Cal must be having a fling with Aoife. It was the only logical explanation.
Wrestling with her misery, Gemma crossed the Great Hall, where pink lemonade was being poured and the TV crew was busy measuring the light and setting up the cameras. Cables and leads snaked across the floor and threatened to lasso Gemma’s ankles. She clutched the cake tray tightly and prayed that she could get through the next couple of hours. It was only a birthday party, so just how hard could it be? There’d be plenty of time to speak to Cal afterwards, once they were alone and the cameras weren’t rolling. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation? She certainly hoped so.
The library was one of Gemma’s favourite rooms in Kenniston. The walls were lined from ceiling to floor with wonderful books, including priceless first editions – all of which were totally wasted on Angel, who despite her education and intelligence only ever read Reveal and Closer these days. The morning sun streamed through the huge windows; today the protective drapes were drawn back so that the portraits of past Elliotts, all with Laurence’s grey eyes and sharp cheekbones, were beautifully illuminated and the wood panelling glowed like honey in the soft light. Gemma wasn’t a huge fan of the portraits. As she set the cake out on the table at the far end of the room she thought that they all watched her rather haughtily, except for the last painting – of Angel, all blonde mane and creamy bosom – which beamed triumphantly out of its frame. Another person who’d let her down, Gemma reflected bleakly. They were starting to make a rather alarming list.
“Great cake! Ma Elliott will be thrilled!” Angel said admiringly, dancing into the library and looking amazing in a turquoise cocktail dress and sky-high Louboutins. The Elliotts seemed to be making money even if Cal wasn’t, Gemma thought resentfully. Something was going wrong somewhere. Maybe he was spending all his money on Aoife? Perhaps she was set up in a stunning love nest in Chelsea or something? At the thought of this, Gemma’s mouth went metallic with the urge to be sick. She wanted to be cosied up in a love nest with Cal.
“Are you OK?” Angel was asking, concern written all over her beautifully made-up face. “You’ve gone ever such a funny colour.”
There was a whooshing sound in Gemma’s ears and the room started to sway. She clutched at the table to steady herself as a wave of giddiness broke over her. See, this was what you got for missing breakfast. She’d always known it was a bad idea; no wonder all those thin actresses were always flaking out.
Angel put an arm around Gemma’s shoulders and led her gently towards a window seat.
“You’re working too hard,” she said, settling Gemma onto a faded red velvet cushion. Then she grinned. “And I bet you didn’t get much sleep last night either! See! I told you going into Pulse would liven things up in the bedroom!”
“Craig, Laurence and the Bread and Butlers crew weren’t quite what I had in mind,” Gemma replied. She took a couple of deep breaths. The room was steadying now, the waves of nausea receding. “Angel, how could you send them over like that? I was so embarrassed. You’re meant to be my friend.”
Angel looked down at the floor. She couldn’t meet Gemma’s eye – a sure indication that she knew she was in the wrong.
“I’m sorry, babes. I’m not proud of it but when you called we were in the middle of filming and Dwayne said that if Craig was going to lend his tools then it was going to be filmed.”
Dwayne was the new producer of the show. He wore tight black clothes, gelled his dyed blond hair into lethal spikes and wore Gok Wan style glasses that Gemma strongly suspected contained plain glass. He really was that much of a poser and, being more ambitious than Macbeth, was determined to up and up the ratings until all the opposition was obliterated. Anton Yuri had poached him from another reality show, and shock tactics like today’s eclectic mix of guests were his hallmark. Gemma hadn’t been impressed so far. In her opinion Dwayne was lowering the tone of Bread and Butlers, and this was another reason why she was desperate for Cal to quit. Last night’s antics had only confirmed her worst suspicions. This was supposed to be a reality version of Downton Abbey, not The Girls of the Playboy Mansion!
“You could have told Dwayne that this was a private matter,” Gemma said coldly. “We’re friends, Angel, and you exploited that for ratings. It’s not on.”
“I’m sorry, Gem, I really am.” Angel’s blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but Gemma was unmoved. Her best friend was so good at turning on the tap that she should work for the water board. “I know it wasn’t fair but Dwayne insisted: no filming, no hacksaw. Our contracts have also got us by the short and curlies. All access to our lives, remember?”
