Escape for Christmas (5 page)

“So where exactly are we going?” Angel asked. The lane was dropping now at some rate and she touched the brakes several times rather anxiously. The trees either side of the lane had knitted together over the years. In the summer Gemma knew that it would be the most beautiful emerald canopy through which speckles of light would dance and play. The now skeletal hedgerows would be verdant and starred with ox-eye daisies or plumed with valerian. On a mid-December afternoon, though, it felt as if they were driving into a bony cage, and Gemma shivered in spite of the heated seats in the car. She hoped that her memories of the last time she’d visited, a kaleidoscope of images as brightly coloured as any of the prints sold in the nearby gift shops and galleries, weren’t influenced by the heat of the midsummer sun and the whisper of Cal’s lips against her throat…

“Hello? Earth to Gemma? Where exactly are we going?” Angel changed down another gear. “Thank God for four-wheel drive. I thought we were looking at a cottage, not going on a Land Rover safari! This is like driving down Everest!”

Gemma raised her eyebrows in despair. “Stop being such a townie! This is nothing; it’s more of a slope than a hill. The cottage is just at the bottom. It’s on a creek which leads to the River Fowey, so that’s why we’re going downhill.”

“Bit inconvenient,” said Angel, which was ironic in the supreme, coming from a woman who lived at Kenniston Hall – which although beautiful and historically significant had to be the most inconvenient place in the world, in Gemma’s opinion. Boiling kettles to fill the bath was not her idea of fun. And if the Domino’s deliveryman got the Stag Gate and the Lion Gate confused, you went very hungry indeed.

Anyway, this cottage wasn’t about being convenient. It was about being the right place for her and Cal to make a proper start on their life together. The closer the car got the more Gemma’s stomach started to pancake-flip. Any moment now and the car would break out of the trees; then they would pull up by the shimmering waters of the creek. This was where Penmerryn Cottage slumbered, half forgotten while the river and the seasons changed. It was a tumbledown boatman’s dwelling, where she and her brothers had played as children. Later on, as teenagers, they’d camped here with friends during the endless summer holidays, drinking scrumpy and swimming in the cool river. It was a place apart from the rush of the outside world and somewhere the press and the cameras would never come looking. Somewhere they could put down roots and build a future.

This place was perfect for her and Cal. Gemma just knew it.

She’d always known it.

Earlier in the year she and Cal had managed to wangle a rare few days away from the business. The show had been on a break and Cal’s deputy baker, Adam, had been itching for the chance to prove himself. So they’d packed a bag and hopped into Cal’s Range Rover on a road trip. The sense of freedom as they’d driven out of the Lion Gate and headed towards the sinking sun had been intoxicating. They’d laughed and chatted non-stop, the tension of work slipping away with every mile that fell behind them. They’d made an adventure of the journey and had ended up staying at random bed and breakfasts along the route, Cal joking that by the time they crossed the Tamar he’d be dreaming in chintz and have an urge to build a fine collection of china figurines.

The final stop on their mini road trip had been a night with Gemma’s parents, which saw Cal sleeping in the guest room and Gemma safely tucked up in her old teenage bedroom. Tiptoeing around in the dead of night at Penmerryn Farm was not a good idea, because the house had an intricate network of creaky floorboards that needed negotiating in the style of Catherine Zeta-Jones in
Entrapment
and, more importantly, because farmers tended to be up at the oddest hours.

The next afternoon Gemma’s mother had packed for them a Famous Five style picnic of hardboiled eggs and doorstep sandwiches of crusty homemade bread, thick yellow butter and chunks of ham, and Gemma and Cal had headed off for a walk.

It had been a perfect English summer’s day. The sky had been a cloudless, duck-egg blue and the air had trembled with the calls of wood pigeons. In the distance a combine harvester had been trawling a sea of wheat, and as Gemma and Cal had walked down the lane hand in hand, two riders had clopped past, tinting the air with the smell of citronella and hot horse. A heat haze had shimmered ahead of them – or maybe, Gemma had thought, this was the attraction between her and Cal, visible only to them and hotter than the parched earth beneath their feet. In the distance, the river had been sparkling in its hilly cleavage, the water shining brightly and calling them to come and swim.

“Jaysus, is there much farther to go?” Cal had grumbled, but the twinkle in his eye had shown he wasn’t really complaining. “The picnic basket’s bloody heavy, so it is. Your mammy’s gone mad.”

