Summer in a Cornish Cove

by Kate Ryder

  Sylvie focuses her binoculars on Oliver. He’s wearing a tracksuit and she wonders if he’s going to the building located behind the house. She has already checked it out – a large oak-framed affair housing a gym, sauna and swimming pool. But Oliver strides across the lawn directly towards her. Even though camouflaged behind a large rhododendron, Sylvie shrinks further into its foliage. He’s getting so close and she’s about to turn away when Oliver suddenly changes direction and heads towards a gate in the far corner of the garden. Quickly scanning the house to see if anyone else is about to join him, Sylvie makes her way as silently as possible through the trees, keeping Oliver in sight. There’s something very relaxed about him as he athletically covers the ground and Sylvie clicks her tongue in annoyance. Why should he be so content and at ease with the world when she is so desperate for him? Coming to an uneven section of ground, she has to concentrate on several roots that threaten to trip her and when she looks up again, Oliver is nowhere to be seen. Sylvie lets out a small angry sound. Cutting through the woods, she heads up an incline and is about to emerge from the cover of the trees when she spots him not far ahead, stepping up onto the track. Again, Sylvie shrinks back.

  Oliver can’t shake off the feeling he’s being watched. A run will do him good. He peers in both directions but there’s not a soul about. He looks deeper into the forest bordering both sides of the track. The trees grow tightly packed, daylight barely penetrating the canopy, and an eerie stillness pervades the air. So many places to hide. The hairs on Oliver’s neck stand erect. All at once there’s movement and the sound of snapping branches. With his senses already on high alert, Oliver attempts to still his racing heart.

  Without warning, ten yards ahead, a roe deer leaps out of the undergrowth and onto the track; an older buck with three-point antlers. It turns and stares at the man standing stock still in the middle of the path. Oliver holds his breath. It’s magnificent! Shafts of sunlight filter through the trees and alight along its back, turning the reddish body to a burnished gold. Ears pricked, the deer assesses with intelligent eyes the level of threat the human poses. For a brief heartbeat, time stands still as man and beast face each other – the hunter and the prey – and an acknowledgement of the strength and magnificence of the other passes between them. Then the moment is gone. With a flick of its ear the buck turns and leaps away into the foliage on the other side of the track. Oliver lets out a long, silent breath.

  Footpaths and bridleways crisscross this particular area of the Surrey Hills. Oliver decides to run a ten-mile circular woodland route, hoping that by the time he reaches the tower – approximately the halfway point – his body will be flooded with endorphins, which will help him handle Sylvie more effectively. Setting off at a comfortable jog, he heads in a northerly direction away from the house.

  As Oliver disappears round the bend, Sylvie cautiously steps up onto the track. Spooked by the sudden appearance of the deer, she wonders what else is lurking in the woods. Is it safe to continue sleeping in the car? Turning to her present predicament, she considers what she should do. She can’t possibly keep up with him. She turns in the opposite direction and walks back to her car, deep in thought and mulling over her options. She is beyond frustrated at his lack of contact. If he doesn’t phone soon she will take it to the next level. That smug wife of his needs to have that self-satisfied look wiped right off her face.

  Sylvie climbs in her car. From the passenger footwell, she picks up a carrier bag and takes out a sandwich and a carton of juice. She will eat her lunch and wait for Oliver to return. Then she will confront him.

  Oliver works up a sweat, the blood coursing through his veins and his heart pounding as he steadily increases his pace along the sandy heathland tracks. How lucky they are to have this National-Trust-owned, historic estate of arboretums and rhododendron woods right on the doorstep. Without slowing, Oliver picks up another track and heads west, following a bridle path leading to the high, sandy, open heath of Duke’s Warren. The track takes him through a level landscape of heather, bracken, bilberry, gorse, pine and birch. When reaching steeper parts, he tests his stamina and stretches his muscles to the limit. This is good. Apart from meditation, strenuous exercise is what keeps the ‘grey mist’ in check.

