“I’m hurt. I recognised you straight away in yours,” Rob teased. At least, Gemma hoped he was teasing. He had to know that he’d metamorphosed into Adonis since they’d stood in awkward silence at the bus stop all those years ago. He ran his hand down the horse’s neck and looked at her askance through thick lashes. “But then, I always did notice you more than you noticed me, Gemma Pengelley.”
Gemma shook her head because this was blatantly untrue. “Hardly! You ignored me every day for five years. In fact, I’m amazed you’re talking to me now.”
Looking more carefully at him, Gemma noticed that his shy smile was the same, only now it carved deep dimples in his stubbled cheeks. Somewhere inside Gemma, something yawned and stretched. Oh. That didn’t feel like indigestion from bolting down a bacon sandwich. It felt more like desire.
“Solo’s getting cold,” Rob said. “He’s clipped and I need to take him back and rug him up before he chills. Otherwise, I’d love nothing more than to tell you exactly why I never spoke to you for five years.” His gaze held Gemma’s as he gathered up the reins. “Are you free this evening? I know it’s Christmas Eve and you’re probably really busy, but if not do you fancy a drink at The Schooner and a chat about the good old silent days?”
Now it was Gemma’s turn to be struck dumb. Was this gorgeous man, who in her mind she just couldn’t equate to spotty, sullen Rob, seriously asking her to go for a drink with him?
“Only if you want to, of course,” Rob added. The horse, impatient for his stable and a bran mash, began to fidget. “I know I wasn’t always the best company in the past.”
For a moment Gemma dithered, torn between wanting to find out more about her old school-bus buddy and a ridiculous nagging sensation that she was being disloyal to Cal. WTF? she told herself sharply. Firstly this was just a drink with a neighbour and secondly Cal was seeing Aoife anyway. She didn’t owe him anything.
Not a bean.
“I’d love to, Rob, thanks!” she replied, before she could bottle out and change her mind – not that she would anyway, once she saw the big smile that crinkled his eyes and made those cute dimples dance in his cheeks.
“Great. I’ll pick you up at seven,” said Rob. “And wear the hat so I can recognise you!”
He winked at her before his heels bobbed against the horse’s flanks and both man and beast surged forward like something out of a legend. Gemma watched as Rob cantered away across the field and popped over the five-bar gate that led to his father’s land; her heart was thudding in time with the hooves.
Terror or excitement? It was hard to say, but there was one thing of which Gemma was certain: she was very glad she’d listened to her mother and gone for a walk. Maybe this Christmas wasn’t going to be such a disaster after all?
Chapter 18
“You look better. There’s colour in your cheeks and you’re smiling! I knew a walk would do you good.”
Demelza Pengelley beamed at her daughter, whose return had been preceded by the eager dogs dashing into the kitchen before Gemma had even managed to step inside the boot room to change her footwear. Demelza was standing by the sink, busy preparing sprouts for the Christmas dinner. An enormous turkey, one of the ten that the Pengelleys raised every year especially for the festive period, was trussed up in a baking tray, and a mound of potatoes awaited peeling.
Gemma was pretty sure that her glowing cheeks and smiling face had more to do with bumping into Rob Tremaine in his new incarnation as sex god than it did with the bracing cold. She’d replayed their conversation all the way back to the farm and now she could hardly wait until seven o’clock.
“You were right. I feel much better for getting some fresh air,” she agreed. “It was just what I needed.”
Gemma’s younger brother Dave was sitting at the big kitchen table and hacking at a side of cold ham, alternating chunks of juicy pink meat between his own plate and the salivating dogs now at his feet, while his girlfriend Kirsty flicked through Reveal and then another magazine. Gemma only just stopped herself in time from groaning out loud. Although Kirsty was very sweet and very pretty, she was as thick as two short planks and obsessed with all things celebrity. Gemma wouldn’t get a minute’s peace until Kirsty knew exactly what perfume Angel wore (Alien) and where she got her hair done (classified).
“Did I see you chatting to Rob Tremaine just now?” Dave asked Gemma. He lobbed a hunk of meat to the dogs, sending them into a frenzy beneath the table.
Luckily for her son, this question distracted Demelza from what he was doing to the Boxing Day ham.
“He was riding that grey hunter,” Dave said, before Gemma could even get a word in. “You know the one, Ma, the sixteen-two? Jumps like a stag and used to belong to the Shakerleys near Polpen? He was riding it up the top field when I was checking the cows.”
