Escape for the Summer Read online

  So Gemma looked, and a plump blonde, all natural honey curls and eyes the same bright blue as hyacinths, peered back at her. Those were the good bits, but the face, blurred by weight and with the suggestion of a double chin, wasn’t quite so great. The pink control underwear sliced into her flesh like cheese wire, sucking lumps and bumps in for sure but not quite able to contain them when they made a break for freedom. Completing the picture were dimpled arms bristling with goosebumps, a tummy like a Michelin tyre and patchy fake-tanned legs that chaffed at the top.

  Oh God. She looked like one of those “before” shots that they took of fat celebrities to sell their fitness DVDs! If only she could now magic herself an “after” shot. How on earth had this happened? Tears blurred the hideous image.

  “Gemma,” said Chloe, meeting her eyes in the glass, “I’ve been your agent for six years and I have to be honest. Unless you make some pretty major changes you won’t be getting any work at all. Don’t you want to act?”

  Gemma nodded. Her throat was too tight with tears to speak. Of course she wanted to act! It was the only thing she’d ever wanted to do – apart from to be with Nick, of course. Six weeks ago he’d dumped her again; the last time she’d seen him had been at their local, where he was wearing some skinny brunette like a chest bandage and giving a good impression that they were Siamese twins joined at the tongue. Gemma had turned around and gone home via Waitrose. That night she’d enjoyed a threesome with Ben and Jerry, the only men she’d rely on in the future.

  Chloe sighed. Gemma was a lovely girl and, when she had been successful in auditions, she’d always managed to impress the people she worked with. With her curves and blonde curls and mouth like an unpopped fuchsia bud, she was a dead ringer for a Botticelli angel who’d gobbled just a little too much ambrosia. It was pure bad luck she’d been born a few centuries too late. Even icons like Marilyn Monroe would struggle to find work in the body-obsessed twenty-teens. There was only one way Gemma could possibly pick up roles now, and that was to lose some weight – and pronto. Chloe, who existed on a diet of Marlboros and fresh air, found it hard to be sympathetic, especially now that today’s commission was in serious danger of going down the drain. You had to suffer to be beautiful, right? And Gemma clearly hadn’t been suffering. At all.

  “I have had work,” Gemma protested, through the rock-cake lump. Her voice sounded odd, glass fragile and as though it might shatter at any moment. A bit like her self-confidence, in fact. “I was in EastEnders and I—”

  “And you asked Phil Mitchell if he had a light,” interrupted Chloe, rolling her eyes so much that Gemma almost expected them to roll right out of her head, across the studio and down the street. “That was two years ago! It’s been two years since you had a proper television role. Since then you’ve only had a couple of voice-overs, that Shakespeare play for schools – where you were fantastic as Ophelia, I know – and a few adverts. Unless you up your game you’ll be left behind. Babe, I can’t afford to carry any dead wood!”

  Gemma stared at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Her agent exhaled slowly. “That I’m going to have to let you go unless you sort yourself out, lose the weight and find a way to get yourself out there. Flick through Closer or Heat – they’re full of TOWIE people and soap stars; you should be right up there with them. You can act, Gemma, but unless you start marketing yourself slightly more seriously I’m going to have to remove you from my books.”

  “You’ll drop me?” Gemma couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “After all these years? Because some stupid lingerie people thought I was fat?”

  Chloe shrugged. “Let’s face it: you’re not exactly earning me any money. I do have kids to feed, you know.”

  She shouldered her Mulberry bag and considered Gemma thoughtfully. The girl had potential, she really did. She’d graduated from the BRIT School as one of the most promising students in her year, but somehow she’d just never managed to fulfil that promise. Maybe she was just too kind? Too easy-going? Too undisciplined? All qualities that the world of the media hardly valued, preferring to grind people like this into the dirt. Maybe Gemma Pengelley would have been better off staying in the West Country, filling her face with pasties and scones? Either way, a kick up the ample backside was most definitely what she needed.

