Escape for the Summer (23 page)

Once the lobster was dealt with, dinner passed in a blur of ice-cold champagne and delicious white flesh, which Laurence fed to her. When his fingertips brushed against her lips Angel had the strongest desire to lick the entire digit. She tried hard to distract herself with walnut tart and crème fraiche, but nothing was working. By the time the bill arrived all she could think about was the smooth skin of Laurence’s neck and how it might feel beneath her lips. He smelt wonderful too, of something spicy and oriental and expensive that was making her senses reel and her head spin. Or maybe this was the champagne? Whatever the cause, Angel was no longer worried. She just wanted Laurence to whisk her away to his beautiful house, sweep her into his arms, carry her up the stairs and...

One of waiters, who had been attempting a transaction with Laurence’s flash platinum card, cleared his throat nervously.  “I’m sorry, My Lord, but there appears to be a problem with your card.”

Laurence raised his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “Not this again. I swear, the incompetence of these high-street banks is becoming a monumental bore. How many times do I have to pop into them and explain how estate finances work?”

Angel had no idea how estates finances operated either. To be honest her own were quite enough trouble to be getting on with, but she rolled her eyes and pulled a sympathetic face.

“How else would you like to pay, My Lord?”

 “Washing-up?” Laurence joked wryly. At least, Angel hoped he was joking. Apart from the fact that she was sporting brand new acrylics, her sharp brain had just worked out that their bill must run to at least £400. That was a lot of washing-up by anyone’s standards…

“Or might the amount be charged to an alternative card, perhaps?” suggested the waiter helpfully, glancing first at Laurence and then at Angel.

Angel nearly fell off her seat with terror. The last time she’d checked her bank balance she’d needed a stiff drink to recover.

Luckily, though, Laurence was equally appalled by the idea of Angel paying the bill.

“I’m afraid not,” he replied. “And I wouldn’t dream of asking the lady, in case anyone was thinking that,” he added firmly.

The waiter looked as though he was thinking that the bill needed to be settled. Angel felt weak with horror. Why, oh why, had she insisted on ordering that sodding lobster and drinking expensive champagne? She was starting to wish she had never suggested they visit Stein’s at all. Laurence had floated the idea of an evening picnic – which, romantic as it sounded, hadn’t the kudos of being seen at an award-winning restaurant. Now, though, she was wishing she’d gone for the romance.

“Don’t look so worried, Angel.” Laurence reached across and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Things like this happen when your funds come from a family trust.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his BlackBerry. “I’ll give my personal banker a bell. He’ll move some funds around for me.” He made eye contact with the waiter. “This chap and I will have a chat first and then we can sort it out.  Here, there’s still some champagne left. Why don’t you relax with that while I call my banker?”

Laurence took the waiter aside, presumably to discuss the banking details, and then went outside to make the call. Angel, still a bit shaken by her close escape from scouring Rick Stein’s saucepans, downed the remaining champagne in a swift and very unladylike manner. She caught a glimpse of Laurence through the window and frowned; he was shaking his head and gesticulating wildly as he spoke.

“Is everything all right?” she asked on his return.

Laurence smiled at her, a slow sexy smile that made her insides melt like the crème fraiche on her walnut tart.

“Of course. Nothing my banker can’t sort. He’s wiring money straight to the restaurant now, in fact.” He sat back down opposite her, his long legs folding themselves beneath the snowy tablecloth, and reached out to take her hands in his. In a slow and measured movement he raised her fingers to his lips and brushed his mouth against them. Her pulse quickened. She didn’t think she had ever felt like this before.

“So, beautiful Angel,” he whispered, holding her gaze with those sea-storm eyes. “How about we take a taxi back to my house in Rock? If you’d like to, that is?”

If she’d like to? Angel was desperate to see Laurence’s house. In fact she could hardly wait! And maybe once they were alone he would finally kiss her?

“Laurence,” she said, smiling up at him through a double row of Eylure’s finest,“l’d love to go back to yours!”

Chapter 22

Over the next few days following her calamitous encounter with Callum South and her slightly less disastrous meeting with the ladies at the RNLI cake sale, Gemma’s life had taken on a rather surreal bent.

