Escape for Christmas: A Novella (The Escape Series Book 2) Read online

  “Green gillet? Country boots?” prompted Angel, pulling a despairing face when Gemma still looked blank. “I give up with you, Gemma Pengelley. He was lush. I would!”

  “You’re a married woman!”

  Angel grinned and returned to her salad. “So?” she said cheerfully through a mouthful of cos lettuce and feta. “That doesn’t mean I can’t look, does it? I love Laurence totally and utterly but I can still admire the finer specimens in God’s great creation. Blimey, Gem. You don’t think I’ve picked the builders at Kenniston for their bricklaying talents do you?”

  To be honest Gemma hadn’t taken much notice of the team of builders who’d been drafted in to start work on the mammoth project of restoring Laurence’s ancestral home. Still, now she came to think about it she supposed they did look more like a collection of Calvin Klein models that the bum-cleavage-revealing, beer-bellied folk who tended to leer at her from their white vans.

  “Good TV eye candy,” Angel was saying sagely. “And Craig’s been signed by Models 1 since he joined the show, which is good news. There’s always an opportunity if you look for it. It’s what makes life so exciting.”

  Gemma stopped herself just in time from saying she’d be far more excited if Craig had spent less time posing for the film crew and a little more of it patching up the roof of the damp and gloomy gatehouse she and Cal shared. Angel lived and breathed Kenniston Hall and the show; she wouldn’t have understood why Gemma was so weary of it all. In fairness Gemma hardly understood this herself. All she knew was that she was tired of having to constantly look over her shoulder in case the crew were lurking, and even more tired of never having Cal to herself. Surely the time was coming for them to step away from it all and concentrate on themselves? Cal kept saying that they needed the money but Gemma couldn’t for the life of her imagine what for. Just how big were his tax bills?

  To distract herself she pushed the pasty around a bit, but Angel wasn’t fooled.

  “OK, now I’m really worried. Not noticing hot guys is one thing; you not eating lunch is quite another. Is everything all right with you and Cal?”

  Gemma abandoned any pretence of eating her food and pushed her plate away. Was everything all right with her and Cal? She thought it was, hoped it was, but how did you ever know for sure? How well could you ever really know somebody else? The lack of sex was down to his working so hard. Having cameras in tow – because Cal had signed a second contract when Gemma had retreated from the limelight – didn’t exactly enhance your hopes of a love life, unless you were making a very different genre of television. Cal was still his usual cheerful, affectionate and loveable self but Gemma had the oddest feeling that he was holding something back. Was their lack of bedroom action a barometer? Did the few extra pounds she’d put on lately turn him off? She thought this highly unlikely, seeing as she’d been several stones heavier when they’d first got together and Cal hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her then. Besides, he was hardly skinny himself! He had zero willpower when it came to food, so working in a bakery was proving far too tempting for Cal.

  “Sure, and isn’t it quality control?” he’d laugh, creases of good humour starring his eyes as he sampled a bit of brioche or maybe a slice of cheese loaf. Quite a bit of sampling went on in Cal’s kitchen, judging by the constant loosening of notches on his belt, but Gemma didn’t care – she loved every inch of him. Twelve stone or fifteen stone; it didn’t matter to her. Callum South, with his golden shock of curly hair, sleepy downturned eyes the colour of Irish peat and huge appetite for all the good things in life, still made her legs turn to soggy string.

  “We’re fine,” Gemma said eventually, because Angel was still waiting for a reply. She loved her friend but these days she was always wary of divulging too much. Angel was so driven that Gemma wouldn’t put it past her to use any information for ratings. She was still smarting from the time the Bread and Butlers production team had thought it a good idea to lob Cal’s glamour-model ex into an episode. Fifi Royale had a brain like Swiss cheese and boobs bigger than her head, but Cal had dated her and FHM had rated her at number four in their Britain’s Sexiest chart. Cal had laughed and promised that Gemma was number one in Callum South’s Sexiest chart, but even so it wasn’t a nice situation to be in. Tricks like that were the brainchildren of the show’s new producer, Dwayne, and Gemma hadn’t been impressed. Dwayne was yet another reason why she hadn’t signed up for a second season.

