“Is this you?” Dee asked curiously, looking up from scanning the story, and brandishing a paper in Gemma’s direction. “Did you really save Callum South’s life?”
Hands over her mouth, Gemma backed away in horror – as though putting distance between her actual self and the pale blobby newsprint image would help to erase the hideous sight. Not that there was any hope of this now she’d clocked it. Her pallid skin and the sodden fabric of her skirt clinging to every dimple and bulge was branded onto her retinas. She’d probably need to be in therapy for years to have any hope of getting over it.
“‘Callum South, ex-striker for the Dangers, and reality-TV star, was filming for his new show when disaster struck,’” read Dee, tipping a sugar into her coffee as though she was the one in shock. “‘South fell into the water without his life jacket properly fastened and, being a poor swimmer, panicked. At this point a mystery woman heroically dived from her speedboat to save him.’” She looked up. “I won’t go on but there’s loads more in a similar vein. All the papers are running the story, and The Wright Stuff has already been debating whether or not Callum’s show sets a bad example of safety at sea and should be pulled. On the Today programme, John Humphrys made some very cutting remarks about Callum South’s heroic image gravely misleading the public. It’s only a matter of time before the Loose Women tear him to shreds.”
Gemma felt terrible. Poor Callum. Being carved up by Radio 4 while he ate his bran flakes was probably not the best start to his day.
“That isn’t exactly what happened,” she said carefully.
Dee shrugged. “Since when did the truth ever get in the way of a good story? The press is going mad speculating as to who you might be,” she continued cheerfully. “Even though there’s a hotline inviting people to call in if they recognise the mystery girl, they haven’t managed to identify you yet.”
Since all they seemed to have to go on was a picture of her arse, Gemma was extremely pleased to hear it. At least none of her exes had phoned in yet and said that they recognised Gemma Pengelley’s cellulite. Stepping closer, she looked at the image and groaned. When on earth had she tipped upside down? Was it when Mike had hauled her into the ski boat? And why hadn’t she listened to Angel and started her diet and body brushing months ago? To cheer herself up she took a flapjack from the cooling rack. There might be a thin Gemma inside her, frantic to escape, but right now she was going to silence her with stodge.
Once she was chomping on oats, golden syrup and sugar, Gemma felt slightly calmer. There was no way anyone could really see it was her, she decided as she peered over Dee’s shoulder. Her hair was a mass of dark rats’ tails, her smeared make-up would put rock legends Kiss in the frame, and in real life she definitely only had one chin, two at the most and only from a really unflattering angle. Nobody could possibly tell from looking at these images it was her.
“It’s so obviously you,” Dee said.
Gemma crumpled onto a chair. Leaning on the table, she placed her head in her hands and forced herself to take a deep breath. Hopefully Chloe was out of the country on the annual pilgrimage to Tuscany and the story would pass her by. If Chloe saw how fat Gemma was looking, she could kiss goodbye to her agent. Never mind having a part in Twelfth Night. Chloe wouldn’t give a hoot about that. Nobody made a fortune from playing Shakespeare in the provinces, but they did from being skinny and getting film roles.
She shoved the paper away. “It’s a non-story anyway. Callum South falls into the River Camel. Big flipping deal.”
“It’s silly season,” Dee pointed out. “There’s not a lot of news anyway except for heatwaves and the royal babies. But you must admit it is quite amusing. Callum South is supposed to be this amazing action hero who loses weight doing all kinds of extreme sports and it turns out he can just about doggy-paddle. It doesn’t really go with the image. People are bound to feel a bit cheated.”
Gemma took another flapjack. Sod it. The whole of the UK knew she had a fat bum now, so what difference did a bit more flab make? Besides, the papers had got it all wrong: Cal was a hero. He’d just misjudged his swimming ability, that was all – which would have been a minor detail, except that he’d seen her thrown from the boat and then hurled himself into the river in an attempt to save her. His heart was in the right place; it was just a shame that his life jacket hadn’t been.
“Cal didn’t fall in: I did,” she told Dee. “I was out on a boat with this total idiot who didn’t have the first clue and went flat out without even telling us. I was just sitting on the side minding my own business, and the next thing I knew I was in the water. Cal saw the whole thing happen from his ski boat and leapt in to help me. He’s actually a hero.”