“She loves feeding people up,” Gemma had said, poking her own midriff ruefully. “It’s just as well we’re only here for a short time.”

“You look gorgeous: good enough to eat,” Cal had told her. “Never mind the fecking food; I want to nibble you!” And then he’d put the hamper down, folded Gemma in his arms and kissed her so long and hard that by the time they broke apart food had been the last thing on either of their minds.

Then Gemma had had a brainwave and, grabbing Cal’s hand, had steered him through a scalped cornfield, along a shady bridleway and finally out through the dense knot of trees to a crumbling shell of a boatman’s cottage that was drowsing near the cool blue water of the creek. The granite walls were smothered in ivy and embroidered with convolvulus, and apart from the warning cry of a blackbird the place was completely still. An old rowing boat was pulled up on the mudflats and a jetty listed drunkenly beside it, black stumps of wood still embedded in the silt like rotting teeth in a neglected mouth. The air was rich with the smell of salt and wild garlic, and the sun was hot on their skin.

“Jaysus,” Cal had breathed, drawing Gemma alongside him and holding her close. “What a stunning place.”

“Do you like it?” Her heart had seemed to wait for him to reply before it could beat again. Penmerryn was one of her most treasured secrets, and she wanted so much for Cal to feel the magic too that it almost hurt.

Cal had gazed around him. His eyes, when they’d met hers, had been bright with wonder. “It’s fecking amazing, Gem. Magical, so it is.”

Of course he got it. He was Cal. He totally got her too.

Hand in hand they’d explored the place, clambering over the fallen rafters and peering up the chimneys into the blue sky beyond. Then, like children, they’d stripped to their underwear and plunged into the chilly creek, shrieking at the icy water and splashing each other until they were soaked.

“Come over here,” Cal had said to Gemma.

He was standing in the middle of the creek now, his face split with a huge grin and his curly hair beaded with droplets. Gemma had swum towards him, a leisurely breaststroke rather than her usual slicing crawl, then looped her arms over his neck and wound her legs around his waist. She’d felt his hardness in spite of the cold water and shivered.

Cal’s eyelashes had been starred with water droplets and his strong shoulders were dusted with cinnamon freckles. He’d pulled her closer and rubbed his nose against hers.

“I love you, Gemma Pengelley,” he’d said. “More than I ever knew I could ever love anyone.”

He’d kissed her then and they’d sunk under the water, surfacing again afterwards with gasps of laughter.

“Come on,” Gemma had said. “I’ll race you! Last one back sorts the picnic!”

This had hardly been a fair challenge. Cal was a dreadful swimmer (he’d barely mastered a splashy kind of doggy paddle), whereas Gemma had been the school champion. But the water was shallow, and within seconds they’d been staggering onto the weed-strewn riverbank. Gemma had been just about to do a victory dance when Cal had shot past her.

“Last one back to the house,” he’d called over his shoulder.

Now who wasn’t playing fair? Cal might have quit professional football and been a few stone overweight, but he still had an athlete’s speed. Gemma could no more catch him up than she could fly to the moon.

“That’s cheating,” she’d complained when she’d joined him inside the cottage.

“I won, which means I’m the victor and I get to claim my reward.” Cal had put his hands on his hips and given Gemma a look that had dusted her with goosebumps, even though she was standing in the bright sunshine. “Now, me darlin’, how about we get you out of those wet things? You’ll catch your death, so you will.”

He’d stepped forward and unhooked her bra with one hand. Just how did boys learn to do that? Gemma had wondered. Was there a special class they had to go to at school? Then Cal’s mouth had been on hers and all thought had been rendered useless as she’d melted into him. He’d lowered her tenderly onto the tartan car blanket that the Pengelleys had used for years as a picnic rug, and as his lips had travelled from the tender skin of her neck to her breasts, the scratchy wool and the hard edge of a twig pressing into her bottom had become just as much a part of the pleasure. The birdsong, the blue sky above the rafters and the smell of honeysuckle and garlic flowers had all mingled with the sensation of his lips and hands, and the vision of the brown eyes flecked with gold that held her own. Every movement had been bliss and every touch had sent her spinning and shimmering to a place she’d never thought she would find.