  Presently, the trees start to thin. As he approaches the summit of Leith Hill, Oliver puts in a burst of speed, making short work of the final, sharp incline. Ahead of him, crowning the highest point in south-east England and completely dominating the area, stands the sixty-five-feet-high Georgian folly built in the style of a gothic tower from the Middle Ages. Catching his breath, Oliver walks to its base. The sweeping views from the treeless summit never fail to amaze. Across a landscape of outstanding natural beauty, fourteen counties can be seen. The spectacular views made it a popular spot for Victorian picnics, with large numbers of day-trippers ferried by horse and carriage to feast around the tower. Known as Prospect House, and erected in 1765 by the eccentric Richard Hull of Leith Hill Place, whose body rests beneath it, the tower was built to increase the height of Leith Hill to over a thousand feet above sea level.

  Two chattering horse riders suddenly appear and circle the tower before heading along a path through the woods. Some distance away to the west, a man and a woman emerge from the pine trees along the Greensand Way, and two accompanying cocker spaniels busily work their way through the foliage. Oliver enters the tower. Showing his National Trust card to the attendant, he climbs the narrow, internal, spiral stairway. Seventy-four steps later, he emerges out onto the top. Good. He is alone. When he makes this call he doesn’t want any distractions.

  The clouds have cleared and Oliver absorbs the spectacular, panoramic views. Stalling for time, he looks through the fixed telescope and pans the vista, circling 360 degrees. To the north is Heathrow Airport, the Wembley Arch, the London Eye, St Paul’s Cathedral and Canary Wharf and he smiles tenderly as he remembers Jamie’s excitement at spying the clock face of Big Ben in Westminster for the first time. Panning around to the east, he spies the Reigate masts and, working in a southerly direction, the Sussex Weald, the South Downs and, through the Shoreham Gap, a glimpse of the English Channel. But what holds his attention the most is the fascinating sight of aircraft slowly rising above the skyline far below at nearby Gatwick Airport.

  He can’t put it off any longer. Taking out his mobile, Oliver taps the phone against his forehead and takes a deep breath.

  When her mobile rings, Sylvie is noisily sucking orange juice through a straw, planning her next move. The sound is so unexpected that she chokes, spluttering juice down her front.

  ‘Yes,’ she says angrily, brushing the liquid off her sweatshirt.

  ‘Sylvie?’

  She catches her breath. There’s no mistaking that voice. ‘You got my note.’

  ‘I did,’ Oliver replies. ‘Why are you coming to the house? I said I would phone.’

  ‘But you haven’t.’

  ‘I’ve been busy but I keep my promises. You can trust me.’

  Can she trust him? He’s keeping her on a very long leash and she wants it a lot shorter. ‘I miss you,’ she says.

  Silently, Oliver groans. ‘Sylvie, you don’t know me to miss.’

  ‘Oh, but I do, Oliver. Better than you think.’

  There’s something deeply threatening to her words.

  ‘I told you I was working away,’ he says. ‘You’re lucky I’m here to have received your note.’ Maybe, if she thinks he won’t be around it will dissuade her from visiting the house again. ‘I’m away for many months.’

  Silence.

  ‘Sylvie, are you still there? Did you hear what I said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I promise I will phone from time to time, but I am very busy,’ Oliver says.

  ‘I want to see you.’

  ‘That’s not possible, Sylvie.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m not going to be here,’ Oliver says evenly, keeping the exasperation from his voice.
/>   ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘Around. Travelling,’ he says vaguely.

  ‘No!’ Her mind goes into a tailspin. She can’t lose him now. She has to know where he is. Sylvie starts to rock, banging her head against the steering wheel.

  Startled by the intensity of her shout, Oliver removes the phone from his ear. Beads of perspiration prick his forehead. It is very quiet at the top of the tower and in the distance he can hear the roar of a plane’s engines on the runway.

  Replacing the mobile to his ear, he says firmly, ‘Yes, Sylvie.’

