Escape for the Summer (30 page)

She squeezed back. “Definitely.”

He bit his lip. “I know what I’m going to say will change everything, but I need to be straight with you. I have to be.”

Jonty looked so stricken that Andi’s heart melted like tarmac in a heatwave.

“It doesn’t matter to me what might have happened in the past,” she said firmly. “If the past was so great it wouldn’t be in the past, remember?”

But this time he didn’t laugh. “This isn’t just about the past, this is about the present too. When I saw your sister earlier, it made me wonder if I could actually trust anyone ever again. Believe me, I’ve made so many mistakes before.”

Andi thought of her emptied bank accounts, finding Tom with Gina and being stitched up at work. “We all have,” she agreed. “But unless people tell the truth then I don’t see that friendships can work. They have to be based on honesty, surely?”

He nodded. “Absolutely.”

“So tell me what’s troubling you,” Andi began – but her words were lost in the screech of tyres as a scarlet Audi TT scrunched around the driveway, spraying gravel everywhere and shattering the evening stillness.

A door flew open and a pair of Louboutins and long leather-clad legs swung slowly out, followed by a lean gym-honed body and waterfall of dark hair topped with giant bug-like shades. Jonty’s hand fell to his side and he looked stunned and horrified in equal parts.

Andi didn’t need to ask him why. The Audi’s number plate, JAX 1, told her everything she needed to know.

Chapter 27

Gemma was on cloud nine. Not only had she enjoyed the most amazing afternoon with Cal (she’d be dreaming about that lobster ravioli for weeks) and met Jamie Oliver too, but also this evening she’d actually plucked up the courage to audition for
Twelfth Night
.

“You have to do it. It’s the perfect way to ease yourself back into acting,” Cal had urged her over lunch. They had been tucked into a very private corner where they had spent several mouth-watering hours working their way through the taster menu. Spearing a seared scallop and feeding it to her, Cal had added, “Your friend Dee is right about the surprising amount of influential people skulking around Rock in the summer. You just never know who might see you.”

Gemma had licked garlic butter from her lips thoughtfully. “That might just be the kick up the butt my acting career needs. It could be my big break.”

Cal had screwed his nose up. “I guess so, although I can’t for the life of me think why anyone would want to put themselves up on the stage to be gawped at. Sounds like my worst nightmare.”

She’d laughed. “Says you, the reality TV star!”

Cal had shaken his head, the golden ringlets bouncing emphatically. “Sure, but isn’t that by accident? I’m a footballer, or at least I was until I ballsed it all up. All I ever wanted to do was play. I never wanted to be famous. That just happened by accident. Believe me, being famous isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Gemma – who’d spent most of her formative years singing into a hairbrush in front of the mirror and going to soul-destroying auditions – thought that, even so, it might be nice to find this out for herself.

“So, apart from football and reality TV, what else would you like to do?”

He’d frowned. “That’s a good question. To be honest, I’m not really sure what else I’m good at.” Cal had glanced down ruefully at his stomach, which was bulging over his waistband as though on a mission to escape. “Apart from eating, obviously.”

Gemma had prodded her own squidgy tummy. “That makes two of us. I really shouldn’t eat another mouthful. If I can’t get myself down to a size ten by September then that’s it, career over. I’ll be baking cakes forever.”

“Would that really be so bad?” Cal had asked. “You’re obviously talented – that sponge looked wonderful. Don’t think I haven’t been thinking about it ever since.”

Gemma had thought wryly that it was the story of her life that her teen hero was thinking about her cake rather than her. “I love baking,” she’d said thoughtfully, “but I’m not sure there’s a career in it.”

“Are you kidding? Tell that to Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood! They bake and are on the telly. And, if we ask him, Jamie will tell you it’s possible too!”

At this point they’d both been distracted by the arrival of the sweet trolley. Once a slice of berry cheesecake and a slab of pecan pie had been dished up, Cal had said, in the tone of somebody in confession, “Just between us, I love baking too, but bread’s my thing rather than cakes. Sun-dried tomato rolls, olive focaccia and caraway bread. I love it all. Jaysus! It doesn’t really go with the macho image though, so maybe keep that to yourself.”

Gemma, plopping a big dollop of clotted cream onto her pie, had been impressed. “That sounds wonderful. Don’t be embarrassed about enjoying baking.”