Angel and Andi were both busy with work (although in Angel’s case “work” was a loose term), and after days of moping Gemma had started to find the caravan claustrophobic. She’d stayed in her bunk for an entire day, reliving her humiliation on a masochistic loop, drinking White Grenache and hanging out with the only man who never let her down – good old Mr Kipling. Gemma really could have done with having a good chat with Angel, who was usually brilliant at putting these kinds of things into perspective, but her friend was out all day and wasn’t returning until the small hours. Without Angel’s quips to cheer her up, Gemma was soon plummeting into a quagmire of despair and self-loathing.

“Don’t dwell on it,” had been Andi’s advice when Gemma had retold the Cal incident for about the ninth time. “You’ll only end up bitter and twisted.”

Quite frankly, ending up bitter and twisted had been top of Gemma’s list of things to do next – but if Andi, who had been seriously dumped on from a vast height by wanker-who-couldn’t-act-for-toffee Tom, could manage to rise above it all and still have a kind word and a smile for everyone, Gemma supposed she ought to give it her best shot too. This attitude had lasted for about five minutes before she’d cracked. Surely there had to be a man out there who didn’t think she was a joke? She’d almost weakened and sent Nick a text but luckily had stopped herself in time. Texts, after all, cost twenty-five pence each and she really didn’t want to spend another penny on him. Besides, his new Twiglet-like girlfriend would probably just delete it. Instead Gemma had worked her way through an entire block of cheese and loaf of Mother’s Pride, which swelled her billowing midriff like something out of a sci-fi movie and made her feel even worse. When she’d been delighted to see two Jehovah’s Witnesses – lost en route to the farmhouse – Gemma had realised that she’d hit a new low, and decided it was time to take action.

Finally, tired of fermenting in a fug of wine and self-destruction, Gemma had showered and, with the help of Angel’s impressive make-up collection, transformed herself from a pink-eyed, puffy-cheeked wreck into somebody who looked slightly less like the undead. Then she’d pulled on a pair of leggings and her favourite blue smock, which skimmed her fat bits, and set off for town. Almost as though they had a mind of their own, her legs had carried her up Rock Road and towards the quirky side street where Rock Cakes
was situated. One latte, a saffron bun and a chat with Dee later, Gemma had found herself wearing a pinny and setting to work on a coffee cake.

“Your sponge sold out in twenty minutes,” Dee told her as they sat in the small courtyard, sunning themselves in butterscotch-coloured light and munching delicious warm-from-the-oven buns. “We could have sold it ten times over. You’re very talented.”

Gemma flushed with pleasure. “I don’t know about that. I just enjoy baking.”

Dee gave her a stern look. “Don’t put yourself down. That’s not a quality that will get you anywhere in this life. What you need to do is smile graciously and say ‘thank you’.
Go on, try it.”

She gulped. In her ears she could hear her mother’s voice. “Don’t be a show-off, Gemma. Nobody likes a show-off.” Lord, but her mother’s conditioning was a menace, especially if you wanted to be an actress and your entire career was based on what was essentially “showing off”. No wonder she kept on screwing up.

“Come on,” urged Dee. “What’s wrong with standing up and being proud of what you can achieve?”

Gemma hung her head. “It just feels wrong, like showing off or something,” she mumbled.

“Showing off?” The older woman looked despairing. “Is that how you really see it? Listen to me, I worked on the trading floor of a City bank for all for my twenties and most of my thirties, and if I hadn’t learned to point out how bloody good I was at my job then all those City boys would have twanged their braces and stamped all over me.”

Gemma stared at her. Dee, with her Joules frock, Crocs and neatly bobbed hair, looked nothing like Gordon Gekko – unless “greed is good”
referred to cakes?

“So I had my chin up, drew attention to what I was good at and made a fortune,” Dee continued. “When I was forty-two I was able to quit my job, divorce my useless husband and move with the children down here and set up my own business as a life coach. I did that for three years and then I decided I wanted a total change. Cake-making was my hobby and I was always making them for friends, so I evaluated my strengths and weakness, saw an enterprise opening and well, here we are. Two years ago we were appointed to make a pre-wedding cake for William and Kate and, between you and me, another royal christening one is on the cards too.”

“Wow,” said Gemma, impressed. This made running away to a tatty caravan in a field look a bit crap.

