“I said, leave it.” Callum glared at her so angrily that Gemma shrank back. That glower could have frozen fire. Blimey. This wasn’t the easy-going guy she’d seen on the telly. TV Callum was always full of humour and happy to laugh at himself. This version was more like Heathcliff in sweatpants.
“But it’s your food. You must be hungry.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, well. I’m always hungry. Sure, you get used to it.”
“Really?” Gemma found this hard to believe. She never had.
Cal sighed. “No, not really. But you’ve probably done me a favour. I shouldn’t be eating all that shit anyway. My trainer would pop a blood vessel if she saw the calorie count in that lot. It’s probably a week’s worth; hell, more like two at the moment.”
Gemma paused in the middle of trying to cram some squashed éclairs back into the box. “But you’ve just been exercising. Surely you deserve a treat?”
Cal laughed bitterly. “What’s the point of running six miles if I just pig out again? Sure, I may as well have stayed indoors and saved myself the bother.”
“Poor you,” said Gemma with feeling.
He shrugged. “Yeah, well. It is what it is.”
“But dieting sucks!” Gemma cried. “People should be able to enjoy food. Life’s miserable otherwise.”
Cal was peering over her shoulder, down the street both ways, his head bobbing like the Churchill Insurance dog.
“Try telling that to my manager,” he grimaced. “And if my personal trainer had seen me in here my life wouldn’t be worth living. I’m here to get fit, otherwise I’m screwed. My manager says diet and I diet: that’s how it is.”
Gemma nodded sympathetically. If Chloe had had her way, Gemma knew she would have been booted off to fat camp years ago. How much worse would it have been to have had the nation watching her sweat off every pound?
“I’m always on a diet myself,” she told him. “People are always making digs about my weight.”
Cal sighed wearily. “Tell me about it.”
“In fact,” Gemma continued, as she scraped up pastry and cream as best she could, “I shouldn’t even be here now. I’ve practically been told that if I don’t lose a few stone I’ll lose my job.”
“Jaysus. That sounds familiar,” he said with feeling. A second or two passed by before he added hastily, “Anyway, you’re not overweight.”
Gemma said kindly, “That’s very sweet of you but I think we both know that’s blatantly untrue. Isn’t this the point where you should say that I have a pretty face?”
He stared down at her, his Galaxy Minstrel eyes holding hers. Gemma could see herself reflected in the dark depths, looking pale and distinctly chubby. God. What a state. What was she doing in a cake shop?
“Sure, and you do have a pretty face,” he agreed thoughtfully. “A very pretty face. And if—”
He paused, looking as though he was trying to put some profound point into words. Well, Gemma knew exactly what was coming next.
“And if I lost weight I could look really good?” Her shoulders slumped. “Don’t worry, you can say it. It’s nothing I haven’t already heard.”
But Cal was shaking his head. “That wasn’t what I was about to say. I was going to say that if people are genuine then they won’t care about what you weigh, so they won’t. The weight bollocks, it’s all superficial.”
Gemma stared at him. This was a bit hard to take, coming from a man who made his living from losing weight.
“But on your show you always say how much better you feel when you are slim,” she pointed out.
“I know, I know; I can talk.” Cal shrugged. “If I took my own advice I’d probably be a lot happier. Jaysus, I couldn’t be any more miserable. This fecking show is driving me mad.”
While Cal watched the street, presumably for a lurking pap or maybe a fan armed with a camera phone, Gemma toyed with the idea of talking to him about his show and the possibility of getting herself onto it. After all, wasn’t that why she was here? Perhaps this was her moment now? The golden opportunity she’d been waiting for? She had to be brave, take her chance and put her brilliant plan into action.
Screwing up every drop of courage she possessed, Gemma said timidly, “Look I’ve seen your show and I really love it. Maybe if people knew how you really felt—”
Cal spun around from the window. “If I see so much as a word of what I’ve just said repeated in a newspaper anywhere, my lawyers will be onto you so fast you won’t know what’s hit you! We never had this conversation and you never saw me here. Got it?”
