Escape for Christmas (19 page)

Aoife and Cal might only be chatting about family and Ireland, but as far as Gemma was concerned they may as well have been having sex on the bakery’s worktops. It couldn’t be clearer that Cal was moving on.

Dee turned to Gemma. Her hazel eyes were glittering with anger.

“It’s lucky I’m a better baker than I am a life coach,” she said furiously. “Honey, I take it all back. That man doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt at all. What he deserves is a bloody big smack in the gob.”

And Gemma, with her chocolate biscuit melting in her shaking hand, couldn’t have agreed more.

Chapter 17

“Hiding in your bedroom isn’t going to make you feel any better, my girl. You’ve had a day of moping around. Now you need to get up and get some fresh air!

Demelza Pengelley ripped open the bedroom curtains and whipped off the duvet with the practised flourish of a woman who’d spent years rousing reluctant teenagers for school and making sure her husband was up at first light to milk the cows. Just for good measure she flung open the bedroom window too, so that frosty air laden with the tang of salt and seaweed from the estuary could give her daughter a good pummelling.

Gemma buried her face in the pillow. She’d been in bed ever since abandoning the torture of
the Christmas that should have been
in Seagull Cottage and fleeing home to the family farm. Quite honestly she didn’t see why she shouldn’t stay in bed for the next ten years. What was there to get up for? Her heart was in pieces and whenever she thought of Cal and Aoife together she felt sick. The last thing she felt like doing was getting some fresh air. All she wanted to do was turn her face to the wall and be left in peace to slip into a Catherine Earnshaw style decline. That’s what the heroines of all those gothic novels were allowed to do, so why not her?

But, unlike Gemma, most heroines of gothic literature didn’t have a Cornish farmer’s wife as a mother. Demelza Pengelley didn’t do moping or declining or feeling sorry for yourself. Instead she was a fully signed up member of the Snap Out of It school of thought. As a child Gemma had never been allowed to lie in bed, and that wasn’t about to change just because she was nearly thirty. She supposed she ought to count herself lucky she’d been left alone this long.

“Come on, love,” said her mother, a little less briskly. The bed creaked and sank as she sat down next to Gemma and put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “This isn’t doing you any good at all and it certainly won’t bring Cal back.”

At the mention of his name Gemma bit back a sob. Everything had fallen apart with such speed that she felt dizzy. Was it only a few days ago that they’d been scrapping over the hot-water bottle and having fun with the silly Santa costume? So much had happened since then, and none of it good. How had it all gone so wrong? Why was she in her old single bed in her teenage bedroom, surrounded by faded curling posters of Take That from the first time around and dusty once-treasured knick-knacks, instead of snuggled up in Cal’s arms under the eaves of Seagull Cottage?

After seeing Aoife on the show, Gemma had fired off a furious text to Cal, telling him exactly what she thought of him and his cheating ways. Anger-texting was always fatal, second only to drunken eBaying, and she had then waited for his reply, her nails practically chewed to the quick. When nothing came back she wasn’t sure whether to be even angrier or relieved. Now though, she was just sad to her bones because it was obvious that Cal didn’t even care enough to reply.

“It’s a beautiful day outside,” Demelza Pengelley was saying gently. Her work-roughened fingers rose to smooth Gemma’s hair away from her damp cheeks. “Sweetheart, I know you’re upset about Callum but lying in bed isn’t going to help; it really isn’t. Get up, have a shower and then go for a walk. You’ll feel better, I promise.”

Would she? Gemma couldn’t imagine how, unless she hurled herself Ophelia-style into the creek. Still, without her duvet to burrow under, bed was certainly less appealing, and the birdsong beyond the window was a better soundtrack than her own miserable internal monologue.

“And it’s Christmas Eve today,” added her mother. “The hunt will be out. You may even catch a glimpse of it if you walk through the woods. It’s a drag one these days, of course, but it’s still quite some sight.”

