Escape for Christmas: A Novella (The Escape Series Book 2)

by Ruth Saberton

  Angel glanced outside. While they’d been talking the snow had started settling, a talcum-powder dusting on the hard earth. The B road beyond the estate was bound to be icy already.

  “I’m not going to change your mind, am I?” she said sadly, and Gemma shook her head.

  “Only Cal telling the truth could do that.”

  “And you really can’t trust him and wait?” As Angel said this it seemed to Gemma that her best friend couldn’t quite look her in the eye. Was she hiding something? Gemma wondered, before giving herself a sharp mental kick. All this business with Aoife was making her paranoid and suspicious – two very unattractive qualities and not ones that she wanted to become a permanent part of her psyche. This was why she had to get away.

  “Trust works both ways,” Gemma told her. “Cal knows where I’ll be if he wants to talk.”

  Angel nodded. “I’ll tell him, Gem, but please…” She paused, looking as though she was about to add something further, before shrugging. “Just give him a chance to explain. I really don’t think Cal is the type to cheat.”

  “They’re all the type to cheat,” Gemma said despondently. She picked up her mobile. “Don’t look so excited – I’m not calling Call: I’m calling a cab to take me to the station. I’ll catch the last train and get Dee to pick me up from Bodmin.”

  “Don’t be daft. You’ll freeze to death. Look, if you’re really sure you want to do this you’d better take the Defender. You’re still insured to drive it, so you might as well use it. The keys are in it,” Angel said quietly. “I’ll borrow a coat and walk back.”

  That might be a better solution, Gemma reflected. Rather than disturbing Dee so late, perhaps for tonight she could find a budget room somewhere en route; then she could check in to the cottage tomorrow. Together Angel and Gemma carried the suitcase out of the Lion Lodge and to the car. The world was silent and still, except for the whirling snowflakes spinning down to earth in a giddy dance, and when Gemma started the engine the throaty diesel roar made both girls jump.

  “My sister’s in Rock for Christmas,” Angel told Gemma. “I’m going to text her and let her know you’ll be there. Talk to Andi about this, Gem. She’s always got a solution.”

  Andi Evans was brilliant and brainy but Gemma knew that even she couldn’t solve this problem. Cal was the only person who could do that – by telling her the truth.

  As she drove away into the darkness, her heart breaking all over again with every mile that took her further from Cal, Gemma had a dreadful suspicion that Cal wasn’t going to do this. That meant only one thing: Gemma Pengelley and Callum South were over for good.

  Chapter 16

  Seagull Cottage was everything that Gemma had hoped for. It was set just above the slipway, the last dwelling in a picturesque crumpled terrace of fishermen’s cottages, and gazed out across the ever-changing waters of the Camel Estuary. Thick walls kept the chill winter wind at bay when it whipped the Atlantic into a stampede of galloping white horses, and clever double glazing meant that you could easily curl up in a window seat and watch the view, your toes toasty thanks to a cute pot-bellied wood burner and state-of-the-art heating. The bespoke kitchen was small but beautifully designed, with glowing walnut work surfaces and an electric Aga that looked the part yet was easier to use than her microwave. The giant sleigh bed nestled under the eaves, a perfect place to snuggle up when the storms rolled in. The roll-top bath just called out to be filled to the brim with Floris bubbles, and wallowed in while sipping champagne from one of the elegant flutes generously supplied by the owners.

  Yes, Seagull Cottage really was everything that Gemma had dreamed of – apart from one vital detail: she’d never envisaged being here without Cal. The whole point of this peaceful haven had been that they could spend time together and find themselves again. The reality was, Gemma thought sadly as she pulled on her boots and prepared to wander into the town, they’d never been further apart.

  Just as Gemma had predicted, the small seaside town had come to life for Christmas. As she strolled along Rock Road she played a little game for her own amusement, which involved counting how many Range Rovers, Porsche Cayennes and BMW X5s she could see. When she reached double figures before she’d even got to the beach, Gemma gave up. The festive season was certainly here now. The cafés were filled with glossy new arrivals, snugly wrapped in Boden and Hermès scarves and wearing pristine Dubarry boots. The shop tills rang as pasties, local cheeses and organic vegetables filled Cath Kidston cloth shopping bags. Although the snow had melted away the further west Gemma had travelled, it was still bitterly cold – the coldest winter in a decade, according to the weather forecasters – and walking along the beach now, Gemma wondered how Cal was managing at the Lion Lodge. Had he figured out how to coax the asthmatic fan heaters into life? Was he cold in bed without her? Did he miss her as much as she missed him?

