Andi checked her watch. It was almost noon. The sun was out, the town was bustling and she’d decided to give up on work for the day. Jonty was with Jax, Gemma was out and Angel was heaven only knew where with Laurence. Nobody else wanted to spend time with her, it seemed, so why not go for dinner with a keen if dim multimillionaire? At least Travis didn’t just see her as somebody to do the sums, scrub the dishes and pass the time until his glamorous ex arrived back on the scene. Travis wanted to spend time with her.
She took a deep breath. OK, pick me up at 7, she typed. For a moment her thumb hovered over the green send key. If this were Jonty, would she hesitate? The answer to that was pretty obvious.
But it wasn’t Jonty, was it? And never would be. He was preoccupied with Jax.
Oh, sod it, thought Andi. It was only dinner. What harm could it do?
Her thumb swooped down and hit the send key. There. It was done. For better or for worse, she was going on a date with Travis.
Chapter 35
“That’s it, that’s fecking it. I have had enough of this. It’s a fecking joke.”
Cal’s foot pressed down hard on the gas and the Range Rover tore out of the car park and towards the A30. Gemma had barely time to shut the passenger door and buckle up before the tyres were smoking on the asphalt and the speedometer was hitting sixty. The A-Team had nothing on an upset Callum South.
“Are you all right?” he asked as the car shot onto the main road and picked up even more speed. Gemma grabbed the seat and clung on for grim death as they hurtled past the startled holidaymakers in their luggage-laden cars.
“Shit.” Cal said. “I can’t believe this.”
Gemma couldn’t find the breath to reply. Cal was much fitter than he gave himself credit for; he’d raced out of McDonald’s so fast that she’d only kept up because of his fingers locking with hers and pulling her after him. At one point she’d thought the joints were going to pop, so insistent was his tugging of her from the restaurant and towards the car. So all she could do for the moment was nod and try to slow her racing heartbeat; there was no way she could speak.
“Jaysus, what a nightmare.” Cal exhaled slowly, relaxing a little as they put a few miles between themselves and McDonald’s. “That’s probably the last straw for me. Those pictures will be all over Twitter by now. Mike will freak and ITV2 will probably pull the plug. Leopard TV will sue my sorry arse.”
Gemma felt terrible. “Cal, I’m so sorry.”
“This isn’t your fault,” Cal said. “Sure, and wasn’t it my idea to go for a burger? It was hardly as though you forced me. Anyway, I loved every mouthful. What’s the point of it all if you can’t even have a Maccy D’s?”
“But your image! The show!” Gemma could have wept. She knew how hard Cal had worked to promote his career and just how much he needed the money. That it could all be swept away just because they’d fancied a Big Mac seemed terribly unfair. “And what will Mike say?”
“That I’m a fecking eejit, probably, and he’s right,” Cal admitted. “But, Gemma, can you see what it’s like for me? I don’t think I can handle living like this much longer. I’m going to have to either get my eating under control or give up the telly.”
“Your eating is under control,” said Gemma hotly. “Cal, you’re a six-foot man. You have to eat! What’s screwing it up is constantly having to analyse and control it. That’s enough to drive anyone round the twist. I should know.”
Cal nodded. “But you don’t depend on your weight for your living, Gemma. You have a talent. You can act – no don’t pretend you can’t,” he added when she opened her mouth to protest. “I’ve seen you in rehearsals and you’re brilliant. Thin or fat, you will always have your talent – whereas me? I blew it going on the piss and tripping up. The only thing I’m famous for now is my weight and my action sports. That’s why I have to keep playing this game. I’m stuck.”
“So do something else,” Gemma said. She knew as she said it that she was being a total hypocrite. After all, hadn’t she had this very conversation with Angel and Andi at least ten times? “What else are you good at?”
Cal gave her his slow and cheeky grin and Gemma felt her heart somersault. All the excess flesh couldn’t disguise the pure sexiness of his smile and the glitter in his brown eyes. Oh God, it would be so easy to fall for him…
“Apart from that,” she admonished, her cheeks hot – and not from the afternoon sunshine.