“The trouble is I don’t stop at the baking stage,” Cal had admitted. “I just can’t resist lathering my bread with full-fat Irish butter, so I can’t. And then I tend to eat the lot.”

She’d paused, mid-chew. “Oh my God. I do exactly the same with my cakes. Sometimes they don’t even make it from the baking tray to the cooling rack.”

They’d stared at each other, enjoying the moment of mutual sympathy.

“Maybe we should go into business together,” Cal had joked. “With your cakes and my breads we could single-handedly cause an obesity epidemic.”

She’d licked the last sticky smears of pecan from her spoon. “I don’t doubt it for a minute. I’ve been a huge success already working on my own obesity.”

“You’re not obese,” Cal had said staunchly. “You’re curvaceous.”

Gemma had rolled her eyes; she’d lost count of the times she’d heard that cliché.

“Yeah, and I’m a real woman,” she’d finished for him. “Which would be fine, except I’m about five real women all rolled into one.”

“Which makes me about ten men,” Cal had said with a grimace. “But sure, I don’t regret a mouthful of today’s lunch. The food was great and the company even better.”

Now, as she walked through the town and back towards Trendaway Farm, Gemma smiled to herself as she recalled these words. Cal had proved to be very easy to spend time with and their conversation had flowed as effortlessly as the Camel was now flowing out into the Atlantic. Far from the arrogant footballer she’d been expecting, he was funny, self-depreciating and hugely encouraging of her acting ambitions. In fact, if it hadn’t been for his enthusiasm, Gemma doubted she would have found the courage to audition for the role of Viola this evening.

“If you can do this,” Cal had said, dropping her off at the rehearsal venue, “then I can certainly pluck up the courage to go wakeboarding tomorrow. Jaysus! I fecking hate the water. Do you think I should have told my manager I can just about doggy-paddle?”

Gemma – who’d been looking at the gathering crowd of thespian wannabes, the women all wearing leggings, organic handmade shoes and loose floaty tops which probably cost more than her entire wardrobe – had felt her stomach lurch. What on earth had possessed her to do this? There was no way she could compete with them. Who would want a chubby Viola? She’d probably end up being cast as Sir Toby Belch instead. She’d opened her mouth to tell Cal that she’d changed her mind, but he’d put a finger against her lips and shaken his head.

“Go on, show them how it’s done,” he’d told her. “Get out there and break a leg. Hopefully, unlike with me, that will start your career rather than ending it!”

So Gemma had dredged up all her courage and, after arranging to watch him wakeboard the following day in return, had gone and auditioned. Although she’d last learned the lines a lifetime, and several dress sizes, ago the words were as fresh as if she’d memorised them yesterday. While she’d waited her turn she’d trembled like a puppy left out in the rain, and the delicious lunch had curdled and churned as her stomach had done its best washing-machine-on-spin-cycle impression. What little nails she did have had soon been gnawed to stumps; she’d just been making inroads on the skin alongside them when her name had been called. Before she’d even had time to gather her thoughts, Gemma had been propelled onto the stage.

For a moment she’d stood still, blinded by the lights and racked with self-doubt. What had she been thinking?

“Ready when you are!” A voice had carolled. “From the top!”

Her tongue had turned to cotton wool. For a hideous minute it had felt as though her throat was closing up, and there had been a whooshing in her ears. Then, Gemma had taken a deep breath.

“Too well what love women to men may owe,” she’d begun and, just like a racehorse catapulting out of the starting gate, she’d been up and running. Viola’s beautiful, heartfelt words had tumbled from her lips, the rhyme and rhythm carrying her along in a tide of emotion, until she’d no longer been Gemma, the overweight awkward girl who liked cakes a little too much for her own good, but Viola, young, alone and hopelessly in love with the handsome Duke Orsino, a man as far out of reach from her as Cal was from Gemma. As Gemma had described how she would love him constantly and silently, her heart breaking because she could never reveal her feelings, her voice had caught and her eyes had shimmered with tears.

“I am all the daughters of my father’s house, and all the brothers too,” she’d finished sadly.  She had chosen to end the section here, an unusual finishing point but one which she hoped would have an impact on the audience.