  She checked her phone for what had to be the millionth time in the past hour, but apart from one text when she’d arrived – a simple message saying that he loved her and wanted her to trust him – there had been nothing. Gemma had fired a quick text back saying that she loved him too but wouldn’t be lied to, and since then there had been silence.

  Gemma felt sick, so sick that she’d hardly been able to eat a thing since she’d arrived in Rock. The misery diet had to be her most effective yet, she thought glumly. The luxury hamper sat forlorn and unloved on the kitchen table in Seagull Cottage, all the goodies that she’d looked forward to sharing with Cal still wrapped up in red ribbons and glossy paper. He’d have loved that goose-liver pâté, spread on crusty lightly toasted bread, and they would have made a mini picnic in front of the wood burner. Or perhaps they’d just have stayed tucked up in bed with the champagne truffles and mugs of hot chocolate. Even through her sadness Gemma couldn’t help smiling; far too much of their spare time was spent enjoying food, and a great part of their working life was spent creating it! No wonder they were both always battling the bulge.

  She walked to the end of the ferry pontoon and stared across the water to Padstow. It was a grey afternoon, the estuary whipped into choppy little waves by the icy wind, and a few chilly seagulls were bobbing about and looking rather seasick. The sky above was the same pewter grey as Laurence Elliott’s eyes, and clotted with swollen clouds. The world was as cold and as bleak as Gemma felt.

  She checked her phone again but the messages folder remained empty. Maybe he was pleased to see the back of her? Perhaps Aoife was already on her way to Kenniston for Christmas? Or would Cal drive up to London and visit her in her smart Docklands flat? (Actually, Gemma had no idea where Aoife lived, but this seemed to suit her chic and rather ice-maiden style persona.) Cal and Aoife would be strolling hand in hand alongside the sluggish grey waters of the Thames and stopping for pastries at a trendy pavement café – laughing as icing sugar dusted their lips, and then kissing away the crumbs…

  I have to stop thinking like this, Gemma told herself sternly. If things were over between her and Cal, then torturing herself really wouldn’t make her feel better. Unfortunately her plan to come to Cornwall in order to put some space between them was backfiring badly. Rock was the place where Gemma and Cal had first met, and every corner she turned brought back memories. Although the town was wintery, the trees bare of leaves and the colour leached from the sky, in Gemma’s mind it was brimming with warmth and vibrancy, as though a piece of tracing paper filled with summer’s designs of blue skies and hedgerows freckled with daisies had overlaid the December scene. Her walk took her past the bakery where she’d first met Cal and down to the estuary where he’d almost drowned, before leading her out of the town and past Valhalla, the house he’d rented for that golden summer.

  Gemma so wished she could turn back time, if only for a few minutes, and be that girl again – so full of hope (and pasties), and with her lips tender from stolen kisses. Wherever she looked she thought she saw shadows of the people they used to be, and she wanted to run up and tell them to enjoy
every second of their Cornish escape before the pressures of television and fame and ex-girlfriends caught up with them.

  Trailing through the streets of Rock like a sad ghost of the girl she’d once been was not how Gemma had imagined spending Christmas or the days leading up to her thirtieth birthday. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so miserable in her life. How on earth had this happened?

  Gemma was due to have supper with her friend Dee later on but she couldn’t face being all alone in Seagull Cottage, developing RSI from checking her phone and torturing herself by imagining the wonderful romantic time she could have spent there with Cal. Instead she managed to while away the afternoon by taking the passenger ferry across the Camel to Padstow, where she mooched around the shops before having a coffee and visiting the lobster hatchery. Good. That was a few more Cal-less hours killed, Gemma thought as she queued for the return ferry. The thought of how many more there would be to come was quite simply terrifying. She missed him so much.