But Dee shook her head. “No, nothing ‘wow’ about it. Just hard work, determination and standing up for myself. If you put yourself down why shouldn’t anyone else do the same? You’ve set the precedent after all. Independence, Gemma: that’s the key for every woman. Independence and self-respect.”

It all made perfect sense when put like this. If Gemma thought she was fat and stupid and not worth hanging out with, then who was going to argue? Not Chloe, not Nick, not Emily and certainly not Callum bloody South.

“Yes, I’m an amazing baker. Thank you,” she said, and actually once the words were out they seemed to become solid and real and utterly believable. Wow. Maybe there was something in all that cosmic ordering stuff after all? She made a mental note to try it out at once.

Dee’s smile was as wide as the Camel Estuary. “Fantastic! Keep that up and you’ll soon be super confident. Every day, stand in front of the mirror, focusing on all your best features, and tell yourself just how amazing you are.”

Gemma wasn’t convinced about this for a couple of reasons: a) her horror of standing in front of mirrors was on a par with Dracula’s; and b) she was struggling to think of a best feature in the singular, never mind the plural.

“I know it sounds crazy,” Dee admitted, “but these positive affirmations really do work. And look at it this way, what have you got to lose?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

“And everything to gain!” Dee declared. “And because you are indeed an amazing baker, I’d really like to offer you some work.”

The older woman’s admiration had been warmer than the sunshine and a balm to Gemma’s wounded pride. Before long Gemma had found herself agreeing to work for Dee three days a week and had quickly settled into the rhythm of her new job. One week later and it was now second nature to get up at daybreak, walk the mile into town and get baking. It certainly beat festering in the caravan and torturing herself over Callum bloody South.

So maybe it wasn’t the glittering acting career she’d been hoping for, Gemma thought that morning as she cracked six eggs into a large bowl and began to fold them into flour and sugar, but there was something therapeutic about beating ingredients together and creating light-as-air sponges. Piping icing into elaborate swirls was also very satisfying, and yesterday she’d delighted a six-year-old with a Peppa Pig cake. Just recalling the wide-eyed amazement on the little girl’s face gave Gemma a thrill. Admittedly, it wasn’t quite as highbrow as Shakespeare or Pinter, but there was creativity to this nonetheless which really appealed to her.

As she beat the cake mixture by hand – this was Gemma’s secret to creating a fluffy melt-in-the-mouth sponge – she listened to the cheery strains of Pirate FM
and the rich-as-clotted-cream Cornish accents of customers in the small shop, and her heart felt lighter than it had done for ages. She still wanted to act – that wasn’t going to change – but stepping away from the pressure of having to look and behave a particular way was actually very liberating. Dee, who still slipped into Life Coach mode every now and then, was adamant that if Gemma wanted to act then she would find a way to do it. Acting didn’t have to be about fame and fortune, she’d pointed out: it could also be for fulfilment and fun. Gemma thought it was very refreshing to look at it this way. For so long she’d been so busy pushing herself to win the roles that brought maximum exposure and money, that she’d totally forgotten just how much she loved the alchemy of slipping into a new character and exploring that person’s hopes and fears. Whether she was playing Desdemona or Blanche DuBois in a big production, or just speaking two lines in a soap, the magic was still there. When had the fun gone out of it? Gemma wiped her hands on a tea towel and shook her head. The answer was obvious: the fun had vanished at exactly the same time the diets and control pants had appeared.

While she greased some cake tins, Gemma realised it was also strange but true that now she was in a cake shop and surrounded by all the mouth-watering, calorie-laden goodies her hungry little heart could desire, she no longer felt the need to guzzle them. In fact, being surrounded by cakes and pastries was having the opposite effect; she no longer fantasised about them twenty-four seven. It was all very odd. Gemma wasn’t sure whether it was her imagination, but even her waistbands felt a bit looser...

Maybe this was what they meant by aversion therapy? If you looked at something all day then you no longer wanted it anymore? Gemma smiled to herself as she poured the cake mixture into a greased tin: in that case, she really wanted to cure her Johnny Depp addiction!

She was also trying very hard to say nice things to her reflection too, which was easier said than done when her naked body looked like cookie dough. This morning she had peered into the cracked glass and told herself that her clear, tanned skin was gorgeous. For a fat girl.