  ‘I need to see you.’ Sylvie stops rocking and stares out of the window, her face set in an ugly mask. ‘If I don’t see you I will go to the house.’

  Fuck!

  ‘Sylvie. As I said, there’s no time.’ Oliver fights rising panic. ‘I’m not around.’

  ‘When will you be around?’

  He planned to return to Surrey between performances but, if Sylvie is going to stalk him each time he’s back, maybe it would be better for the family if he stayed away. That way she won’t be hanging round the house, and if she’s not around the house she may forget her threat. ‘Not until the autumn.’

  ‘What are you doing that’s taking you away for so long?’ Sylvie asks. ‘Are you filming?’

  Oliver relaxes a little at the more normal line of questioning. ‘No, it’s a play.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘As I said, around.’

  Sylvie frowns. It’s obvious he’s not going to tell her, but the Internet will.

  Oliver waits for a response but none is forthcoming. Once again, he focuses on the magnificent view. This is what he wants in life: something spectacular and dramatic. Not the sordid little game of some unhinged female holding him over a barrel. How has Sylvie managed to infiltrate his life? He’s experienced the attention of ardent fans before but never to this extent. If he lets her down gently maybe she will eventually give up, but he knows it’s unlikely.

  ‘I promise to phone you, but you do understand that meeting up is simply not possible at this time.’

  Sylvie starts rocking again. She will just have to follow him. Best go and fill up with petrol.

  ‘OK.’

  Oliver watches as another plane takes off in the distance, powering its way through the clear blue sky. What he’d give to be on board flying out of this situation.

  ‘I’ll say goodbye, then.’ Oliver ends the call with disquiet. He thinks she has understood, but perhaps he should return to Cornwall today.

  No, damn it! Why should she manipulate me? What is it about these women who have me dancing to their merry tunes?

  Stunned, Oliver realises he has cast Deanna in the same light as Sylvie; but there’s nothing remotely similar about the two women. In the far recesses of his mind a thought occurs and carefully he examines it. Grimly, he acknowledges that however Deanna dresses it up she does manipulate him. Even their lovemaking this morning was instigated by her. When he needed her last night she simply rebuked him. And then he remembers her cruel words that shattered his sense of self-worth and effectively stripped him of his place within the family. Bile rises as Oliver’s anger takes hold once again.

  What do they say about love? That love and hate are intimately linked within the human brain and there really is a fine line.

  He shakes his head sadly. Maybe it would be a good idea to cut short his stay in Surrey.

  Taking one last look at the stunning view, Oliver makes the decision to go cycling with Jamie that afternoon and head back to Cornwall early the following morning.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Squeezing liquid soap into the stream of water, Cara watches the bubbles form. It’s mesmerising the way they expand and take over the surface of the bath water and her artist’s eye studies the shapes formed between. She’s so engrossed that she doesn’t hear the sound of knocking.

  ‘Mum! There’s a man at the door.’ Sky stands in the bathroom doorway.

  ‘What? Oh!’ Cara turns off the taps. Checking the water temperature, she says, ‘Undress and hop in, Sky. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  The boy peels off his clothes in one swift action and Cara laughs. ‘Well, that’s one way!’

  Sky grins and clambers over the side of the bath.

  As Cara walks into the living room, through the bay window she sees Bethany at the stable door talking to Greg.

  ‘Hope I’m not disturbing anything,’ Greg says, as Cara enters the porch behind her daughter. ‘I thought you’d like to learn my latest thoughts with the entries for Threadneedle.’

  Excitement grabs at her. This is for real!

  Greg steps into the porch. Unzipping his jacket, he hangs it on a coat hook and follows Cara and Bethany into the living room. They can hear Sky singing at the top of his voice.

  ‘I won’t be a minute,’ Cara says to Greg. ‘Have a seat.’

  Picking up a jumper lying on the arm of the sofa, she cringes at how messy the bungalow is but then pulls herself up short. Too bad. If he just rocks up without warning, what can he expect? She walks to the bathroom and deposits the jumper in the linen basket.