The hall had been totally silent. All Gemma had heard was the thudding of her own heartbeat and her ragged breathing. Oh crap. She must have been seriously bad and shocked them speechless. Silently she’d cursed Dee and Cal for letting her think she was good enough to do this. Could she just sneak out now and hide under a rock? Or, in her case, a whole heap of rock cakes?

Just as she’d been contemplating bolting for it, a slow ripple of applause had spread around the room, quiet at first but slowly gathering in volume and conviction until the whole place had rung with it. Somebody had even whistled. Gemma was stunned. They liked her. They really liked her!

“I don’t like to jump the gun, darlings, but I think we’ve found our Viola,” a tall skinny man with sparse ginger hair and thick black-framed glasses had declared. Stepping forward, he’d extended clammy hands, which had clasped hers excitedly. “Derek Vanos, director of the Rock and Padstow Players, at your service! My dear, that was simply divine! I just adore the way you delivered!”

A big Halloween-pumpkin grin had split Gemma’s face. Derek’s admiration had made her feel a million dollars. By the time she’d left, with a copy of
Twelfth Night
held firmly in her hand, Gemma had felt almost drunk from an overload of praise and excitement. Not only had she plucked up the courage to audition but she’d also been offered the part there and then! She could hardly wait to see Cal again and tell him!

Still buzzing, Gemma wandered through the town. She wasn’t quite sure when she would see Cal again – he had a busy filming schedule and found it hard to escape his team – but they’d made a pact to meet once a week to eat something naughty and commiserate about calorie counting. Cal thought this would just about keep him sane and Gemma had agreed that, in the spirit of solidarity, she would do her hardest to watch her food in the interim. It was nice to have a friend who actually understood just how hard it was to resist the biscuit tin and for whom diet really was a four-letter word. Right now she was so excited about being in the play and getting stuck into rehearsals that for once food was the furthest thing from Gemma’s mind. Instead, she was reading
Twelfth Night
as she walked along, oblivious to all the delicious smells from the restaurants. Even the piles of chips in the local chip shop failed to drag her away from the pages of iambic pentameter. It was only when Angel waved her hand under Gemma’s nose that she left Illyria and returned to Cornwall.

It was a sign of just how engrossed Gemma was in the play that she didn’t notice Angel: her best friend was glammed up to the nth degree in a scarlet Valentino number which made her hair stand out like a halo and her skin turn to golden suede. Although she was walking along Rock Road, presumably on her way back to the farm, Angel was inappropriately shod in sky-high silver wedges, in which she wobbled and tottered like Bambi on ice.

“Bloody hell, am I glad to meet you. These shoes are killing me!” Angel grumbled, clinging to Gemma’s elbow for support. Her pretty face was screwed up with pain. “Have you got the car? I swear, if I take another step my feet will fall off!”

“I walked,” Gemma said. This wasn’t strictly true, of course, because Cal had given her a lift, but she didn’t want to discuss him with Angel. Apart from the fact that she was looking forward to poring over their lovely afternoon like a miser counting his gold, she’d promised Cal that any lunches they had would be top secret – and since Angel had a bigger gob on her than Zippy, she would be kept firmly in the dark. Luckily for Gemma, she wasn’t forced to fib or elaborate because Angel was totally focused on her own predicament.

“Bollocks,” she said, slipping off a shoe and bending over to massage her red toes. “I was really hoping for a lift. I can’t walk another step. I don’t suppose,” she added hopefully, “you’ve got enough money on you for a taxi?”

Gemma shut her copy of the play. “Why are you walking? I thought you were dating a viscount? Can’t he afford a cab?”

“Of course he can,” Angel said with huge confidence. “He’s just dropped me off at the Alexshovs. I have to wait until he’s gone and then walk home. I can’t have him seeing the caravan, can I?”

Gemma stared at her. “You’re still hiding where we live from him? That’s madness. Surely you can tell him the truth now?”

“Not yet,” Angel said firmly. “Not until I’m sure he really likes me. Until then I’m doing a lot of walking and getting a lot of blisters. So, Gems, can we get a cab? Please?”

Gemma had been enjoying her walk home. It was a beautiful night: the black velvet sky glittered with stars and the air was warm and sweet. Although it was dark, the town was still busy. People were squashed onto benches and tables outside the cafés, and bubbles of laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the air. Unlike Angel, Gemma was wearing sensible shoes – her fat feet would have looked like trotters in strappy sandals – and was more than ready to stomp up the hill.