He glowered down at her and there was such fury in those dark eyes that Gemma quailed.
“Got it?” he repeated.
She couldn’t speak; instead she just nodded. What on earth had she done to make him so angry? Only seconds earlier he’d been pouring out his heart to her.
“Good.” Callum South tugged his hood down even lower over his face and shoved past her to the door. Then the shop bell tinkled and he was gone, running down the road and out of sight; her thudding heart and a trail of cream and pastry footsteps were the only evidence he’d ever been there at all.
Every time Gemma replayed this episode she felt more and more embarrassed. Not only had she trashed his cake-shop haul and plastered him in cream and crumbs, but she’d also behaved like some star-struck fan. Which she supposed she was. It was true that Gemma had adored Callum South for years. Even now her mum still bought Gemma his calendar at Christmas. She sighed. Even carrying the extra weight and with all the social graces of a bout of diarrhoea, he was still Callum South, once the toast of the Premier League and owner of a six pack that would have made Peter Andre weep. Beneath the layers of fat those once-sharp cheek bones were still lurking; his tall frame still had an athletic grace, and as for those big brown chocolate-button eyes... Gemma reckoned they had the power to make her melt – when they weren’t glaring at her, that was. And, when he wasn’t shouting, that Irish accent was very sexy too.
What a shame he’d turned out to be such a knob. She really shouldn’t be surprised. Most celebrities Gemma had come across were so up themselves they were practically inside out. She’d just thought that Callum was different. On his show he always seemed so self-effacing and so genuine. Gemma guessed this was just an act for the cameras. It was all very disappointing. So much for getting herself onto his show as one of the weight-loss victims. Cal had looked as though he’d like to have stabbed her with the cheese straws. She was going to have to rethink. Once she got over the embarrassment, obviously.
Luckily Gemma had been very busy shopping and sorting out the caravan, which helped to take her mind off the incident a little. Their new home was a rather elderly static, considered far too tatty for a campsite that a farmer friend of her parents had bought for a nominal sum with the intention of making a bit of extra cash letting it to tourists. Unfortunately for him the type of visitor who came to Rock didn’t want to slum it in a caravan that had shared its heyday with Joan Collins. The wealthy Rock crowd, whose Mecca consisted of the water-sports facilities, beaches and restaurants, had their pick of interior-designed holiday cottages and luxury hotels with spas and sweeping coastal views. For those who wanted to attempt to “rough it” Rock style, there was always glamping, complete with fire pits, organic produce and snug yurts. The caravan at Trendaway Farm had stood unloved and uncared for since the day it had arrived. No wonder Gemma had been able to rent it so easily and so cheaply.
After several hours spent cleaning the caravan, Gemma reckoned the smell of damp was slightly less overpowering. She’d evicted countless spiders, scrubbed off the black mould and generally given the place a good airing. With some flowers on the table in the living area, a few generous squirts of Febreze onto the mattresses and seats, and a lamp switched on, it was looking much more homely. The bathroom left a lot to be desired, but at least they had a hot shower and a loo that worked. Peeling lino and a window that didn’t shut weren’t ideal – but compared to her initi
al fear that they might not have running water connected, this was the height of luxury.
There were only two minuscule bedrooms, more like cupboards really and with built-in beds topped with cheap mattresses. Gemma claimed the double bed for herself. Andi and Angel were sisters and could share the room with two singles, Gemma reasoned as she crammed her clothes into the tiny wardrobe space. Since she was paying all the rent until the other two found work, it only seemed fair. She opened the window and instantly the sweet evening air, heavy with honeysuckle and salt, drifted in and filled her with happiness. So she was tired and still stinging from the afternoon, but who cared? She was back in Cornwall. She was home!