“Not to my life,” Gemma reminded her. She glanced over her shoulder and out across the park. The Lion Lodge, her break for freedom, was a small grey smudge on the far side of the lake – but it wasn’t far enough.
“No, and I’m really sorry. I promise that if he ever tries to pull a stunt like that again I’ll pick up the phone myself and tell Anton exactly what I think. Dwayne’s an absolute bugger. He’s been egging Daphne on for days, not that she needs encouraging. Did you know that Loz found her in the wine cellar yesterday with a load of her cronies from the local pub? They were drinking their way through the priceless wine that his great grandfather had laid down. Laurence was wild.”
This was actually very amusing. Lady Daphne and her drinking buddies, a motley crew of retired folk from the neighbouring village, were hardly up there with Oliver Reed and Richard Burton when it came to hellraising. Gemma tried to smile but her mouth refused. How could she ever smile again if Cal was in love with somebody else?
Angel took Gemma’s hand in hers. It had been tended to since yesterday’s nail disaster at Penmerryn, Gemma noticed. Angel had an elegant French manicure this time, perfect for a viscountess about to host her mother-in-law’s birthday party. “But it’s not just about last night, is it Gem? You haven’t been yourself for weeks. What’s up?”
“I think Cal’s having an affair.”
The words fell like stones from Gemma’s lips. She hadn’t know she was going to say them, hadn’t expected to say them, but now that they’d been uttered her fear was out in the world and real. It was no longer just a creeping sensation of dread but a solid and terrible possibility.
Angel stared at her for a second and then started to laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Cal adores you! He’d never have an affair.”
“Of course he would: he’s a man,” said Gemma bleakly. “Don’t look at me like that, Angel. I’m not going mad. Call it female intuition if you like; I just know that something’s wrong.”
Angel pushed her hair behind her ears. “OK, I’m sorry if I didn’t seem sympathetic, but Cal? I can’t imagine it. What on earth makes you think so?”
Gemma took a deep, quavering breath. “I never see him; the not-very-much-sex thing; he’d cleared his browser history on the laptop; there’s never any money so maybe he’s giving it to a mistress; he’s lied about going to football matches in London when the Dangers are playing away; he’s talking to Aoife on the phone–”
“Oh babes, not Aoife again!” Angel raised her eyes to the ornate plaster ceiling. “She’s about as exciting as watching the grass grow. Please, get over that one. There is zero chemistry between her and Cal, I promise.”
“So why is she calling him then?”
“Like, duh? Because they’re friends?” Angel shook her blonde head. “Gems, I really think you’re jumping to all the wrong conclusions here. There are loads of other explanations for all this. Maybe he was looking at porn on the Internet? Guys do, you know.”
Gemma did know, but Cal was more likely to be found playing Candy Crush than surfing dodgy sites. Besides, sex seemed the furthest thing from his mind lately – more evidence, perhaps, that he was getting it elsewhere?
“What about the money then? The show is doing well and everyone else seems to be making shedloads.” She pointed at Angel’s shoes and raised an eyebrow.
“These old things?” Angel a
sked. “Vanya gave them to me in Rock. Anyway, you should know by now that all the money Laurence and I earn goes straight on fixing up Kenniston.”
“So if there is money coming in, why are we so skint?”
“Huge tax bill? Cal’s debts? His demanding Irish rellies? Setting up a business?” Angel ticked all of these off on her immaculate fingers. “There’s nothing sinister going on there, babes. Besides, Andi’s his accountant. Don’t you think she’d say something if there was money being siphoned off for a love nest with Saint Aoife?”
Andi, Angel’s sister, was as straight as a Roman road and made Carol Vorderman look rubbish at maths. If there were a discrepancy with Cal’s finances then she’d have noticed straight away.
“Maybe she’s bound under some kind of professional code not to say anything?”
“She’s an accountant, not a priest!” Angel grinned. Then she gave Gemma a hug. “Come on, this is all in your head, I promise. These are just weird coincidences that you’re reading far too much into. It’s been a long year and we’re all knackered. Just give it until the New Year, then everything will seem better.”
“So Cal keeps telling me,” Gemma said wearily. “Are you both in on some big secret I don’t know about?”
