Escape for Christmas (8 page)

There’s a rational explanation, she told herself while her brain went into overdrive imagining the very worst. Deep breath, Gemma! Breathe! Maybe he was looking at bloke stuff? Guys did that, didn’t they? (And after all, hadn’t she just taken a bestselling mummy porn novel upstairs with her?) Or maybe when the fuse blew the computer had reset itself somehow? She supposed that was possible. There was nothing sinister.

Hating herself but unable to stop, Gemma navigated to Cal’s personal email, breathing a sigh of relief when she was able to get straight in. If there were any problems then she knew that he’d have changed the password. Feeling horribly guilty for spying on him, she closed the browser and shut the laptop hastily. Lord. What was getting into her? This lack of sex business was making her paranoid.

There was only one thing for it: she needed to change this situation – and change it soon, before she went mad. Maybe Angel had been onto something after all? Reaching into the lilac carrier bag, she removed the Mrs Santa outfit, the handcuffs and the can of whipped cream that Angel had insisted she buy when they’d stopped at Bodmin Asda for fuel. Quite what that was for was anyone’s guess. Finally, she drew out that iconic book with the innocent tie design and deceptively dull grey cover, and nervously flipped to the first page. There was no putting this off.

It was time to see whether Christian Grey had any good ideas.

Chapter 7

The slamming of the front door, followed by a loud thud and a shout of “Feck!”, announced Cal’s arrival home from the big house and roused Gemma from a doze. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep – this was far too risky with all the tea lights and candles that she’d lit and placed in what was a hopefully romantic trail from the hall all the way up the stairs to the bedroom – but the sexy Mrs Santa costume was skimpy to say the least and she’d burrowed under the duvet to prevent hypothermia.
Fifty Shades
was all very well, but Ana and Christian’s red room of pain was bound to have been centrally heated, and pneumonia wasn’t sexy even if it was painful.

“Jaysus, don’t tell me the lights have fused again?” she heard Cal grumble. “It’s like living in a fecking Dickens novel!”

Charles Dickens was
not
the author she had in mind right now, Gemma thought with a little shiver of anticipation, although she did have
Great Expectations
for some
Hard Times
!

Earlier that evening she’d read a few chapters of
Fifty Shades,
before running a cold bath
(which was probably a good thing) and shaving and scrubbing and exfoliating every inch of her body. Then she’d smothered herself in the dregs of her Coco Mademoiselle moisturiser before squeezing herself into the red and white mini dress and fur-trimmed hat. Golly, it was tight, and it the way it squeezed her boobs up and out made her look like a porno version of Nell Gwynne – but then maybe that was the point? It didn’t entirely cover her bottom either; craning her neck to see her back view in the mirror Gemma noticed that it showed far too much cellulite for her liking. Maybe once Cal clocked her boobs her wouldn’t notice this? The candlelight should help too.

The thump of Cal’s footfalls on the stairs galvanised her into action and, cranking up the fan heater, she fluffed out her blonde curls and arranged herself on the bed in what she hoped was a seductive manner. Whipped cream? Check. Handcuffs? Check. Edible body paint? Check. Gemma took a deep breath. This was it. Time to surprise her man.

“Miss Pengelley will see you now,” she called huskily. Wow, with her acting background it was much easier than she thought to get into this role-play stuff. Maybe Angel was onto something?

“The lights downstairs are working, Gem. What’s with the candles?” Cal strode into the room, flicking on the main light and instantly destroying her carefully thought out and flattering lighting. For a nanosecond he and Gemma blinked at each other, dazzled by the sudden glare of the one-hundred-watt bulb, before Cal started laughing.

“Sure, I knew it was cold here but I didn’t know we were in the North Pole! Hello Santa! How the feck did you manage to get down the chimney?”

He couldn’t have chosen a worse comment to make. With a howl of misery Gemma leapt off the bed, beyond caring now whether or not her wobbly bits were on show, and, slamming home the bolt, barricaded herself in the bathroom. Tears poured down her cheeks, ruining her carefully applied make-up and washing away one of the false eyelashes that she’d spent ages gluing into place. In the mirror a red-faced, red-suited figure in a too-tight cheap polyester frock stared back her, her silly hat flopping just like her hopes. God, no wonder he’d laughed. She looked an absolute state. It was a joke to even think she could pull this off. What would look sexy and cute on size-eight Angel only made Gemma, a size-fourteen girl with boobs and hips, resemble lumpy porridge poured into a dress.

