Escape for the Summer (19 page)

The bank manager came scuttling across the foyer, a pair of Ray-Ban Aviators clutched in his hand. Angel looked up; she simply couldn’t help herself. The bank manager had uttered the magic words “My Lord
”
. Hadn’t she just known all along that this man was something extra special? Seriously. She must have some kind of super power when it came to guessing these things!

“Thanks,” said the mysterious aristocrat, taking them and perching them on the top of his thick mane of hair. “It would have been an absolute bore to have to drive all the way back from Kenniston Hall for those.”

Angel’s ears were on elastic. Sending up a quick prayer of gratitude to the God of Wi-Fi, she typed
Kenniston Hall
into Google and very nearly squealed with excitement when her search revealed a picture of a massive Palladian mansion, complete with rolling parkland and enormous lake.

Jackpot alert!

It was time to roll the dice…

Looking up from her phone Angel caught the man’s eye and threw him her brightest smile. It was so high wattage it made searchlights look dim – and, of course, he smiled back.

“Bank managers who retrieve sunglasses,” she remarked. “I’m impressed with Wadebridge.”

“It’s not exactly Coutts,” the man said thoughtfully, “but the service isn’t at all bad. I lose count of how many pairs of shades I mislay, so it’s good to have these back.”

Coutts? This was music to Angel’s ears. She slipped her iPhone back into her bag and rose gracefully to her feet, flipping her long hair over her shoulders. Angel didn’t need L’Oréal to tell her she was worth it: she already knew she was.

The man held out his beautifully manicured hand. Even his arm looked aristocratic. A chunky Rolex sat above his slender wrist – although the time was wrong, Angel noticed.

“Laurence Elliott,” he said. “Viscount Kenniston.”

She let him take her hand. His was cool, the fingers soft and strong. Angel was instantly reassured. These were not the hands of a labourer. Laurence Elliott was the real deal. His index finger skimmed across her palm and deep inside her a pulse quickened into life, although whether this was from his touch or his title Angel wasn’t certain.

“Angelique Evans,” she said, tilting her head so that she could smile up at him. Goodness, but his eyes were grey. “But my friends call me Angel.”

“That’s because you look just like one?” he asked. Then, looking at the expression on her face, he groaned. “Christ! How cheesy was that? Can we start again?”

“You’re not going to ask if I fell out of heaven?” she deadpanned.

For a moment he stared at her. Then when she started to giggle, a crescent-moon dimple appeared in his left cheek and he began to laugh.

“Sorry, sorry! Look can we start over? I don’t think that went so well,” he said. “I’m not normally quite so gauche. I’ve seen you in Rock a couple of times and I’ve been thinking of ways to introduce myself. Can’t say I’d imagined ballsing it up quite so spectacularly!”

He’d been thinking about her? Angel wanted to punch the air. Yes! Ignoring the good-looking guys always worked; they weren’t used to it and couldn’t bear it. Still, it didn’t do to give her jubilation away, so she just widened her blue eyes and made an o of surprise with her mouth. She’d practised this a lot in the mirror and she knew it looked cute.

Viscount Kenniston certainly looked as though he thought she was cute.

“Listen,” he said, still holding her hand and gazing down at her with those stormy sea eyes, “my finances are just about able to support us going and having a glass of fizz together. Have you got your chauffeur with you or can I drive you back to Rock?”

Angel could safely say that she hadn’t got her chauffeur with her, which wasn’t a lie – Gemma was far too busy with her urgent cake delivery.

“I just asked to be dropped off,” she said. “I think a glass of champagne and a lift home would be just wonderful.”

Laurence jingled his keys. At the thought of that stunning Aston Martin, Angel’s stomach flipped with eager anticipation. Andi, the bank and their money worries were instantly forgotten.

This was why she’d come to Rock!

Chapter 19

The sun was already high in a cloudless blue sky when Gemma pulled up outside Valhalla.
She was glad she’d decided against walking to Callum’s house because the day was hot and she didn’t think the heat would have done any favours for her gorgeous cake. Safe in its Tupperware box it sat tucked in pride of place on the front passenger seat, a work of art with its careful cream piping and beautifully arranged berries. Gemma was sure that as soon as Cal tasted a mouthful he’d forget to be angry with her. They’d get talking and before long he’d understand how much she needed to be on the show. It was all going to fall into place; she just knew it.

