The fish shop was still there but it, like the rest of the town, had undergone a transformation. Now it was Stein’s Fisheries; it was housed in a smart building of mellow timber and steel next door to Rick Stein’s Fish & Chips shop. Roughly opposite was another structure that seemed more in keeping with the South Bank than the South West: the National Lobster Hatchery. Angel vaguely recalled Andi telling her all about this, something to do with sustainable fisheries, yada yada, but she hadn’t really listened. Her sister was so intense sometimes; in fact Angel was starting to think that Andi actually cared about all this environmental stuff. To be honest the only lobsters Angel was interested in were the kind served in Rick Stein’s exclusive restaurant and accompanied by gallons of champagne. The tricky bit was finding a way to get herself into the restaurant in order to sample all these treats. Figuring it was time to crank her social media profile up a gear, she opened the Twitter app on her phone and typed:
in Padstow can’t wait for dinner #Steins
Seconds later her tweet was safely logged in cyberspace and Angel’s work was done. It wasn’t strictly a fib anyway. She was in Padstow, she was looking forward to her dinner and she was only a pebble’s throw away from the world-famous restaurant. If everyone wanted to read her tweet a certain way then that was hardly Angel’s fault. That was semantics!
Deciding that she’d return to book herself a table there once she had some money and was dressed up, Angel retraced her steps, dodging the hundreds of cyclists wobbling towards the Camel Trail, and back through the town. It had been a good afternoon, she felt, and another positive step in moving Project Rich Guy forwards. Already she could see that this side of the water was pretty much catering for families and, unless there was a wealthy single father about, that wouldn’t really be much help. On the other hand, there were several restaurants and exclusive bars, which in the evenings would attract a very different crowd. She would return and, when she did, she would be eating something much better than ice cream and wearing some of her designer eBay bargains instead of jeans and a vest. Yes, in terms of a research trip Padstow had been very positive, Angel decided cheerfully. She only hoped that Gemma had had as much luck sorting out their caravan and finding supplies.
The tide was right out by the time Angel reached the beach and the water taxi that was operating from the furthest jetty. Although it was late afternoon and shade was climbing over the hillside, the sand still basked in the light of the sun that had slipped from the narrow streets. Families with checked picnic rugs and gaudy windbreaks were sprinkled across the sand like hundreds and thousands, and shouts of excitement drifted from the water’s edge. Recalling that sand was an excellent natural exfoliant, Angel kicked off her Gina sandals and strolled along the shore. The water was warm from the sunbaked sand and she sighed with pleasure. How many hours had she and Andi spent on this very beach? Hundreds probably. They’d loved nothing more than spending an entire day by the water; they’d always returned home to Ocean View salty and sandy and heavy with that almost drugged exhaustion that came from spending hours in the fresh air. Yes, they’d been regular beach babies back then. What a shame it had all had to end so abruptly...
Angel rolled up her jeans and splashed her bare feet in the shallows as though trying to scatter the memories away like the sunlight that was flickering over the waves. Some things were better just left in the past. Instead, she focused on the sand beneath her feet and the joy of having nothing more pressing to do than walk along the coast. Luckily, nobody here knew her yet, so she wasn’t ruining her image by doing something as uncool as paddling. There would be plenty of time to walk along the jetty in Rock all decked out in her designer best. For today she was content to just enjoy herself.
The ferry was put-putting its way across the estuary and Angel was just about to head towards it when an agonised wail pierced the laughter. Amongst the kaleidoscope of inflatables and splashing children, a small boy had sunk to all fours and was sobbing uncontrollably. Every time he tried to get back up to his feet he collapsed again and cried even harder, his small face tight with pain. Angel cast her gaze across the beach for a distraught mother or horrified au pair racing over to attend to him, but there was no sign of anyone.
It looked as though he was all alone. She couldn’t leave him, not when he was this distressed. Children weren’t really Angel’s scene – their hands were far too sticky and, anyway, how could you like people who could stuff sweets all day long and never put on weight? But she couldn’t leave this little chap to cry by himself. Besides, she already had a strong suspicion as to what the problem was.
