Andi found herself thinking that if life was one of Angel’s pink books with shoes on the cover, this was the point where her stomach should turn into melting ice cream and her heart should start to flutter at his shy lopsided smile. Then she’d notice the sharp planes of his face and the perfect bone structure of his skull beneath the moleskin-short haircut, before her eyes drifted down to take in a muscular, tee-shirt-clad chest and strong legs below board shorts. Yes, in the world of Angel’s books Andi would probably fall head over heels in love. But because this was the real world and right now she liked men about as much as Superman liked Kryptonite, all she could think was Step away from my FT, buster!
“Please, you take it,” he said, offering her the pink sheets. “My brother-in-law asked me to pick it up but he’s supposed to be having a break from work. To be honest, I’ve no idea why he needs the FT when he’s on holiday. Kicking drugs must be easier than quitting the world of business!”
Andi laughed in spite of herself. “To be honest I don’t need it either. Please take it.”
The man shook his head. “If Mel catches Simon working while he’s supposed to be on the family holiday she’ll probably file for divorce! You’ll be doing my nephews a favour.”
The paper was held out. Andi touched the pink pages tentatively.
“Really?”
He nodded. “Really. Or else it will all be your fault when they get divorced and the boys have a broken home.”
Andi couldn’t have that on her conscience.
“I’d better have the paper,” she agreed.
Leaving FT man flicking through a copy of Closer – this issue with a red-faced Callum South plastered all over the front – Andi made for the till, only to discover that her purse was totally empty. For a few dreadful seconds she ransacked every possible pocket and hiding place where a shy tenner could lurk, but no luck. Her final ten-pound note, all the money she had in the world, had vanished – and Andi had a good idea where to. Angel must have swiped it and her change when she borrowed Andi’s purse to buy her magazines.
Andi felt as though she was under water. It really had all gone to hell in a handcart now that the sum of her worldly goods could be spent on Heat
“I’m sorry,” she said to the shopkeeper, feeling dangerously close to tears all of a sudden. “I seem to be out of cash.”
“We have a cash machine here, my love,” the shopkeeper said helpfully. “And we take cards.”
Andi thought she’d probably have more luck going down to the beach and coaxing blood out of the pebbles than getting her Visa card to play ball.
“I’ll have to leave it,” she said, her throat tight. “I’m really sorry.”
Abandoning the paper on the counter, Andi dashed out of the shop. Once outside in the bright sunshine she blinked rapidly and tried to slow her jagged breathing. This was just a blip. Things could only get better – or at least she bloody well hoped they could. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and started to walk down the main street towards The Wharf Café. Once she’d found her sister and wrestled her money back, Andi was going to buy herself a big glass of wine and drown her sorrows. And if that failed she could always hurl herself in the estuary.
“Excuse me! You forgot this!”
It was the man from the shop. He caught Andi up and was brandishing the FT at her.
“I didn’t pay for it,” Andi said awkwardly. “I forgot my money. You’d better take it back.”
He smiled and she noticed how his eyes crinkled at the corners. He must smile an awful lot. “Don’t look so worried; I haven’t nicked it. I bought it for you.”
Andi stared at him. Why would he do that? Why was he being kind? Was he some sort of nutter? It would be just her luck to meet the local loony only minutes into her stay.
“I promise I’m not a crazy stalker,” the man said hastily, accurately reading her expression. “It’s just that I can see how much you want that paper and how upset you seemed when I nearly took it. Look, if it makes you feel awkward, how about we share it? There’s a little boatyard up the road that has a café. It’s not posh, I’m afraid, but we could get a coffee and you can read the paper. Then I’ll take it home.”
“I can’t let you do that,” Andi said, flustered. “Besides, I thought your sister would file for divorce?”
He laughed. “I doubt she means it, Mel’s been bossing Si around since they were teenagers. She’d be lost without him to nag. Still, I’m prepared to take the risk. How about you?”
He paused expectantly. The paper hovered above her fingertips. Then, as though it had a mind of its own, Andi’s hand took it.
“Phew!” he said, miming mopping his brow. “My ego was in serious danger there! I’m Jonty, by the way.”