  Angel regarded her thoughtfully. “Really? Things got better when you moved out of the main house, right?”

  Living in Kenniston Hall had been fun to begin with, a bit like an extended sleepover, but after a while Gemma and Cal had been driven demented. Decamping to the Lion Lodge had seemed like a great idea. The pretty gatehouse was a mile from the Hall, overlooked one of Capability Brown’s ornamental lakes and had a stunning view over rolling parkland and the wiggling ribbon drive to Kenniston. With its leaded windows, quirky little rooms and romantic open fires it had felt like one step closer to Gemma’s dream home. Unfortunately though, the dream had soon become a nightmare. The house was all fur coat and no knickers. Capability Brown hadn’t been quite so capable when he’d planned the lake, and damp seeped into every corner of the building. The drive was a quagmire when it rained (Gemma’s Beetle was still abandoned halfway to the Hall), black mould coated most of the surfaces, and the fires belched smoke. The storage heaters had been on strike since about 1950 and consequently Gemma and Cal slept in tracksuits, thick socks and hoodies. It was hardly an environment conducive to ripping off clothes and exploring one another’s naked bodies, Gemma reflected. They’d be in danger of getting frostbite. As it stood, the one and only serious argument they’d ever had had been over who’d mislaid the hot-water bottle.

  There was no chance of the Elliotts spending money doing up the Lion Lodge, not when the Hall was in an even worse state. Gemma had wanted to rent a cottage in Rewe but Cal, keen to save money, had been all for moving back to the Hall. At least there he’d have been near his kitchen rather than wrecking the suspension on his beloved Range Rover by trundling up and down the rutted drive. In the end it came down to a choice between the slightly less Baltic conditions of the big house and the privacy of the Lion Lodge, which in Gemma’s mind was no choice at all. She’d bought another hot-water bottle, some good-quality thermals and a fan heater, and kissed her love life goodbye until the spring.

  “Gem?” Angel prompted, looking truly worried now. “Everything is OK with you guys, isn’t it?”

  Gemma didn’t want to sound like she was moaning. She had a gorgeous partner and a great career, and she lived in a beautiful part of the world. She needed to look at the positives and be thankful for them, as her life-coach friend Dee would say.

  “I think so. No, of course we are. It’s just so busy and we’re never on our own enough. There’s always a crew member or one of Cal’s team mates or,” she paused and rolled her eyes, “even worse, one of Cal’s family about. It’s pretty hard to get some private time. God help me if his mother turns up again.”

  Of all the stresses in her life, Gemma thought that Cal’s huge and boisterous family were probably right up there with calorie counting and playing dodge-the-falling-masonry whenever she stepped outside the gatehouse. Cal had so many siblings it felt as though hardly a month went by when one of the South clan wasn’t visiting. No wonder she and Cal never had time for sex. And when Cal’s mother came to stay it was a total no-no. Mammy South was a devout Catholic, had a saint for just about everything and was horrified that her beloved eldest son was living in sin with a Protestant. Even Casanova would have been put off nookie with Mammy South clicking her rosary beads on the other side of the bedroom wall.

  “Hmm,” said Angel. Was it her imagination, Gemma wondered, or did her best friend look a bit shifty? “Maybe you could get more involved with the show again?” Angel suggested hopefully. “That way you’d see Cal more.”

  Gemma smiled. “You don’t give up, do y
ou? How many times do I need to say it? I’m through with TV. I just want to concentrate on the cakes and being with Cal. I know it’s not very PC but I just want our own place, a red Aga, a couple of kids and a normal life. I don’t want to be famous.”

  “So much for feminism,” said Angel, forking a bit more salad in.

  Gemma chose to ignore this comment. So wanting to get married and have children wasn’t a very feminist ambition; she could probably live with that. Anyway, running her own very successful cake-making business and writing a bestselling cookery book seemed pretty feminist to her. Besides, wasn’t that the whole point of equality anyway? Women could have it all?

  If they could figure out what “it all” was, of course.

  “Cal’s signed until the end of December,” Angel reminded her, interrupting Gemma’s rather philosophical train of thought. “Anton’s really keen he signs again – and you too, of course. I really think you should. Another year isn’t long, Gem.”