“Spoilsport! OK then, eating?” he said.
“That’s what’s got us into this mess,” she pointed out dryly.
“Fair enough.” Cal turned off towards Padstow. His brow crinkled with concentration. Then, suddenly animated, he cried, “Baking bread! I’m bloody brilliant at that!”
“That’s great, Cal, but I think Mother’s Pride probably have it covered.”
“Not white bread, you heathen. Proper artisan bread. Hey! Why don’t we stop off at Tesco, buy the ingredients and I’ll show you? My sun-dried tomato and Parmesan loaf is to die for.”
He looked so happy at this idea that Gemma’s kind heart nearly broke. “Because, Cal, I don’t think Mike will be up for the idea of a bread-baking marathon when you arrive back. He’ll be wanting to do all kinds of damage limitation and PR work. You’ll probably have to run a half marathon with Emily or something.”
“Jaysus, take me now,” said Cal, and thumped his head on the steering wheel. “I know! Maybe Richard and Judy could meet me at Talland and I could do an interview with them and talk about my food issues? A confessional exclusive? Maybe I could write a book too and they could put it in their book club?” He brightened at the thought. “And Richard’s a great cook. He does this brilliant tuna and crisp bake.”
But Gemma was too busy scrolling through Twitter to be interested in A-list cuisine. Already Cal was trending and blurry pictures of them both ramming fries and thickshakes down their necks were all over Instagram and Facebook. God, did she really have that many chins? And how come Angel and Andi had never let her know that her legs looked so awful in these denim cut-offs? Weren’t friends supposed to tell you stuff like that?
She was seriously going on a diet. At some point.
They continued to drive back to Rock in despairing silence. Gemma looked miserably out of the window as the Cornish countryside sped by in a blur of khaki scrub and crumbling mine workings. Although it was another beautiful sunny day, she didn’t think she’d ever felt more miserable. What was it about her that everything she tried to do always ended in tears? She only wanted to make everyone happy. If she’d left Cal in peace none of this would have happened.
“You OK?” Cal asked, reaching across and squeezing her hand.
Gemma was about to reply but at that very second Cal’s mobile started to ring. In his car everything was Bluetoothed to the stereo (which was safer than the illegal tucked-under-the-chin technique she usually employed in the Beetle), and the name Mike now came flashing up across the dash in accusing neon-blue letters. Cal and Gemma stared at each other guiltily as the call went through to answerphone.
“I’d better listen to that,” Cal sighed afterwards. “I’ll pop it on loudspeaker; then you can hear me get a bollocking. Share my pain.”
Gemma grimaced. She wasn’t convinced pain was her thing, but before she could protest, Cal was playing back the message.
“Cal! Why aren’t you picking up the phone? I know you’re there,” barked Mike.
There was a pause and then Cal’s manager said wearily, “Look, ignore me if you have to, but I’m telling you, bud, this isn’t going away. I’ve just had a call from the network. Apparently you’re all over the social media sites stuffing burgers down your neck. Well done, mate. Sheer genius. I’ll have to really grovel to get a good PR team to take this one on. And who was the big bird? Was it the one with the cake? Gemma something? That’s what I’ve seen on Facebook.”
Big Bird. Not something yellow and fun from Sesame Street, but her. The words hit Gemma like a slap. That was
all she’d ever be to some people, wasn’t it? A body that was too heavy to fit what was deemed to be perfect. A joke.
“Ignore him,” said Cal quickly when he caught sight of her stricken face. “The man’s a knob, so he is. You’re not fat: you’re voluptuous and gorgeous.”
At this point Gemma’s iPhone decided to join in the debate by pinging into life with a text message. When she saw that it was from Chloe, Gemma nearly hurled her Mac lunch all over the luxurious cream leather seats. With a trembling thumb she unlocked the screen and retrieved the message. When she read it and all her worst fears came true, it was almost a relief. Either from hysteria or from the irony of being dumped for finally acquiring the media attention Chloe had been demanding, Gemma started to laugh.
“What can possibly be funny at a time like this?” Cal asked.
