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

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.
    “Bollocks,” said Angel, killing the engine. She put a hand on Gemma’s shoulder and squeezed it kindly. “Looks like somebody had the same idea. You OK, babes?”
    Gemma swallowed the lump in her throat. The truth was that she was absolutely devastated, which was ridiculous. The dream of her and Cal living happily ever after at Penmerryn Creek had only ever been that – a dream – and it made no sense that her eyes stung with tears.
    “Yeah, I’m fine,” she fibbed, and this time Angel didn’t tease her because it was obvious that Gemma wasn’t fine at all.
    “It’s a gorgeous spot,” Angel said thoughtfully, winding down the car window and letting the sharp salty air lift her long blonde mane. “I can see why you like it so much.”
    Gemma nodded, still unable to find her voice, which she was sure would sound as cracked as her dreams. Angel was right: it was a gorgeous spot. Even on a December afternoon, with the light fading and the creek resembling a pewter-grey ribbon, the place was breathtaking. Oystercatchers waded in the mudflats, the blue flash of a kingfisher darted over the shallows and a beady-eyed robin in his Christmas sweater was chip-chipping away from his gatepost lookout. The jetty had been mended, she noticed with a pang, and a smart new Boston Whaler boat was on a trailer alongside the house. There was an extension too, sympathetically done in matching granite and with a stylish glass roof ribbed with blonde beams, as well as a new stable-style door in the old pantry area. Whoever had done this had taste, Gemma thought grudgingly, and lots of money to burn too. Getting such quality materials sourced and then delivered this far off the beaten track wasn’t cheap, and neither was the labour.
    “Maybe I should have been a banker, not an actress?” she murmured.
    “Not with your maths! Bloody hell, Gem! You read numbers back to front.”
    This was an unfortunate truth and it often made for huge disappointments on salary cheques and bank balances. Gemma was to finance what Kim Kardashian was to small bottoms. For this reason, and because she’d made several big errors with the business plan, Cal now handled the joint finances. There was a daily account which they both used for food and fuel, but she left the rest of it to him. Gemma sometimes worried that maybe this wasn’t very feminist of her; however, they both had different strengths and it made sense to use them. Besides, since his horrific tax bill, caused by poor advice and a celebrity money-hiding scandal (“That’s the fecking last time I take advice from famous comedians,” Cal had said bitterly), Cal had employed Angel’s sister Andi as his accountant. Andi was red hot; she never missed a trick, and Gemma trusted her entirely.
    “It’s called dyscalculia and it’s a learning disability,” she told Angel huffily, who just laughed.
    “Call it what you like; I don’t think Mark Carney’s quaking in his