  “Please don’t take me off your books,” Gemma whispered. “I’ll lose weight. I’ll get myself in the papers. I’ll do whatever it takes, but please, please, don’t stop representing me.”

  “Then sort yourself out,” Chloe said sharply. “I don’t know what’s been going on but you look a state.” Pulling out her BlackBerry, she scrolled through the calendar and punched decisively at the keys. “We’ll meet again at the start of September and regroup. If by then you seem committed and have been proactive, then I’ll continue to represent you and be more than willing to put you forward for any roles that may be suitable. But if not...”

  The words unsaid hung heavy in the air like something out of Harry Potter. Gemma nodded. It was fair enough, she reflected miserably as her agent stalked off, leaving her to continue the shoot in the revolting underwear. She had let herself go, hadn’t she? While she posed as best she could, stomach in and chin out and horribly conscious of the comparison she made to the other skinny models, Gemma thought how unfair it was that she had always struggled with her weight. Even as a child she had only to look at a saffron bun to be pounds heavier. Add to this a mother who was a fantastic cook and who dished out huge stews and buttery mash to her strapping sons and husband when they came home after a hard day’s graft on the family farm, and it was no wonder she’d always piled on the pounds. Gemma loved to cook too and adored the magic of throwing ingredients together that resulted in flavours bursting across her tongue. The only problem was that she didn’t adore the subsequent bursting waistbands quite so much.

  “Turn left, love; cover your belly with your arm,” called the photographer. Woodenly, Gemma obeyed. No more just thinking about it, even if it was the thought that counted: she’d go on a diet when she got home, she really would. Once she’d finished up all the goodies in the fridge first, obviously. There were those rather scrummy rock cakes and last night’s lasagne too. It would be wrong to bin that lot. Mum would have a fit at such waste. Along with the Diet Angel and the Diet Devil, her mother also spent a great deal of time in Gemma’s head.

  Once the shoot was over – it hadn’t escaped Gemma’s notice that she’d spent most of it draped on a chaise longue with her fat bits disguised by gravity and a cunningly draped shawl – she retreated back to the cramped changing room. A gaggle of models hogged the mirror, dabbing at their make-up with cleanser and elbowing each other out of the way as they jostled for pole position. Sinking into a corner and hoping to stay off the radar, Gemma wrestled herself out of the control pants and slumped on a chair while her internal organs rearranged themselves. All this humiliation and pain for a measly few hundred quid? Maybe she should just cut her losses and look for a normal job?

  But what about her ambition to be an actress? All those childhood dreams couldn’t be wasted just because she was a greedy pig. Maybe when she got home she’d borrow Angel’s laptop and check out Weight Watchers? All you had to do was count the points, apparently, so maybe you could have all your points consisting of chocolate and vodka? That was Gemma’s idea of a balanced diet – a Dairy Milk held in each hand. At this thought she instantly felt much more cheerful. That was Project Weight Loss sorted. By September she’d be a size ten if it killed her. All she had to do now was find a way of raising her profile. Short of shagging a Premier League footballer though (which wasn’t likely, as they didn’t tend to hang out in the Dog and Rabbit off Fulham Broadway), she was a bit stumped. Maybe Angel would have an idea? Gemma perked up at this thought. Yes, Angel was always good for an idea. After all, hadn’t she nearly managed to gatecrash Peter Andre’s party?

  Gemma’s plotting was cut short by a flurry of excitement at the far end of the
room. Looking up, she noticed that one of the models, a tall brunette with collarbones that could take someone’s eye out, was shrieking excitedly into her iPhone while the other girls twittered and squeaked. At first Gemma ignored them; during the shoot the brunette had made some particularly bitchy comments about Gemma’s weight. But after a moment her curiosity got the better of her, especially when she heard the word Cornwall. Pretending to be engrossed in teasing her hair into an updo, she sidled up to the mirror for a good earwig.

  “Oh my God! You lucky cow, Emily!” one of the girls said enviously. “You seriously get to spend the whole summer in Rock and you get paid for it? I’m well jel!”