“Hey, hey, don’t cry.” She crouched down next to him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m Angel and I think you’ve hurt your foot. I bet it really hurts. Am I right?”
The little boy was too busy sobbing to speak but he nodded and raised his left leg out of the water. Angel wasn’t surprised to see several sharp spines sticking out of his sole; she’d already suspected as much. The poor little mite must have trodden on a weever fish. It wasn’t unusual along this bit of coastline, and Angel and Andi had both learned the hard way that it was best to wear wetsuit boots when wading out into the deeper water. The small fish loved to bury themselves in the sand, their needle-sharp spines invisible to the eye but torture for bare feet. Treading on them was excruciating.
“It’s OK,” Angel said gently. “I know it hurts awfully right now but I promise in a little while it’ll feel much better. Can I take a look?”
The child looked up at her with big dark eyes. “Are you really an angel?”
“Of course,” she said firmly. “And who are you?”
The boy gulped back a sob. “Dmitri Vassilly Alexshov.” He pointed to an enormous Sunseeker moored at the estuary mouth. “That’s my papa’s boat. He and Mama went to the shops.”
More wealthy Russians. Angel hoped Mr and Mrs Yuri weren’t here too, otherwise a weever sting would be the least of her worries.
Managing to scoop Dmitri up, drenching her own clothes and covering herself in sand in the process, Angel carried the little boy up the beach. Once he was sitting on a rock she managed to remove the spines from his foot, which was easier said than done given that he flinched every time she tried to tug at the poisoned spikes. When that task had been achieved, she blagged a plastic bucket and a flask of hot water from a nearby picnicking family and coaxed the little boy into putting his foot into the makeshift footbath. It was funny how quickly all this came back to her, but then after seven summers spent in Cornwall Angel had become something of an expert in treating weever-fish stings.
Once Dmitri’s foot was soaking in the bucket, his tears began to subside a little. It would still hurt, Angel knew, but at least this offered a little bit of relief.
“Can I have a plaster? A Peppa Pig one?” he asked hopefully.
Angel laughed. The kid’s dad owned a Sunseeker and he was excited about a plaster?
“I’m afraid not. There’s some nasty poison in that foot and it needs to drain out. A plaster really won’t help very much. You’ve been very brave though. I expect there’s probably an ice cream in it for you somewhere.”
He brightened visibly. “A green one? With chocolate bits?”
“Definitely a green one with chocolate bits,” she agreed.
So while her little patient soaked his foot, Angel found herself visiting the beach café and spending her final couple of quid on an ice cream. OK, so it was technically Andi’s money, but they were sisters and sisters were supposed to share. Anyway, as soon as she had any money Angel fully intended to help Andi out. Starting by paying for a hitman to sort that Tom out. Tosser.
Lost in a very pleasant Kill Bill type daydream where she single-handedly kicked the stuffing out of Tom whilst simultaneously looking hot in a red leather catsuit, Angel was surprised to discover on her return that Dmitri was surrounded by a posse of very scary-looking heavies. She gulped. They all looked worryingly similar to Mr Yuri. She hoped it wasn
’t concrete boots time...
“You!” boomed a big bear of a man. “Have you put my son’s foot in this water?”
Angel gulped. This guy was so huge he’d make The Rock look weedy.
“I know the water’s hot but, honestly, this is the best way to ease the pain,” she began.
But the man wasn’t interested in hearing any explanations. Instead he stepped forward and engulfed Angel’s non-ice-cream-holding hand in an enormous paw. At the end of the paw was the biggest Rolex Angel had ever seen in her life. Wow. She had no idea you could get them in solid gold.
“Then you have saved my son’s life!” exclaimed the bear, pumping her arm up and down until Angel feared it might snap off. “Thank you! Thank you!”
