bucket of icing. The sickly sweet smell made her feel a bit queasy and she was glad when the job was finished and the cake was there in all its glory, the edible pearl sprinkles glistening just as brightly as the frosty parkland outside. She was just trying to figure out the best way to cram seventy party candles onto the cake without razing one of Britain’s greatest houses to the ground when a mobile phone began to ring.
“It’s not mine!” Daisy said quickly. Phones were banned in the kitchen. The staff were in the kitchen to cook, Cal always said, not to take selfies with the first batch of the day. He was also paranoid about breaching Anton Yuri’s terrifying contract, which gave Seaside Rockfirst dibs on any images to do with the business.
“Calm down. It’s Cal’s. Your boss has broken his own rules!” Gemma laughed. She’d recognise the Dukes Rangers’ anthem anywhere now. Cal had actually been known to sing his old team’s song in his sleep. Casting her eye around the room she spotted his coat hanging on the back of the door and, sure enough, when she slid her hand into the pocket, there was Cal’s iPhone.
Funny. This wasn’t a number stored on the phone or even one she recognised. It was a London number, she knew that much, but who would ring Cal from London? Everyone, bar the footballing mates he met up with sporadically to watch Dukes Rangers at their East London ground, was here. She could let it ring through to voicemail but some strange instinct was telling her to answer it instead.
Before she could stop herself, she pressed the green button.
“Cal, at last! I thought you would never answer. This is the third time I’ve called you! I got your message and I don’t think she’ll be a problem.”
It was a woman’s voice speaking – and not just any woman’s voice, either. This was a lilting Irish voice which brought to mind the wide-open spaces, broad light and bright scrubbed skies of County Cork.
It was Aoife O’Shaughnessy.
For a moment Gemma couldn’t speak: she was too shocked. It wasn’t because Aoife was calling Cal. They were friends – she knew that. Rather, she was stunned that Cal hadn’t saved Aoife’s number to his personal contacts. That could only mean one thing: he didn’t want anyone who might look at his mobile to see that she’d been calling him.
And by anyone, of course, that meant Gemma.
“Aoife, it’s Gemma,” she interrupted. “Cal’s left his phone a work. Can I take a message?”
Or maybe even give you one, like get your hands off my man?
“Oh, hello there, Gemma. How are you doing?” Aoife said sounding generally thrilled to hear from her.
“I’m great,” Gemma replied. Wow, it really was possible to sound fairly normal even when your teeth were gritted.
“That’s grand, so,” said Aoife pleasantly. Even though Gemma couldn’t see her, she could imagine Aoife smiling her pretty little dimpled smile and twirling an ebony ringlet around her slender index finger. “No, there’s no message. I just called Cal for a chat.”
Gemma’s eyebrows shot into her fringe. Had the sainted Aoife just told a barefaced lie? Only seconds earlier she’d said she was calling Cal back. And now it was just a social call? This had to be twenty Hail Marys and a few clicks of the rosary beads, surely?
“Are you sure, Aoife?” Gemma asked, so sweetly that it was amazing her teeth didn’t crumble into stumps. “I’m happy to pass anything on to Cal.” In other words, we tell each other everything, bitch!
“Totally. It was nothing important, sure, and I’ll catch him another day. Take care of yourself, Gemma.”
Aoife rang off, taking Gemma’s peace of mind and the start of a good mood with her. Unease crawled along Gemma’s spine. There was nothing solid she could put her finger on, but something was definitely afoot. While Daisy stabbed at the cheese-and-pineapple hedgehog, Gemma leaned on the window ledge and gazed thoughtfully out at the
“It’s not mine!” Daisy said quickly. Phones were banned in the kitchen. The staff were in the kitchen to cook, Cal always said, not to take selfies with the first batch of the day. He was also paranoid about breaching Anton Yuri’s terrifying contract, which gave Seaside Rockfirst dibs on any images to do with the business.
“Calm down. It’s Cal’s. Your boss has broken his own rules!” Gemma laughed. She’d recognise the Dukes Rangers’ anthem anywhere now. Cal had actually been known to sing his old team’s song in his sleep. Casting her eye around the room she spotted his coat hanging on the back of the door and, sure enough, when she slid her hand into the pocket, there was Cal’s iPhone.
Funny. This wasn’t a number stored on the phone or even one she recognised. It was a London number, she knew that much, but who would ring Cal from London? Everyone, bar the footballing mates he met up with sporadically to watch Dukes Rangers at their East London ground, was here. She could let it ring through to voicemail but some strange instinct was telling her to answer it instead.
Before she could stop herself, she pressed the green button.
“Cal, at last! I thought you would never answer. This is the third time I’ve called you! I got your message and I don’t think she’ll be a problem.”
It was a woman’s voice speaking – and not just any woman’s voice, either. This was a lilting Irish voice which brought to mind the wide-open spaces, broad light and bright scrubbed skies of County Cork.
It was Aoife O’Shaughnessy.
For a moment Gemma couldn’t speak: she was too shocked. It wasn’t because Aoife was calling Cal. They were friends – she knew that. Rather, she was stunned that Cal hadn’t saved Aoife’s number to his personal contacts. That could only mean one thing: he didn’t want anyone who might look at his mobile to see that she’d been calling him.
And by anyone, of course, that meant Gemma.
“Aoife, it’s Gemma,” she interrupted. “Cal’s left his phone a work. Can I take a message?”
Or maybe even give you one, like get your hands off my man?
“Oh, hello there, Gemma. How are you doing?” Aoife said sounding generally thrilled to hear from her.
“I’m great,” Gemma replied. Wow, it really was possible to sound fairly normal even when your teeth were gritted.
“That’s grand, so,” said Aoife pleasantly. Even though Gemma couldn’t see her, she could imagine Aoife smiling her pretty little dimpled smile and twirling an ebony ringlet around her slender index finger. “No, there’s no message. I just called Cal for a chat.”
Gemma’s eyebrows shot into her fringe. Had the sainted Aoife just told a barefaced lie? Only seconds earlier she’d said she was calling Cal back. And now it was just a social call? This had to be twenty Hail Marys and a few clicks of the rosary beads, surely?
“Are you sure, Aoife?” Gemma asked, so sweetly that it was amazing her teeth didn’t crumble into stumps. “I’m happy to pass anything on to Cal.” In other words, we tell each other everything, bitch!
“Totally. It was nothing important, sure, and I’ll catch him another day. Take care of yourself, Gemma.”
Aoife rang off, taking Gemma’s peace of mind and the start of a good mood with her. Unease crawled along Gemma’s spine. There was nothing solid she could put her finger on, but something was definitely afoot. While Daisy stabbed at the cheese-and-pineapple hedgehog, Gemma leaned on the window ledge and gazed thoughtfully out at the
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