Escape for Christmas (3 page)

Anton Yuri was the main shareholder in Seaside Rock,
Angel’s production company, and a Russian businessman so tough he made Putin look cuddly. Gemma wasn’t keen to fall out with him – she didn’t think being buried in a flyover would suit her – but she was even less keen to put up with another year of cameras and chaos.

She shook her head. “No way. I’ve told you, Angel, I’m really through with all that. Besides, I’m thirty in two weeks’ time. It’s time for a change.”

“Don’t say the ‘T’ word!” Angel, still a while away from the dreaded milestone birthday herself, shrank back as though the number was contagious.

Gemma shrugged. “There’s no point hiding from it.”

“There’s every point hiding from it! Why do you think Crème de la Mer make so much money? Anyway, you’re only as old as you feel.”

In that case she was probably about one hundred and thirty, Gemma reflected gloomily. She felt tired and grumpy, and even if she bathed in Crème de la Mer she didn’t think that would change.

“Do you want us to throw you a party?” Angel’s face was bright with enthusiasm. Salad forgotten about, she reached for her iPhone to start making notes. “We could feature it in one of the next episodes. Do you fancy hiring a fairground like that guy from One Direction did for his girlfriend?” Her finger hovered over the touchscreen. “We could ask his management who organised it.”

“I hate fairground rides,” Gemma reminded Angel. “I got sick on
It’s a Small World
when I went on the school trip to Euro Disney.”

“Ok then, how about fancy dress? That could be fun. We could have a theme.”

Only somebody who was slim and gorgeous could possibly think fancy dress was fun. Such parties normally threw Gemma into a total panic, as she not only had to come up with a costume but also one that hid her fat bits and didn’t give her cleavage Jordan would kill for. Add to this the horror of being paraded before the entire nation and Gemma thought she’d rather spend a night saying Hail Marys with Mammy South.

It was time to nip this in the bud before Angel got totally carried away and booked the Middletons to plan the party.

“I’m having a low-key birthday,” she said firmly. “Just Cal and me.”

“Spoilsport,” said Angel. “Be like that then. I was only trying to do something nice.”

“And boost your ratings,” said Gemma.

Angel raised her hands in mock surrender. “You’ve got me. But it could still have been fun. Being thirty is bad enough, in my opinion, and having a big party and lots of booze could take some of the sting out of it. When it’s my thirtieth Laurence had better do something spectacular to take my mind off it, that’s all I can say. He’s got enough time to plan it.”

“I just want to be alone with Cal,” Gemma sighed. In the back of her mind an idea was starting to form, and she began to feel excited. But before she explored this any further she knew she had to make it very clear to Angel that she didn’t want the kind of party that would make one of Elton John’s seem modest. She gave her best friend a stern look. “I don’t want any secret parties. Not one. I mean it, OK?”

Angel nodded, her attention diverted now by several people down in the street who were pointing eagerly up at the café window. She gave them a wave and a megawatt smile. Gemma gave up. Her best friend would never understand. She sipped her coffee thoughtfully and began to piece a plan together. She only hoped that Cal wasn’t thinking along the same lines, because that could make life tricky.

Angel, having finished waving, was busy tapping away on her pink iPhone.

“Laurence,” she explained, when Gemma glanced over. “Don’t panic; I’m not tweeting pictures of us. He’s missing me and wants to know when we’ll be back.”

Laurence texted Angel non-stop. Gemma couldn’t work out if this was romantic or just bloody irritating. In any case the iPhone chimed at regular intervals and usually caused Angel to giggle or blush. The two were certainly devoted, that was for certain, and Cal was always moaning that filming often got delayed because they kept sneaking off to snatch an hour’s nookie. There was no doubt that Angel had melted Laurence’s frosty aristocratic reserve. The episode when he’d sexted his mother by mistake had been hilarious. Not a lot ever shocked Daphne Elliott, apart from the hunting ban, and her no-nonsense reaction had been TV gold. Laurence had been red-faced for a day or two – but judging by the way Angel was now giggling and typing like crazy, he hadn’t been put off.