  ‘You OK in here for a bit, Sky?’ The boy stops singing and nods. ‘Just shout when you’re ready to get out.’

  ‘OK.’ Gathering bubbles into mountains, Sky blows them across the surface of the bathwater like clouds before a big wind.

  Cara walks back to the living room. ‘Can I get you a drink, Greg?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ he replies. ‘I only called by on the off-chance you’d be here. I can’t stay too long.’ She sits down in the chair opposite him. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that several paintings were of a good enough standard.’ A muscle twitches in his cheek at the little white lie; all passed his critical assessment. ‘I’ve selected the maximum number to put forward to the selectors: Lanyon Quoit at Night; The Cove at Sunset; Porthcurno Early Morning; Rainbow over Rinsey Head; Herons on the Helford and Marazion Moon.’

  Cara studies Greg. He doesn’t look comfortable and seems out of place.

  ‘What do you think?’ Greg asks, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘Well, OK. Yes, I suppose.’ She winces. How flaky she must sound to him. ‘I mean, I was pretty pleased with the way they turned out.’

  ‘Pretty pleased?’ Greg repeats incredulously. ‘As I’ve said before, Cara, you are one cool customer.’

  Cara frowns. She’s still unsure what he means.

  The low afternoon light plays tricks and as the shadows fall across Greg’s face, he appears to Cara both attractive and dangerous. She can well imagine him as a pirate with a gold earring in one ear; ruthless with women and, yet, at the same time, sophisticated, charming and welcome in the highest echelons of society. He really confuses her.

  ‘So, what I propose is this,’ Greg says authoritatively. ‘We go through the registration now and submit your work online for pre-selection. You will, of course, have to ensure the canvases are unavailable until we know the outcome of the prize.’

  ‘Register now?’

  ‘No time like the present.’

  Cara thinks quickly. To do the online registration will mean using the computer – in her bedroom. Does she want him in there? It was difficult enough allowing him in her studio.

  ‘Is there a problem, Cara?’

  ‘No problem.’

  Greg looks at his watch.

  ‘The computer is through here,’ says Cara, ‘but you’ll have to excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

  As Greg follows Cara from the room, Bethany glances up from her Kindle and thoughtfully observes the American.

  Sky’s singing carries along the hallway and Cara pauses. Opening the bathroom door a fraction, she puts her head round the corner. ‘Do you want more hot water, Sky?’

  The boy turns in the bath, bubbles piled high upon his head, and nods. Cara enters the room, pushing the door to behind her. Smoothly, Greg puts out a foot, successfully preventing the door from fully closing, and silent
ly observes the domestic scene unfold.

  ‘Have you washed behind your ears?’ Cara asks, leaning over the bath and turning on the hot tap.

  ‘Yes.’ Innocent brown eyes look up at her.

  ‘Sk-y-y?’ She draws out his name into a question.

  ‘Maybe not a lot.’

  Squeezing shower gel onto a sponge, she sets about washing her son. As Greg watches this small, intimate act, he swallows hard.

  ‘There you go.’ Cara turns off the tap and kisses Sky on the nose. ‘I’ll come and dry you in ten minutes.’

  Quickly, Greg steps away from the door. As Cara emerges into the hallway, he smiles at her. Without saying a word, he follows her to her bedroom, instantly noticing the unmade bed, the clothes strewn over a chair and a couple of towels dumped on the floor. Wet, no doubt!

  Cara’s eyes critically sweep the room. Inwardly, she groans. Rushing to the bed, she pulls the duvet straight.

  ‘Don’t worry on my behalf,’ he says smoothly.

  ‘I had no idea anyone would be coming in here,’ she says apologetically.

  ‘As I said, don’t worry.’ Greg maintains a smoothness honed over many years. ‘Now, let’s log on.’ He inclines his head towards the computer perched on a small table by the French doors.