  Emily flipped her silky tresses back from her face and pouted at her reflection. “The filming starts next week and you should see the house the production team has hired! It’s lush!”

  The other girls twittered excitedly, but only Gemma really knew just quite how lush this house would be. She came from the less glamorous town of Bodmin, famous mainly for its gaol and its beast, but she’d visited the upmarket holiday destination lots of times. Although she’d yet to bump into Wills or Harry, Gemma was always struck speechless by the stunning properties facing the estuary, the superyachts bobbing on the pontoons and the endless four-by-fours driven by women as glossy and highly strung as thoroughbreds. Rock was the playground of the rich and famous, that was for sure. With Rick Stein’s just a boat ride over the Camel Estuary and Jamie Oliver’s a few miles away at Watergate Bay, it was a kind of Chelsea on Sea: the likes of Gemma could just about afford a latte at one of the stylish new coffee bars, and that was only on payday. Still, expense aside, Rock was one of Gemma’s favourite places and her ultimate dream was to be a famous movie star, buy a house there and bake lots of yummy cakes in her luxury kitchen.

  Err, she meant go running and eat salads. Or something like that anyway. Emily, who probably got full just staring at a lettuce leaf, would fit in perfectly.

  “But to film with Callum South,” breathed another model enviously. “You’re so lucky, Em! He’s smoking hot!”

  Emily shrugged her skinny shoulders nonchalantly, enjoying every moment of having a captive audience. Everyone knew that ex-Premier League star Callum, who’d battled against and conquered his booze and junk-food addictions in a blaze of red-top glory, was the hottest thing on reality TV. His last two shows had pulled in over six million viewers and now you could scarcely go a day without seeing his handsome face plastered across a billboard or in a magazine. Gemma had had a secret crush on him for years.

  “So what’s this show about?” asked another model. “I liked the one where he did a boot camp for six weeks. It was hilarious.”

  In spite of herself Gemma nodded. She’d loved that show. Callum South’s ongoing battle of the bulge was well documented in the tabloids and his stint at an army-style fat camp had been compulsive viewing. She’d genuinely felt for him when he’d first arrived and been bullied over the assault course. And when his calorie-counted supper arrived she’d shared his pain so greatly she’d been forced to call for a Domino’s.

  “It’s some get-fit thing again,” Emily said dismissively. “He’s got to spend the summer doing all sorts of water sports, losing weight and competing against members of the public who’ve been picked to take part. He’s a right lard-arse at the moment, so he might as well work it off and make some money. Fat Camp for the Famous is what they should call it!”

  The others tittered sycophantically. Gemma’s hands curled into fists. Still raw from the photo shoot from hell, she couldn’t stand to hear somebody else criticised for his weight. What was it with these bloody diet and exercise Nazis?

  “That’s a mean thing to say!” she said hotly.

  Emily’s top lip curled. “Why? Because it’s true?”

  “No! Because it’s a horrible way to speak about someone!”

  Gemma’s heart was pounding but Emily just laughed, with the shrill screech of a hyena about to go in for the kill. Too late, Gemma realised that she’d laid herself wide open. So much for keeping her head down. Maybe next time she’d wear a helmet?

  “Touched a nerve has it?” sneered Emily. “Don’t think we didn’t notice they had to shoot with a wide-angle lens today! Well, I tell you what, if you feel sorry for Cal why don’t you take a leaf out of his book and join him? You could call it Fat Camp for Failures!”

  While the other girls shrieked with mirth, Gemma racked her brains for a witty comeback, but by the time she’d collected her thoughts Emily and her cronies had long since shuffled their UGG boots out of the room. The brunette clearly thought she’d won the day – but if she’d turned around she’d have seen that, rather than tears, an expression of excitement was spreading across Gemma’s face.

  Oh my God! For such a brainless bimbo Emily was a genius. Gemma could have risked being skewered by a hipbone and hugged the girl! That final cutting comment, designed to wound in the worst possible way, had had exactly the opposite effect. It had given Gemma the most fantastic idea and maybe the solution to all her problems!