Gemma sighed. The Elliotts were so loved up, and although comparisons were odious she couldn’t help examining her own relationship in the glittering light of theirs. She really needed to do something to spice up her love life – and this was where her brilliant idea could come in. Fishing her own phone out of her Seasalt bag, Gemma’s heart lifted to see a text from Cal. See! They might not be bonking each other’s brains out non-stop but they had a bond, a true understanding that went far deeper than the physical. He was thinking about her just as much as Laurence was thinking about Angel. Smiling, she opened the message.

Don’t forget to bring back a real Cornish pasty

Oh.

That summed things up perfectly, didn’t it? Laurence sent Angel flirtatious and cheeky messages, whereas Cal just put in an order for supper. Something had to change and soon.

“What’s the matter with you?” Angel asked. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered like one of Asprey’s window displays. It was the look of a woman whose partner hadn’t just texted to ask her to visit the pasty shop.

Gemma slid the phone across the table. “You asked me how things were with Cal? I think this probably says it all.”

Angel scanned the text and shook her head. “Come on babe, that’s just Cal. You know he loves his food. Didn’t you guys meet in a pasty shop?”

This was true. Gemma had knocked Cal flying and his buns and sausage rolls had flown everywhere. Their mutual hatred of diets and love of cooking had certainly brought them together.

“Things haven’t been very romantic lately,” Gemma confessed. She didn’t want to tell Angel too much but maybe her friend would have some ideas? Laurence was certainly not thinking about pasties when he texted his wife.

Angel’s eyes widened. “Oh!”

“I know he’s tired,” Gemma said, feeling horribly disloyal. Cal would hate to think she’d been discussing their sex life with Angel. “And I know that the Lion Lodge isn’t the most romantic setting. It’s cold and damp for a start. Maybe that puts him off?”

“Bollocks,” said Angel sharply. “Kenniston’s bloody arctic and that doesn’t stop us. Best way to keep warm. Throw out that hot-water bottle, that’s my advice, then Cal will have to give you some action or freeze to death.”

The thought of parting with the hot-water bottle in mid December was enough to bring Gemma out in a rash.

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, because Angel had that look on her face, the look that meant she was cooking up an idea. Gemma knew that expression far too well. She’d seen it the day Angel had decided they should abandon London living and run away to Cornwall for the summer, and she’d seen it too when
Bread and Butlers
had been dreamed up. It was time to distract her friend before she invited a TV sex therapist to stay at Kenniston, or something equally embarrassing.

“I’m just moaning,” she insisted quickly. “It really is fine.”

“Don’t fib to me,” said Angel sternly. “I’m not your boyfriend.”

Gemma shrugged. “All couples go through phases like this.”

Angel looked like she didn’t believe this for a second. She bit her full bottom lip thoughtfully for a moment and then clapped her hands.

“Eureka! I’ve got the solution! I feel like Pythagoras did in the bath!”

“Archimedes,” Gemma corrected. “Pythagoras was triangles.”

Angel rolled her eyes. “Triangles, baths, whatever. Who cares? What matters, Gem, is that I have had a brilliant idea that’s guaranteed to put the spice back into your love life.”

Placing a twenty-pound note onto the table, she jumped to her feet and picked up her bag while Gemma stared at her with a growing sense of doom. It was too late: Angel was up and running with a plan.

“Come on, then! Don’t just sit there!” cried Angel when Gemma didn’t budge.

“Where are we going?” Gemma asked, warily.

But Angel just tapped her nose and winked. “Somewhere that will help you give Cal more than a cream horn! Trust me, it’ll be brilliant! Now come on!”

Fired up, her friend was already heading down the narrow stairs and out into the Christmas crowds. With a sinking heart, Gemma gathered up her bag and coat and followed her. Like it or not, it seemed that her love life was now well and truly in Angel’s beautifully manicured hands.

Chapter 3

“Pulse? This is your brilliant idea?”

Gemma stood on the pavement outside the Truro store, certain that her face was as red as the sexy Mrs Santa outfits in the window. All around her a tide of shoppers flowed through the town and she was dreadfully aware that her mother’s WI friends were probably among them. Cornwall was a surprisingly small place and Demelza Pengelley would know that her daughter was in a, shock horror, sex shop, before you could say buzzing bunny.

“Like duh! Of course!” Angel looked thrilled with herself. “Where else do you go when you want to spice up your love life?”

“A sex shop?” Gemma was poised to flee. Oh God! Was that Mrs Tremaine from the neighbouring farm, just crossing the road?
And what if her old English teacher came wandering by? She’d just die!