“Ha! Ha! Of course not!” Angel protested rather too swiftly for Gemma’s liking. “You’ll be saying he’s shagging me next! Seriously, Gemma, you’ve not got anything to worry about. Oh look! The guests are arriving. It’s party time. We’d better get you a drink and then pop you out of shot somewhere.”
And Angel was off across the library, a blur of blonde hair and red-soled shoes, leaving Gemma behind in her haste to join the party. Feeling as though she’d just been in a wind tunnel, Gemma pulled her ponytail tighter and smoothed the creases out of her skirt. Davey Davis, the aging seventies’ rock star, had just arrived – and judging by the shrieking from Angel as he pinched her bum, he was in a lively mood. Lady Daphne was also in the room now, doing circuits on her Segway and cutting the corners dangerously close to the table and Gemma’s cake. The film crew was trailing behind, and unless Gemma made a move she’d be in shot, which was not what she needed.
The party was about to get started, but before Gemma could relax there were seventy candles to light, sausage rolls to fetch and the Hellboy-meets-Sonic cheese-and-pineapple hedgehogs to place on the table as the pièce de résistance. Her worries about Cal would just have to wait. Besides, Angel was right. It was all just a load of strange coincidences.
So why then wouldn’t that twisty feeling of unease go away?
Chapter 11
December usually begins with a deceptive air. There are days and days to go until Christmas actually arrives; there’s no need to rush because there’s plenty of time yet to do the Christmas shopping, and the chocolate advent calendar is still deliciously full. Then, around the sixth day, time suddenly decides to pull a moonie and accelerate – and before you know it there’s under a week left to buy the presents, get the food in, post the cards and, in Gemma’s case, tell your boyfriend that he’s going to Cornwall for the festive season.
Gemma hadn’t deliberately not told Cal about their Christmas escape to Seagull Cottage. Part of her was desperate to tell him, but another part loved the fact that she had this amazing surprise waiting for him. There never seemed to be the right time to tell him either, because Cal was working longer hours than ever at the bakery or being filmed at the house. They really were like ships that passed in the night, or rather in their case bakers who passed by the industrial sink. Since the disastrous night of the handcuffs neither Gemma nor Cal had had the energy or the inclination to do much more in bed than pull on their layers and shiver. As the temperatures plummeted across England the windows of the Lion Lodge froze on the inside and the idea of taking off clothes in bed seemed suicidal rather than sexy.
As far as Gemma knew there hadn’t been any more calls from Aoife, although it was hard to tell because Cal normally had his phone with him, which made checking pretty difficult. She was constantly looking to see if the browser history had been erased, which it hadn’t, and to her huge shame she even logged into his emails just in case. There was nothing more incriminating in Cal’s inbox than an email from a Mr Eduka Buboni from Gambia who needed to borrow his bank-account details to pay in an unexpected inheritance, and a couple of adverts for Viagra. Feeling hot-faced and guilty, Gemma had quit Hotmail, but not before she’d half convinced herself that if Cal had wanted to keep secrets he wouldn’t have “Dangers” as his password. Besides, they were a couple and therefore shouldn’t have secret passwords. If Cal were innocent then he’d surely be happy to let Gemma look at all his correspondence anyway.
So why then, if it’s fine, said the little voice of conscience that liked to whisper in Gemma’s ear at the least convenient times – usually when she was snooping round Cal’s Facebook account in case Aoife had left a message for him – don’t you just ask him rather than skulking around?
Gemma tended to try very hard to ignore the little voice of conscience. It could more accurately be called a big pain in the rear end, mostly because she knew that it was right. Nosing into her boyfriend’s emails and texts and social media was really underhand stuff, and Gemma wasn’t proud of herself. There had been absolutely nothing incriminating anywhere and it looked as though Angel had been right: Gemma had just been putting circumstantial evidence together and coming to some crazy conclusions. Yet although she could tell herself this all day long, it didn’t seem to make the slightest bit of difference. She still had the oddest feeling that Cal was hiding something from her.
“You’re being paranoid,” was all Angel would say every time Gemma raised the topic. “Honestly, Gem, I don’t know what your problem is. Cal isn’t having an affair – well, not unless he’s boffing a bread roll! He’s never out of the bakery.”
