Cottage on a Cornish Cliff

by Kate Ryder

  ‘I do. I own two,’ Oliver says.

  ‘She’s very talented. Always was,’ Zennor says, ‘even at school.’

  Oliver’s heart pounds. ‘You knew her at school?’ He assesses Zennor anew, realising she’s approximately Cara’s age.

  ‘Yes, I went through school with her… and Christo. Did you know him?’

  Oliver shakes his head.

  ‘He was gorgeous! A massive fan of Coldplay and Chris Martin. In fact, Cara’s nickname was Gwyneth, after Gwyneth Paltrow,’ Zennor explains.

  Oliver gives a small smile, instantly transported back to Rick’s beach party and the first time he heard Cara referred to by that name.

  ‘It was such a tragedy,’ continues the property finder. ‘We were devastated when he died. All the girls had a crush on him, but he only ever had eyes for Cara.’

  He knows that feeling. A muscle in Oliver’s neck twitches as he studies her painting.

  ‘Tea!’ announces Veryan from the doorway. ‘I splashed out and got some biscuits for our special guest.’ She places the laden tray on the desk and loiters.

  ‘Thank you, Veryan,’ says Zennor, dismissing her assistant with a look.

  Momentarily forgetting where he is, Oliver mutters, ‘This isn’t her usual style.’

  ‘She’s a clever girl, is our Cara,’ says Zennor, joining Oliver beneath the painting.

  ‘It has a mystical feel to it, like an Arthurian legend,’ he says. ‘The magical Isle of Avalon rising from the mists…’

  Zennor glances at him. He sounds so romantic, yet his words are also tinged with sadness. Such emotion. What an actor! When she first learnt he was to be a client she treated herself to the latest Oliver Foxley blockbuster from Amazon. Now, she reminds herself to watch it again. He was brilliant in it.

  ‘Have a seat,’ she says, sitting at her desk and indicating the empty chair opposite. ‘Of the two properties we’ve viewed today do you think your new holiday home is amongst them?’ She picks up a cup of tea and passes it to him.

  Oliver sits. Although his eyes are focused on the property finder, he is acutely aware of Cara’s painting on the wall behind her.

  ‘Both ticked boxes. For instance, the second property has fantastic views from its terrace.’

  ‘Yes, not only towards the mouth of the Helford, but also spanning from Falmouth Bay across to the Roseland Peninsula and the countryside beyond,’ says Zennor.

  Oliver nods. ‘The games room is great for the kids and that unusual nuclear fallout shelter would make a good cinema/media room.’

  ‘What did you think of the grounds?’

  ‘Suitable for a second home. With a gardener, I’m sure they would be easily kept under control, and I liked the sub-tropical secret garden.’

  Zennor sips her tea. ‘Again, I feel there’s a but coming.’

  Oliver smiles apologetically. ‘I’m not sure it’s an executive home I’m looking for.’

  ‘Then, keep an open mind. We’ll view the other one tomorrow morning and the tide’s right in the afternoon to take a boat upriver to view the mystery house. I will be very interested to gain your thoughts.’

  *

  Standing in By the Sea’s car park, Oliver zips up his leather jacket and glances up at the first-floor window. Zennor and Veryan look down at him and he smiles and waves. Putting on his helmet and gloves, he straddles the Harley and fires the ignition before riding the motorbike towards the road.

  ‘Oh, wow, Zennor, he’s so dreamy. Just gorgeous! How come you get two whole days with him?’ asks Veryan enviously.

  Zennor watches as Oliver turns right into the early evening traffic. ‘Age, my bird. There’s got to be some benefit to being ten years older. You’re right, he is gorgeous, and charming and warm and funny and thoughtful and…’

  ‘Loaded?’ Veryan interjects.

  Zennor nods. ‘Yes, that too, but also gracious. He refused to let me pay for lunch.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘The Ferry Boat Inn. We sat outside.’

  ‘Did people notice him?’ Veryan asks.

  Zennor snorts. ‘Ye-es! How could they not?’

  For a few minutes more, both women remain at the window gazing at the empty courtyard in silence before turning away.