Even now, over twenty-four hours later, Gemma’s pulse still accelerated when she thought about it. Everything had happened so fast: one moment she’d been sitting peacefully on the side of the RIB, watching Cal wiggle out of his life jacket to pose for some cutaways, and the next she’d been underwater with the rushing of propellers in her ears and her long skirt rising around her face, threatening to weigh her down and drag her onto the seabed. The glacial water had shocked her for a few moments before the instinct to struggle for breath had prevailed and she’d kicked for the surface. Gemma might be out of condition now, but in her teens she’d been Bodmin College’s swimming champion. Gemma’s limbs had taken over, pulling her free and towards the surface. Breaking through the waves, gasping and spluttering, she had seen that the boat was just a distant speck in the estuary and realised she was adrift mid-channel.
“Gemma! Gemma!” A desperate cry had grabbed her attention and, treading water, she’d seen Cal teetering on the edge of the ski boat, waving at her frantically. “Hold on! I’m coming!”
Before she’d had the chance to shout back that she was fine, Cal had hurled himself from the boat and bellyflopped into the sea with an enormous splash. Gemma had watched, horrified, as his head had bobbed beneath the waves while he’d attempted to doggy-paddle towards her. Even above her torn breathing she’d heard him choking and spluttering as the salty water had splashed into his face. Oh God. Cal really hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said he was a bad swimmer. Why hadn’t he put his buoyancy aid on first?
The answer was, she knew, because he had been so desperate to reach her that he hadn’t given a thought to his own safety. There was a lump in Gemma’s throat; it had to be the kindest, most selfless thing that anyone had ever done for her, although definitely the most stupid. When she’d seen his head go under for a second time Gemma had known that she had to act fast.
Somehow she’d managed to hitch her skirt up around her waist and, striking into a crawl, sliced through the water until she was at Callum’s side. He was thrashing wildly in the water and Gemma knew from all the life saving she’d done as a teenager that if she got too close he was likely to push her under.
“Cal!” she’d called, “I know you’re Irish but this is no time for River Dance! Just relax, and let me take your weight. The boats are coming – God that sounds like a line from Titanic. Talk about ‘You jump, I jump’!”
Cal had spluttered, which she’d taken for laughter. Supporting his weight and keeping him afloat, Gemma had been able to distract and calm him by pointing out sea birds and chatting until the film RIBs came alongside.
“Stop taking pictures and help us out!” She’d hardly been able to believe that they were more interested in snapping away than in rescuing poor Cal, who, despite his wetsuit, had been shivering with fear and cold. Just as well she had a good layer of blubber, Gemma had thought ruefully. Whales had about as much chance of getting chilled as she did.
Finally, once the shots were in the can and the pap boat had roared away, Cal’s own team had been able to come close enough to haul him onto the deck, where he’d lain shaking and exhausted.
“I couldn’t leave you there alone,” he’d gasped, as Gemma was being bundled up in towels. “I thought you were going to drown.”
Gem
ma had shaken her head. “But you can’t swim. What were you thinking?”
Cal had looked up at her with big mournful eyes. Although she’d been cold, at this moment parts of Gemma had started to grow very warm.
“I wasn’t thinking at all, so I wasn’t,” he’d confessed. “I just couldn’t let you be out there all alone.”
Gemma had reached out and squeezed his hand. “Thank you,” she’d said.
Unfortunately, just as she’d been about to ask Cal what exactly was going on, his entourage had taken over – including Evil Emily, who’d shot her such a look of disdain it was amazing Gemma hadn’t shrivelled on the deck. Shoving Gemma out the way, and making sure that Cal had a view of her slim bikini-clad frame, Emily had made a big show of rubbing him down with a towel – all while the cameras were rolling, of course. With a sigh, Gemma had removed herself from shot – no need to alarm Greenpeace unnecessarily – and was relieved when Travis’s boat drew up alongside them. Soon she was being whizzed to shore and straight to Laurence’s house, where she’d wallowed in deep baths and drunk brandy for the rest of the day. Cal had texted once to make sure she was all right, but after that he had been silent. Now, looking at the media storm blazoned across the papers, she realised why he was incommunicado.
