Free Escape for the Summer by Ruth Saberton

but experience had taught her that life was often a bit more complicated.
    “Rock’s expensive,” she’d warned. “We’ll have to really be careful with our money. I only have a few hundred quid left in savings.”
    “That’s a few hundred more than me,” Angel had said cheerfully. “I’ll borrow some off Andi. That’ll tide us over for a bit. In the meantime there’s bound to be oodles of work. Just think of all those rich women who want facials! Summer in Cornwall! I can’t wait!”
    Angel had rung off, en route to find Andi and blag a loan, and Gemma had made her way to the bus stop. Just the thought of a summer back at home, waking to the call of the gulls rather than the wail of sirens, perked her up. She could hardly wait for Angel to get home so that they could start putting their plan together. The idea of lemon sunshine, sharp salty air, glittering water and watermelon slices of beach made Gemma tingle with excitement. She hardly dared hope that in just a few days’ time she could be back in Cornwall.
    Two sausage-and-bean melts and one doughnut later, Gemma let herself into the basement flat. There was no sign of Angel. Only a trail of glossy magazines and plates evidenced that she had been in at all. Gemma sighed; her friend was terribly messy. Angel left more devastation in her wake than the most severe hurricane.
    She shrugged off her wet gear and stomped into the kitchen. After one hot chocolate and four rock cakes she felt ready to boot up her laptop and embark on some research for their brainwave.
    So it wasn’t Shakespeare or the dazzling film career that she had once dreamed of, but it was a start . If her dad’s farmer friend still owned that caravan just outside Rock then maybe, just maybe, things were going to change for both her and Angel.Feeling hopeful, she composed an email to him and then sent it into the ether with a prayer.
    There, it was done – and Gemma sensed that this was the start of something good.
     

Chapter 8
    Andi was so lost in thought that she didn’t quite know how she made it home. One moment she was in Starbucks, and the next she was back in Clapham, surfacing from the Tube as though awakening from a dream. Not that she really lived in Clapham anyway; no, strictly speaking it was Balham, although Tom would rather poke his eyes out than admit that. She’d tried arguing this point once and he’d sulked for days. As sure as Andi was that Coventry was a lovely place, she’d no wish to live there and had finally cracked. Now she agreed that they lived in Clapham, even if it was the tatty end near the gasworks, and everybody was happy. Or at least until the astronomical rent was due.
    At the thought of rent, her stomach lurched. How the hell was she going to pay it if her account really was empty? Tom had better have a bloody good explanation.
    That was strange: the curtains were drawn at their attic window. Was Tom poorly? Or maybe he’d gone out and had forgotten to open them? Or maybe he was still in bed? She hadn’t worked from home since theSafe T Netjob had started. He could sleep all day for all Andi knew.
    “Tom?” she called, ditching her keys in the fruit bowl and heading for the kettle. “Tom? It’s me!”
    Odd. There was no reply. He wasn’t due anywhere, not as far as she could remember. It was only Monday and he hadn’t got a casting until Thursday. Their flat was so small you couldn’t swing a gerbil in it, so he had to be in the bedroom. The kettle was still warm. He’d probably made a cup of coffee and gone back to bed. They were going to need to have a serious heart-to-heart now about his finding work. Any work.
    She flicked the kettle back on and lobbed a tea bag into a mug. A hit of PG tips was definitely required if she was going to tackle the important question of Where the bloody hell was her money? There were even bigger questions too, which she knew she’d ignored for far too long. It was time now for total honesty.
    While the tea