by Kate Ryder
‘How did you think he would be?’ Carol asks carefully.
‘Oh, you know, all self-assured, starry and remote, but he wasn’t like that at all.’ Recalling the look in the blue eyes that watched her all evening and the way he held her as they danced, Cara feels the unmistakable onset of butterflies.
‘How was he, then?’ Carol asks, noticing her daughter’s high colour.
‘Well, that’s an interesting one.’ Cara frowns. ‘Kind of lost and adrift…’
Carol recalls Oliver’s attractive wife and her strength of character that filled the gallery, and something troublesome nags at her.
‘I doubt that a man with his status and money is lost and adrift,’ comments Ken.
‘Oh, Ken, there’s so much more than status and money to make people feel they belong,’ Carol says.
‘I know. All I’m saying is it sure goes a long way in keeping the wolf from the door.’
Carol considers her husband’s comment. He’s right, of course. Oliver’s life is on a completely different level from theirs but what if he’s not happy? What then? Her gaze slides across the table to her daughter. Someone like Cara would be sweet temptation to an unsettled man; so lovely, talented, free-spirited and, seemingly, carefree.
‘He may not have any money worries,’ Cara continues, ‘but I get the impression that all is not as his public image would suggest.’
‘Who knows what goes on behind closed doors?’ Ken smiles kindly at his daughter. ‘We all put on a front for others and, to some extent, we are all actors. But Oliver Foxley, well, he’s a consummate actor and unlikely to ever show his true feelings.’
Cara nods, but deep down she’s not so sure. The man she met last night wasn’t acting.
Silence falls around the table, only broken by Bethany’s small voice. ‘I like him.’
‘Me too,’ pipes up Sky. ‘He thinks Barnaby has very good eye to mouth cordnashun… or something.’
Cara smiles. Yes, she thinks she likes him too.
Sometimes it takes the innocence of childhood to see through the tangled web we adults weave, thinks Carol.
‘Co-ordination, Sky,’ Ken gently corrects his grandson. ‘Good boy for remembering that difficult word. And he’s right. Barnaby does, indeed, have very good eye to mouth co-ordination.’
Lying quietly in the corner of the room, the Labrador thumps his tail at the sound of his name.
*
Oliver finishes his call to Deanna and looks out of the window. Sprouting from the top of the stone wall on the far side of the lawn are three trees, gnarled and twisted.
Stunted. Never given the opportunity to grow into something strong and true.
‘You ready, Mr Fox?’ Tas calls across the room.
‘Coming.’ Oliver turns and follows his friend outside, closing the heavy oak door behind him. ‘No Tania today?’
‘Hangover. No surprise there!’ Tas says, unlocking the doors to the Jeep.
Oliver climbs in. A movement in one of the upstairs windows makes him glance at the farmhouse. He’s sure it was Tania… watching. As Tas reverses the car into the lane, Oliver wonders whether she really is suffering from a hangover. It crosses his mind that she might not be joining them for lunch because of him. Women! He loves them, but their demands can be so complicated at times.
His early morning meditation put meeting Cara into some kind of perspective. However, the ensuing phone call with Deanna has left him troubled, even though their conversation was perfectly civil. Discussing the family’s plans for the day, Deanna informed him of the Easter presents she’d bought for their children. Then, almost as an afterthought, she enquired about his first performance. Reluctant to finish the call, feeling they needed more connection, he continued to chat about nothing in particular but each conversation left him wanting more.
In the end he asked, ‘Is there anything you want to say to me, Dee?’
‘That’s an odd thing to say, Ollie. What sort of thing do you think I would want to say?’
He was shocked then. Had he really voiced his thoughts?
‘Oh, I don’t know. Just something more?’
‘Well, let me think,’ she said, as if humouring one of her children. ‘There’s some post for you when you get back. By the way, Ollie, when are you coming home?’
‘I thought I’d head back after tomorrow’s performance. Don’t bother about supper for me. I’ll grab something on the way. I should be home around ten.’
‘OK.’ A brief silence followed before Deanna said, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night, then.’