Slamming down the toilet lid and collapsing onto it, Gemma buried her face in her hands. No wonder he didn’t fancy her anymore. She was a joke.

“Aw, Gemma, will you come out?” Cal was saying through the crack in the door.

“You laughed at me,” Gemma choked. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so humiliated in her life, and as a girl who’d once modelled control pants this was saying something.

“I didn’t mean to laugh, darlin’. You just took me by surprise. I was wondering if there were any little elves hiding in the wardrobe, so I was!”

Normally Cal’s humour worked a treat when he’d been a typical bloke and done something wrong, but today Gemma was failing to see the funny side.

“You said I was fat!” she cried.

“I did not!” Cal said, sounding offended. “You’re not fat. You’re bloody gorgeous.” This was followed by a hollow slapping sound, which Gemma knew was him walloping his own tummy. “I’m the one in the chub club.”

“It’s different: you’re a guy and you look great and everyone fancies you,” Gemma shot back. “Didn’t
Cosmo
have you as one of their top-ten sexy TV chefs?”

He laughed that lovely dark-chocolate laugh that usually made her insides ripple. Today, though, her insides were a millpond. Cal was not getting away with this.

“Sure, and isn’t that all bollocks, Gem?”

“So why say I’d never fit down the chimney?”

He bellowed with laughter. “Because it’s capped, you eejit!”

Ah. Gemma hadn’t thought of that.

“You’ve got to stop being so hard on yourself, Gem. You’re gorgeous and I love you just the way you are,” Cal continued. She heard his back slither down the door and his weight thump onto the floor. “Ouch. I must be getting old, so. I’ll just sit here, so I will, until you come out. Only don’t take too long; it’s fecking freezing out here.”

“I’m not coming out.” Gemma figured that she had a loo, the fan heater and water in the bathroom. She could outlast Cal. He’d be an ice lolly in ten minutes.

“Ah, come on, Gem. I’ll make it up to you.” He paused and then started to laugh. “You can be Santa and I’ll be Rudolph! I’ll unwrap your presents!”

“That isn’t funny at all!” Cal was lucky he was locked outside, because this quip had lit the touchpaper of Gemma’s anger. “I was trying to do something nice! I was trying to act out a fantasy!”

“By dressing as Santa?” Cal sounded totally bemused by this. Although she couldn’t see him, Gemma knew that he’d be tugging at his corkscrew curls anxiously. “Jaysus, Gemma, central heating and calorie-free cake are my fantasies these days.”

“That’s the point! We never seem to have time for each other anymore,” Gemma sobbed. Both false eyelashes were gone now, sitting on the cracked lino like soggy spiders. “You’re always busy working and I hardly see you.”

“We see each other all the time. We live together,” Cal protested.

He really didn’t get it. Passing in the hallway or bumping into one another by the microwave did not count as
seeing each other.

“Proper seeing each other,” Gemma sniffled. She yanked off a length of loo roll and blew her nose loudly. Ouch. The cheap stuff was like sandpaper. If she kept this up for much longer she really would be Rudolph rather than Mrs Santa. “Like we used to.” She swallowed back a sob. “Like when we went to Cornwall that time.”

There was a brief silence and Gemma knew that Cal was remembering that perfect summer’s afternoon at Penmerryn Creek. She couldn’t see his face but she was certain he was smiling.

“Sure, and wasn’t that a magical time?” he said softly. “The best time ever, but there are going to be more. So many more, I promise. Please come out, darlin’. I can’t bear it when you’re sad.”

The loo roll was disintegrating in her hands and her bum was getting numb on the unforgiving toilet lid. Suddenly, being locked away from Cal didn’t seem such a great idea.

“Listen, Gem,” he was saying earnestly, “I know it’s been flat out and I know that I’ve probably spent far too much time working, but believe me, darlin’, I’m doing all this for us. Building the bakery and the brand is all part of the groundwork for our future. Even that daft TV show’s just another step towards a better life for you and me. Sure, and wasn’t it you who told me how much help the telly coverage would be for the business when we signed up for the first series?”

He was right. Gemma
had
been the driving force behind their signing with Seaside Rock,
but this had been back when she’d still thought she wanted to be an actress and before she’d truly understood just how intrusive Cal’s kind of fame could be. Nothing could ever prepare you for the devouring curiosity of the public or the exhaustion of always having to be on your guard. A fat day, a spot, an argument, a trip out without make-up – all these things were fodder for discussion or a story on a slow news day. Gemma still cringed when she recalled how she’d been papped pulling her skirt away from her knickers.