Honestly, thought Gemma, now she really knew she was back in Cornwall. You couldn’t sneeze without somebody in the next village knowing about it. Who needed reality television when you lived here?
“Yes, that was him,” she said, in what was hopefully a nonchalant manner. All those years of acting were coming in very useful after all. “It was nice to catch up after so long. We’re going to go for a drink later at The Schooner if anyone wants to come.”
“He’s not been back very long,” said Demelza, dropping the final sprouts into a bag ready for the fridge. “He’s had to come back from Australia because his father’s had a stroke and there’s no way Mary Tremaine can manage the farm by herself.”
“He was running a sheep station the size of Cornwall,” added Dave in awe and looking wistful. “They used helicopters to round them up, apparently. I wonder…”
“We don’t need one here, not with only fifty ewes,” Demelza said firmly, before her son could get carried away. Sprouts done, she turned her attention to the turkey. All trussed up like something from that Fifty Shades book, which Gemma had never seen again after Mammy South had accidentally wandered into her and Cal’s bedroom, tomorrow it would be stuffed with the secret Pengelley parsley-stuffing mix. Gemma’s mouth watered at the thought. Rob had had a great effect on her. She no longer felt at all queasy. In fact she was ravenous.
“Cal called, by the way,” her mother said, seeming suddenly fascinated by the turkey’s rear end rather than meeting her daughter’s eye. “And before you fly off the handle that he’s not rung sooner, he says that he’d lost his mobile. He’s only just found it again; apparently you haven’t been answering yours. He says can you call him?”
“How convenient,” said Gemma. How hard would it have been for Cal to borrow Angel’s phone? Then she remembered all the calls from her best friend that she’d ignored. Oh. So he had been trying to get in touch after all. She hadn’t taken her phone on the walk and, amazingly, she’d not checked it since she’d come home either. Rob had helped to take her mind off that.
“He sent you some flowers too,” piped up Kirsty. “We’ve put them in the sink in the utility room. They’re gorgeous. He must still like you. That thing with Fifi is rubbish. I don’t believe it.”
“Fifi?” Gemma knew that Kirsty was quite low wattage, but getting names wrong was something else. Fifi was Cal’s pneumatic page-three ex (“Sure, Gemma, every footballer has one, so; it’s a right of passage, like a hot tub and a Ferrari”) and they’d been over for ages before he and Gemma had got together. She sometimes appeared on Bread and Butlers because it threw the builders into chaos and she was unintentionally very funny. “You mean Aoife.”
Kirsty shook her head. “Eh? Who’s that? No, Fifi Royale from Roller-Skating Celebs. Look! It’s in my magazine. They’re talking about body language.”
If Gemma had learned one thing over the time that she’d been involved with reality TV, then it was to never read the celebrity press. In her experience you were likely to find your dress sense pulled to pieces in a “What Were They Thinking?” spread, see your fat bits on display or discover that your relationship was on the rocks. It was a sure sign of h
ow bad things were, then, that she practically wrestled the magazine from Kirsty to read about how the live episode of Bread and Butlers on Christmas Day would be featuring Fifi as Callum South’s dinner date. This was her first mistake. There was a picture of Cal and Fifi when they were together back in his Premier League days; in it, Cal was very buff and Fifi looked as though two bald men were having a fight down her very tight dress. Cal’s eyes were practically out on stalks.
Love Rekindled? screamed the headline.
Devastated by the departure of his long-term girlfriend, Callum South will be comforted this Christmas by old flame Fifi Royale.
“Fifi Royale my arse,” seethed Gemma. “Everyone knows her real name is Jane Clark.”
Anyway, never mind Fifi Fluff-Brains. Where was Aoife? None of this made any sense. Bewildered, she read on with the article, which was her second mistake. It was a lot of made-up nonsense about how Cal and Fifi had been torn apart when he went to play for the Dangers while she pursued a Hollywood career, and how she was spending Christmas with him at Kenniston Hall as they rekindled their romance. A so-called body-language expert had analysed the picture and declared that they were “sizzling”, and a pretty pseudo-psychologist had assessed their chances of love success – “very high”, apparently. Even though she knew it was all rubbish, most of it probably dictated line by line by Fifi’s agent, just reading it made Gemma feel ill. The thought of Cal with anyone who wasn’t her was unbearable.