“Miranda,” she told him. “But everyone calls me Andi.”
“So, Andi, what do you say? Will you let me buy you a coffee?”
She paused. Down the hill Gemma and Angel would be posing in The Wharf Café, Angel tossing her hair extensions and waiting for a celebrity or millionaire to wander past. Andi supposed she could join them and ruin things by sitting there like a black cloud or she could go for a quiet coffee with this kind stranger, her knight in shining newsprint.
It was one coffee, that was all: one coffee, which she couldn’t even afford to buy herself. Coffee and a read of the financial pages. So why on earth not?
After all, what had she got to lose?
Chapter 11
“How brilliant is this?” Angel asked, raising her coffee cup at Gemma. “Here’s to our summer! Cheers!”
“Cheers,” Gemma echoed, chinking her cup against Angel’s. She took a sip of ice-cold Chardonnay and could have wept with happiness. Honestly, it hardly seemed real that only this morning she’d woken up to the rumbling of traffic and beneath a leaden sky and now she was sitting on a roof terrace with nothing but the cry of the gulls in her ears and a light southerly wind lifting her curls.
Although it was a midweek afternoon the terrace was rammed with people, all of whom had that rosy glow that came with endless days spent on the water and middle-class wealth. Bright Seasalt-branded bags sat bulkily below the metal-legged tables, Mulberry satchels were slung casually over the backs of chairs and an array of prints by Joules, Cath Kidston and White Stuff prints were jumbled together in a laughing and glamorous patchwork. Tanned feet, as smooth and as brown as butterscotch, were thrust into expensive deck shoes and Gemma instantly wished she wasn’t wearing her stinky old Skechers that had seen better days. She’d forgotten how Rock had its own look, a curious blend of the shabby but expensive, and she suddenly felt self-conscious in her elasticated-waistband jeans and George hoody. Everybody looked so ridiculously glam and thin! She seriously had to diet.
Gemma pushed her packet of hand-cut salt-and-balsamic-vinegar crisps away. She really needed to get her eating under control and this was the time to start. For a moment her hand hovered over the packet before she caved in. It had been ages since lunch and they didn’t have any food for supper. Until she went to Bodmin’s branch of Asda, these crisps were all she had. It would be silly to waste them.
As she munched away Gemma noticed that although Angel also stuck out like a sore thumb in her tight white jeans, glittery pink vest and sky-high wedges, she seemed totally oblivious. Sipping wine and scrolling through the contact list on her iPhone, Angel was every bit as at home among the moneyed, nautical set as she was trawling the boutiques of Kensington. Fake tanned, false eyelashed and sporting a full face of make-up, she was glammed up to the nines and pretending not to notice the admiring glances thrown her way by practically every guy in the place. Project Rich Guy was clearly go.
Gemma sighed. She may as well as have been wearing Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak. That was what being fat did for a girl. If only she could chance upon Callum South’s production crew, or even the man himself. This was the key to solving all of her problems, she was sure of it. Unlike Angel, Gemma had no hopes that Prince Charmi
ng was about to roar by on his Sunseeker and sweep her off her feet. She was so heavy she’d probably sink his boat. No, for Gemma the path to fame and fortune was not going to come from being beautiful. She was going to have to get herself noticed in a different fashion. She was going to have to be creative.
Angel drained her skinny latte and set it down with a resolute thump.
“Right, there’s nobody in here worth hanging about for,” she said dismissively. “Just lots of day trippers and holidaymakers. How about we shoot across to Padstow and see what’s going on at Rick Stein’s?”
Gemma, tired after her long drive, didn’t think she could face queuing for the ferry and then fighting her way through the hordes in Padstow. Besides, she’d promised to check in with the Tregartens, the owners of their caravan, before it got too late. She knew that as soon as Angel was in Padstow she’d be tweeting selfies outside the world-famous seafood restaurant and updating her social network site non-stop with pictures and micro blogs. Then she’d probably hit the shops for another few hours before settling herself down prettily at the harbour side in case a passing millionaire showed up to give her a lift back to Rock on his superyacht. Having a fat friend in tow was only going to cramp her style.