  Anton Yuri was the main shareholder in Seaside Rock, Angel’s production company, and a Russian businessman so tough he made Putin look cuddly. Gemma wasn’t keen to fall out with him – she didn’t think being buried in a flyover would suit her – but she was even less keen to put up with another year of cameras and chaos.

  She shook her head. “No way. I’ve told you, Angel, I’m really through with all that. Besides, I’m thirty in two weeks’ time. It’s time for a change.”

  “Don’t say the ‘T’ word!” Angel, still a while away from the dreaded milestone birthday herself, shrank back as though the number was contagious.

  Gemma shrugged. “There’s no point hiding from it.”

  “There’s every point hiding from it! Why do you think Crème de la Mer make so much money? Anyway, you’re only as old as you feel.”

  In that case she was probably about one hundred and thirty, Gemma reflected gloomily. She felt tired and grumpy, and even if she bathed in Crème de la Mer she didn’t think that would change.

  “Do you want us to throw you a party?” Angel’s face was bright with enthusiasm. Salad forgotten about, she reached for her iPhone to start making notes. “We could feature it in one of the next episodes. Do you fancy hiring a fairground like that guy from One Direction did for his girlfriend?” Her finger hovered over the touchscreen. “We could ask his management who organised it.”

  “I hate fairground rides,” Gemma reminded Angel. “I got sick on It’s a Small World when I went on the school trip to Euro Disney.”

  “Ok then, how about fancy dress? That could be fun. We could have a theme.”

  Only somebody who was slim and gorgeous could possibly think fancy dress was fun. Such parties normally threw Gemma into a total panic, as she not only had to come up with a costume but also one that hid her fat bits and didn’t give her cleavage Jordan would kill for. Add to this the horror of being paraded before the entire nation and Gemma thought she’d rather spend a night saying Hail Marys with Mammy South.

  It was time to nip this in the bud before Angel got totally carried away and booked the Middletons to plan the party.

  “I’m having a low-key birthday,” she said firmly. “Just Cal and me.”

  “Spoilsport,” said Angel. “Be like that then. I was only trying to do something nice.”

  “And boost your ratings,” said Gemma.

  Angel raised her hands in mock surrender. “You’ve got me. But it could still have been fun. Being thirty is bad enough, in my opinion, and having a big party and lots of booze could take some of the sting out of it. When it’s my thirtieth Laurence had better do something spectacular to take my mind off it, that’s all I can say. He’s got enough time to plan it.”

  “I just want to be alone with Cal,” Gemma sighed. In the back of her mind an idea was starting to form, and she began to feel excited. But before she explored this any further she knew she had to make it very clear to Angel that she didn’t want the kind of party that would make one of Elton John’s seem modest. She gave her best friend a stern look. “I don’t want any secret parties. Not one. I mean it, OK?”

  Angel nodded, her attention diverted now by several people down in the street who were pointing eagerly up at the café window. She gave them a wave and a megawatt smile. Gemma gave up. Her best friend would never understand. She sipped her coffee thoughtfully and began to piece a plan together. She only hoped that Cal wasn’t thinking along the same lines, because that could make life tricky.

  Angel, having finished waving, was busy tapping away on her pink iPhone.

  “Laurence,” she explained, when Gemma glanced over. “Don’t panic; I’m not tweeting pictures of us. He’s missing me and wants to know when we’ll be back.”

  Laurence texted Angel non-stop. Gemma couldn’t work out if this was romantic or just bloody irritating. In any case the iPhone chimed at regular intervals and usually caused Angel to giggle or blush. The two were certainly devoted, that was for certain, and Cal was always moaning that filming often got delayed because they kept sneaking off to snatch an hour’s nookie. There was no doubt that Angel had melted Laurence’s frosty aristocratic reserve. The episode when he’d sexted his mother by mistake had been hilarious. Not a lot ever shocked Daphne Elliott, apart from the hunting ban, and her no-nonsense reaction had been TV gold. Laurence had been red-faced for a day or two – but judging by the way Angel was now giggling and typing like crazy, he hadn’t been put off.

