Escape for the Summer (26 page)

In contrast, her relationship with Angel was anything but uncomplicated. Angel was more elusive than the Scarlet Pimpernel and Andi had spent days seeking her here, there and everywhere before eventually pinning her down. Finally she’d managed to find a window in Angel’s manic schedule to meet up for a coffee – her sister was so busy she made the Tasmanian Devil look chilled. So today, which was her day off, Andi was wandering through the town to meet Angel in The Wharf Café rather than relaxing somewhere with a book.

It was another glorious day, the British summer having come up with the goods for once, and a Selfridges-yellow sun was blazing down onto the town from a sky the bright blue of a child’s painting. Holidaymakers crowded the street, munching pasties – steak and Stilton or pollo con pesto, none of the bog-standard meat-and-potato variety here – and pouring into the shops. The beach was smothered with sun worshippers while the estuary teemed with all kinds of boats, from little tenders to flashy RIBs to graceful sailing boats. Andi paused at the slipway and watched for a moment, entranced by the moving picture. It really was a gorgeous day. Jonty was hoping to launch his boat for the first time that afternoon and said the smooth water and warm southerly breeze would make conditions out on the water absolutely perfect.

Andi was no sailor herself – Balham was a little short on places for boating, unless you counted floating paper ones on Tooting Lido – but she was surprisingly excited about this afternoon’s watery adventure. She’d enjoyed watching the little boat being coaxed back to life under Jonty’s loving care. His attention to detail bordered on perfectionism and when he worked there was such intensity to him that the air practically crackled. Andi had found herself wondering whether he applied the same attention and passion to everything he did, and had to bring herself up short. That train of thought was being derailed right now. The last thing she needed was another set of complications.

So, back to the business in hand, namely catching up with Angel and finding out exactly what her little sister was up to. This afternoon’s sailing trip, the picnic Andi was going to buy on her way back down through the town to meet Jonty at the beach, and the strange warm glow she felt whenever she thought about spending time with him – all these things would have to wait until later on. At this point in time her sister was her priority.

The Wharf Café was doing a roaring trade on such a sunshiny morning. As Andi queued for her latte she glanced around at the stylish clientele, all Musto sailing gear, Sebago deck shoes and hundreds of pounds worth of sunglasses perched upon immaculately streaked hair. Oh dear, maybe she was a little underdressed in her cut-off jeans, white vest and old DM sandals? At least she had shades wedged into her red curls (even if they were only a fiver’s worth from Asda) and a tan, albeit from tramping up the hills in the Cornish sunshine rather than lolling on a Kensington sunbed. Grabbing a paper and heading out onto the balcony, Andi reflected that it was just as well Jonty didn’t give a hoot about status symbols or how his coffee-drinking pal looked, because there was no way she could ever compete with this glamorous summer crowd.

As always, Angel was late, so Andi found herself a seat, ordered coffee and cake, and settled down with her paper. Being in Cornwall and staying in a caravan without a television or Internet access was like living on another planet. Angel and Gemma were suffering from serious Facebook withdrawal. For Andi, too, the outside world had started to retreat: she had no idea how long it was since she’d last read the financial pages or kept up with current affairs. She’d been far too busy working for Simon and spending time with Jonty to even think about buying the
FT
, let alone reading it avidly from cover to cover. Knowing from experience that Angel would be at least half an hour late, she flicked through the
Mail
, bypassing moral outrage stories and bonkers new education initiatives, until she found the financial pages. With her shades firmly in place and her face turned towards the sunshine, she lost herself in the old familiar language of facts and figures.

Andi became particularly engrossed in a piece about Safe T Net – apparently the company’s going public had rocketed the CEO, Mr Smug Sports Car, practically to the top of the UK’s rich list. According to the
Mail
, which Andi reckoned she had to take with a whole salt cellar’s worth of Cornish sea salt, he was now worth over five-hundred million pounds. Five-hundred million pounds? She rubbed her eyes until she literally saw stars. How on earth did anyone contemplate having that kind of money? And whatever would you spend it all on? Although the black hole of her overdraft still caused Andi to wake up in the small hours with a racing heart and an overwhelming sense of doom, she wasn’t sure she would like to have that amount of wealth. And almost overnight too. How would you ever know who was genuine? Or who to trust? And what could there possibly be to get out of bed for in the morning when you’d already made a small fortune in interest alone by the time you’d opened your eyes? No, Andi decided as she folded up the paper and turned her attention back to the busy seascape across the road, she was glad she hadn’t been burdened with that kind of responsibility. Her sister, on the other hand, wouldn’t have had any such qualms. In fact for Angel five-hundred million pounds would probably just about cover her shoe budget. Whoever the mystery man was, Andi hoped he was rich.

