by Kate Ryder
Cara wraps her jacket around her. It’s cold, but she’s reluctant to go inside just yet. She smiles as she recalls Sky’s excitement when Christo’s father gave him a book on stargazing for his recent birthday. In an authoritative voice, her son told her how the Pole Star, or Polaris, was the main star of the constellation Ursa Minor, or Little Bear, which arched off from Polaris and was shaped like a smaller, fainter version of the Plough. She now traces its form. There is still so much wonder in the world, and she berates herself that it should take an eight-year-old to remind her of this. Quickly she steps away from the edge.
As Cara enters the bungalow, an impenetrable quiet crushes her. No children clamouring for her attention, and no Barnaby – on sleepover duties at the grandparents’ – to welcome her home. Removing her jacket, she hangs it on a hook, locks the porch door and switches on the light. As she walks through to the kitchen she notices Basil, the family’s black and white cat, asleep on the sofa in the living room. It’s his favourite spot in the colder months, only swapping allegiances to the kitchen window ledge once the sun has warmed its tiles.
Cara fills a glass with water and makes her way to Bethany’s bedroom. Pushing open the door, she switches on the light and takes in her daughter’s room. Everything is orderly, the duvet straightened, her clothes folded and the toys neatly stacked. Even the books on the shelf are lined up by author’s name. Cara glances at the walls. There’s hardly an inch to spare amongst the numerous pictures of horses and ponies: her daughter’s growing passion over the past two years. However, jostling for acknowledgement are two posters of the latest boy pin-up pop star. Cara smiles. Always quietly thoughtful, at eleven years old, Bethany has had to grow up fast. Cara pulls the door to and walks down the hallway to her son’s bedroom. She’s not surprised by what she sees, but still shakes her head at the chaotic state of his room. Clothes everywhere, dropped where abandoned and strewn over the floor amongst his toys. And his bed looks as if he’s only just got out of it! She raises her eyes to the full-sized surfboard dominating the far wall.
‘What’s he like, Christo?’ She laughs sadly, gazing at her late husband’s characterful, open face – forever young.
The board is one of the pieces she created for her degree, painting both their faces in Andy Warhol style on an electric-blue background. The surfboard used to dominate the living room wall, but after that summer with Oliver, and then growing larger with Toby, she felt it didn’t belong there any longer. Life was moving on. Although she knew it was ridiculous, it seemed unfair that Christo should watch over the new life she was about to bring into the world, and so she asked Sky if he would like the surfboard in his room. The young boy’s eyes shone.
Cara pulls her son’s door to and continues on to her bedroom. Placing the glass on the bedside table, she strips off, climbs into bed and pulls the duvet up around her ears. It’s unlike her to be melancholy but, tonight, she’s acutely aware of her aloneness. It must have something to do with the way Morwenna mentioned Oliver so casually, as if he were still part of their group. Has she made the right decision in keeping him out of their lives? She thinks so. It wouldn’t have been fair to Toby only seeing his father maybe a couple of times a year, if that. Bethany and Sky loved Oliver, but, having already lost their dad, they, too, would feel his frequent absences keenly.
‘It’s better for us this way,’ she says quietly.
After she sent Oliver the painting of the south coast of Cornwall and alerted him to Toby’s existence, he tried to make contact but she blocked his number on her mobile. Since then, she’s changed her number. It was important Oliver knew he had a son, but she made it blatantly clear she expected nothing from him. She didn’t want him to feel obliged to her and released him from all responsibility. That way, he could continue to be the father he always was to his four children by Deanna. It wasn’t an easy decision for her to reach, but it was necessary. He phoned the gallery a few times after that, but she didn’t answer. She simply let it go to answerphone and then deleted his messages without listening to them. Hearing his voice would have been her undoing. Eventually his phone calls dried up.
Turning over, Cara stares out of the French doors, the curtains still undrawn, and relives the terrible day that Oliver’s stalker jumped – or fell – from the cliffs. Poor Sylvie. They did all they could but there was no saving her; her injuries were too severe. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Cara attempts to block out the memory of how they held each other close that night. Two halves of a whole. As they lay in each other’s arms, gazing at the moon casting its light in the ink-black sky, a meteor shower gifted them with a display of streaking lights. It was the first time Oliver told her how much he loved her. She wondered if his declaration was brought on by the shocks of the day, although in her heart she knew it was true.
