Escape for Christmas by Ruth Saberton Read Free Book Online Page A

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