“Andi Pandy! I am so sorry!”

Angel flew across the place – a whirling dervish of long blonde hair, jangling Pandora bracelets and flailing LV tote bag that threatened to send assorted teapots and paninis flying – and flung her arms around Andi. She smelt wonderful, of something sweet and suspiciously expensive. This perfume was new. As she hugged her sister back, Andi noticed that Angel’s clothes were new too; she’d never seen those Chloé jeans before or the silky white top, and were those real Gucci shades? New outfit or not, Angel looked stunning and the eyes of every male in the place were practically out on stalks. With her smooth Caramac-coloured tan, slim denim-clad legs and waterfall of golden hair, she could have strolled right from the pages of a glossy magazine.

“I’ve been doing a full body massage and exfoliation for Vanya and two of her friends,” Angel explained, folding her long legs under the table and pushing her shades onto her head. “I ache from head to foot but they seemed pleased. Vanya even gave me this bag as a thank you!” She thrust the LV tote under Andi’s nose. “It’s last season’s but, even so, it’s gorgeous!”

“You’ve been working today?” Andi asked.

“Like, duh. Of course I have. In case you hadn’t noticed, big sis, you and Gemma aren’t the only ones with jobs around here. I’m working for Vanya Alexshov; I told you that before. I’m her personal beautician while she’s here. Afterwards, well, who knows?”

“And she pays you in bags?”

Her sister grinned. “Bags, shoes, old clothes she doesn’t want. Seriously, she has so much stuff! It’s totally worth squeezing zits and waxing fannies!”

Andi wasn’t convinced, but then she was more than happy with her ancient rucksack.

“So you needn’t worry that I’m on the game or something,” Angel continued airily, reaching across and grabbing a menu. She shook her head. “And don’t deny that you thought I was up to no good; it’s written all over your face. Honestly, Andi, you must have a really low opinion of me.”

Andi blushed. Her wild imaginings hadn’t quite placed Angel on the corner of Rock Road touting for business, but she had started to worry. She felt relieved now. At least this explained all the new designer gear that her sister could never have afforded otherwise. There was still the mystery man of course, but maybe she’d leave that for a moment?

“This is on me,” she told her sister as Angel scanned the menu. “It’s payday for me, so the least I can do is buy you a latte and some cake.”

But Angel couldn’t have looked more horrified. “Just black coffee for me, thanks. I’m cutting out dairy and carbs.”

“That doesn’t leave much to eat,” Andi pointed out, patiently. “Besides, you’re looking way too thin.”

Angel grabbed an imaginary roll of flab and pulled a face. “Not thin enough. I need to get myself down to a size six at least. Have you seen the girls around here? They’re tiny!”

Andi grimaced. She wasn’t kidding. The wealthy female summer inhabitants looked as though a puff of Cornish wind would knock them over; they probably lived on a mixture of thin air and Pilates. Jonty and Andi, who enjoyed tucking into carrot cake whenever they visited their favourite café, pitied them on a regular basis. While she went to fetch the drinks (espresso for Angel and a calorific mocha for herself), Andi hoped that her sister wasn’t going to lose too much weight or get obsessive. Angel was naturally tiny anyway and really didn’t need to diet.

“So where’s the odd-job man then?” asked Angel when Andi rejoined her. “Mending boats or mowing the lawn today?”

Andi sighed. Her sister made no secret of the fact that she thought Jonty was a waste of oxygen. “I know he’s nice and good company,” she’d wailed the last time Andi had mentioned him, “but so’s a dog. Rock’s crawling with seriously loaded guys, babes. Can’t you at least give one of them a chance?”

Andi had tried to explain that she wasn’t looking for anything except friendship and, besides, she wouldn’t date somebody purely because they were wealthy, but her sister had just pulled faces and tutted.