  Gemma sighed. The Elliotts were so loved up, and although comparisons were odious she couldn’t help examining her own relationship in the glittering light of theirs. She really needed to do something to spice up her love life – and this was where her brilliant idea could come in. Fishing her own phone out of her Seasalt bag, Gemma’s heart lifted to see a text from Cal. See! They might not be bonking each other’s brains out non-stop but they had a bond, a true understanding that went far deeper than the physical. He was thinking about her just as much as Laurence was thinking about Angel. Smiling, she opened the message.

  Don’t forget to bring back a real Cornish pasty

  Oh.

  That summed things up perfectly, didn’t it? Laurence sent Angel flirtatious and cheeky messages, whereas Cal just put in an order for supper. Something had to change and soon.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Angel asked. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered like one of Asprey’s window displays. It was the look of a woman whose partner hadn’t just texted to ask her to visit the pasty shop.

  Gemma slid the phone across the table. “You asked me how things were with Cal? I think this probably says it all.”

  Angel scanned the text and shook her head. “Come on babe, that’s just Cal. You know he loves his food. Didn’t you guys meet in a pasty shop?”

  This was true. Gemma had knocked Cal flying and his buns and sausage rolls had flown everywhere. Their mutual hatred of diets and love of cooking had certainly brought them together.

  “Things haven’t been very romantic lately,” Gemma confessed. She didn’t want to tell Angel too much but maybe her friend would have some ideas? Laurence was certainly not thinking about pasties when he texted his wife.

  Angel’s eyes widened. “Oh!”

  “I know he’s tired,” Gemma said, feeling horribly disloyal. Cal would hate to think she’d been discussing their sex life with Angel. “And I know that the Lion Lodge isn’t the most romantic setting. It’s cold and damp for a start. Maybe that puts him off?”

  “Bollocks,” said Angel sharply. “Kenniston’s bloody arctic and that doesn’t stop us. Best way to keep warm. Throw out that hot-water bottle, that’s my advice, then Cal will have to give you some action or freeze to death.”

  The thought of parting with the hot-water bottle in mid December was enough to bring Gemma out in a rash.

  “It’s fine,” she said quickly, because Angel had that look on her face, the look that meant she was cooking up an idea. Gemma knew that expression far too well. She’d seen it the day An
gel had decided they should abandon London living and run away to Cornwall for the summer, and she’d seen it too when Bread and Butlers had been dreamed up. It was time to distract her friend before she invited a TV sex therapist to stay at Kenniston, or something equally embarrassing.

  “I’m just moaning,” she insisted quickly. “It really is fine.”

  “Don’t fib to me,” said Angel sternly. “I’m not your boyfriend.”

  Gemma shrugged. “All couples go through phases like this.”

  Angel looked like she didn’t believe this for a second. She bit her full bottom lip thoughtfully for a moment and then clapped her hands.

  “Eureka! I’ve got the solution! I feel like Pythagoras did in the bath!”

  “Archimedes,” Gemma corrected. “Pythagoras was triangles.”

  Angel rolled her eyes. “Triangles, baths, whatever. Who cares? What matters, Gem, is that I have had a brilliant idea that’s guaranteed to put the spice back into your love life.”

  Placing a twenty-pound note onto the table, she jumped to her feet and picked up her bag while Gemma stared at her with a growing sense of doom. It was too late: Angel was up and running with a plan.

  “Come on, then! Don’t just sit there!” cried Angel when Gemma didn’t budge.

  “Where are we going?” Gemma asked, warily.

  But Angel just tapped her nose and winked. “Somewhere that will help you give Cal more than a cream horn! Trust me, it’ll be brilliant! Now come on!”

  Fired up, her friend was already heading down the narrow stairs and out into the Christmas crowds. With a sinking heart, Gemma gathered up her bag and coat and followed her. Like it or not, it seemed that her love life was now well and truly in Angel’s beautifully manicured hands.

  Chapter 3

  “Pulse? This is your brilliant idea?”

  Gemma stood on the pavement outside the Truro store, certain that her face was as red as the sexy Mrs Santa outfits in the window. All around her a tide of shoppers flowed through the town and she was dreadfully aware that her mother’s WI friends were probably among them. Cornwall was a surprisingly small place and Demelza Pengelley would know that her daughter was in a, shock horror, sex shop, before you could say buzzing bunny.