Gemma flung her phone onto the back seat and pushed her hair behind her ears. It was so weird, but now that the worst had happened – she was agentless and her acting career was in the trash can of life – it no longer felt like such a big deal. So Chloe didn’t want to represent her anymore? What had actually changed? She was still working with Dee, and next weekend she’d be headlining in the Rock Players’ production of Twelfth Night. She had the caravan to live in and friends who loved her. All that had changed was that she no longer had to put up with somebody who didn’t accept her as she was, didn’t support her, and made her feel like crap. This was something to celebrate!
“My agent just let me go,” she told Cal, who instantly looked mortified.
“Aw feck, this is all my fault. If you hadn’t been papped with me, she’d have never known you hadn’t got down to a size zero.”
“Cal, look at me! I’m not designed to be a size zero! Chloe knows I can act and she should have seen beyond that and pushed me towards what I’m actually good at. But no, it was easier to try and cram me into the mould rather than look outside it.” She took a deep breath. “And do you know what? If she doesn’t like me for how I am then I’m better off without her. So I might not be a famous actress but at least I can enjoy myself and live my life.”
He whistled. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Totally. The worst has happened and do you know what? It wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d imagined. In fact quite the opposite. It’s liberating.”
“Unlike going back in there,” said Cal bleakly, pointing towards his house, or rather where his house would be if they could actually see it for the hordes of people and press milling across the tarmac.
“Bloody hell,” said Gemma. It was easy to forget at times just what a big star Cal really was. When they were shooting the breeze and hanging out he was just a regular guy. The fact that he was best mates with David Beckham and regularly partied with A-listers always came as a bit of a surprise.
“Bloody hell indeed,” said Cal. “Well, that rules out the going home option.”
He put his foot down and shot past the gates while Gemma crossed her fingers and prayed that nobody would notice the personalised number plates. For once luck was on her side: they were all far too busy trying to peer through.
“Great.” Cal looked so downcast that it was all Gemma could do not to reach across and hug him. “Now what?”
She smiled at him. “Now you drop me off at Tesco’s for ten minutes and then come back to the caravan while this all dies down. It’s nonsense, Cal! Look at it from the perspective of the real world. You ate a Big Mac. Nobody died.”
“Just my career,” he muttered.
“Not necessarily.” Gemma plucked her purse from her bag. Twenty quid. Great, Angel hadn’t been on a raid, so there was more than enough for what she needed. “I know exactly how to cheer you up.”
Again Cal gave her that famous slow, sexy grin that made Gemma feel as though somebody had lit a furnace deep inside of her. Oh no. Not good.
“Chocolate body paint?” he suggested.
She sloshed him on the arm and hoped he couldn’t see that her sex drive was dancing a tango. The thought of Cal covering her in chocolate body paint and then licking it off very, very slowly was one that she’d have to save for another time. And she’d have to get a very big vat of body paint too.
“Much better than that,” Gemma told him. “Callum South, prepare yourself. We are going to do some baking!”
Chapter 36
Earlier on that same morning, while Andi had already been at work for several hours and before Gemma and Cal had taken their ill-fated trip to McDonald’s, Angel had floated out of a heavy sleep and back into consciousness. For a moment she’d lain still, wondering what had happened to shut up the squabbling seagulls and Gemma’s endless obsession with Pirate FM. She felt less cramped too: her legs weren’t jammed against the melamine of the caravan wall for once, and she seemed to have acres of space. The tip of her nose that poked above the covers was frozen, though, and her fingers could have easily competed with anything from Captain Birds Eye. She yawned and rolled over, burrowing into the heavy blankets before colliding with a solid form: Laurence Elliott, Viscount Kenniston, Lord and master of a huge and crumbling mansion and, as it ironically turned out, as stony broke as she was.
Yes, it was all coming back to her now. Gingerly, Angel reached out with her foot and, sure enough, her French-pedicured toes brushed against solid male calf. Laurence, fast asleep, reached out and pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight against his chest. With his touch, Angel’s heart raced as memories of the previous night came rushing back like the Severn Bore. Angel had no idea that her body could do that. Finally she understood what Jackie Collins and Jilly Cooper had been going on about. Even Fifty Shades was starting to make a bit more sense. Penniless or not, she didn’t want to let Laurence Elliott go in a hurry!
