[Escape 01.0] Escape for the Summer

by Ruth Saberton

  This was it. All of Andi’s worst fears came swooping down like vultures, clawing at her throat and yanking at her heart. The murky threats he’d made before were now as clear as the Cornish rock pools on the beach. Feeling sick, Andi took the pictures from him and stared down at them with a growing sensation that gravity was reversing.

  “Don’t go thinking about tearing them up, either,” warned Tom. “I’ve got the JPEGs anyway, so it would be pointless.”

  Andi closed her eyes in defeat. She didn’t even need to look to see what these pictures were. She knew that the glossy paper would show a sun-dappled day, a bit like the one she had been enjoying until Tom arrived, and a wide deserted beach in Norfolk. A wicker picnic basket spilled pork pies and fruitcake onto a tartan car blanket and several empty bottles of wine were testament to a hot and boozy lunch. Opening her eyes and looking at the images, Andi felt again the prickle of the rough blanket beneath her back, the gritty sand between her toes and the silken whisper of the breeze dancing across her skin. Her bare skin. A little drunk and a lot loved up, it hadn’t seemed like such a big deal to let Tom take a few pictures. After all, they were only for him and he was Andi’s boyfriend. He loved her, and if she loved him she’d trust him. She did love him, didn’t she?

  Andi wished she could leap into the picture and give the drowsy, naked girl draped across the blanket a good hard shake. How had she ever been so stupid?

  “I think you look great,” said Tom conversationally, peering at the picture over her shoulder. “If they went viral at least you could be proud of your tits. You ought to check your emails a little more often. I’ve cropped out your head – for now – but wouldn’t it be awful if that email went to everyone you know? And even a few you don’t? You’d be an Internet sensation, sweetheart. Trust me.”

  “Are you blackmailing me?” Andi whispered. Like duh, as Angel would say. Of course he was.

  Tom put his hand on his chest and pulled a hurt expression. “I’m offended. What an ugly word to use! I just thought that if I had a couple of grand I’d be more likely to forget I had them. Just like I’ve forgotten to mention that you were sacked from Hart Frozer. It’s funny; Mel Rothwell never mentioned that. Have you forgotten too?”

  There was a whooshing sound in Andi’s ears. “You’ve been to see Mel?”

  “How else was I to find out where you live? Honestly, Andi, you can be stupid. They seem such a nice couple too. They were thrilled to hear that you had a visitor. Your boyfriend wasn’t so happy.”

  Andi’s head was spinning. “Boyfriend?”

  “Rich guy? Nice car? Orange tan?” Tom shook his head. “He seemed so keen on you. Loaded too, I bet. Nice work.”

  Travis. Who else had Tom been to see? Suddenly, Andi felt the life she’d started to build in Rock sway as precariously as a sapling in a gale. All it needed to fall completely was one little push – and Tom, she knew, wouldn’t hesitate to give it a shove. In an instant her job, her friends and her recovering bank balance would be destroyed.

  “I tell you what,” said Tom, all false cheer and smiles, “why don’t I give you some time to think it all over? I’ll give you until tomorrow morning before my finger slips on the keyboard and those pictures find themselves in all kinds of odd places.” His eyes widened. “Not really the image for a smart accountant, but then what would you expect from an accountant who was sacked for stealing her colleague’s work? I’d say two grand was a bargain for keeping all that quiet on its own, never mind the pictures. Don’t take too long to make up your mind though. The price may start to rise.”

  It might as well have been two million pounds. Andi knew that even if she paid Tom now, he’d only be back for more. She’d never be rid of him. A tear slid down her cheek and she turned her head away, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

  “Presumably you still have my number,” Tom said. “Give me a call by this time tomorrow. I’m staying in Padstow, so you can meet me there; I’m not trekking back here again. You can buy dinner in Rojano’s, if you want. I recall you’re partial to a nice glass of wine.”

  And with this parting shot and a complacent grin, Tom sauntered across the meadow to the stile. He scrambled over it and moments later the sound of a car starting up echoed across the valley. Blinded by tears Andi sank onto the grass, defeated and despairing. Whether she was weeping because of Tom or over Jonty Andi wasn’t sure, but one thing she did know: she had no choice now but to hand in her notice with Si, pack her things and leave quietly. Quite where she’d go was anyone’s guess, but there was nothing here for her. Not now.