Cara sighs. A lifetime ago. So much has happened since, and Oliver has not been a part of it. She knows, however difficult the decision was, it was only right he returned to his family. What illusions they must have been under to think it could be any other way! As if only yesterday, she clearly remembers Oliver’s last performance at the Minack when his young son, ashen-faced and with his arm in plaster, was forced out of the shadows by his mother and onto the stage. The boy looked like his father and it touched her beyond measure the way Oliver crouched down to hold him in his arms with such tenderness. And then Cara recalls the complex look Deanna had given her: subservient, yet laced with an apology. But it also contained a fierce strength that told her, in no uncertain terms, that she, Oliver’s wife, would not allow her life to be stripped from her. Ultimately Deanna’s look turned to one of triumph. However painful it is, for the sake of her family and for her sanity, she has to banish Oliver not only from her thoughts but also from her heart.
Cara gazes at the night sky a little longer and then, climbing out of bed, closes the curtains.
Eight
The bistro on Shaftesbury Avenue is packed and it’s hard to be heard above the noise. Deanna glances around the group assembled at the table. The only person she knows is Pins, sitting at the top end and recounting an amusing tale in typically flamboyant style. His friends listen attentively, following every twist and turn with loud bursts of laughter at the many mishaps along the way. Deanna watches, mesmerised. With his floppy black hair skimming his shoulders and white frilly shirt under a long-coated, black velvet suit, he could be a courtier of King Charles II. He is not only inspiring and entertaining but also Pins’ personal charisma shines through. Deanna can’t help but think he may have missed his vocation. She laughs along with the others who, although strangers, have made her feel welcome. When she initially agreed to have dinner with Pins after the business meeting with his impresario friend, she wondered what she was letting herself in for, but the warmth shown to her by this eclectic mix of people soon allayed any concerns.
‘So, I hear Terence is considering you for a job at his little old theatre,’ says a pleasant-faced, effeminate young man sitting to her right.
‘I hope so,’ Deanna replies, amused at his reference to a little old theatre. The theatre is anything but, what with a seating capacity of seven hundred and fifty.
‘He’s a good man to work for and treats his employees fairly.’
‘Have you worked for him?’ she asks.
‘No, but I know him well. He’s my uncle.’
Deanna smiles. ‘Are you involved in the industry too?’
The young man nods. ‘We all are, in one way or another. This café is part of a private members’ club for people in the creative industries.’
Deanna glances around at the other customers in the restaurant. Now that she looks, she can see they all possess an avant-garde air.
‘What do you do?’ she asks.
‘I’m a music-video director.’
‘I expect you meet many interesting people.’
‘Certainly a diverse range!’ Her dinner companion laughs softly.
‘How long have you known Pins?’ D
eanna asks.
‘We’ve been together three years.’ The effeminate young man glances affectionately at the dazzling peacock at the head of the table, still holding everyone’s attention. ‘How about you?’
‘Only a matter of weeks,’ says Deanna. ‘He’s great fun, isn’t he? Incredible energy.’
‘He’s lovely, and very spirited.’
A burst of laughter around the table makes Deanna turn to find everyone looking at her.
‘So, Dominic, pray tell,’ says Pins ebulliently. ‘Are you making a play for Deanna?’
The effeminate young man leans forward and cheekily says, ‘Thought I might if you weren’t feeling up to it tonight!’
Pins laughs. ‘I hate to tell you this, Dom, but with a husband like Deanna’s you’ll be lucky to get a look-in!’
Confused by her emotions, and not liking where the conversation is leading, Deanna keeps a straight face.
‘Why, who is Deanna’s husband?’ asks a glamorous blonde sitting to Pins’ right.
‘Alexandra, you must surely know!’ exclaims Pins. The woman shakes her head and looks at Deanna with interest. ‘He’s one hot, sexy hunk of a man and if his wife hasn’t any plans for him tonight, well, then…’ Pins lets the sentence hang and winks at Deanna.