  *

  Oliver weaves through the early evening commuter traffic and heads towards the main road to Helston. Desiring to be on the same coastline as Cara, he’d decided against a hotel in Falmouth and, instead, booked a sea-view room at a hotel overlooking Mullion Cove. His craving for Cara never fades and she is never far from his thoughts, but seeing her painting in Zennor’s office has brought her into sharp focus. He yearns to see her again. He will view the properties tomorrow and then, on Sunday, visit her. His stomach muscles tighten at the thought and, in vain, he attempts to stem the fizz of excitement. Maybe, just maybe, she will allow him to meet his son for the very first time.

  Twenty-three

  Greg gazes with pride at the large and very stylish house positioned above neatly tended lawns stretching down to the jetty. Two-storey circular rooms with a ground-level covered verandah dominate the southern elevation, and a paved terrace along its full length gives access to the swimming pool situated immediately in front.

  ‘So, Cara, what do you think?’

  ‘Very impressive,’ she says.

  ‘It’s one of the most prestigious homes in the Hamptons,’ he boasts. ‘Over three thousand square feet and set in four acres. I wanted a superb waterfront location and had my eye on it for several years before it came up for sale.’

  ‘I like the tower,’ Cara adds, having the distinct impression he expects more from her.

  ‘I added that, along with the covered seating area. Originally, the house stopped at the steps to the right.’ Greg holds out his hand. ‘Come, let me show you around.’

  Ignoring his hand but taking his arm, Cara allows him to lead her inside.

  Expensively and stylishly decorated in a palette of soft muted colours, the property exudes an understated elegance. The exposed ceiling beams, wide-planked floors, red-brick inglenook fireplaces and wood-burning stoves are reminiscent of an English country house. Cara considers this now. In stark contrast, the Manhattan apartment’s masculinity feels as if it belongs to another person entirely. This property has a woman’s touch. As Greg shows her the many rooms, Cara notices Marietta everywhere: from her paintings on the walls to the numerous framed photographs adorning most surfaces.

  ‘Do you live here or at the apartment?’ she asks, turning to Greg.

  ‘This is my home,’ says Greg, ‘but I’m often at the apartment. It’s more convenient for work. It takes about two and a half hours to get into New York from here, and that’s not taking into account the traffic once you reach the city.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful house,’ Cara says appreciatively.

  ‘It is, but I confess that’s all down to Marietta’s influence. She had such style. As you’ve probably guessed by now, the apartment is mine. Marietta never stayed there.’

  Cara nods. That makes sense. The minimalist set-up, expensive though the furnishings are, and the boring shades of beige and brown make it, at best, functional.

  ‘And here we have the master suite,’ says Greg, opening the door to a large room with a vaulted ceiling and an impressive marble fireplace. A run of doors lead out onto a classic New England deck overlooking the outdoor pool and the bay beyond. ‘There are two en-suite bathrooms,’ he gloats.

  Cara gazes around the beautiful room. This, too, has evidence of Marietta everywhere. In fact, she wouldn’t be at all surprised if his late wife appeared at any moment to welcome her to their home.

  ‘Come, I have something very special to show you.’ Greg leads Cara along a hallway and up a flight of stairs. Opening a door, he stands back and allows her to enter.

  ‘Oh, this is simply stunning,’ Cara exclaims, taking in the magnificent, panoramic views over the bay.

  ‘Unparalleled sunsets
are enjoyed from this property,’ Greg says.

  Walking to the front window, Cara gazes out over the swimming pool and the lawns leading down to the jetty, where a speedboat is moored alongside. Looking to her left, she spies a tennis court. Away to her right, she notices that the jetty belonging to the neighbouring property has an impressive selection of watercraft moored to it. Even though the interior of the house feels English, there’s no getting away from the area being very much the playground of rich Americans.

  ‘This is your studio,’ Greg says. Cara freezes. ‘Marietta never used it. By the time the tower was built she was too ill to climb the stairs. It’s virgin territory. You can make it your own.’

  Cara turns to face him. He’s as excited as a young boy showing off a new toy. ‘Greg, your house is stunning,’ she says gently, ‘but as we’ve discussed, I already have a home.’