  Gemma dug her mobile out of her bag and began to text Angel. There was no time like the present…

  Chapter 4

  By the time Andi arrived at the office she was running horribly late and was none the wiser for having spent twenty minutes with the bank manager. All she’d managed to discover was that although all of her available funds had been withdrawn, none of her security had been breached. Whoever had managed to make the transactions had done so by using all her online passwords. This only meant one thing: whoever withdrew the money was either some kind of online evil genius or somebody she trusted. Andi didn’t need her economics degree to figure out who that might be.

  As she rode the elevator to her office, Andi chewed her nails and tried to quash her growing sense of panic. The conversation she’d had with her bank manager played on a loop through her mind.

  “I really don’t understand this at all,” he’d said, leaning forward and frowning at his computer screen. “According to our records all the transactions have been authorised by you.”

  Andi had shaken her head. “I haven’t been near my accounts or my credit cards! You’ve let somebody else withdraw my money!”

  “If that has happened then I can’t apologise enough,” the bank manager had said with a grave expression. “I assure you we take our customers’ security very seriously indeed. However, according to our system you made the withdrawal of funds yourself using your Internet banking access codes.” His brow had crinkled. “This is very strange: you appear to have gone through the three highest levels of security and used the correct PINs and passwords too. That isn’t standard practice at all for card cloning.”

  Andi had had the horrible sensation that she was whizzing down to earth even faster than Jeb Corliss in his wingsuit.

  “My money was taken over the Internet?”

  He had nodded. “It’s very unusual for this to happen. Is it possible that somebody could have got access to your security? Could anyone else know your PINs? A family member, maybe?”

  Andi closed her eyes. There was only one person she’d trusted with those details. Not a family member – if Angel had had access to any of her money she’d have done a trolley dash round Gucci before you could say “credit card” – but there was one person, one person she’d trusted totally...

  “My boyfriend,” she’d whispered.

  The bank manager had stared at her. Incredulous didn’t come close to describing the look on his face. “I’m sorry, for a minute I thought you said your boyfriend had access to your online security?”

  Andi had nodded miserably. “I’m at work a lot and Tom’s at home. He does a lot of our shopping online.” He also did the lion’s share of their poker playing and porn viewing too, which had been the cause of this morning’s enormous row. Tom had thought her most unreasonable; what else was he supposed to do all day? Andi had almost suggested getting off his backside and finding a job, but had stopped herse
lf just in time. After all, she knew how sensitive Tom was to any suggestion that his career as an actor might have to be reconsidered. He was convinced that it was only a matter of time before his talent was spotted. Andi was all for matters of time, but just how much time was starting to become something of an issue. Was he talking weeks? Months? Or, as she was starting to fear, aeons?

  Talking of time, maybe it was time she called exactly that on their relationship? She wasn’t happy and it wasn’t working. The fact that she believed Tom could steal her money spoke volumes.

  While her thoughts had raced, the bank manager had taken off his glasses and sat pinching the bridge of his nose. He’d looked like a man on the brink of nervous collapse.

  “So you’re telling me that you have given your boyfriend permission to access your accounts? Then it isn’t a case of theft, Miss Evans.” The words it’s a case of stupidity had hung in the air like subtitles. “This really isn’t the bank’s fault, is it?”

  What could Andi possibly have said to that? She had fled from the bank feeling so stupid that she wouldn’t have been surprised if the Oxford English Dictionary’s definition of the word had been Miranda Evans. She tried calling Tom but he wasn’t answering and was pointedly ignoring her private Facebook messages.

  The lift doors hissed open and Andi somehow managed to make her way to her desk. The office clock glared down at her, balefully announcing that she was over forty minutes late. Her heart sank even further when Zoe stalked over. So much for hoping to come in undetected. What was she thinking to even imagine that would be possible? Zoe was a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out office misdemeanours.

  “You’re late,” Zoe said when she reached Andi’s workstation. The air was instantly choked with the cloying scent of Poison, which made Andi feel queasy. She took a deep breath and prayed she didn’t hurl all over her line manager’s Kurt Geiger shoes.