Late morning, Easter Sunday, and there are more cars on the road. Soon, the Jeep turns down the lane leading to the cove and the traffic drops away. It’s another clear day and the sun, though weak, rides high in a cloudless, pale blue sky. As Tas negotiates the last bend and pulls into the café’s car park, a flat-calm sea sparkles in welcome. Several families have already set up for a day on the beach, their windbreaks and tents turning the yellow sand into a kaleidoscope of colour. The car park is almost full and Tas expertly navigates the large Jeep into one of the remaining spaces.
‘Seems like Rick’s got a good business here,’ Oliver comments as they walk towards the entrance.
‘Hard work, though. Look what time he got home last night and here he is again!’
‘But seasonal.’
‘Yeah, guess so.’ Tas pushes open the door to the café. Immediately, they are engulfed by the busy atmosphere, the noise dipping momentarily as faces turn towards them.
‘You never fail, Mr Fox!’ Tas grins at his friend. Oliver smiles in resignation.
Three young waitresses move amongst the diners. Rick is behind the bar, talking to one of his assistants. He nods to the two men as they approach.
‘You’ve made it, then,’ he says. ‘I’ve reserved a table for you on the decking. Bit more private out there.’
They make their way through the packed café, Tas counting the number of double-takes as Oliver moves through the crowd. He often does this when he’s in the actor’s company; it’s a game he likes to play.
The table is in relative seclusion with a good view of the beach and as Oliver pulls out a chair, he looks towards the far end of the cove. In the far distance, he can see Cara’s bungalow perched high on the cliff and his heartbeat quickens at the thought of catching a glimpse of her. He scans the area but there’s no sign, and then he remembers she is collecting her children today. If they linger over lunch maybe he will see her when she returns.
Rick arrives with the menus and talks them through the specials. Still to regain his appetite, Oliver realises the last good meal he had was the previous day’s breakfast. He decides on a pan-roasted lobster with salad, and smiles, thinking that Cara would finally approve of his choice.
‘How about a nice, chilled bottle of white?’ Tas suggests.
‘Sounds good,’ agrees Oliver. ‘What would you recommend, Rick?’
‘Well, the Chardonnays are always good with lobster, as are the Pinots. I stock a very good Helfrich Pinot Gris Alsace 2008.’
They order a bottle.
Oliver closes his eyes and lets his mind drift. It feels good with the sun on his face. Despite the earlier unsatisfactory conversation with Deanna, he is somewhat soothed.
‘It is him, isn’t it?’ The unmistakable Essex accent cuts through his thoughts. ‘Go on, Trace, ask for ’is autograph.’
Oliver takes a deep breath before opening his eyes. Time to be ‘on show’ again.
The girl has bleached blonde hair and looks in her mid-twenties. She’s skinny and wears tight jeans, a tiny T-shirt, bejewelled flip-flops and full-on make-up; the orange foundation smeared thickly over her face.
Why do they do that? She’s probably quite pretty without all that muck on her face.
Oliver closes his eyes again, his thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose.
Perhaps she will go away if I don’t acknowledge her.
But the girl persis
ts.
‘Excuse me,’ she says boldly. ‘You are who we think you are, aren’t you?’
‘Depends who you think he is,’ says Tas.
The bleached blonde coolly surveys the man sitting opposite Oliver.
Reluctantly Oliver opens his eyes. She has a pen and postcard at the ready.
‘Can I ’ave your autograph?’
‘Of course,’ he says, slipping seamlessly into his public persona. ‘Would you like me to mention anyone in particular?’
‘Yeah, me!’
‘And you are…?’
The girl giggles. ‘Trace. Oh, and Debs, my friend over there,’ she adds, as an afterthought.
Oliver glances in the direction of the girl standing on the edge of the decking. A blush spreads across her face. The antithesis of her friend – brunette and plump – she, too, wears the obligatory tight jeans, though, in her case, these are stretched to breaking point. A T-shirt barely contains her ample bosom. Oliver smiles at her.
Big mistake!
As she rushes towards him, he notices Tas unreservedly eyeing her up.
‘We love your films,’ she says, excitedly. ‘You’re so great in all of them.’