  Disappointment registers on his unusually animated face. Taking her hands in his, Greg says, ‘Cara, I asked you to come to America with an open mind. This is what I can offer you and your children. They will want for nothing.’

  She frowns. ‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but my family and friends are in Cornwall.’

  ‘Oh, Cornwall!’ he says in exasperation, dropping her hands. ‘How do you think your talent will be showcased on the world’s stage from there?’ Taking a deep breath, he attempts to subdue his irritation.

  Cara gazes out over the water again. Numerous pleasure craft, powerboats and paddle boarders fill the bay. She bites her lip. Why does she always feel pressurised by Greg to be someone she’s not? It’s as if she has to fulfil some secret lack in him.

  ‘Cara,’ he says more gently, ‘I know it’s a lot to take in, but windows of opportunity only remain open for a certain length of time. That’s why they’re called windows. You know I’ve always had a soft spot for you.’

  And a need that has yet to be addressed. Greg clenches his jaw. For a man used to immediate gratification it’s an unusual situation to find himself in. Since his visit to her room that first night, she’s cleverly kept him at arm’s length. However, if that’s the game she wants to play he will go along with it. It makes her an even more valuable prize, and one certainly worth waiting for. If it means he will secure a long-term future with her by postponing their inevitable intimacy, well, then, he’s not prepared to jeopardise it by rushing things. And, in any case, it’s a unique position she’s presented him with. In the past, he’s been motivated to better himself, but he’s never wanted to be a better man for anyone else. Greg frowns. What about Gary? He promised him he would have his treat. Perhaps a visit to that prostitute is in order; the one that helped him so effectively through the difficult late stages of Marietta’s illness.

  Greg removes his frown and smiles sweetly at Cara. ‘I am offering my firm commitment to take care of you and your family. Your children will have anything they want and I will pay for the best education. You don’t have to make your mind up now, Cara, but promise me you will give my proposal serious consideration.’

  Cara’s forehead creases. It’s a generous offer, especially so as Greg has no experience of children. For them, she should give it serious thought.

  Greg masks his exasperation. If only she understood the level of sacrifice he is making. Children have never been on the agenda. No woman has ever changed his mind on that score, not even Marietta, however hard she tried… and how she tried! ‘But don’t take too long, Cara. A man can only wait for an answer for so long.’

  She glances up at him. There’s that pressure again. Her children are the most important thing to her in the world, along with her art. She has to put them first. Neatly, he’s suggested an assured future for both her passions. ‘OK, Greg, I promise I will consider your offer.’

  His irritation swiftly diminishes and Greg hugs her to him. ‘You won’t regret it,’ he says, gazing into her eyes with such intensity that Cara has to look away. Cupping her chin with his hand, he turns her to look at him again. ‘Do you remember all those many months ago, before you won the Threadneedle Prize, I told you to trust me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You do trust me, don’t you?’

  She nods, knowing he won’t let the subject rest until he gets the answer he wants.

  ‘I promised I would never let you down and, true to my word, I haven’t.’ Greg’s eyes narrow. He will sell the Hamptons’ lifestyle to Cara before she catches her flight to the UK tomorrow. She must be convinced this is a place where she and her children can settle. He will pull out all stops and leave no stone unturned.

  Releasing her, Greg gazes out of the window. ‘Sag Harbor is less ritzy than other parts of the Hamptons. It’s more like a New England fishing village. Numerous celebrities are attracted by the terrific real estate here. Not only is it a pretty village with cute storefronts and clapperboard houses, but also it has a beautiful and vibrant year-round community with an incredible food and wine scene. It really does have the best of all worlds.’ Greg turns and smiles expansively, as if to reassure her. ‘It’s also a haven for artists and writers.’ Placing his hand at the small of her back, he guides her out of the tower. ‘That’s why Marietta and I were so drawn to the area.’

  Below, in the entrance hall, the crackle of an intercom sounds.

  ‘That must be the photographer,’ says Greg.

  ‘Photographer?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve arranged a photoshoot.’

  Cara frowns. ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of us!’