  Whether she paid him or not it didn’t make any difference: Tom had won. Rock was over.

  Chapter 43

  “The captain that did bring me first on shore

  Hath my maid’s garments: he upon some action

  Is now in durance, at Malvolio’s suit,

  A gentleman, and follower of my lady’s.”

  Gemma could hardly believe it; she had just delivered her final lines of the play and, in spite of feeling more nervous than she could have ever imagined possible, she hadn’t fluffed a word or missed a cue for the past two hours. Quite the opposite in fact! From the moment she had stepped onto the stage her nerves had melted away and she’d ceased to be Gemma, worried about her weight and even more worried about Callum South, and become Viola, lost and lovesick in a foreign country.

  Hmm, maybe it wasn’t such a leap of imagination after all?

  On the stage the lights were glaringly bright and the audience just a black and faceless mass. Gemma found it easy to forget that they were there and when there was a ripple of laughter or a chorus of groans it jolted her for a moment. Now though, as Feste sang his final song and the cast prepared to take their bows, room erupted into a roar of applause. Whistles and cheers and the stamping of deck-shoed feet on the floor threatened to raise the entire roof.

  As the leading lady, Gemma stepped forward to take her bow first, together with her co-star. While she drank in the cheers and smiling faces, her heart felt the lightest it had done for a very long time. So what if this wasn’t a long-running soap opera or a reality TV show? The audience had enjoyed every second, and so had she. This was why I went to stage school, Gemma realised with a jolt, to act in the theatre! Not to model stupid pants or lose weight! The thought was enough to make her feel euphoric with relief. No more trying to force herself to be something she wasn’t. From now on she’d act because she loved it, not because she had to.

  Once the rest of the actors had taken their bows, the entire cast joined hands and walked forward for a group curtain call. As the house lights came up Gemma was able to scan the audience properly. Much as she hated herself for it, there was only one face she was looking for: a round freckled face with sleepy laughing eyes and a crooked grin. She searched the crowd hopefully, only to feel bitterly disappointed. Of course Callum wasn’t there. Why should he be at an am-dram production starring the stupid fat girl who had trashed his career quicker than you could say “cheeseburger”? Swallowing down the misery, Gemma stitched her brightest starry smile onto her face and took another bow. Now she really was acting her socks off, and nobody would ever know.

  Who needed Callum South anyway? She had plenty of friends who’d shown up to support her. Look, there were Si and Mel, right in the front and clapping; over there Dee was standing and whistling; and on the left of the hall, and to her enormous surprise, even Travis Chumley had turned up. When he saw Gemma’s look of astonishment Trav grinned and gave her a thumbs up. Of Andi and Angel, though, there was no sign, and Gemma felt another stab of disappointment. Angel was as flaky as a hot sausage roll, so her missing the performance was hardly a surprise, but Andi’s being there she would have put money on. When Andi said she would do something she always did it. The girl was as reliable as Greenwich Meantime; it was a wonder people didn’t set clocks by her.

  Gemma hoped Andi was all right. She hadn’t looked so great earlier on.


  “We rocked!” cried Derek, joining the cast on the stage and bowing with gusto. “Especially you,” he added sotto voce to Gemma. “I didn’t want to say anything, darling, in case it jinxed tonight, but one of my friends who directs for the RSC popped in – he’s got a divine place over near Daymer Bay – and he’s blown away by you! How about a late din-dins to meet him?”

  Lord! Wasn’t this exactly what she’d been hoping and praying for? Gemma was just wondering why she didn’t feel more excited and considering her reply when the doors of the hall flew open with a crash and Angel hurtled in, closely followed by Laurence, a posse of security guards and a squat man in a Hawaiian shirt who looked the spitting image of a Bond villain.

  “Oh no!” Her blue eyes wide, Angel’s hands flew to her mouth. “Have we missed the play?”

