Escape for the Summer (36 page)

“I won’t take no for an answer either,” Dee continued, “or any of your protests about how much there is to do here.” Hanging her pinny up, she turned her attention to a battalion of scones lined up like a curranty army on wire cooling racks. “These are all ready for the National Trust to collect, and I can decorate the cakes quite happily. Your job is to help yourself to a pasty, go through some of those positive mantras we talked about, then go and sit somewhere quietly to learn your lines.”

Gemma, who had been on the brink of protesting, paused. To be honest she could do with going over her lines before this evening’s rehearsal. The play was going exceptionally well and she loved every minute, but she really needed to nail tonight’s scene. The idea of returning to the caravan and hiding away with her copy of
Twelfth Night
was very appealing. Andi would be at work and Angel had gone away with Laurence, so if things had gone well, which they generally did for her best friend, Angel wouldn’t be back for a while. That meant that Gemma would have the caravan all to herself and plenty of time to mull over why Cal had jumped in to rescue her. Err… she meant to study the play. Promising Dee that she wouldn’t read another paper and would spend at least twenty minutes in front of the mirror doing her positive-thinking affirmations, Gemma set off for home.

It was a beautiful day and the sun was already hot. The small town thronged with holidaymakers, all intent on getting to the beach or onto the water; luckily for Gemma they were all headed in the opposite direction. Shouldering her bag and pulling out her tattered copy of the play, she set off along the street, eyes glued to the page and desperately trying to believe she was no longer in Rock but wandering through Illyria. With her hair falling over her face, sunglasses wedged firmly in place and her backside camouflaged by a long cardigan, Gemma was hopeful that nobody would recognise her. All she had to do was make it through the hordes surging along Rock Road, and then she could turn up the narrow lane that led past the golf course and head out of town to safety. If she got a few odd looks then hopefully it was because she was crashing into the tourists rather than because her arse was being recognised.

God, she thought as she charged through Rock with her eyes trained on her lines, why had she
ever
thought she wanted to be famous? Cal must be mad. This was no fun at all.

It was at this point, and almost as though she’d conjured him up, that a huge white Range Rover pulled up alongside her. A blacked-out window whirred down and Cal peered out at her. At least, she thought it was Cal; the huge baseball cap, scarf and dark glasses made it hard to tell. It could have been the danger stranger her mother had terrified her with for years. Instinctively she picked up pace.

“Gemma!” hissed Cal from behind several layers of scarf. “It’s me!” Leaning across, he flung open the passenger door and pulled down his scarf. “Quick! Hop in before anyone sees!”

Since they were in the middle of Rock, where the pavements were ten deep in tourists, it was probably already too late to worry about this, Gemma thought despairingly. Not that it was very likely that anyone would recognise the hat-and-scarf-swaddled driver, but the facts that these were in Dukes Rangers colours and that his number plate bore the legend CAL 1 were something of a giveaway. Glancing quickly over her shoulder just in case the paps were lurking by the ice-cream kiosk, Gemma took a flying leap into the Range Rover and huddled down into the seat. Cal slammed the door so hard her teeth rattled; then, with the wheels spinning in haste, he was tearing out of the town.

“You’ve seen the papers then – or are we just in a hurry to get lunch?” Gemma tried to joke, but the tight set of his lips told her that Cal wasn’t laughing. Instead, his brow was furrowed and his hands gripping the wheel were white-knuckled. Oh dear. Gemma supposed it was even worse for Cal than it was for her. So what if the whole nation knew she had a fat backside? It was embarrassing but hardly the end of the world, whereas Cal had built his entire career on being an action man. He practically had the swivelly eyes and grippy hands! His watery escapade didn’t exactly enhance his image.

“This is a nightmare,” he said.

Gemma sighed and stared bleakly down at her hands, still clutching the copy of
Twelfth Night
. “I’m so sorry, Cal.”

Cal shook his head. “I didn’t mean the press. That’s all bollocks. What I mean is this: the whole celebrity circus. Aw feck it, Gemma. I’ve had it.”

She bit her lip. “But if I hadn’t fallen off that bloody boat none of this would have happened.”