“I think I’ll go and check out the caravan,” she began – but was swiftly cut off.
“Ssh! Are you crazy! Don’t mention that here! Or anywhere, in fact.”
Gemma was confused. “Mention what?”
Angel lent forward. “The C word,” she whispered. “Caravan. We don’t want anyone knowing we’re living in a caravan.”
They didn’t? This was news to Gemma. “Why not?”
“Because we want to fit in. Look around you. Do you think anyone in here is staying in a caravan?”
Gemma glanced around. The café crowd, groomed and glossy as corn-fed ponies, looked as though they had stepped out of the Fat Face catalogue, via Boden. Most of them would be staying in the stunning second homes strung out like charms on Pandora bracelets, along the coast from Rock to Daymer Bay. These people had probably never been in a caravan in their lives.
“The point is,” Angel continued, her eyes taking on the kind of glint more commonly associated with religious fanatics, “that we look as though we are exactly the same as them. If we make sure we’re eating in the right restaurants, even if it’s just a starter at Jamie Oliver’s or chips from Rick Stein’s takeaway, then we’re going to be mingling with the right crowd. If I wanted to hang out with people who go camping I’d have gone to bloody Glastonbury!”
Gemma wasn’t convinced. “I thought we were here to get on Callum South’s show?”
Angel flipped her new blonde extensions (the end result of yet another maxed-out credit card) back from her shoulders and scooped them up onto her head in an untidy updo that was instantly the pinnacle of messy chic. If she lived to be a hundred years old, Gemma knew she could never pull off that kind of skinny grunge glam. Feeling a familiar stab of despair she crammed another handful of crisps into her mouth and munched hard.
“Babes, that’s more your thing than mine, being an actress and everything,” Angel said kindly.
“You mean you’re already skinny and I’m a fat lump,” said Gemma thickly through her crisps.
Angel sighed. “No, I mean because you have your heart set on that show. I’m looking for something different, something for me. I’m not sure what that’s going to be yet but I do know I won’t find it sitting in a café eating carbs. I need to be seen in all the right places. The kind of guys I’m hoping to meet won’t be in here all day any more than they’ll be at Butlins. They’ll be out in their boats, eating at Stein’s and cruising around in supercars. I need to make sure that’s where I am too. Even if I’m just having a glass of fizzy water in the yacht club then at least I’ll be in the right place.”
Gemma stared at her. “So let me get this right. You’re only here to look for a rich man? Forty years of feminism and it’s come to this?”
Angel shrugged her slender shoulders. “It was good enough Kate Middleton.” Her smooth brow pleated. “Maybe I was too hasty dropping out of uni?”
“You were at UCL, not St Andrews,” pointed out Gemma.
“True. Anyway, I’m not saying that I’m not looking for love either.” Angel crossed her fingers under the table. The last thing she needed was love. That only complicated things, as far as she could see. Look how much her mother had adored Alex Evans – it hadn’t exactly done her any favours. And Andi was as bad, breaking her heart over that bloody Tom. No, as far as Angel was concerned it was Project Rich Guy all the way from now on in. If he happened to be a pop star or even a footballer that was fine by her. She wasn’t going to be totally fussy. “But it’s time I set my sights a little higher. Besides, I think if I try to break into any more private estate I’ll end up doing time!”
The girls laughed. In the corner of the café, just in the shade and sitting alone, a slender man with long floppy hair the colour of treacle looked up. Catching Gemma’s eye he smiled and raised his glass. A chunky watch sat snugly on his wrist and designer sunglasses were pushed back into his hair. Angel was seemingly oblivious, but Gemma felt herself start to do a beetroot impression. Oh God. She was simply hopeless at all this flirting and impressing stuff. In fact, Gemma decided, she actively hated it. She much preferred it once you were actually settled into a relationship, when all that insecurity had vanished and you both knew exactly where you stood. Then you could cosy up on the sofa watching DVDs and eating curry to your heart’s content, wear your pyjamas and not worry whether or not somebody liked you. In the morning you’d wake up all snuggled up together before wandering into town hand in hand to have a bacon sandwich or maybe a pastry.