“It’s a load of bollocks,” she said, slamming the magazine back on the table. “This is exactly why I didn’t want us to be involved with the show anymore.”
“And if Cal was seeing her, you’d be upset?” Demelza asked. “I mean, you’ve told us it’s over, but that’s not the impression I have.”
“He was seeing Aoife!” Gemma cried. Her head was spinning with confusion.
“So you say. He denies it,” Demelza said, wiping her hands and turning her attention to the potatoes. Kirsty, who was eyeing Gemma rather warily, abandoned the magazine to help.
“Technically you’ve left him, so technically he’s not doing anything wrong even if he is seeing her,” Dave pointed out. He hacked off another chunk of ham, chewing it thoughtfully before saying slowly, “Sis, you’ve left your man alone at Christmas with a glamour model who’s got boobs bigger than my head. I’m no expert, but I’d say that isn’t your smartest move yet.”
With a howl of despair, Gemma fled the kitchen and bolted up to her bedroom. Snatching up her mobile phone she saw that there were five missed calls from Cal and a rash of texts too. Before she could stop herself she was calling him back, a volcano of rage about to erupt.
Cal answered on the first ring. “Gemma, thank God, darlin’! I’ve been so worried.”
“I can tell,” Gemma said coolly. “Fifi and Aoife, Cal? I don’t know how you’ve had time to miss me.”
“Come on, Gems! That’s all bollocks, so it is. You know that.”
Gemma was prepared to concede that Fifi was nonsense, but Aoife? She hurled herself down on the bed and stared across at Robbie Williams, who was eyeballing her in a very cheeky way. God, thought Gemma, even Robbie was married and settled down these days. What on earth was wrong with Cal?
“So why was Aoife in the bakery?” she demanded. “Devon’s a bloody long way for her to go for a loaf of bread.”
Cal was silent for a moment. “I can’t tell you over the phone,” he said finally.
“Why? Are they filming you talking to me? Or is Anton Yuri tapping the phones now? That ex-KGB stuff wasn’t a rumour?”
“No, Gem, none of that. It’s just not something I can talk about while I’m here. I need to tell you in person. And I will, as soon as the show is in the can, I promise. Can’t you just come back here until then? As soon as the New Year arrives it’s all going to be different, I swear.”
Not this again. “So you keep saying, but in the meantime you won’t give me a good reason why your ex, who you claim to never see, was caught on camera, or why you were meeting her secretly. I’m referring to Aoife by the way, Cal, although I guess I could have been talking about Fifi Royale too.”
“Aoife or Fifi? Aw, Jaysus, come on Gemma, make your mind up. Which one am I meant to be shagging?” Cal asked wearily. Gemma could picture perfectly how he was tugging at his curls in frustration. “I know it looks bad but I love you, Gemma, and everything I’m doing, everything I’ve done, I’ve done because I truly thought it was best for us.” He paused and, when she didn’t reply, sighed. “Clearly I was wrong.”
Gemma was quiet because she was too sad to speak. She loved Cal too, but there was so much that seemed to have got in the way recently that she wasn’t sure how they could ever get past it. This certainly wouldn’t happen while he was so many miles away and on the end of a phone. They needed to be together so that they could talk – really talk, and properly too, without the distractions of other people or the business. All these snatched half-conversations, with more things left unsaid and silences all too quickly filled by doubts and shadows, were part of the problem. Suddenly Gemma knew what the answer was.
“Come here, Cal,” she whispered. “I miss you so much. Please babe, just get in the car and come to the farm. It’s Christmas Eve and I want to spend it with you. That’s all I want. I don’t care about birthdays or presents. I just want us to be us again.”
But no sooner had she said this than Gemma knew she was wasting her time. It was the same discussion they’d been having for months.
“I can’t,” Cal said with another sigh. “You know I can’t. I have to appear in the live show tomorrow. It’s–”
“In your contract; yes, I know. You keep telling me.” Gemma closed her eyes in defeat. “I know you can’t break it.”
“I don’t want to break it!” Cal said. He sounded annoyed now. “Sure, and I’d hoped you knew me a bit better than this, Gemma. When I give my word and make a commitment, I keep to it. It doesn’t mean I love you any the less. In fact, it means I love you more.”
“So much you can’t or won’t explain why your ex-girlfriend has mysteriously arrived now I’ve left?” she shot back.