  By the time she arrived back in Rock it was getting dark. Christmas-tree lights twinkled in the windows of cottages, jewels of colour spilling into the inky water and trembling as the tide shifted restlessly in the estuary. Cold and tired to the marrow, and still with not a word from Cal, Gemma glanced at her watch and saw to her relief that it was time for her to walk up to Dee’s for supper. Then she would partake in the televisual equivalent of picking a scab – watching the latest episode of Bread and Butlers. Gemma knew that Dee, an ex life coach, thought this a very bad idea, but she was helpless to resist. She had to see Cal, even if it was just on the telly. It was a sad day indeed when the only way she could find out what the man she loved was up to was by watching the very show that had helped to drive them apart.

  At least the sea air had worked its magic: by the time she arrived at Dee’s house, at the top end of the town and quite a climb from the seafront, Gemma discovered that she was ravenous. She paused at the gate to catch her breath and admire the view. From here the town below looked like a model village and Padstow was just a collection of shimmering lights across the water.

  “Don’t stand there; you’ll die of cold!” Dee called through the open top half of the stable door, where she’d been smoking. She flicked the butt into the garden and sparks fantailed into the darkness.

  “Still not quit then?” teased Gemma, and Dee grimaced. An older woman who’d done all sorts, from working as a stockbroker to life coaching to opening a successful bakery, Dee had certainly lived several lives in one. Being organised and thorough in all areas of her life, it drove Dee wild that the one thing she still couldn’t get to grips with was her nicotine addiction.

  “A girl’s got to have some vices,” she said.

  “Is that your professional opinion or just an excuse?”

  “You know me far too well,” sighed Dee. “Sod it; I know I have issues with my rather addictive personality. If you can bear to be around an evil smoker, come on in. I’ve made some mulled wine, and yes alcohol is another vice of mine!”

  Vice or not, it was one Gemma was happy to share. Once she was inside Dee’s cosy cottage, curled up in a squashy armchair with a glass of wine and a huge plate of pasta, she felt much better. The wood burner had chased away the chill of the night outside, candles threw soft light across the room and carols were playing quietly on the stereo. Gemma started to feel herself relax. That horrible churning sicky feeling, which had plagued her for days, had gone completely – probably because being with Dee, who knew her inside out and was nothing to do with Bread and Butlers, was a bit like sinking into a warm bath. It would be OK to cry if she needed to – Dee always had a box of tissues somewhere – and it was a big relief not to have to pretend she was fine. Oddly enough, just knowing this made Gemma feel far less on the brink of hysteria than she had since Mammy South’s revelation that Cal had been secretly seeing Aoife.

  “So,” Dee said finally, once Gemma had mopped up the last of the pasta sauce with a big wad of garlic bread, “do you really think Cal is having an affair with an ex-girlfriend that he last dated when Westlife were still topping the charts and he was yet to start shaving?”

  “This is serious, Dee.” Gemma swirled her wine and then took a big gulp. It actually tasted far too sweet. Unable to drink any more, she put it aside. “He lied about seeing her in London and even when he’s totally caught out he still refuses to give me a good reason. All he could say was ‘trust me’.”

  “So why couldn’t you?” Dee asked.

  Gemma goggled at her. “Why couldn’t I what?”

  “Trust him. He’s your partner and the man you love, isn’t he? So why couldn’t you trust him when he told you that nothing was going on?”

  “Err, because he lied about seeing her in the first place?” said Gemma. Wasn’t it obvious? Some life coach Dee must have been. No wonder she switched to baking. “If he lied about that he must have something to hide.”

  Dee steepled her fingers. “Maybe; maybe not. Has it occurred to you that it might not be something as cataclysmic as an affair? And that maybe the secret he’s keeping isn’t his? Maybe it’s something to do with this Aoife? Perhaps she has man trouble?”

  Actually, no. Gemma hadn’t thought of this and she wasn’t about to start now. “Cal’s my partner; he’s supposed to tell me everything,” she said firmly. “Besides, Dee, you’ve not see Aoife O’Shaughnessy. She’s not the sort of girl to have problems with guys – they all see her and drool. She looks like an Irish version of Megan Fox.”