“None of this is your fault,” Cal said firmly. “So I was a total plank to try and save you when I can’t even swim that well myself, but I don’t regret that at all. I couldn’t have left you all alone in the water, could I?”

He couldn’t? Gemma’s heart soared to hear this and, glancing up, she saw he was looking sideways at her. Although the sunglasses hid his eyes, there was an expression on his face that she didn’t dare read in case she got it wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time. Gemma could translate Mandarin more easily than she could the workings of the male mind.

“In fact I forgot I can’t swim,” Cal confessed. “I just wanted to help.”

Help. Of course. He was a kind person. Thank God she hadn’t let herself think it could have been for any other reason. She exhaled slowly. “Well, thanks. That’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. Don’t listen to all that crap in the press. You risked your own life to save mine, and that makes you a hero in my book.”

Cal smiled back. “Then that’s all that matters.”

Gemma doubted this was true. “But what about the press?”

He shrugged. “Of course, it caused a riot when the story broke. My team have gone absolutely ape and Mike was climbing the walls when I left, but to be quite honest I’m almost beyond caring what they think. Feck ’em.” And feck the whole TV show too. I don’t care about any of that.”

They were clear of the town now and driving through the high-banked Cornish lanes, sunshine dappling the roads when it penetrated the tangled treetops above. Cal yanked off his cap and scarf, shoved the glasses onto the top of his curly head and wound the windows down. Instantly, cool fresh air, salted by the Atlantic and sweetened by honeysuckle, filled the car and Gemma took a big gulp. Gosh. She hadn’t realised how tense she’d been. She must have been holding her breath pretty much since she’d seen the headlines.

“But what I do care about is that you got dragged into it all,” he continued. “I wouldn’t have had that happen for the world.”

Gemma could have done without it; that was for sure. Still, none of this was Cal’s fault. If anyone was to blame it was that idiot Travis. If Gemma ever laid eyes on him again she’d tell him exactly what she thought. And if there was any water nearby she’d have a bloody good go at drowning him and see just how much he liked it.

“It’ll all blow over in a day or two,” she said gently, because Cal looked so downcast. The chirpy Irish chappie from the telly was nowhere in evidence. To try to cheer him up she added, “Honestly, something else will happen and then this will all be forgotten. It’s a non-story anyway.”

“I don’t give a toss about the story!” Cal said hotly. “I couldn’t care less what they all think about me.” He shook his head and raked a hand through his golden ringlets. Gemma suspected there had been quite a bit of this already today – the curls were in danger of turning into dreds. The look quite suited him.

“I’m sick to my back fecking teeth with it all,” he continued. “Being told what I can eat, where I can go, who I can talk to, what I can wear. Jaysus! It’s a miracle I can even go to the bog by myself. Everywhere I go there’s somebody trying to shove a camera into my face or sell a story on me. I tell you, Gemma, this celebrity stuff isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”

Gemma, who had spent the last ten years of her life believing that there was nothing she wanted more than to be famous, was starting to agree. Oh dear. That was seriously going to bugger up her career plans. Maybe she would stick to baking?

“But most of the time it’s fun, isn’t it?” she asked hopefully.

Cal’s usually merry face was drawn and lined, and as he gripped the wheel she noticed that his nails were bitten almost to the quick.

“Most of the time I’m so busy pretending to have an amazing time that I don’t really think too much about it,” he said. “That’s the key to it, Gemma. Don’t think, for Christ’s sake. Just keep going; pretend everything’s great and ninety-nine percent of the time it will be. Jaysus, I know I haven’t got anything to moan about but sometimes it’s all too much.”

“So do something else,” she said.

“Like what? I’m a fat, washed-up footballer with a massive house to pay for and a bloody expensive family to support in Ireland. My mammy would be broken-hearted if the family farm had to go.” Cal shook his head. “Gemma, I’m a fecking eejit. I’m mortgaged to the gills. I have to keep going.”

Gemma wasn’t buying this. She’d read
Hello!
and
OK!
enough times to know that footballers were loaded. After all, she’d yet to bump into Posh Spice in Primarni.

“You must have made loads when you were playing?”