‘Glad you like them,’ Oliver says, accepting the pen and postcard from the bottle blonde. A Cornish piskie sitting on a rock stares out at him. In the background, golden sands and an azure sea beckon. It could be anywhere in the world but the postcard says, ‘Greetings from Kennack Sands’. He turns the postcard over and scribbles a message to Trace and her friend before handing the postcard back.
‘Oh thanks. That’s so great!’ gushes Debs.
For a moment he thinks she’s going to kiss him but, fortunately, Rick arrives with the wine.
‘Hey, girls,’ he says, accurately summing up the situation, ‘give the guy a break!’
‘Oh yeah, sorry.’ Trace has the decency to look sheepish. The girls examine the postcard and, giggling, jump down onto the sand.
‘Don’t you ever get the urge to sign it George Clooney?’ asks Rick. Oliver snorts. ‘What did you write?’
‘To Trace and Debs. Enjoying the view!’
Tas and Rick burst out laughing.
‘Well, it’s true. It is a great view,’ says Oliver with a smirk. Then, more seriously, ‘From here I can see right along the cove.’
‘It takes some beating, that’s for sure,’ Rick agrees.
Spinning round in his seat, Tas takes the opportunity to ogle Deb’s large bottom. ‘What’s the name of that rock offshore?’ he asks.
‘Anvil Rock. Bet you can’t guess why,’ Rick says with a laugh. He pours a small amount of wine into Oliver’s glass.
‘Yeah, ’spose it does look anvil-shaped,’ agrees Tas. ‘Just need some sweaty, muscular, giant blacksmith standing up to his knees in the ocean, like some mighty Poseidon.’
Oliver swills the wine around his mouth. It has a honeyed, floral bouquet and he can detect rich notes of peach, apricot, tropical fruits and spices. It will go very nicely with his lobster. He nods at Rick.
‘Is that Cara’s place at the far end?’ asks Tas.
‘Yeah,’ Rick says, pouring wine. ‘Noticed you two mingling with the local talent last night.’
‘That Morwenna, she’s a big-hearted girl,’ comments Tas appreciatively.
‘She’s a great character,’ says Rick, placing the bottle on the table. ‘And as for Cara, well…’
Detecting a softness in the Australian’s voice, Oliver shields his eyes against the sun and glances up at the man. There’s a faraway look on Rick’s face as he stares at the bungalow perched on the cliff.
‘Still can’t come to terms with it,’ Rick says, shaking his head. ‘None of us can. It sent shockwaves through the community.’
‘Come to terms with what?’ asks Tas, taking a gulp of wine.
Blood pounds loudly in Oliver’s head. Carefully, he places his glass on the table. ‘What happened?’ he asks slowly.
Rick pulls out a chair. Turning it round, he sits astride it.
‘It was a couple of years ago. They were a great couple, so sunny natured. Christo was a brilliant guy to be around. A full-on lover of life and a gifted surfer, too. Never far from the water.’ Rick pauses before continuing. ‘Anyway, they were always in here with that little family of theirs. When I first arrived and opened the café they went out of their way to make me feel real welcome. It was Christo and Cara who suggested live music here. It was a great idea. In fact, Morwenna and Tristan were gigging here that Saturday night and everyone was in high spirits. It was a brilliant evening and Christo seemed fine. The first I knew something was wrong was when the air ambulance landed on the beach early the next morning and whisked him away to Treliske. We never saw him again.’
‘Blimey! What happened?’ asks Tas.
‘Brain tumour. Aggressive type. Poor guy was dead within two weeks, leaving that lovely girl to bring up their young family on her own.’
An iron fist tightens around Oliver’s heart.
No wonder you have such sorrow in your eyes.
He fights an overwhelming urge to abandon lunch and go and find her right now, to hold her safe in his arms, to comfort and soothe her and tell her everything will be all right. That he will make everything all right.
‘What a shit deal,’ says Tas.
‘Yeah, definitely. But she’s one helluva girl,’ says Rick with feeling. ‘So strong. Christo would be mighty proud of the way she’s bringing up those kids and how she’s coped with everything. Never shown any signs of caving in, at least not in public, but each time I see her I just want to scoop her up and take care of her. I mean, she’s so damn gorgeous.’