“I just can’t work out why Cal would jump in like that. It was a crazy thing to do,” Gemma said. Flicking the kettle on to make a coffee, she added over her shoulder, “He knows he can’t swim. Jumping in without his life jacket was completely mad. What on earth possessed him?”
Dee grinned. “You really need it spelling out? For a smart girl, Gemma, you can be really slow off the mark sometimes! Callum South likes you, and not just for your baking.”
Gemma nearly dropped her jar of Nescafé. “What? Don’t be soft!”
“I’m not being soft.” Dee looked stern. “Why shouldn’t he like you? What about all the wonderful, positive things there are to admire about you?” Holding up her hands, she started to tick them off on her fingers. “Talented cook. Wonderful actress. Sexy, curvaceous figure. Golden hair. Funny. Ambitious. Loyal. Genuine. I could go on, but I’m running out of digits!”
Gemma busied herself spooning granules into the mug so that Dee couldn’t see her blushing. This wasn’t at all how she saw herself. Fat and lumpy was more like it, and this was a view that unfortunately most of the UK would now share.
“He’s a huge star,” she mumbled. “He could be with anyone.”
“So why shouldn’t he choose to be with you?” Dee asked. Since Gemma had confided in her about the trip to Fifteen – it had seemed a waste not to share the details of that glorious pecan pie with somebody – Dee had been convinced that there was more to Callum’s friendship with Gemma than a shared love of food. She had even donated several pasties and saffron buns to Gemma to deliver to key points on the running circuit whenever Cal was able to text that he was out alone. She strongly suspected that it wasn’t just the food he was interested in. Still, Gemma wouldn’t have it, and Dee resigned herself to the fact that they had a long way to go when it came to working on her young friend’s self-esteem.
Just as Gemma was about to argue the toss, she heard the tinkle of the Rock Cakes shop bell, followed by oohs and arrahs of excitement as Jean, Dee’s other part-timer, spoke to somebody. Moments later an enormous bouquet of flowers burst through the fringed tassels that separated the kitchen from the counter.
“These have just arrived for you, Gemma. Aren’t they beautiful!” announced Jean as proudly as if she had grown them herself.
Gemma was speechless. Beautiful didn’t even come close. She’d been bought flowers in the past, but they were normally the fiver-from-the-Texaco variety grabbed by boyfriends when they had to try to make up for being knobs. The wilted carnations and hideous blue chrysanthemums she was used to bore as much resemblance to this bouquet as Gemma did to Angelina Jolie. Plump pink and cream roses nestled next to pompom peonies, while fat waxy lilies were scattered like stars throughout and woven into baby’s breath and ivy. The entire creation was held together with rustic string, curls of pink spotty ribbon and rustling brown paper. These weren’t flowers. These were a work of art.
“See,” crowed Dee. “What did I tell you? He likes you.”
Gemma’s mouth was dry and her heart was racing. The flowers were so gorgeous; of course they had to mean something! Dare she hope that Cal really did feel something for her? Surely, he wouldn’t make such a romantic gesture if he didn’t?
Gingerly, and with trembling fingers, she drew the card from the small white envelope, only to feel her dreams come crashing down around her ears when she read it.
I am an utter dick. Please, please forgive me.
Travis
The flowers were still beautiful. The sun was a still shining. She was still alive. Nothing had changed at all. So why then, thought Gemma as she bit back tears, do I feel like the world has ended?
Chapter 31
The thumping of fists against melamine dragged Andi out of the deepest sleep she’d had in years. For a moment she lay confused, her eyes gritty with sleep and her heart pounding from being unexpectedly awakened, before the events of the previous day came flooding back and her heart hammered even harder. They could have all been seriously hurt or worse! Bloody Travis and his showing off! Andi hoped the wallop he’d had to the head hadn’t just concussed him but had knocked some sense into his thick skull too.