Gemma had done the lion’s share of the work but to be honest she didn’t mind because it gave her something to think about rather than dwelling on how spectacularly she had mucked things up with Cal. She even thought about doing some baking because that was always good therapy. Hey! Maybe she could bake Cal a cake as an apology? At this thought Gemma brightened. She knew exactly what she would make for him: one of her famous sponges, light as air and cushioned by cream and fresh strawberry jam. The farmer sold both in his shop, alongside free-range eggs with the yellowest yolks imaginable. They would make the sponge the most amazing colour. Maybe she could even buy some real strawberries to decorate it with?
Fired up by this brilliant plan to put things right with Cal, so that she could make a new start and persuade him that he really did want her on his show, Gemma abandoned the bedroom for the tiny galley kitchen. There were pots, pans and a small cooker which, once cleaned, she knew would be more than up to the job. All she had to do was stock up on baking equipment and, even more importantly, find out exactly where Cal was staying. Once he’d seen and tasted what she could bake he was bound to forgive her and sign her for his show.
Gemma could hardly wait to get started.
Chapter 15
“Are you sure it’s all right to speak to your brother-in-law right now?”
As she strolled with Jonty through the town and out towards the coastal path, Andi was starting to worry about turning up unannounced on Simon. “He’s on holiday, after all, and he must be really busy with his family.”
Jonty gave her a sideways look. “Is this a genuine worry, or are you having second thoughts?”
“It’s a genuine worry. I’d hate to interrupt a family supper.”
He grinned at her. “There speaks a girl who’s never met my family. Their idea of a family supper is a race for who can get to the microwave first or a dash to the chippy. There’s no way Mel’s going to cook when she’s on a break. Anyway, I told you, Si’s really keen to meet you. It was his idea we came up straight away. Like I said, you are the only one who can save his marriage!”
Andi relaxed a bit. She was shocked to find herself on the way to meet the chairman of Mermaid Media. That certainly wasn’t what she’d expected to be doing this evening. Still, it was hard not to be swept up by Jonty’s enthusiasm. She’d only known him for a couple of hours but already Andi realised he wasn’t the kind of man to let opportunities slip away. Once Jonty had an idea in his head, that was it: he ran with it. Take this idea of her working for his brother-in-law, for example; no sooner had Andi agreed than he was on his mobile and had arranged for her to meet Simon. Now they were on their way to Simon’s house and Andi felt a ripple of excitement spread through her entire body. Could her luck be about to change at last? Could she really be fortunate enough to have found a job this quickly?
As they walked through Rock, Jonty gallantly positioned himself at the kerbside. It made a lovely change; Tom would have willingly shoved Andi under a juggernaut to save his own skin, she now realised. On the way, she and Jonty chatted easily about the town: he liked to spend most of his time at the boatyard or out on the water, whereas Andi had always headed for the beach or spent her time reading in the garden. They both agreed that the town had changed hugely over the past few years, though.
“Take this house here,” Andi said, pausing to point up at Ocean View. The house lay before them, reclining on manicured lawns like a sultana on her cushioned throne and turning golden in the sunset. It had certainly been smartened up since those long-gone days of her seaside memories. “That’s the one that we always used to rent for the summer. Back then it was a piece of faded splendour. The paint was peeling, the floorboards creaked and the garden was a wilderness, but we absolutely loved it.” She paused, shading her eyes against the bright light. “It looks like it’s been spruced up and extended too, which is a bit of a shame. It’s like something out of a magazine now, whereas before it was real. I expect it’s probably had the designer seaside makeover inside too, for some rich city boy who sees it for a week a year.”
Jonty cleared his throat. “Uh, Andi? I think I ought to tell you now – that’s Simon’s place.”
Andi blushed to roots of her hair. Why hadn’t she had her tongue removed at birth?
“Oh,” was all she could say.
“Oh,” agreed Jonty, but his eyes were crinkled and full of mirth. “So, will I tell Mel to reconsider the decor? Or shall I leave that to you?”
Andi swatted him on the arm. It was strong and muscular and she drew her hand back quickly.
“I think the less I say the better,” she told him.