“Jonty’s getting the boat ready for launching this afternoon,” she said now, tipping a sachet of sugar into her hot drink and watching Angel wince. At the thought of the afternoon ahead, her stomach flipped. She could hardly wait to feel the wind rip through her hair and hear the growl of the engine as they buzzed up the river. It was probably the closest she would ever get to being a Bond girl!

“I bet it’s not as big as Laurence’s—” Angel began to say, and then clammed up like the scallops on Padstow quay. She pretended to suddenly be totally absorbed in the activity on the Camel. “I mean, I bet it’s not as big as some of the other boats.”

Andi’s cup was frozen halfway to her lips. Her carrot cake was instantly forgotten.

“Laurence? I take it this is the mystery man?”

“Oh look! Is that a Lotus?” said Angel hastily, but Andi wasn’t so easily distracted. As a seasoned elder sister she was well and truly used to getting the truth out of Angel, although now they were in their twenties she’d rather not use Chinese burns or have to sit on her.

“So is this Laurence the reason you’ve been coming home in the small hours, hogging the bathroom even more than usual and wearing a soppy expression?” she teased.

Now it was Angel’s turn to blush.

“Maybe,” she said, suddenly fascinated by the polished surface of the table; then, when Andi prodded her with the cake fork, “Ouch! OK then, yes! Laurence is the guy I’ve been seeing.”

“Don’t stop now,” Andi said. Slowly and deliberately replacing the fork, she settled back into her seat and crossed her arms. “I’m listening and I want to hear everything. Go on, spill!”

So spill Angel did, and for the next half an hour Andi’s coffee went cold and her cake untouched while she listened to tales of viscounts and stately homes, exclusive houses at Daymer Bay, fast RIBs and trips to flashy restaurants. Angel scarcely drew breath as she described how utterly gorgeous Laurence was and how much she liked him. Andi was taken aback because she couldn’t ever remember seeing her sister so animated about a man. Usually they all chased Angel like crazy while she got bored, leaving Andi and Gemma to field the phone calls, make excuses and pick up the pieces of all their broken hearts.

“So, you see why I can’t possibly have him drop me back at the caravan,” Angel concluded, once she’d finished explaining why Laurence always dropped her at the Alexshovs’ house, where she hid until he’d driven away, before walking two miles back to Trendaway Farm. No wonder she was losing weight and never in until the small hours, thought Andi in despair.

“If he finds out that I live in a caravan and am just a beautician he’ll soon lose interest,” Angel summarised.

“Doesn’t he like you for who you are?” Andi was confused.

“Of course he does, obviously,” Angel said with the total confidence of the very beautiful, “but he’s a viscount and he’s only ever dated aristocrats and wealthy girls. When he’s totally and utterly head over heels with me of course I’ll tell him the truth. By then he won’t care anyway.”

Sometimes her sister didn’t so much take the biscuit as the entire chocolate-digestive factory.

“But you’re lying to him,” Andi pointed out. She was shocked by her sister’s glib attitude. In Andi’s book a relationship had to be based one hundred percent on honesty and trust. She knew from very bitter experience how once a partner lied about one thing it was very hard to trust them. But Angel, the moral equivalent of Teflon, didn’t seem at all concerned.

“Technically he’s just making assumptions,” she said airily. “I’ve never actually told him I live at Vanya’s.”

Andi knew there was no point arguing, so she changed tack.

“So, if you found out he wasn’t a viscount it wouldn’t matter? You’d still feel the same?”

Angel stared at her as though she was crackers. “What are you on about? He
is
a viscount.”

“But if he wasn’t? Say he turned out just to be an ordinary guy?”

“He isn’t an ordinary guy. I Googled him! Kenniston Hall is huge, Andi! It’s been in his family for donkey’s years. And he parties with Prince Harry and everything. Don’t worry, he really is who he says he is.”

At least one of them was. Andi gave up. Angel simply didn’t get it. When the truth came out this Laurence would either embrace his inner chav or take for the hills. She just hoped her sister didn’t get too hurt in the process.

“So it’s all on with Laurence then?” she said, returning to her cake and hoovering it up. Honestly, thirty minutes with Angel and she was comfort eating. No wonder poor Gemma had a weight problem. “As far as it can be, of course, seeing as he hasn’t really got a clue who you are?”