Once the adrenalin of the near-accident had worn off, Andi had felt almost drunk with exhaustion and wanted nothing more than to curl up in the peace and quiet of the caravan and close her eyes. With Travis safely dispatched to Treliske Hospital, Gemma wallowing up to her neck in Floris bath essence and Angel swigging Courvoisier like it was juice, Andi had declined Laurence’s offer of dinner and a bed for the night and made her way back to the farm. As luxurious as his house was and no matter how stunning the views, she longed for solitude. Maybe she was in shock from everything that had happened, or maybe she was just antisocial; Andi wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she needed time to recharge. Somehow she had managed to stagger back to the caravan, where she’d collapsed onto her bunk with fatigue.
Glancing at her watch she saw that it was now ten in the morning. Good Lord, she’d been asleep for hours! And Angel wasn’t here, which could only mean one thing: she had spent the night with Laurence. Andi hoped her sister knew what she was doing. Laurence was handsome and polite and utterly plausible but there was something about him she just couldn’t get her head around. He seemed as though he was almost acting a role, which reminded her rather worryingly of Tom. Andi sighed. She hoped to goodness she was wrong.
Thud! Thud!
The fists thumped again and the ancient caravan practically shook.
“Andi! Are you there? It’s me, Jonty!”
Jonty? Andi sat bolt upright. What was he doing at the caravan?
“One minute!” she called, throwing off her duvet. Underneath she was still dressed in her shorts and vest. She must have just fallen into bed. Glancing in the mirror tile, she groaned. Just as well it was already cracked! She looked awful. Her hair was a mass of wild curls and her eyes were ringed with shadows and yesterday’s mascara; she could have doubled for a panda. An image of the immaculately turned out Jax, with her sheet of straightened hair and perfect make-up, flitted before her mind’s eye. Andi squashed it firmly. Jonty wouldn’t care that she looked like the undead; he didn’t see her as anything more than a friend anyway. Just as, of course, she also saw him as only a friend.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Jonty apologised when Andi unlocked the door in her state of disarray. His eyes, brimming with concern, searched hers as he spoke. “I’ve just heard what happened yesterday and I wanted to make sure you were OK. If I’d known before I’d have come straight over.”
Andi couldn’t help wondering where he’d been. When she’d walked home the whole of Rock had been abuzz with the episode, especially seeing as Callum South had been
involved. Maybe he had been out somewhere with Jax? Yes, that was probably it.
“You didn’t answer your phone and I was worried,” Jonty added when she didn’t speak. “I must have called you about twenty times.”
Andi was touched. “You shouldn’t have worried; I’m fine, honestly. The phone isn’t, though. It went overboard.”
“Thank God you didn’t.” His hands were clenched into fists. “Honestly, I knew that guy was a total cock when we saw him on the water. A liability. You could have been killed, Andi.”
This thought had already gone through her mind and Andi strongly suspected that the horror of realising that Gemma had vanished and the RIB was careering across the river totally out of control would haunt her for a very long time. She shivered in spite of the heat.
“I know, but luckily it didn’t come to that. Anyway, I have you to thank for being able to stop that boat,” she told him. While Jonty listened with a horrified expression, she went on to explain how she’d recalled what he’d said about the kill cord and had pulled it to stop the engine.
Jonty’s mouth set in a grim line and he shook his head.
“He should never have put you in that position.” He took her hands in his and held them tightly. “Andi, promise me you won’t go out on a boat with him again.”
Andi was certain Travis Chumley wouldn’t be in a hurry to go out to sea for a while, if ever again. When she’d last seen him staggering into the ambulance, concussed and bruised, he’d been full of apologies and regrets. Apparently his friend from the boatyard would be selling the RIB and Travis was going to take some sea-safety lessons.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “My days of boating with Travis Chumley are well and truly over.”
Jonty’s answering smile was warmer than the sunshine.
“Phew, you have no idea just how happy it makes me to hear that!” he said. Letting her go, he reached down and picked up a bulging carrier bag.
“I’ve brought some bacon and eggs and the morning papers. I thought it might be fun to cook some breakfast and eat it outside? And you really need to see the headlines! I’ve brought a selection of the dailies.”
[Escape 01.0] Escape for the Summer Page 27