs and her heart turned a somersault. With his golden curls burnished in the soft light and dressed in the moss-green jumper she’d bought him during their first winter together, he was so familiar and dear and totally and utterly Cal that her every cell wanted her to hurl herself into his arms, bury her face in his neck and tell him that nothing else mattered apart from being with him.
It was Christmas, a time for being with the people you loved, and she loved Cal. What else could possibly matter more?
Scooping some decorations from the baskets, Gemma wove her way through the Great Hall towards Cal, willing him to look up and give her that sexy sleepy-eyed smile that always melted her heart, but Cal was engrossed in a discussion with his family. He seemed to be holding Dougal’s phone out of reach and staring at it intently while Mammy South harangued him, her mouth opening and shutting like a koi carp’s. Several other South siblings were also clustered around, including the twins, who were shrieking that they needed to see.
For some reason a fingernail of unease scratched its way along Gemma’s spine. Something was up – not because the Souths were squabbling (squabbling was like breathing to that family), but because Cal’s mouth was all twisted and funny looking and he was actually shouting back at Dougal now. Her pulse skittered. Cal never shouted. Usually he was the typical cliché of being so laid back he was horizontal. Something must really be wrong. As she drew nearer to him the Souths’ conversation rose above the cheerful strains of “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree”. A boom mike hovered nearby like some malevolent bird of prey. It was flanked by two members of the crew armed with Steadicams – but the Souths were far too busy to realise. Gemma was actually starting to wonder whether Cal even noticed the cameras anymore.
“Where the feck did you get it?” Cal was shouting, the iPhone held just out of Dougal’s reach.
“Give it back, you fecker!” Dougal shouted back. His face was puce with rage. “That’s mine, so! And anyway, it’s all over the Internet! It’s not my fault. Our Bernie showed me.”
Cal whipped round and pinned his gangly sixteen-year-old sister with a furious stare. “And is that so?”
Bernadette South shrugged and put her hands into the universal sign for “whatever”, loved by teenagers across the globe.
“Is it?” hollered Cal. Gemma didn’t think she’d ever seen him so upset, not even when the Dangers had lost the FA Cup to Chelsea.
“Don’t go picking on your sister,” boomed Mammy South. “Sure, she’s a silly eejit, but Bernie’s not the one peddling filth on the Interweb. If you want to be angry with anyone, Callum, then it’s her!”
She spun on her heel and jabbed her finger at Gemma, who’d stopped dead in her tracks. Cal ought to be angry with her? Why? What had she done?
“Is everything all right?” Laurence was asking. Beautifully dressed in a DJ and with his long hair caught back at the nape of his neck, he looked as though he’d stepped out of one of the paintings of Elliott ancestors that lined the walls and rose in measured intervals up the stairs.
“If this is about the, err,” Laurence flushed and his pewter-grey gaze couldn’t quite meet anyone else’s eyes, “the unfortunate handcuffs incident in this week’s episode, then I assure you that we had Callum’s permission to use it.”
What? Gemma’s attention snapped to Cal. “You let them use that?�
� A hot wave of humiliation broke over her. Even her palms prickled with shame. The whole of Britain would know that she’d had to resort to tacky red fluffy handcuffs and glittery body paint to get her boyfriend to look twice at her. “Cal how could you? That was private.”
“Nothing’s private under the contract Cal’s signed for Bread and Butlers,” piped up Dwayne.
“So I see,” said Gemma bleakly. She couldn’t believe how hurt she felt. “Thanks a lot, Cal. It’s nice to know where your loyalties lie.”
“Gem, I’m sorry,” said Cal. He stepped forward to reach for her but Gemma held up her hands.
“No, don’t try and make out it’s all fine, Cal, when it bloody well isn’t! ‘The contract, the contract’ – you’re like a broken record. I’m sick of always hearing that excuse! If it hadn’t been for you and your bloody contract we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Aw, Gemma, not again,” said Cal. He looked close to desperation. “You know I’ve committed to it. I can’t break a contract.”
“Don’t you dare blame my boy for anything when you’re no better than you should be!” Mammy South reared up like a striking cobra and, snatching the iPhone from Cal’s grasp, thrust it triumphantly under Gemma’s nose. “Now what do you have to say for yourself, my girl?”
Gemma stared at the screen in horrified disbelief. There was a weird rushing in her ears – which was possibly the flapping of chickens’ wings as they came home to roost, for here on the iPhone, in full and glorious high-definition technicolour, was a picture of her, wide-eyed and clutching a bright red vibrator in a very suggestive way.
Oh. My. God.
“Oh bollocks!” breathed Angel, who’d shimmied down the ladder and was peering over Gemma’s shoulder. To Cal she said, “Some girls snapped us when we were in Truro. You know what it’s like.”
Cal nodded and smiled hopefully at Gemma, his special sleepy-eyed Cal smile that was just for her – or, more accurately nowadays, her and several million viewers.
Escape for Christmas: A Novella (The Escape Series Book 2) Page 12