Hunting was a big part of rural life and Gemma’s father and brothers had all whipped in over the years. Gemma didn’t ride herself, but lots of her friends did and it might be fun to catch a glimpse of them. There was something very Christmassy about seeing hounds in full flight across the wintery stubbled fields, followed by riders in hunting pink, while the master’s horn sounded. Most of the village would already be at the meet, which was always held at the local pub, and by now everyone would be working through the mulled wine and mince pies and feeling very festive. She wondered whether Cal had finished his final batch of mince pies for that big hotel in Lyndhurst…

Oh no. Cal again. Gemma’s eyes filled anew. Would she ever be able to go more than a few minutes without thinking of him? It was like her brain had Cal Tourette’s and was determined to mention him at every available opportunity, whether she liked it or not. Maybe her mother was right? A stomp through the countryside might help. At least it would be some exercise. Lolling about in bed was all very well in fiction but in reality it couldn’t be doing her figure any favours at all. Even after several days on the heartbreak diet, the bottoms of her pyjamas were a little too tight, which seemed very unfair. Life really did have it in for her.

On the other hand, getting up and moving around suddenly felt as though it would require effort of Herculean proportions.

She closed her eyes. “Can’t I just stay here?”

“No you can’t just stay in bed! You are getting up, my girl, and doing something! You’re not just going to stay in bed all day moping about Cal.” Now the pillow was tugged away too, leaving Gemma nowhere to hide. Opening her eyes she saw her mother silhouetted against the brightness of the day, her hands on her hips and a determined expression on her face. “Listen to me, Gemma Pengelley! Have I brought you up to lie around sobbing over a man? Or are you made of stronger stuff? Where’s your girl power?”

Her mother looked so fierce that Gemma laughed in spite of herself. “I think it’s still in the nineties with the Spice Girls, Mum!”

“Time you dragged it into the twenty-first century then,” said her mother tartly. “Think about it this way: do you think Cal is lying in bed weeping about you?”

Gemma was trying very hard not to think what Cal might be doing in bed, but she had to admit that lying there sobbing over her was probably not high on his to-do list.

“So don’t give him the satisfaction of wasting a second longer on him,” continued her mother.

She could have been a little more sympathetic, Gemma thought. In fact, this went for her entire family, none of whom seemed particularly concerned that the love of her life had been cheating on her. Weren’t fathers meant to defend their daughters’ honour? She’d seen her father more upset when the Cornish Pirates lost a rugby game than he was when he’d learned about Cal.

“Ah well, you can’t odds it,” he’d said with a shrug, and that had been that. Matter closed.

Her brothers Dave and Kev, about as sensitive and subtle as Miley Cyrus’s wrecking ball, weren’t much use either. When she’d arrived home in a mess of tears and snot, Kev had just looked awkward and offered to take her to the pub, while Dave had been dim enough to start sticking up for Cal – before Demelza had shut him up with one of her famous looks. From that point on, no matter how hard Gemma had tried to get them to join in with a spot of Cal-bashing, nobody had seemed that bothered. Great. Thanks for the support, family.

“Now, I’m going into Bodmin to grab some last-minute bits from Asda,” Demelza was saying. “You can either come and push the trolley with me or you can go for a walk. It’s your choice.”

“Some choice,” Gemma grumbled. The thought of having her shins bumped and bruised by shoppers suffering trolley rage, and her eardrums assaulted by wailing children high as kites on E-numbers and pre-Santa excitement, was not appealing. “I’ll go for a walk.”

She hauled herself out of bed and dragged herself into the shower, where she attacked her greasy hair with some ancient shampoo and did her best to scrub the misery away with a flannel. By the time she was downstairs and drying her hair by the Aga, Gemma had to grudgingly admit that she did feel more human. There was something about being clean and dressed that made her feel slightly more in control and as though she was returning from the strange twilight world of sobbing. The churning, washing-machine-on-spin-cycle sick feeling was receding too, and she even managed to eat a bacon sandwich. She checked her phone several times but there was still no message from Cal. However, there were three from Angel, asking her to call. Gemma’s finger hovered over the read button for a moment before diving to delete the lot. Much as she loved Angel, her friend had let her down too. Gemma knew that Angel would be aware that Aoife had been filmed, and she didn’t want to hear what her excuses would be for having Cal’s new woman on the show. With Angel it all came down to one thing, didn’t it? Pushing the ratings up and making more money for Kenniston. Friends clearly came into a poor second place these days.