In the meantime, though, Gemma had to work out just how she was going to get the cake to Callum, something she hadn’t really thought about until she parked the Beetle outside a pair of the most enormous electric gates she’d ever seen. Nearly ten feet tall and topped by elaborate wrought-iron spikes and razor wire, they wouldn’t have looked out of place on Buckingham Palace. The security cameras, which instantly swivelled in her direction, were like something from Bond, and a thick and impenetrable privet hedge ringed the entire property. Flipping heck, Cal’s security people weren’t messing about, that was for certain. This place made Fort Knox look half-hearted.

Carrying her cake, Gemma made her way to the giant intercom. All those cameras trained on her made her skin prickle with nerves. Invisible eyes were watching her every move and this made her feel very uncomfortable indeed. Gemma couldn’t help wondering how she must look on the CCTV. TV added at least ten pounds and at the minute she could hardly afford to put on another ounce. Much as she loved the summer, Gemma dreaded the inevitable baring of flesh that accompanied the warm weather. It was all very well if you were slim and leggy like Angel and Andi, but no fun at all for those who were slightly more generously proportioned. Already she could feel the tops of her thighs chafing beneath her shorts and her bra biting into her back, making odd bulges appear, alien style, beneath her vest. Gemma wasn’t even going to think about what her dimpled arms and legs looked like in black and white; they looked horrific enough in colour. Maybe she could pinch some of Angel’s fake tan? Having a tan was supposed to be slimming.

Anyway, if today went according to plan none of this would matter. She’d soon be signed up for the show and losing loads of weight. Buoyed by this thought she tucked the cake box under her arm and pressed the intercom.

“I’m here to see Callum South,” she said. “I’ve got a delivery for him.”

There was crackle and a pause at the other end. With her free hand Gemma tugged her vest down over her stomach. Were they watching and wondering who the fat girl at the gate was?”

“One minute, we’ll be with you.”

There was a buzz and a click and, as though by magic, the vast gates swung open. Gemma gasped. Beyond was a stunning garden, all jewel-bright azaleas and smooth emerald lawns leading to the house itself. She was sharply reminded that Callum was more than just the plump guy from the bakery – he was a Premier League star with the dizzying wealth and status that came hand in hand with this.

And she’d brought him a
cake?
What the hell had she been thinking? This wasn’t a good idea at all! This was lunacy!

She was contemplating turning on her heel and making a break for it when a tall man appeared at the gate. He was smartly dressed in chinos and a mink-coloured shirt and was wearing mirrored shades that reflected her round face in all its pink and sweaty glory. There was a walkie-talkie in a holster at his hip, which for a second she’d thought was a gun. Bloody hell. Callum had serious security. No wonder he was so keen to sneak off to the bakery when he was undetected.

“Can I help you?”

Gemma gulped. She doubted it. She was beyond help, possibly certifiably insane.

“I’ve brought a cake for Callum.” She held out the box hopefully but the man didn’t make any move to take it. Rather, he just stood there until, feeling foolish, she tucked the cake box back under her arm.

“A cake?” He said, sounding astonished. “Is this some kind of a joke?” He stepped forward and loomed over her. Gemma gulped nervously. She hoped to goodness that
was
a walkie-talkie.

“Are you from the press?” he continued. “Is this another bloody tabloid
wind-up?”

Gemma shook her head. Did journalists regularly visit Callum South with cake?

“No. Definitely not. I bumped into Cal by accident and I knocked his shopping over.”

The man stared at her. “His shopping?”

“In the bakery? I knocked his cakes and pasties everywhere. This is my way of trying to make it up to him. I’ve made Cal a cake to apologise. Seeing as I ruined his, it felt like the right thing to do.”

She had to admit that said out loud it sounded crazy, even to her own ears. Last night this had seemed a brilliant idea, the logic so sound that even Mr Spock would have been awed. In the cold light of day, however, her plan suddenly seemed to have more holes than the trawl nets on Padstow quay.

The man removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose hard. If she had to describe the expression on his face, Gemma would have said it was despair.