Cal looked shamefaced. “Sure, sure, and I spent it too. Big houses, supercars and
Playboy
models don’t come cheap. Aw feck it, I’ll have to go on
This Morning
and grovel a bit about my hero image being a bit misleading. I’ll eat sodding lettuce for a month. I’ll let the Loose Women
take the piss. I’ll really diet hard and not cheat.” He paused thoughtfully. “Maybe the show could feature me learning to swim or something? Jaysus, they’ll have me in a rubber ring before I know it. And do you know the worst thing of all?”

Gemma didn’t.

“All I can think about right now is how hungry I am,” Cal said sadly. “There was no breakfast this morning. Mike said the sight of me in a wetsuit was enough to put the nation off its breakfast and practically had the fridge padlocked. I know that I’m shallow but, Jaysus, I am famished.”

He looked so miserable as he said this that there was only one thing Gemma could think of to cheer him up. They were on the A30, Cornwall’s closest thing to a motorway, which led to a very important place indeed – McDonald’s. In Cornwall these were rare, so whenever she chanced upon one Gemma stopped. You just never knew how long it would be until you saw another. Pasties were all well and good but when it came to a really good pig-out there was nothing quite like a Big Mac. As the road began to descend a steep hill and the Golden Arches loomed before them, Gemma knew it had to be a sign.

“Do you see what I see?” she said, pointing.

“Oh my God,” breathed Cal. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Big Mac meal, large fries and a strawberry milkshake?”

They stared at the vision in front of them. The car drew closer. There were only seconds to make the decision.

“Oh feck it,” Cal said, yanking the wheel so hard she nearly fell off the leather seat. “We deserve a bit of a treat after yesterday and all that crappy press. Big Mac here I come. I’ll diet tomorrow.”

“Me too,” Gemma promised, thinking ruefully of the costume she had to wear for Viola. Those tights showed every lump and bump. She really ought to try harder to lose that weight. Thank God Chloe hadn’t recognised her bum. Gemma had checked her phone several times but thankfully there were no missed calls or angry messages from her agent. She was safe.

Fully resolved to be good after this final calorific binge, Cal and Gemma headed to McDonald’s. While Cal, still clad in his disguise, bagged a corner table, Gemma queued and ordered. She glanced across at him, worried that he was attracting attention, but to be honest this was more likely to be down to the fact that he was wearing a scarf in July and shades inside. He must be sweltering. He was right, Gemma thought. Being a celebrity wasn’t much fun at all. While she squirted ketchup into tubs and grabbed as many serviettes as she could, Cal huddled down in his seat and tried his best to look unobtrusive. He wasn’t very good at it and several diners were looking over.

“Chill,” Gemma told him as she set the tray down. “Look around; there’s nobody here except holidaymakers and kids. Try and look normal. That way nobody will notice.”

“What’s normal?” Cal said bitterly.

Gemma rolled her eyes. “Two overweight people in Maccy D’s scoffing fast food, that’s what. Just look like it’s what we always do and nobody will look twice. Honestly.”

Looking nervous, Cal unwound his scarf. The glasses and baseball cap remained intact, though. She plonked herself down opposite him and raised her thickshake in a toast.

“Here’s to ignoring headlines and health-food freaks!”

“Amen to that,” Cal said, bumping his paper cup against hers. “I don’t know about you but I’m starved, so I am! Let’s get stuck in.”

So get stuck in they did, and Gemma didn’t think a burger had ever tasted so good or been so much fun. As they ate they chatted, dunked fries in ketchup and discovered that they both loathed gherkins. They were having such a good time that they failed to notice the man at the table opposite, who was tapping away urgently on his mobile and scribbling notes onto a tattered pad. It was only when he took a photo on his phone and the flash lit up the restaurant that Cal looked up in alarm. When he realised what had happened, the smile slid from his lips just like the relish sliding from the food held halfway to his mouth. Gemma, just on the brink of shovelling in the last of her fries, turned to see what had got his attention – and found herself blinking in the glare of several more mobile cameras.

Their eyes met in horror. The food fell from Cal’s grasp and frantically he tried to pull the cap low over his face. Everyone in the restaurant was looking his way, pointing and whispering.

“That’s Callum South!” somebody cried, and instantly they were surrounded.

Callum grabbed Gemma’s hand and tugged her out of the seat.

“Come on,” he said, his head bent low, “let’s get out of here while we can.”