Gemma stashed her plate in the dishwasher and, wandering into the boot room, selected the least filthy pair of Hunter wellies, an elderly wax jacket and a pink woolly Animal hat complete with earflaps. It was hardly the country shabby-chic look that Angel pulled off so effortlessly, but then Gemma wasn’t about to pose prettily by an Emma Bridgewater tea set for
Marie Claire
; she was going to stomp through a farmyard covered in cow muck, slosh through mud and stride across fields. If she looked like Elmer Fudd in drag then so be it. Besides, it wasn’t as though anyone apart from a rabbit or the odd crow would be looking.

Her mother had been right: it was a glorious winter’s day, with the low sun bright and the sky cobalt blue. Whistling to the farm dogs, Gemma set out along the bridleway that hugged her father’s big maize field for a mile before it climbed a hill and then plunged back below into a spinney. There was a fantastic view of the estuary from the crest of the hill; if you cricked your neck enough you could even see a slice of the sea and the higgledy-piggledy rooftops of Fowey. The sea always lifted Gemma’s spirits, and the more she climbed the better she felt. The dogs ran in front of her, zigzagging with great enthusiasm as they explored all the lovely scents, and sometimes streaking into the fields after a surprised rabbit.

Halfway up the hillside, Gemma paused to catch her breath and waited for the dogs to coming tearing back. She was higher now and could see down to where the green waters of the creek met the deeper blues of the estuary by Penmerryn Cottage. A black car was parked by the house and smoke coiled up from the chimney; Scary Bob Woman was in situ then. Gemma pictured the new owners arriving for their first Christmas there, all excited and London glossy, and tried her hardest to superimpose images of them unwrapping presents by a designer tree over her memories of being there with Cal. It didn’t work. All she could see was his face above hers, and the broken beams of the roof framing the blue summer sky before he leaned in and kissed her.

This wasn’t helping. Gemma turned her back on the creek and continued to climb. Soon her breaths were coming in sharp pants as the path grew steeper and she broke through the trees to the top. There was Fowey, a miniature toy town balanced precariously on the side of a steep valley, and just beyond it a blue slice of sea glittering in the winter sunshine. Maybe she’d drive there later on and have a last-minute look around the shops for Christmas presents? When all else failed, retail therapy was always an option.

At the top of the hill was another big field, fallow now but usually growing wheat that rippled like an inland sea during the summer months. The bridleway skirted it and then began a slow descent back towards the farm. Gemma was just meandering along, lost in her own sad thoughts, when the drumming of hoof beats announced a horse rider heading towards her at speed. She just had time to flatten herself against the hedge when a large grey hunter charged by, loud snorts piercing the stillness and egg-white foam flying from its mouth. The horse, spotting Gemma lurking in the hedge, did the most enormous sideways spook, but its rider scarcely moved in the saddle, collecting the animal with just the slightest closing of strong fingers on the reins.

“Shh, it’s OK, mate. I’ve got you,” the rider said gently. He leaned forward and smoothed the horse’s neck. “Ssh, Solo, steady boy.”

“Sorry; he saw me and I startled him,” Gemma apologised, stepping forward and squinting up at the person on horseback. The sun was low in the sky and as she peered up at the rider it was hard to distinguish his features against the brightness. She reached up and patted horse’s steaming neck. “That was some pace you were going at.”

The man grinned. “Solo and I are both scared of the dark, so we don’t hang about. Apparently there are all sorts of people lurking in hedges.”

Gemma smiled at his teasing. His voice was warm, a rich West Country burr mixed with a drawl she couldn’t quite identify. It certainly made a nice change from an Irish accent, she told herself firmly, and with his long muscular denim-clad legs wrapped around the horse and his strong arms containing over half a tonne of prancing animal, he was certainly easy on the eye. Was this a local guy then?

The horse stepped forward and the shade of the hedge fell across the rider. It was still hard to see who he was under the jockey skull, but his hair was an unexpected white blond and wide green eyes danced in a face that was surprisingly tanned for Cornwall in December. Bloody hell, he was hot, whoever he was. Sod the Victorian gothic novels. This was a Jilly Cooper hero come to life.

“Have you got far to go?” she asked politely, trying to ignore her skittering pulse. She was still broken-hearted, of course, but a girl could look couldn’t she?