Angel had heard the expression “gobsmacked” before but until the moment Laurence confessed that he was pretty much penniless, she’d never really understood it. For a moment she simply couldn’t speak. What on earth did he mean, he had a cash-flow problem? But that was impossible! He was a viscount! He lived in a house that made Buckingham Palace look like a garden shed. He drove an Aston Martin. If this was a posh guy’s idea of being skint then bring it on.
“Skint. Brassic. Broke,” Laurence said, just in case she didn’t follow. He’d looked close to tears as he’d said it. “Angel, I can’t pretend anymore; I’ve got to be honest. You’ve come to mean too much to me for there to be any secrets.” He hung his head. “The truth is, although I might create the opposite impression, I am struggling to be solvent.”
She’d stared at him. “I don’t understand. You live here, in this huge house! You’re a viscount… aren’t you?”
Laurence nodded. “The last in a long line of hard-living, hard-spending Elliotts with all the debts and responsibilities that come with inheriting an estate this size.” He raked a hand through his hair and his shoulders slumped as though the weight of all those responsibilities was sitting on them. “Can you imagine what the death duties were like when Pa died?”
Angel couldn’t – she struggled enough when Mr Barclaycard came knocking – but suddenly the patches on the wall where portraits had been removed, the freezing-cold rooms and the Aldi bags were starting to make a lot more sense. It was like looking at the back of a tapestry, all tangles and knots, before turning it over and seeing the true picture. The lack of ready cash. The cards that constantly got declined. The pennies were dropping. Maybe she should offer them to Laurence?
“But what about your house in Rock?” she whispered, once her vocal cords had recovered. “Your beautiful car?”
He closed his eyes in defeat. “Neither one is mine. They’re both Travis’s. He’s my oldest friend from school; he’s been really good about bailing me out but I can’t expect him to do it indefinitely. I think he wants his house back too. He’s seriously got the hots for your sister.”
Personally Angel thought Trav had more hope of flying to Mars than he did of getti
ng lucky with Andi. Her sister was more interested in the moody handyman. Andi might deny it but Angel could tell; her sister used to get that soppy look on her face when she looked at her Busted posters. Still, it was all making sense. No wonder Travis hadn’t taken the hint and pushed off to a hotel. Why should he if it was his own house?
“But you’ve got all this,” she said, gesturing at the room and the gardens beyond. “What about all the land? Surely you don’t need it all? Couldn’t you sell some?”
Laurence looked horrified. “Angel, the estate’s been in our family since the conquest; I can’t be the one who breaks it up. Christ. I’d be the Elliott who went down in history as losing Kenniston.”
Angel gave him a stern look – the kind that Andi often gave her when she pleaded poverty but went out and bought some Gina sandals on her credit card.
Laurence sighed. “Yes, I know it sounds crazy but there has to be another way. Besides, the land’s all tied up with all sorts of codicils and entails.”
“So it’s either sell the lot or nothing?”
The expression on his face said quite clearly that selling the lot wasn’t an option.
“What about antiques?” Angel suggested. Having skived off work quite a bit in her time she was pretty much an expert on Car Booty and Cash in the Attic. Since Laurence had a bloody big attic, there had to be something useful hidden there, surely? Maybe a Monet they’d all forgotten about, or a tiara? She herself had often stemmed her overdraft by selling a (fake) LV bag or pair of shoes on eBay, which was practically the same thing.
But Laurence wasn’t leaping at this genius idea. “Anything that can be sold has already gone to Christie’s. We’ve closed up most of the house to save on heating and you’ve seen how frugal Ma is.”
Angel certainly had. She’d thought Spam went out at about the same time Winston Churchill left Number Ten. Come to think of it, the dusty tins that Lady Elliott had fished out of the pantry probably dated to around then. Her stomach lurched at the thought.
Escape for the Summer Page 31