“Sex shop? What century are you in?” Angel grinned. “Haven’t you read
Fifty Shades of Grey
? This is all mainstream now.”

Actually Gemma hadn’t read the infamous bestseller – and she didn’t intend to, either. Call her old fashioned, but whipping didn’t really do it for her (unless you counted whipping cream for the delicious melt-in-the-mouth éclairs she made), and after several bossy boyfriends, being dominated held about as much appeal as tucking into a bowl of vomit. No, when it came to her reading material, Gemma was a Mills and Boon girl. She wanted her brooding alpha male and to be swept off her feet, but she’d rather he did it in a sumptuous boudoir full of drifting muslin drapes and plump cushions than in a room of pain – red or any other colour. Oh dear. Did that make her boring? Was that the problem? Was Cal bored?

She glanced at the window display. It all looked innocent enough from the safety of the pavement. The lingerie was frilly and cheeky and the fluffy handcuffs seemed rather fun. Gemma supposed that if she handcuffed Cal to the bed he couldn’t wander off to try out that new recipe for focaccia he’d just thought of. Much as she loved her baking, taking second place to a loaf was rather insulting.

“Pulse is fun! It’s supposed to empower women,” said Angel, sensing that her friend was weakening. She tugged Gemma’s arm hopefully. “It can’t hurt to just have a little look, can it? They do all kinds of stuff in there. Even chocolate body paint. I bet Cal would love that.”

Gemma laughed. Angel wasn’t wrong. “He’d eat the lot out the jar with a spoon before it ever made it to the bedroom.”

The door of the shop opened and two girls burst into the street, giggling and clutching lilac-coloured bags. They looked thrilled with their purchases and nobody outside batted an eyelid.

“See?” said Angel. “Shopping here is fun. There’s not a raincoat-wearing perv in sight, I promise. This is just a giggle, Gem, and the lingerie is gorgeous.” Her eyes took on the gleam of a religious fanatic. “Actually, I wonder if I could design a range for them? What do you think?”

What Gemma thought was
Oh crap!
That really was Mrs Tremaine across the road, and she was heading this way right now
.
In approximately ten seconds’ time she’d be within eyeball-touching distance and Gemma’s poor mum would never be able to look the church flower-arranging committee members in the eye again. Everyone in the village would know that her daughter was a hussy. People had long memories where Gemma came from, and her mother’s shame would be complete.

To Angel’s joy, Gemma shot forwards like a horse out of the starting gate and burst through the door and into the shop. Goodness, this must be exactly how Alice felt when she fell down the rabbit hole. There was even a giant bunny-style vibrator on a pedestal, surrounded by hundreds of his smaller siblings in a mind-boggling array of sizes and colours. The shop was dark and intimate, almost womblike, and lit beautifully so that all the products were easy to see and looked gorgeous. Christmas had certainly arrived here too: the festive theme was everywhere. Gemma’s eyes were out on stalks. Who ever knew that Santa’s Little Helper did
that
? And why were bits cut out of those pants? And call that scrap of lace a bra? You’d freeze wearing this lingerie at the Lion Lodge; some trusty old M&S thermals were much more useful!

“You are young in the ways of the Force,” sighed Angel, grabbing Gemma’s arm and steering her through the displays. She had a basket on her arm and was now merrily lobbing items in.

“A naughty teacher’s outfit?” Gemma said doubtfully. “I’m not sure that’s going to help. Cal left school at sixteen.”

“Don’t look so worried,” Angel said. “This isn’t all for you. Laurence deserves some presents too. The teacher outfit will drive him wild. It’s a public-schoolboy thing.”

“Too much information,” Gemma said, pulling a face. She glanced about the shop. “Look, can’t I just buy some frilly pants or something?” The underwear all seemed miniscule anyway; she’d look like the Pillsbury Doughboy caught cross-dressing, which was hardly going to turn Cal on, no matter how much he loved baking. “Maybe we should go to Evans?”

“Trust me,” said Angel, a phrase that always put Gemma on red alert. Fighting the growing feeling that this was a very bad idea indeed, she joined Angel over by the sexy Santa outfits. Her friend was flipping through the rails until she located a size that Gemma thought might just about cover her bum cheeks. Angel held the costume up against her friend, narrowing her eyes, then nodded sagely and added it to the collection.