Oh God. No wonder she was so fat. Even her romantic fantasies involved grub. Maybe she should just get off with the Little Chef and be done with it? It was just as well she was here to try and get herself featured on a weight-loss show.
“Anyway, probably best you do stay around,” Angel said, fishing change out of her Radley purse. “Andi won’t be far away and I don’t like to think of her being on her own at the moment. She’s having a tough time.”
Gemma nodded. She didn’t know Andi that well but she sympathised with her and had been trying really hard to cheer her up the best way she knew how – by cooking delicious cakes.
“She knows where we’re staying,” Angel added, “but if I know my sister she’ll probably be trying to get a signal on her BlackBerry and figure out what the FTSE’s doing or something. Let’s hope she can kick back a bit here or else we’re all in trouble.”
Having settled the bill, the girls parted: Angel headed down to the beach to hop on the water taxi while Gemma meandered back through the town. It had been several years since Gemma had last visited and she was surprised by how many new buildings had appeared. Several old timber-framed houses had vanished and vast glass and wood structures had sprung up in their place, their windows blinking in the late afternoon sunshine like bright eyes enjoying unrivalled views over the town. Outside them on immaculately raked gravel drives Aston Martins nestled next to Range Rover Sports and funky new Beetle convertibles, the Rock teenage driver’s weapon of choice. Warmed by the sun and charmed by the views that met her at every turn like a living tapestry, Gemma spent a happy couple of hours wandering through the town. Not once did she bump into Andi, which surprised her because the town wasn’t very big. Gemma had heard Andi crying quietly the night before and she really felt for her friend’s sister. She’d soaked a few pillows herself when Nick had dumped her. It wasn’t nice. Maybe Angel’s practical approach did make more sense?
Gemma was just about to retrace her steps to the car, via the beach again just in case Andi was there, when the smell of pasties stopped her in her tracks. For a second she was transported back to her mother’s kitchen, doing her homework at the old oak table while Demelza Pengelley fried up onions, swede, potato and beef in an ancient skillet. Just the thought of how the g
olden pastry rose in the Aga made her mouth water. Oh God. A real Cornish pasty! Not one of those limp and pallid imposters they tried to fob her off with in London! Gemma’s stomach rumbled. Maybe she should buy one just as a welcome-back-to-Kernow treat? One wouldn’t hurt, would it?
It was as though her feet had a life all of their own. Before she even knew what she was doing Gemma found herself following the meaty aroma through the main street and up a tiny side road, so small and narrow that she might have overlooked it if she hadn’t been so intent upon her quest. Up the street she walked, her strides gaining a pace that Davina, Josie and Jordan’s workouts had never inspired. At last she saw it: a shop with a small steamed-up window and faded awning shimmering in the evening sun like a mirage.
Rock Cakes.
Cakes, buns and sausage rolls; Gemma didn’t care about those right now. All she knew was that she had to get to those pasties! She had to sink her teeth into the soft pastry, feel it crumbling and flaking against her lips, gasp when the hot air puffed against her tongue.
Who needed men when there were pasties in the world?
Like an Olympian only seconds from the finish line, Gemma picked up speed. Nothing mattered now except getting her hands on those pasties. She’d buy one each for Andi and Angel too. That wasn’t being greedy: it was finding dinner.
If Gemma could diet half as well as she could make excuses she knew she’d be a size zero by bedtime…
Three steps, two steps, one step and she was there! Almost giddy with relief, Gemma launched herself at the door, seconds away from her goal and fuelled by a ferocious hunger. In seconds she would be biting down into pastry…
But unfortunately Gemma’s pasty vision stopped her from actually looking where she was going. Just as she shoved the bakery door open a plump man was stepping out of the shop, his arms filled with fat sweating packages and boxes of cream cakes. The door slammed into his stomach with such force that the goodies he was holding flew into the air. Sausage rolls, saffron buns and éclairs rained a calorie shower; cream splattered the floor and pastry drifted like flaky autumn leaves.
Escape for the Summer Page 9