The old wrought-iron gate that Andi remembered had been hanging on one hinge and always opened with a creak and a thud. As she recalled those noises, a flood of nostalgic memories came back to her, as striking and diverse as an Instagram page. That gate was long gone now, replaced by a smart pair of high wooden ones, which swung open easily. The old path that snaked its way through a maze of tangled rhododendrons and elderly azaleas crunched underfoot with freshly raked gravel and had been widened to allow cars to pass. The view, though, was unchanged; it was still a vast living picture of scudding clouds, white-tipped waves and fields of golden wheat beyond the river that rippled in imitation of the Atlantic below. It was so achingly familiar that Andi could almost believe that at any moment her mother would shout for her to come in for supper. Even after all this time the knowledge she would never hear that voice again still felt like a punch to the guts.
“Are you OK?” Jonty asked as she came to a halt. “Is it weird to see it again?”
Andi took a deep breath. The place looked different, that was for certain. There had never been parking outside before and neither had there been a deep blue infinity pool perched on the edge of a smooth green lawn. Wow. It made her feel as though she could dive into the cool water, then down and down into the town below.
“It’s just changed a little,” she remarked tactfully.
“I think it’s been pretty sympathetically done,” Jonty said, and he was so hopeful as he spoke that her heart went out to him.
“Don’t take any notice of me,” she told him. “I’m being nostalgic. It’s just that this house always meant something special to me. I think it’s probably the place I’ve been the happiest.”
“The happiest in your childhood?”
Andi couldn’t really think of another point in her adult life where she’d been as effortlessly happy as she’d felt here.
“I think at any time,” she told him thoughtfully. “I spent a lot of time here with my mother just before she died. We never came back afterwards, but I thought about it a lot.”
Jonty’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “I’m sorry. That must have been tough.”
Tough hadn’t come close. Still, there was no point dwelling on it now, no matter how easy to chat to and sympathetic he was. Jonty was a total stranger and, besides, some things were better left in the past.
“It was a long time ago. Definitely before that little cottage was built.”
He didn’t push but let her change the subject, and Andi liked him for that. There was nothing worse than people who wanted her to spill her guts like something from The Jeremy Kyle Show.
“That’s the pool house where I’m staying. That’s new, but they’ve made a
real effort to build it in the same style. It’s a great place to crash for the summer. It even has a wood burner for those blazing warm August nights!”
Andi thought the pool house was sweet. It stood where there had once been a large and ugly asbestos garage. Not all changes were bad; she had to make sure she remembered that. The pool house was built of wood and made to look like a New England cottage, so that it resembled a miniature one-storey version of the main house. There was a deck complete with a rocking chair; ivy and dog roses trailed up the walls and a battered old Defender was parked at a wonky angle by the three steps leading to the duck-egg-blue door.
“It’s really pretty,” she said, and was rewarded with a smile of such sweetness that she had to look away. There was something about Jonty that invited confidences and made her tempted to open her mouth and pour out all her secrets – which was so not a good idea. Tom already knew enough of her secrets, and that did not make for a good night’s sleep.
The inside of the main house was pretty much as Andi remembered it, but it had undergone the obligatory seaside-chic makeover. She was pleased to see that many beautiful old features of the house still remained, though – from the carved newel posts of the winding staircase to the wooden floors, which shone with beeswax. Ocean View felt the same as it always had, peaceful and still, as though it was slumbering in the late evening sunshine.
Odd. It felt like home still, even after all this time.
“Si will be in the kitchen,” Jonty said. “That’s where everyone hangs out when they’re here.”
Sure enough, when they entered the huge kitchen, complete with duck-egg-blue Aga and giant American-style fridge, a lanky figure was slumped at the kitchen island, several empty lager cans lined up next to him while he tapped away on a laptop. When Jonty slapped him on the back he jumped so hard he nearly fell off his stool.
“Shit, Jonty, do you have to creep up on me like that?” he gasped, raking a hand through thinning sandy hair. “I thought you were Mel come back early. You know what she thinks of me playing Warcraft when I’m supposed to be working.”
Escape for the Summer Page 12