“It was nothing, really,” Angel said awkwardly. Goodness, this man was so big she practically had to crane her head back ninety degrees to even look at him. With his thick mane of inky hair, monobrow and glinting gold fillings it felt at bit like being greeted by an early Bond villain. He probably had a lair in a volcano somewhere. “I did what anyone would have done.”
“No. It’s not anything. You saved him.” The man was adamant. “My son has told us what happened. My wife and I cannot thank you enough. Isn’t that right, Vanya?”
An excruciatingly thin woman with long honey-coloured extensions and a tan like yacht varnish was sitting next to Dmitri and stroking his hair back from his tear-stained cheeks. Her twiggy arms rattled with what looked like half of the Pandora bracelet collection and her fingers dripped with diamond rings. The woman may have been wearing only a bikini and a kaftan, but Angel instantly clocked the Chanel labels.
Blimey, with all that money you’d have thought they could have bought their son some Crocs!
“I am Vassilly and this is my wife, Vanya,” the bear continued, still shaking Angel’s hand so hard that her fillings rattled.
“I’m Angel Evans,” she said, although it was hard to be heard above the jangle of all the bling he was wearing.
“So you really are an angel!” Vassilly flashed a broad grin and Angel gulped nervously. His teeth were so sharp and white it was a bit like being smiled at by the Big Bad Wolf. Like Mr Yuri, this was the sort of man you didn’t cross or say no to. She sent up a fervent prayer that the hot water hadn’t scalded the kid’s foot.
Once her hand was released and Dmitri was happily guzzling ice cream, Angel retold the story of the weever-fish sting and explained very carefully what they should do next.
“He should be fine,” she finished. “Just keep the wound clean and keep an eye on his temperature. His foot doesn’t look too sore but it might be an idea to pop him up to the doctor just to make sure.”
Dmitri’s father was nodding. “Of course, of course. We will do so straight away. In the meantime we must make sure you are rewarded.”
“There’s no need for that,” Angel said awkwardly. “I only stuck his foot in hot water. It wasn’t a great deal. Anyone would have done the same.”
“You knew what to do and you looked after him,” Dmitri’s mother said firmly. “To us this very great deal indeed. I blame myself: I was shopping and he run away from his minder again.”
Vassilly scowled. “I have spoken to you about this, Dmitri! See what trouble you cause when you disobey?”
Dmitri looked mutinous. “I hate being stuck with Sergei! He never lets me play in the water.”
Sergei, Angel assumed, was one of the black-clad heavies surrounding them, each of whom looked as though they could chomp on a small beautician for breakfast and pick her bones clean for lunch. They didn’t exactly look like the types who’d enjoy splashing around in the shallows with a rubber ring, that was for sure. Angel was intrigued. She hadn’t a clue who Dmitri’s father was, but to have security that made the royal family look relaxed, he must be somebody pretty important in his home country.
“Enough talking,” said Vassilly with such force that everyone fell silent, even the seagulls. “Miss Angel, my wife and I would like to invite you to have dinner with us this evening, as a token of our appreciation.”
Angel glanced down at her damp jeans. The rest of her clothes were bundled up in the back of Gemma’s Beetle and she was hardly suitably attired for dinner. “That’s really kind of you but I’m not exactly dressed for it.”
“You can borrow something of mine and bathe on board,” Vanya insisted. “Please, we really want to thank you. Dmitri is our only child and you have been so kind.”
Both Vassilly and Vanya were obviously not used to people saying no to them. For a moment Angel dithered, torn between checking out their impressive yacht and going back to Rock to help Gemma and Andi settle into the caravan.
Hang on! What on earth was she thinking, hesitating like this? Dinner on a superyacht versus eating a Pot Noodle, or whatever else they could just about afford, in a grotty caravan? Angel could have walloped herself over the head, and hard. Hadn’t she come to Rock for the express reason of mingling with the super rich and seeing what opportunities came her way? She hadn’t come here to sit in a caravan and listen to Gemma moan about her weight. Angel could have done that in Tooting Bec – and without the sodding caravan!