  ‘Why?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, Cara,’ Greg says with a laugh. ‘Publicity! That’s why. It’s good to have images in stock. You never know when they will prove useful.’ He escorts her towards the top of the stairs. ‘I’ve bought a silk dress for you to wear especially.’

  ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ says Cara.

  ‘I think I did.’ Greg smiles patiently. ‘And afterwards, I will treat you to dinner at Tutto Il Giorno. Rest assured, you won’t be disappointed.’

  Twenty-four

  Silently, Jamie enters the kitchen and sidles into a chair at the table. His mother is busy stacking the dishwasher and she doesn’t notice him. He watches quietly, gaining some comfort from the domestic scene. Sebastian is at football practice. He’s always playing football. Give him a ball and he will entertain himself for days. Charlie is out socialising with friends. As usual, Jamie is left to his own devices but he’s not very good at entertaining himself. Even though he’s part of this goal-driven family he often feels isolated. That’s when his thoughts turn inward. Picking up a fork, he chases a few stray crumbs across the tablecloth and wonders where his dad is. He likes spending time with him.

  Deanna turns around. ‘Oh, Jamie!’ she exclaims, clutching at her chest. ‘Don’t sneak in like that.’

  ‘I didn’t sneak in,’ the boy says.

  ‘Well, you made no noise whatsoever. Quiet as a church mouse.’ Deanna observes her son. He looks pale; his eyes blank. ‘What have you planned for today?’ she asks breezily.

  Jamie blinks rapidly. She always asks that, and he never knows what to say because he rarely has a plan.

  Deanna frowns. ‘Jamie, try to be more proactive. You can’t just mope around the house all day.’

  Jamie lowers his eyes. He doesn’t feel like doing anything. He just wants to find a dark hole and hide away.

  ‘Have you got any homework to do?’ Deanna asks, approaching the table.

  He glances up at her, his eyes round as saucers. ‘A little.’

  ‘Why don’t you do that now and then you’ll have the rest of the weekend free to do whatever you want,’ she suggests.

  The boy slowly nods.

  Deanna swallows the sigh forming in her throat. Where did this young lad spring from? He’s so different from her other children. She knows Oliver has had to face his inner demons all his life, but his dark moods are channelled into acting. Jamie doesn’t appear to have anything to distract him. Pulling out the opposite chair,
Deanna sits down and holds out her hand across the table to her son. Jamie doesn’t reciprocate and, eventually, Deanna withdraws her hand. She stretches her mouth into a smile.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘He’s away on business this weekend,’ she replies.

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘Tuesday.’

  ‘I wanted to go cycling with him today,’ Jamie says, downcast.

  Deanna looks out of the window at the grey, overcast day. Rainclouds threaten. ‘I think you’d get rather wet.’

  ‘I like riding in the rain.’

  She takes a deep breath. Perhaps this is the right time to tell him. ‘Jamie, you know Dad is taking a break from acting, don’t you?’

  The boy nods.

  ‘He’s doing it so I can pursue my career. I have a job as stage manager for a professional theatre company in the West End,’ she says, flushing with pride at how the words make her feel.

  ‘Gosh!’ For as long as Jamie can remember she’s always been around.

  She smiles, her eyes alight. ‘Yes, it is a bit gosh! I have to give it a lot of commitment because many people depend on me. Because of that, your dad and I have decided it’s best for me to live in London during the week.’ The little white lie trips off her tongue. Oliver didn’t exactly have any say in the matter.

  Jamie frowns. ‘Every week?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll be home when you wake up on Sundays, and I will take you to school as usual on Mondays.’

  Silence fills the room. Eventually, Jamie asks in a small voice, ‘What will happen to us during the week?’

  ‘Dad will take care of you.’ Deanna smiles at her son. ‘And you can always come up and visit me in London. There’s a room for you in the apartment I’ve bought. It will be exciting.’

  Jamie looks doubtfully across the table at his mother.

  ‘You can come and visit my theatre and we can meet up with Sammy at her house in Notting Hill. It will be a different experience, one that will open up new horizons for you.’ She blushes, recalling that these are the exact words Pins used.