Laughter erupts around the table again, but there’s no smile on Deanna’s lips.
‘Oh, you are a devil, Pins. Do tell,’ coaxes the blonde. ‘Who is it?’
‘Are you OK?’ Dominic asks in a kindly voice.
Deanna’s mouth twitches into a thin smile. ‘Yes, but I think I may have had way too much to drink.’
‘Well, Alexandra,’ Pins continues loudly, ‘if you could star opposite any actor of choice, who would it be?’
‘I suppose it all depends on what role I was playing, darling.’ Alexandra scrutinises Deanna. ‘It would have to be someone good-looking to be with a woman like Deanna, and someone who can hold his own.’
‘I’ll make it easy for you,’ says Pins, enjoying the tease. ‘A romantic role. Or if you needed rescuing, an all-action hero with a wonderfully tight physique.’ He gives a dramatic quiver.
Alexandra’s eyes open wide. Sitting up in her seat, she says, ‘If my agent offered me a role opposite the person I think is Deanna’s husband I’d jump at the chance. I wouldn’t care what the role was!’
Pins laughs gregariously. ‘Quite so, Alexandra. But who do you think it is?’
‘Is it Oliver Foxley?’ the woman says, staring incredulously at Deanna.
‘Well done, darling,’ Pin says, clapping his hands together and making the frills at his wrist dance. ‘First prize goes to you!’
In a dramatically theatrical gesture, Alexandra picks up her menu and frantically fans herself while pretending to faint.
‘Really?’ breathes Dominic in awe.
‘Really,’ says Deanna in a flat voice.
*
Three hours later Terry holds open the door to the Mercedes.
‘Sorry it’s so late,’ Deanna slurs. Putting one unsteady foot down on the gravel, she attempts to extricate herself from the car.
‘No worries, Mrs Foxley. All part of the service,’ Terry says, catching her arm as she stumbles.
‘Oops!’ Deanna hiccups. ‘Think I may have had a bit too much to drink!’
Terry smiles politely. ‘It’s good to have a night out occasionally.’
As owner of the local private car hire company, Terry is more than happy to accommodate the Foxleys. They’re good payers and over the years a fair amount of business has come his way. He’s not going to jeopardise this because of an occasional late-night journey into London. Besides, his company benefits from their celebrity.
‘Night night, Terry.’
‘Goodnight, Mrs Foxley.’
Deanna opens the front door to Hunter’s Moon as quietly as possible and lets herself in. She watches as Terry turns the car in a neat circle on the driveway before heading towards the opening electric gates. Having spent the morning with Samantha viewing the house in Notting Hill, she knows it’s the perfect place for her daughter and her friends to rent during their studies. Despite what Oliver says, she will persuade him to pay for it. And then, in the afternoon, her meeting with Pins’ friend went well. It was strongly hinted at that the stage manager’s job is already hers, but she was told it is only fair the remaining two candidates are interviewed. She will know one way or the other by the end of the week. She’s so grateful to Pins for mentioning the vacancy to her. At first she rejected it out of hand – how could she possibly fit it in with all her family commitments? – but Pins continued to persuade her and, what with Oliver’s offer of putting his career ‘on hold’ for her, she saw the possibilities.
As Deanna drunkenly hangs her jacket in the entrance hall, she notices the landing light has been left on for her. Switching off the porch light, she sways to the kitchen, opens the fridge door and pours a glass of mineral water. She’s had far too many cocktails but the whole evening was so exciting, she just went along with Pins and his friends. What an interesting mix of people! Their creativity has fired her up and during the journey back from London she didn’t stop grinning. She feels emancipated, unfettered by motherly or wifely duties, and she hasn’t felt this way in years. There has always been some urgent chore awaiting her attention. Luckily, Terry allowed her to feign sleep on the way home because she couldn’t have conversed intelligently, even if she’d wanted to.