Not just me, then.
‘And she’s a talented artist too,’ continues Rick. ‘Hasn’t lost that.’
One of the young waitresses approaches. ‘Lobster with orange and basil,’ she announces, breaking the subdued atmosphere around the table.
Oliver nods and the girl places the plate in front of him before turning to Tas.
‘And that must be my Mediterranean chicken with chorizo?’ says Tas, winking at her. She hands him his plate, smiling widely.
‘I’ll catch you later,’ Rick says, rising from the chair. ‘Melanie, here, will look after you but let me know if there’s anything else you want.’
Chapter Twenty
Apart from the hall light, the house is in darkness. Oliver turns the key quietly in the lock. The distant sound of a television carries along the hallway. Dropping his bag at the base of the stairs, he tosses his keys into the bowl on the hallway table and makes his way towards the TV room. Deanna is curled up on the couch, her eyes closed. Oliver hesitates. He studies her for a moment, then walks across the room and kisses her gently on the forehead.
‘Hello, sleepyhead.’
Deanna opens her eyes and sits up. ‘I must have dropped off. What time is it?’
‘Midnight. You needn’t have waited up.’
‘I thought you’d be home earlier. Was the traffic bad?’
‘Easter Monday and one long queue out of Cornwall.’
‘Poor you. Do you want a drink?’
Would that help? He has spent a second night tossing and turning, thinking of Cara.
‘Perhaps a whisky.’
Deanna rises from the couch and kisses her husband lightly on the lips. ‘It’s good to have you back, Ollie.’
‘It’s good to be back,’ he says automatically.
He watches her leave the room before sinking onto the couch. He’s home, so why does he feel so detached? He takes a long look around, observing the room as if for the first time. It’s stylish and perfectly colour co-ordinated. Everything matches; from the curtains to the cushions, to the subtle coloured paintwork a few shades lighter than the carpet. Even the numerous photo frames adorning the mantelpiece are in perfect harmony. A set designer’s dream of an affluent, middle-class home; in sharp contrast to The Lookout’s simple, white-panelled living room. With sudden shocking ins
ight, Oliver realises this is definitely Deanna’s territory. Although there are signs of the children, very little of his character is evident.
Deanna returns with a tumbler of whisky, the ice cubes clinking against the side of the glass as she places it on a side table. Picking up the remote control, she switches off the television and sits in the chair opposite her husband.
‘So how was the performance this afternoon?’ she asks.
‘Good. A full audience.’
‘And the cast? Have you worked with any of them before?’
‘No. They’re a mixed bunch but we seem to get along OK,’ Oliver says.
‘Tas always likes to shake things up,’ she says, stifling a yawn. ‘Well, I’m off to bed. Don’t be long, Ollie. You look tired.’
Exhausted, more like!
‘I just want to check a couple of things,’ Oliver responds. ‘I’ll try not to disturb you.’
As Deanna walks to the door, she says over her shoulder, ‘There’s post for you in the study, but I’m sure it can wait until morning.’
Oliver stretches out his legs. Locking his fingers behind his head, he leans back and surveys the room again. The only thing giving away that he lives here is his image in several of the photos. Picking up the glass, he drains the whisky in one and swiftly exits the room. As soon as he enters his study he feels at home. This is his domain; masculine, but not overtly so. Looking critically around the space, he sees the only evidence of his wife is her choice of carpet and window dressing. He remembers how she demanded strong-coloured tartan curtains to pick out the dark blue of the carpet. As it was of little consequence to him what fabric hung at the windows he readily accommodated her wishes, but now he wonders if he rolled over too easily.
Is this how we’ve rubbed along all these years?
He glances up at Cara’s painting above the mantelpiece and feels a strange yearning for something he can’t put his finger on; something unknown. He stares at the canvas for several minutes, absorbing Cara’s brushstrokes, and some of the passion with which she painted The Minack rubs off. But now she isn’t just some random artist. She has a face, a voice and a body… all beautiful. Cara Penhaligon is all woman to him. Oliver shakes his head.