“Feck, I know it looks bad but I’ll explain about Aoife the next time I see you, Gemma. I promise. It won’t be long.”
Gemma walked to the window and looked out over the countryside. It was twilight now; bats were flitting from the barns and a slice of moon hung over the hillside, throwing silvery beams across the roof of the Tremaines’ house on the far side of the valley. Rob’s smiling face flashed through her vision. If Cal could spend time with Fifi and Aoife, then why shouldn’t she spend time with an old school friend?
“Fine,” she said. “We’ll talk after Christmas.”
“You could come back here?” Cal suggested hopefully. “I know Mammy can be a devil at times and the kids are a bunch of gobshites, but we miss you, we really do. I miss you, Gems. We could have Christmas together, just you and I, once the show is over. Celebrate your birthday properly? Sure, I’ll even try that handcuff thing again if you like?”
Gemma almost laughed before she remembered that she was cross with him. Cal was very good at talking her around; the Blarney Stone was probably yet another thing he’d snogged behind her back.
“Cal, until you can tell me why you were secretly seeing your ex and lying to me, there is no you and I.” Gemma was adamant on this and she wasn’t backing down. “If you can tell me right now what’s honestly been going on then I’ll jump in the car and drive to Kenniston straight away. Can you do that?”
There was silence and Gemma’s heart sank like a stone tossed into the creek. That was her answer then.
“I’ll tell you when I see you,” Cal repeated. He had a stubborn streak, that was for sure, and Gemma had often been a little afraid that he was more like Mammy South than she’d realised. “Just watch the show tomorrow, Gemma. Please? We’ll talk afterwards.”
He wasn’t coming. She’d pleaded with him, told him what she
needed to know, but Cal hadn’t budged an inch. He’d refused yet again to explain why he was seeing Aoife, and it was clear to Gemma exactly where she stood in Cal’s list of priorities. Watch the show? The show that had driven them apart?
She’d rather be locked in a broom cupboard with Mammy South!
“Happy Christmas, Cal,” Gemma said softly. “I hope you have a lovely day.”
Before Cal could draw breath to reply, she ended the call. When the phone rang back almost instantly Gemma turned it off and shoved it in a drawer. There it would stay, she resolved, with a determination that actually surprised her. She guessed her tears were all cried out now. Besides, Cal had made his choices clear. He could have told her the truth about Aoife – and if there’d been an innocent explanation, Gemma was sure he would have done. Why else would he carry on prolonging this misery if there was any other solution? It made absolutely no sense. He really must have had an affair with Aoife.
Well, to use a seasonal metaphor, what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander, Gemma decided. Who said that she had to spend Christmas and her birthday on her own? In a couple of hours she would be in the pub with the newly gorgeous vision that was her old friend Rob, drinking mulled wine, listening to Slade and without an Irish mammy or ex-girlfriend in sight. She didn’t need Callum South to have fun, did she?
It was time she had a bath, dug an old party frock out of the wardrobe and got into the Christmas spirit. After all, a girl was only thirty once.
Chapter 19
Although Gemma’s heart still twisted every time she thought of Cal, being in The Schooner on Christmas Eve with Rob Tremaine was certainly making her feel much better. With her mobile stowed safely in her bedroom drawer, rendering her totally incommunicado, and all dark thoughts of Cal and Aoife forcefully shaken off, Gemma was determined to enjoy her evening out.
The pub, a crumpled stone building with crazy sloping floors and low dark beams that had been the undoing of many a tall and drunken visitor, was on the bank of the River Fowey and a hotspot for locals and second-homers alike. In the years that Gemma had been away, The Schooner, like much of Cornwall, had undergone a radical transformation. Having previously been a dark and cave-like smoke-filled haunt for fishermen and farmers, who’d usually gathered by the end of the bar playing dice or eating bar snacks, it had undergone a makeover and was now whitewashed, airy and lit softly with LED spots and white fairy lights. The sausage and chips in a basket, which had been Gemma’s personal favourite, were long gone; instead, chalk boards in swirling cursive script boasted the kind of gourmet menus more often seen in Kensington. Even the cider, which had once been a local scrumpy so potent it could double as an anaesthetic should the need arise, had been exchanged for pear or cherry imposters in funky corked bottles.
Escape for Christmas: A Novella (The Escape Series Book 2) Page 16