  Gemma started to laugh. This was so typical of Angel. If Andi was GMT then her sister was her own time zone entirely. Then her laughter stopped abruptly and her heart began to race when she saw who was behind her best friend.

  Cal.

  It seemed like somebody had slowed down space and time, Doctor Who style. To Gemma the noise of the clapping audience faded away and all she could hear was a rushing in her ears as though somebody had diverted the Camel to run upstream, through the town and into the hall. Her legs, rather unflatteringly clad in Viola’s tights, started to move forwards of their own volition. To be honest though, they could have danced a jig or performed the cancan for all the attention Gemma was paying them. All she knew was that Cal’s eyes were holding hers like superglue and that she never wanted him to look away again.

  She dropped Derek’s hand – the play, the curtain call and the RSC director all forgotten. All that mattered was that Cal was running towards her now, sprinting down the aisle with the same powerful gait that had seen him score goals at Wembley and made Beckham look slow. The extra pounds didn’t seem to matter a jot anymore and he leapt onto the stage with such athleticism that if the England coach had been present Cal’s football career would have been totally rejuvenated. With her heart racing as though she’d just climbed the hill out of town, Gemma paused just inches away from him. There he was, he really was! There was no mistaking the halo of crazy ringlets, strong stocky body and those melting Malteser eyes. Cal. Lovely, funny, sexy, daft Cal. The only man who understood her. The only man who ever would.

  Oh bollocks, thought Gemma as the truth suddenly smacked her on the nose.

  Cal. The only man she would ever love.

  She was in love with Cal. Not Callum South the TV star, football hero and ITV2 golden boy, but the chubby, bread-baking, exercise-skiving Cal. The Cal who got excited over banana bread, who’d sneaked them into Jamie Oliver’s and Maccy D’s; the man who loved his mammy and worried about paying the bills. That Cal.

  How on earth had this happened?

  “Gemma, I’m a fecking eejit,” said Cal, reaching out and taking her hands in his. They were trembling, she noticed. Cal was trembling? “I know I’ve ruined your career with my antics, and your diet too, and I really should do what everyone says and stay away from you but I can’t. I really can’t. It’s killing me, so it is.”

  Gemma shook her head.

  “I’ve ruined your career you mean,” she corrected. “Emily told me how ITV2 have pulled the contract. She said you were broken-hearted.”

  “Sure, and will that be the same Emily who told me how gutted you are that your agent dropped you and how you blamed me?” asked Cal. He gave her his lopsided smile and Gemma melted like buttercream in the sunshine.

  “I would imagine it is,” she whispered. Emily had played her beautifully.

  “And like an eejit I believed her,” Cal sighed. He reached forward and pushed a curl from Gemma’s forehead, tucking it tenderly behind her ear. As his fingertips brushed her skin, Gemma thought she would pass out with longing. All this from just touching her ear. Imagine what it would do to her when he…

  Get a grip Gemma! Focus!

  “It nearly killed me, so it did,” Cal confessed. “Gemma, I don’t care about ITV2, or diets or any of that crap. I’ve lost my contracts, I’m out of a job and the Loose Women probably want my balls on a plate. I don’t have anything to offer you, but there’s one thing I do know for certain, and that’s how much I care about you. Aw, feck it, Gemma! I have to be with you. I need to be with you. Can’t you guess why?”

  If her pulse got any quicker, thought Gemma, they’d need to call an ambulance. Unable to speak, she could only shake her head. Was he going to say what she thought he was going to say?

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “Because I can’t live without your sponge cake,” Cal said, and his laughing eyes crinkled down at her. “And,” he whispered, so softly that she had to strain her ears to catch his words, “cake aside, I can’t live without you for a second longer.”

  Before she could tell him off for making her believe he was about to declare undying love, his lips, softer than any sponge that Gemma could ever bake, met hers. As Cal kissed her, Gemma felt everything else fall away. And when he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her close she kissed him back, while the delighted audience rocked the town hall with cheers of delight. Breaking apart, Gemma and Cal smiled at one another, suddenly shy.

  “Jaysus! I’d never have thought it,” he said wonderingly. “But there is something you do even better than baking!”