  Her friend raised her eyes to the ceiling in despair. “Do you think your self-esteem still needs a bit of work? I bet you’re not doing your mirror affirmations, are you?”

  Dee had once given Gemma a load of mantras to chant when she stood in front of the mirror – things like “I love and approve of myself” and “My body is my friend”. Gemma had tried, but since most days mirrors were to her what garlic was to vampires, she’d not lasted long.

  “Anyway,” Gemma carried on sadly, “Cal’s mother loves her. She’s always wanted him and Aoife to get married. She’s best friends with Aoife’s mother. It’s probably for the best. Mammy South’s never liked me.”

  “Cal loves you, Gemma,” Dee said. “You’re his choice, not his mother’s. Anyway, mothers and sons have a complex relationship; just check out some D H Lawrence or ask my boys! I suspect Mammy South would have an issue with whoever stole her baby away, even this Aoife.”

  “Hmm.” Gemma doubted this very much. “Anyway, it’s not just that. Cal’s obsessed with work and the show. I booked Seagull Cottage for our Christmas and my thirtieth and he told me to cancel it until the New Year!” She still felt outraged whenever she thought of this. It was just so bloody unreasonable!

  Dee said nothing but she did go and pour herself another glass of wine.

  “Can you believe that?” Gemma asked when there was no reply. “He wanted to put my birthday on hold until the live Christmas special was in the can. Nice to know where I stand in the general scheme of things. All I ever heard was him saying he was under contract.”

  “And was he?” asked Dee. She was always one to get straight to the point.

  “Well, yes but–”

  “So he couldn’t just walk away from the show? He’d be breaking a legally binding agreement?”

  “Yes, but he could have asked. I’m sure Anton Yuri would have let him take me away for my thirtieth,” argued Gemma.

  “Which would have meant letting down the rest of the crew?” Dee shook her head. “Gemma, I know you’re upset but maybe you ought to try and see things from Cal’s perspective? He’s being honourable because he’s committed to the show. That’s a good quality. The other things you’ve mentioned – the money, the phone calls, this business with Aoife? I can’t explain those but I’m sure Cal will. Maybe he’s cheating – or maybe you’ve just added up two and two and made five? You know him best and you love him, don’t you? Surely he deserves the benefit of the doubt?”

  Gemma stared
at her friend and suddenly she felt as though somebody had pulled out the plug on her nice sink full of righteous anger. Everything was inside out if she looked at it Dee’s way. Maybe she had been too hasty? She did love Cal and he’d never let her down before…

  “I’m going to call him,” she said. “We need to talk.”

  “Hooray! She’s seen sense at long last,” said Dee, clapping her hands and grinning. Then she jumped up from her chair as though electrocuted. “Oh my goodness, Gemma! We’ve been so busy talking we’ve not noticed the time. If you want to catch your beloved we’d better switch the telly on.”

  Dee had two teenage boys and consequently a state-of-the-art TV that was the size of a small car and totally at odds with her tiny coastguard’s cottage; it made her sitting room look a bit like the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. All sorts of strange bits of hardware were rigged up to it, from Xboxes to Wiis to an Apple TV box, which Dee swore did amazing things when she could get it working. There were about eight remote controls for all the myriad equipment. Eventually, once Dee managed to unearth one, she was able to turn the telly on.

  It almost took Gemma by surprise to see the people she knew so well and the place where, until recently, she’d lived her life on the small screen for entertainment. The episode was already ten minutes in and they were straight into a scene where Craig and Dougal were hiding on the roof and rolling cigarettes while Mammy South hollered and bellowed down below. Gemma had to admit that the Souths did make good TV. Dwayne was a menace but, give him his due, he knew his stuff. The Christmas-tree decorating incident had already played out, much to her relief. It was painful enough without having it dredged up again.

  “No Cal so far,” Dee remarked as the adverts played and she brewed coffee so strong it could have won a powerlifting competition. She carried a tray through and, while the latest Marks & Spencer offering was persuading middle England to buy cute swing coats in rich velvet hues and bobble hats with matching scarves, she ripped open a packet of chocolate biscuits and passed the plate to Gemma.