Deanna drains the glass and places it on the granite worktop. Switching off the kitchen light, she makes her way unsteadily upstairs and pauses outside her sons’ bedrooms and listens intently. All is quiet. Her boys sleep soundly, no doubt. Peering at her watch, which tells her it’s three in the morning, she continues along the landing to the master bedroom. Deanna opens the door as quietly as possible. She can just make out Oliver’s sleeping form in the bed. Closing the door behind her, she quickly removes her clothes and slips between the sheets. As she cuddles up to her husband, she breathes in his familiar scent.
‘Oliver, are you awake?’ she whispers.
No response. She slowly moves her hand down his body, feeling the toned muscles beneath her fingertips. How did Pins describe him? A wonderfully tight physique! A thrill of excitement ripples through her. She is acutely aware that women openly flaunt themselves at Oliver and think nothing of walking all over her to get to him, but it never occurred to her that men might desire him too.
‘Ollie, are you awake?’ she whispers, more urgently.
Oh, it feels good. In the midst of a dream, Oliver is in the cove once again and Cara, the beautiful girl with the hummingbird tattoo, is beside him. Despite the suffocating ‘grey mist’ holding him in its throes, her golden light beckons him on, enticing him to come forward to breathe the pure air. As he imagines making love to her, warmth spreads through his body and fills the darkest recesses of his soul. Higher and higher she asks him to travel and willingly he quickens his pace, yearning to feel her beautiful golden light that effortlessly eradicates his pain and suffering.
Surfacing from deep sleep, Oliver groans.
Deanna’s lips curl into a self-satisfied smile. Her husband is very aroused. She still has the power. Quickly, she straddles him. As Deanna drunkenly savours him, her small, perfectly shaped breasts bob enthusiastically.
Oliver’s eyes fly open. In the darkness, confused and still half asleep, for a brief moment he’s back in the nightmare when that obsessed stalker, Sylvie, worked her way into his bed. In an instant his hands are on her hips and he tries to push her off.
‘Don’t!’ Deanna commands. ‘Not yet.’
Shit! Deanna! Shocked into being fully awake, Oliver stills.
‘Ah, Ollie, I said don’t!’
His heart thumps with fear. He thought Sylvie had come back to haunt him! Wrapping his arms around Deanna’s waist, Oliver angrily flips his wife onto her back.
She can hold back no longer. As her husband thrusts deeply again and again, Deanna un
ravels with wild abandon.
Breathing heavily and resting his forehead on the pillow, Oliver tries to gather his thoughts. Brutally plucked from a wonderful dream, he’s been forced into that terrible nightmare at the Scottish Retreat when he was in the bouts of deep depression, and that obsessive stalker took advantage of him. Even after these many months he still doesn’t know how things got so out of hand… and he still feels responsible for Sylvie’s subsequent, tragic death. If he weren’t with Cara at the cove that day, Sylvie would never have followed him and fallen from the cliffs. Or did she jump? They will never know for sure. Leaning over, Oliver switches on the bedside light and silently observes Deanna, all wanton and spent. Although it’s his wife he’s just had sex with, he feels as violated as when Sylvie forced herself upon him.
‘Ollie, you’re heavy,’ Deanna says.
Taking his weight on his hands, he raises his upper body.
‘Get off!’ She moves restlessly beneath him.
He can smell the drink on her breath. Carefully Oliver rolls onto his side. ‘You’re late. It must have been a good night.’
‘It was,’ says Deanna, smiling sleepily, ‘and a good day.’
Oliver gazes at his wife. She looks like the cat that got the cream.
‘Care to tell me about it?’
Opening one drunken eye, Deanna tries to focus. ‘Not now, Ollie. I’m tired.’ She rolls away from him. ‘I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.’
Rolling onto his back with one hand behind his head, Oliver gazes up at the ceiling. He feels dirty and disgusted, and doesn’t know why. Visions of Sylvie fill his head and he finds it difficult to separate her from his wife. As Deanna falls into a drink-fuelled sleep, Oliver switches off the bedside light and lies awake, deep in thought. Not for the first time he feels so far removed from this life and his dream has briefly, and cruelly, taken him to a place he once thought of as home. As he thinks of Cara, the ever-present ‘grey mist’ rapidly descends and his old adversary claims him with a hollow laugh.