  He lowered his head and kissed Gemma again, at which point Derek motioned hastily for the curtains to be closed. While the cast traipsed into the wings and the stagehands dismantled Illyria, Cal and Gemma kissed and smiled and kissed some more until their cheeks and mouths ached. He had a lot of explaining to do, Gemma thought as she threaded her fingers through his, but that could keep for another time. Right now she could think of better things to do than talking…

  “Oi! Stop snogging, you two!” Angel burst through the curtains, towing an awkward Laurence in her wake. “This is Shakespeare, not the stage play of Fifty Shades!”

  “Do you mind?” said Gemma. “We’re trying to make up for lost time here!”

  Cal’s arms tightened around her and he pressed a kiss against her temple.

  “If Angel hadn’t read me the riot act then we’d still be wasting time,” he said.

  Gemma was confused. “What’s Angel got to do with you coming here?”

  Angel grinned. “Go on, Cal. Tell her what happened.”

  “Aw, it’s a long story,” he began, “but let’s just say there I was minding my own miserable business and eating Wotsits in peace. My TV career was in meltdown, Emily had convinced me that I’d ruined Gemma’s career and life, and the press were at the gate trying to get a shot of me comfort eating. Mike doubled security and I’d told him nobody was to come anywhere near. It was death by Wotsits for me.”

  “So how did you get in?” Gemma asked Angel. Then a thought occurred to her. “Was it like when you tried to gatecrash Peter Andre’s barbie?”

  “What’s this?” asked Laurence.

  “Nothing, nothing!” said Angel airily. “Just a bit of a misunderstanding!”

  “But how did you get past everyone? Cal has serious security.” Gemma had seen enough of the cameras and guards and barky dogs to know this much. How on earth had her friend managed it?

  “Ah, this is down to me, I think!” The squat man in the Hawaiian shirt stepped forward. Beaming at Gemma, he held out a meaty paw and added proudly, “I am Vladimir Yuri. I own VY Security – vorld’s biggest security agency – so I able to tell all the guards to step aside or, tch – they in beeg trouble with me!”

  Mr Yuri? Husband of Angel’s nemesis? Gemma was suddenly hugely disappointed. Of course. This was all a crazy dream, wasn’t it? Cal wasn’t really in love with her and she hadn’t really just given the performance of a lifetime; she was actually in bed. This crazy dream was nothing more than the outcome of eating too many slices of Cal’s cheese bread before bedtime. Pretty soon she’d wake up in her narrow little bun
k with Cal still behind razor wire and with her stomach full of knots about the play.

  Bollocks.

  She closed her eyes, counted to three and then opened them again. Mr Yuri was still there, his smile looking a bit pained now, and with his hand still outstretched. Oh Lord! This really was happening. Still dazed, Gemma stretched out her hand too and had it practically crushed as he pumped her arm up and down. How he moved his arm with a Rolex that big was anyone’s guess. It looked like he’d strapped Big Ben to his wrist.

  “It was like something out of a movie,” Cal told her. “There I was, festering in my trackie bottoms and working my way through a family pack of Wotsits, when your sister and Mr Yuri marched in, with all my security guys trailing behind like puppies. We thought it was an armed robbery. Mike was fecking terrified.”

  “People are,” said Mr Yuri, looking thrilled to hear it.

  “Not of you, sir! Of Angel!” Cal shook his head. “She gave me a right dressing-down, so she did. Told me to get off my fat arse if I knew what was good for me and to come and find you.”

  “You left a family-sized bag of Wotsits for me? I’m flattered,” Gemma teased.

  “Sure, they’ll still be there when I go back,” he deadpanned. “Maybe I’ll even share them?”

  “You must really like me,” said Gemma.

  Cal squeezed Gemma’s hand and smiled down at her with such love that she thought her heart would burst.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” she said to Mr Yuri.

  “I owe Angel great debt,” explained the Russian. “But you! You are the Callum South! I only help my son in law buy Dukes Rangers because I massive fan of yours. When Chelsea for sale I say, ‘Pah! Roman, you have eet! I only want to buy team Callum South play for.’ You are legend.”