“You think you met Callum in town?”

“I did,” Gemma insisted. “In the bakery!”

The man exhaled slowly. “The bakery. That’s just great. The one time he goes running on his own he’s in the sodding bakery. I
knew
we should have sent the team out with him. God only knows what he’s eaten. This could set us back weeks.”

“He dropped it all,” said Gemma. “I don’t think he got to eat any of it. But surely that’s up to him?”

He fixed her with a very sharp look. “I’m Mike Lucas, Callum’s manager, and he doesn’t do anything first that he doesn’t run by me.
Anything
. Not when we’re on a shooting schedule this fucking tight, and especially not when he’s signed a contract with ITV2. What was he eating? I need to know everything he had!
Everything
! Do you understand? “

Gemma understood far too well. Oh crap. She’d just dropped Cal in it, well and truly. He was filming a weight-loss show and was probably under some heavy contract not to eat a carb or so much as sniff at a cream bun.

“You have seen the press this week, I take it? Callum stuffing his face in KFC? PR disaster,” Mike Lucas continued. “Does he look like a man who needs any more cake?”

In Gemma’s opinion everyone needed cake; it was just that some lucky people could get away with eating more than others. She was just about to make her excuses and do a runner when the sound of pounding trainers and the rasp of heavy breathing announced the return of Callum from yet another jog. Today, however, he wasn’t alone but was accompanied by a film crew and none other than Emily, the spiteful brunette from Gemma’s disastrous last photo shoot.

Sometimes Gemma really wondered what she’d done wrong in her previous life to deserve all the crap constantly being hurled at her in this current one. Whatever it was it must have been something very bad indeed, because here she was looking like a Beryl Cook character, her hair all frizzy in the heat – and hot and bothered from just carrying a cake several feet – while Emily looked amazing in her teeny tiny running shorts and crop top, with her hair pulled sleekly in a long swingy pony tail. Cal appeared much the same as he had the day before. Those sun-kissed curls and the sleepy downturned eyes were instantly recognisable, but the doughy body and rippling chins made it seem as though the golden boy of soccer was melting away into himself.

Oh God. How could Gemma have been such an idiot? The last thing Callum South needed was a cake. Cakes were what had got him into this state.

Callum’s trainer – a Twiglet-like woman with no boobs, who was bouncing alongside him – was putting him through some final exercises. Callum appeared to be on the verge of collapsing. His face was puce and the back of his tee shirt was sodden with sweat. In contrast Emily looked as though she’d been for a stroll in the park. More proof, Gemma decided sadly, that skinny people were genetically engineered in secret labs and nothing at all like the rest of the human race.

“Come on Cal,” barked the trainer, “put your back into it! We’ve only been for an amble along the beach. You used to outpace Beckham and run rings round Rooney!”

Callum grunted. As he bent, his midriff rippled and Gemma couldn’t help thinking that the only rings he’d run around anyone these days would be doughnut ones.

“Suck the air into your lungs! Feel alive!”

Cal looked as though he was only just managing to resist giving her the finger. He didn’t appear to be “feeling alive”; he seemed closer to expiring.

“God, if the rest of the lads at Dukes Rangers could see you now they’d piss themselves laughing,” the trainer jeered. “Callum South, the golden boy of football, can hardly run along a Cornish beach without an entire sewing machine’s worth of stitches in his side! It’s pathetic! Now, stretch!”

The cameras were rolling and although she knew that a lot of this OTT boot-camp style drilling was purely for the benefit of making good telly, Gemma’s heart still went out to Cal. His running kit might state that RefreshZing – Britain’s number-one sports drink – sponsored him, but in reality he was a far better advert for Greggs the Bakers.

“Cut all that out for a minute,” Mike barked. As if by magic, everyone stopped in their tracks. Cal, bent double and with his hands braced against his knees, looked up. When he saw Gemma an expression of abject horror flickered across his face.

“This girl claims she met you in the bakery yesterday,” Mike said. He placed his hand in the small of Gemma’s back and gave her a shove forwards. “She’s here with a cake? Something about needing to replace your food? Is that true? Were you in that bloody bakery again?”

All eyes were on Gemma. The cameras too. She suddenly felt as hot as Cal looked.