So her best friend thought she was mad. That really didn’t help much. There was nobody else left to talk to. Andi was abroad with her partner and Dee would just say that Gemma needed to work on her honesty in relationships. And there was no way she dared broach the subject with Cal. He’d either be hurt beyond belief that she could think such a thing in the first place or – and this was even more unbearable – he’d tell her that yes, he was in love with Aoife. Just imagining this made Gemma want to drown herself in the ornamental lake, so God only knew how terrible the reality would be.
“It hasn’t happened,” she told herself furiously as she drove back after a final last-minute Christmas shopping trip to Exeter. “It’s all in your head, Gemma, you idiot. Everything will be fine once you get to Cornwall!”
During the manic build-up to Christmas this was her one and only ray of light; once she and Cal were away from Kenniston and in the sanctuary of Seagull Cottage, Gemma knew they’d be able to talk. With any luck all the horrible fears that had been stalking her would vanish like mist in the sunshine and Cal would explain exactly why he’d been in London. It would all make sense, and away from the pressures of work and the cameras they’d be back to how they used to be. It was all going to be fine. Their Christmas escape was going to solve everything.
Whenever Gemma had a spare minute (which wasn’t often because she was mostly flat out icing and dispatching Christmas cakes), she booted up their laptop and surfed the cottage’s website, loving the beautifully shot pictures and spinning dreams of how wonderful their time away was going to be. Last night she’d teetered on the brink of telling Cal about the cottage, but then Dwayne had called – apparently Cal was needed to pre-record another piece for the title sequence – and the moment had been lost. Filming was intense in the run-up to Christmas, and Gemma had gritted her teeth rather than snatching the phone from Cal and telling Dwayne that it was nine at night and that he could stick his pre-recording somewhere dark and, no, she wasn’t referring to Santa’s chimney!
“Not long now,” Gemma told herself, in what was supposed to be a soothing voice but sounded even to her own ears rather hysterical
. “It’s nearly Christmas.”
She was almost back at Kenniston, and evening had fallen in earnest. On the radio John and Yoko were singing hopefully about war being over. Behind her, the boot of the Range Rover was filled with Christmas presents. Exeter had been rammed with shoppers in that last frenzy of panic buying, the kind where selection packs of random toiletries and eye shadows suddenly become irresistible and slipper socks sell by the hundreds. Gemma had scooted through the city as best she could with six bags looped around her wrists, and by the time she’d remembered her original intention to buy a dress for this evening’s meal at the Hall, she’d been exhausted already. Being elbowed from all directions while she’d browsed in Next and Monsoon had been no fun at all – and when she’d found it a battle to tug up the zip on a size-fourteen dress, Gemma had felt ready to howl. She must have been helping herself to the icing and leftovers without realising it. So much for walking up and down the drive to Kenniston twice a day as part of her fitness regime. Pushed for time and unable to face the horror of trying anything else, Gemma had decided that the Elliotts would just have to put up with her coming for kitchen sups in her jeans. It wasn’t as if anyone was filming her anyway.
She swung the Range Rover off the main road and down the narrow lane that led to the Lion Gate. The headlights lit up the road ahead but otherwise all was inky blackness. Several tiny cottages set back from the road twinkled with fairy lights and spilled their buttery warmth into the darkness. Gemma imagined the people inside, cuddled up on sofas together watching the news or maybe tucking their children up in bed, and a lump rose in her throat. These houses were warm and full of light and laughter, not like the freezing spaces and deadly silence of the Lion Lodge.
Driving past her house (Cal could help her unload later), Gemma decided that tonight was going to have to be the night that she told him about the Christmas surprise. Today was Saturday and they were due in Cornwall on Wednesday. Christmas Day was exactly a week away. She couldn’t really keep it a secret for much longer, and packing without Cal noticing would be easier said than done seeing as he didn’t have a vast array of clothes. Once Angel’s Christmas supper was out the way and they were driving back to the lodge, she’d tell him. He’d be thrilled; she knew he would. Cal loved Cornwall just as much as she did.
Escape for Christmas: A Novella (The Escape Series Book 2) Page 9