No, it was time to grab whatever opportunities life chose to throw at her, with both hands. Just think, last week she had been doing beauty treatments for rich Russians; now she was going to dine with them. And you never knew who else they might have on board! A count, perhaps, or maybe even a prince? There were loads of princes in Russia, weren’t there? Or at least there were in Tolstoy novels.
Angel smiled at her new friends. It was time to take a chance and roll the dice.
“Thanks,” she said warmly. “I’d love to dine with you.”
Chapter 14
It was a good indication of how embarrassed Gemma was that even after three hours, one major food-shopping trip and a recce of the caravan her skin was still crawling with mortification. Another very significant pointer was that she couldn’t face eating a thing. As soon as she’d realised that she’d covered Callum South in cream buns and pastry, Gemma’s appetite had vanished. It was still AWOL now. Even her trip to Asda – usually an exercise in willpower that defeated her as soon as she saw the family packs of iced buns – hadn’t held any appeal. There had been nothing on the shelf that she’d remotely wanted to cram into her mouth.
Gemma had no desire to eat. It was most unusual. She supposed this was because she felt so sick with horror.
Actually, at the time it had been difficult to say who was more aghast, Gemma or Callum. At first she’d had to do a double take because although the guy wiping cream out of his hair and dusting flaky pastry from his trackie bottoms looked like Callum South, his features were blurred and puffy, as though somebody rubbish at Photoshop had been messing around with the smudge and liquefy tools. On the television, too, she was certain his eyes were brighter and his hair much thicker. Maybe it wasn’t him after all? Didn’t Angel say that television added ten pounds? Not at least twice that? But this guy was much larger than the reality star whose face was everywhere. Even the fat picture of him in Angel’s latest copy of Heat was slender in comparison.
“Jaysus, will you stop staring at me and help clear up this mess?” the man snapped, his lilting Irish accent instantly dashing any hope that she’d been mistaken. Oh God! It really was him! Gemma knew she’d been desperate to come to Rock and bump into Callum South, but she hadn’t meant literally! Why did these things always happen to her?
“Sorry, sorry!” She dropped to the floor like a paratrooper and started scooping up the remnants of his food. Quite what she thought she was going to do with it she had no idea, but at least she was making an effort. As she picked up pasties and sausage rolls, Gemma tried frantically to think of a way she could introduce herself, but her tongue felt as though it had turned into a pretzel and it was hopeless. If only she could be more like Angel. Her best friend would probably have batted her eyelids, laughed it all off and had Cal licking choux pastry and crea
m off her slim fingers by now.
Callum South made no attempt to help. Instead he was desperately pulling up the hood on his Quiksilver hoody and backing away from the shop window. When his phone shrilled he swore under his breath and switched it off.
“This is all I fecking need,” he muttered.
Gemma sneaked a quick look up at him from under her blonde fringe. The star was dressed for exercise in his expensive sports gear, comprising state-of-the-art trainers and a designer tracksuit – a look that was at odds with the bag of cakes and sausage rolls he’d been carrying. Or rather, it would have been at odds to most people’s way of thinking, but to Gemma it made perfect sense. Once you’d burned a few calories, rewarding yourself with a few thousand more only seemed fair. Callum didn’t need to look so awkward about it. Anyway, he was famous for his love of food. Surely it wasn’t a problem for him? Gemma would have bet that nobody had ever asked Callum to wear control pants and told him his career was over if he didn’t shed the pounds. Hadn’t he made a fortune from doing exactly that? Men in the media were allowed to gain weight and still have a career. It was unfair, but since when had that made a difference?
“I think that’s all I can save,” she said, apologetically offering him the salvaged food.
“Just leave it,” he snapped. “I don’t want it anyway.”
“But you’ve paid for it,” Gemma said. She felt terrible. Reaching into her rucksack she pulled out her purse. “Let me buy you some more. Please. It’s the least I can do.”
Escape for the Summer Page 11