“I did try and warn you,” he said gently. “Reality TV is not your friend, Gemma, and there’s feck-all
real
about it either.”

In fairness to Cal, he had tried to explain that a season of starring in reality TV could be very long indeed. It was acting without a script, he’d said, and Seaside Rock would want their money’s worth. But Gemma – buoyed by Angel’s enthusiasm and, she had to admit, tempted by the money – hadn’t really listened.

“But you didn’t have to sign for the second series,” she said now, hating the whining note that was creeping into her voice. “You knew how I felt.”

“I did, Gem,” Cal insisted. He was starting to sound frustrated now. The ringlets would have been tugged into a crazy bird’s nest. “I know it’s been a mad rollercoaster of a journey, but I’ve loved every minute I’ve spent with you. Come on, we both knew this year was going to be insane, but it’s going to put us in a much stronger position. All we have to do is just ride it out and I promise you that next year everything will be different. We’ve got to get to the New Year and I swear on my mammy’s life and the holy cross that everything will make sense.”

Cal adored Mammy South. He was also a good Catholic boy at heart and wouldn’t make such a promise unless he really meant it.

“You really won’t sign again in January?”

“I swear I won’t,” said Cal. “Cross my heart and hope to die. Sure, and it’s nearly Christmas already, and then it’s only a few days until the New Year. Bear with me, Gemma; we’re almost there, so. This is my last ever brush with telly. After the first of January I promise that everything will look totally different. It’ll be just you and me and the bread rolls!”

That was all Gemma needed to hear. She slid back the bolt from the door and tumbled into Cal’s arms.

“You daft eejit,” he whispered tenderly, putting his hands on either side of her face and rubbing his nose against hers. “Never hide away from me again, OK?”

Gemma, gazing into his big Malteser-brown eyes, felt her anger melt away like butter on a hot jacket potato.

“OK.” She rubbed his nose right back and then Cal’s arms were around her, pulling her tightly against his warm, cuddly body. She nestled into his chest, loving the way he felt so right, so safe and so utterly, utterly him. When he tilted her chin up and kissed her with his lovely smiley Cal mouth, everything was right with the world again.

“Now then, Santa,” said Cal, a naughty twinkle in his eye as he beamed down at her. “I’ve been a very, very good boy all year! How about you let me unwrap my present?”

Maybe Angel was right about the costume thing after all, thought Gemma delightedly as, hand in hand, they headed for the bedroom. It was about time something more exciting than bread rose in the vicinity of her boyfriend! They dived under the duvets and kicked the hot-water bottle out of the way, and very soon baking was the last thing on Gemma’s mind…

An hour or two later, just as the Kenniston clock was chiming midnight, Gemma lay on her back, arms stretched above her head and with an ear-to-ear grin. Even the mould blooming on the ceiling and the clouding of her breath couldn’t dampen her good mood. Everything was wonderful! Nothing would go wrong now.

She should have tried this stuff years ago!

“I love you, Callum South,” she said happily. “Come here and give me a hug.

“Sure, I love you too, Gem,” he replied from the darkness, “and I’d love to give you a hug. There’s just one teeny-weeny problem. Oh Jaysus! Ouch!”

Now Gemma noticed that the shape under the covers was twisting and turning and making the strangest rattling noise.

“I’m still handcuffed to the bed head,” panted Cal, writhing like something from a Miley Cyrus video in his attempt to move. “Feck! I can’t get free. Where’s the key, Gem?”

Gemma switched on the bedside light. The sight of Cal wearing the fluffy Christmas handcuffs and her Santa hat would have been funny, but for one thing: the key to the cuffs was still in the lock and snapped in half.

Callum South, Premier League star and darling of reality TV, was well and truly handcuffed to the bed.

Chapter 8

One of the things that Gemma loved most about Cal – apart from the deep smile creases around his big brown eyes, the scattering of cinnamon freckles across his nose and his parmesan focaccia (which she really could eat until she was almost sick) – was his sense of humour. It was very rare that Cal wasn’t laughing about something and he could generally be relied upon to find the good and the absurd in most situations. Granted, she hadn’t really appreciated his jokes about Santa and chimneys, but that was to do with her own hang-ups. When he’d claimed that the handcuffs were still shut, her first reaction had been to giggle. It was only after electric light had flooded the room, and she’d seen for herself that for once Cal wasn’t joking, that the smile had withered on her lips.