Later – much later, as the sun had begun to slide behind the jagged roof and the house martins had dived above them – Cal and Gemma had tucked into their picnic. Even though the bread had been curling, the ham had been dry and the Coke had been warm, nothing had ever tasted so good.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” Gemma had sighed, resting her head on Cal’s shoulder. “No crews butting in, no alarms; just you and me.”

“We could build a bakery here,” Cal had nodded. “Sure, and wouldn’t that outhouse be a grand spot for it?”

“And over there is my kitchen, for the cakes.” Gemma had pointed towards the back of the house. “The afternoon sun lights it beautifully. A glass roof would be perfect here, so that I can lean against my red Aga and watch it set over the river.”

“Red Aga?” Cal had dropped a kiss onto her nose. “Why red?”

Gemma had shrugged. “Just a crazy dream, I guess. I saw one once in a magazine and it seemed like a cosy colour.”

“Then you shall have one,” Cal had declared. “And I’ll have a boat. We’ll rebuild that jetty too.”

And they’d sat curled into one another, imagining the wonderful things they could do with the house, until the shadows had pooled around them and the bats had begun flitting above their heads. The walk home had been quiet and reflective, their kisses tender rather than urgent now, and by the time she’d fallen into her narrow single bed, Gemma’s eyes had been closing. The next day had been the drive back to Kenniston and the world of schedules, early starts and filming, but their perfect afternoon had stayed fresh in her mind. Sometimes all she needed was to smell wild garlic and she was right back in the ramshackle cottage, safe in Cal’s arms and with his soft Irish voice spinning her those magical tales.

Maybe they didn’t have to be tales? As the Defender bumped down the final stretch of rutted track that led to the cottage, Gemma was fizzing with excitement. This cottage was going to be for her and Cal. They’d be so happy here. It was meant to be.

“Oh!” Angel exclaimed, pulling on the handbrake so hard that the car almost span. “There’s somebody already here. Look, there’s a BMW parked up. And didn’t you say the place was a ruin? It looks to me like someone’s been really busy doing it up.”

And just like that, all of Gemma’s happy dreams came tumbling down around her ears, as though Fate had pulled the crucial block from her Jenga-like tower of secret hopes. Balanced on the window ledge of what Gemma had imagined might one day be her kitchen, and leaning against the brand new sparkling glass, was a sign. A sign that read
SOLD
.

Chapter 5

Gemma was disappointed but hardly surprised. Of course the cottage had been snapped up. Perhaps she ought to be astonished that it hadn’t been sold years ago to some enterprising property developer. After all, wasn’t Cornwall one of the most expensive places in the UK now? The Jamie Oliver and Rick Stein effect, combined with the influx of recession-proof City bankers with mind-boggling bonuses, had meant that across the county dilapidated barns and tiny former fishermen’s cottages had been pimped up to unrecognisable standards. Cornwall’s mild climate, Caribbean-style beaches (if you ignored the freezing water that turned unwetsuited bodies blue in minutes, obviously) and breathtaking beauty made it the number one desirable spot for second homes. In winter you only had to pop to Rock – that Mecca for the wealthy, with its chic bistros and fabulous property – to see the tumbleweed blowing down the main street and all the shops shut up until Easter. The Cornish couldn’t afford Cornwall any more.

There was a tight knot in Gemma’s throat. She was too late. The cottage had been bought by some rich couple from up country, and it would be Emma Bridgewatered and Cath Kidstoned before you could say shabby chic.
The inside would be fashionably distressed – unlike the Lion Lodge, which was unfashionably distraught – and filled with bleached driftwood, stripped floorboards and calico sofas. There’d be a seaside theme too: maybe some blue and white stripy curtains, and on the white walls big splashy John Dyer prints of seagulls with yellow feet flying high above bright fishing boats. The spot where she and Cal had made love all afternoon would be long forgotten and buried under a kitchen floor of the finest Delabole slate, maybe with a bright rag rug laid over it for the obligatory chocolate Labrador to sprawl across. There would be an Aga too, no doubt: a giant cream affair shipped in as a fashion accessory rather than to cook on. Why cook when Truro had wonderful restaurants and Fowey was just a short boat trip away? Gemma didn’t need to step out of the car and peek through the window; every second home she’d ever visited followed a variation on this theme, as city folk hired designers to create the perfect seaside getaway.