Summer in a Cornish Cove

by Kate Ryder

  The computer takes an age to fire up and Cara is very aware of him standing behind her. Feeling panicked, she wonders if he has this effect on her because of his superior knowledge of art. She’s hugely flattered that someone like him should see merit in her creativity. She also has great respect for him as a first-rate art critic.

  At last the screen flickers into life. Lightly resting his hand on Cara’s shoulder, Greg instructs her to sign on to the Threadneedle Prize website. Twenty minutes later she has completed the registration.

  ‘Well, that wasn’t too painful, was it?’ Greg says, his fingers still lingering on her collarbone.

  Cara logs out. Swivelling in the chair, she dislodges his hand.

  ‘Now all we have to do is await the decision,’ he says, checking his watch. His wife will be wondering where he is.

  On the way back to the living room, Cara looks in on her son.

  Sky stands in the centre of the bathroom wrapped in a large towel. ‘The water went cold,’ he explains.

  ‘Sorry. It took longer than I thought,’ she says. ‘Don’t forget to pull out the plug.’

  ‘Goodbye, Sky,’ says Greg behind her. ‘Perhaps we can walk the dogs together one day?’

  Sky nods enthusiastically. ‘Barnaby would like that.’

  ‘Milo too.’ Greg smiles at the lad before following Cara into the living room.

  ‘Beth, it’s not good for you to read in the dark,’ Cara says, switching on the light.

  Still studiously reading at the table, Bethany looks up in surprise. ‘Sorry, Mum. I didn’t notice.’

  ‘What are you reading?’ Greg asks.

  ‘Harry Potter.’

  He tries to recall anything about the wizard but fails miserably. ‘Good, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’ The young girl looks at him with intelligent, kind eyes, waiting for him to say something more. Greg remains silent. ‘It’s the Order of the Phoenix.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says, floundering.

  ‘I’ll get your jacket,’ says Cara, swiftly turning away to hide the smile on her face. Greg seems as thrown by her daughter as Cara is by him.

  ‘Goodbye, Beth,’ Greg says, quickly following Cara out into the hallway.

  When they step out onto the track, the tide is almost fully in.

  ‘Hope summer arrives soon,’ Cara says, rubbing her arms against the early evening chill.

  ‘I have to return to the States soon,’ says Greg. ‘However, when your paintings are selected I will fly back to guide you. Now all we have to do is let the selectors come to the right decision.’

  Excitement snatches at Cara again and she smiles.

  Suddenly Greg crushes her to his chest. Taking a step back, he looks at her with a gaze so intense that Cara is the first to break eye contact. It’s the same look he gave her that day she met him at Rick’s, which is doubly disconcerting now that she’s met Marietta.

  ‘Now, I really must be going,’ he says. Leaning forward, he kisses her lightly on the lips.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sylvie watches the car nose its way out of the drive. She waits until it disappears round the corner before taking her foot off the clutch. As long as Oliver keeps to the speed limit it shouldn’t be too difficult to follow him. Two things make the car easy to pick out. Not only is it a cool Mercedes cabriolet roadster in a distinctive shade of metallic blue, but also it has a personalised number plate – D3 ANA. Sylvie holds back as the Mercedes turns onto the parish road, then she follows. Half an hour later they join the mid-morning motorway traffic. The Mercedes is five cars ahead. Sylvie maintains her distance; her mind focused and her jaw set.

  Sliding his hands to a comfortable position on the steering wheel, Oliver enjoys the sensuous feel of the leather. The car is capable of nought to sixty in just over five seconds with a top speed of one hundred and fifty-five miles per hour. His right foot hovers lightly on the accelerator. How he’d love to floor it and leave all this traffic behind. He knows his present to Deanna was extravagant but if ever there’s a birthday to celebrate it’s a girl’s fortieth. They pored over the specifications, not skimping on accessories, and by the time his wife had chosen all the extras it had cost him just shy of fifty thousand pounds. But it’s worth every penny. The SLK is a joy to drive. He glances around the cockpit, appreciating the intuitive design that puts everything at his fingertips. Even the sports steering wheel, featuring multi-function buttons, allows him to operate many controls without taking his hands off.

  Oliver checks the mirrors before indicating right and pulling out into the fast lane. Feeling the power, he can’t resist. As the car accelerates away he watches the speedometer’s red needle glide past eighty and on towards ninety. His smile broadens as the sports car whizzes past the traffic in the middle lane. The road in front is empty, but flashing lights and blaring horns grab his attention. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he watches incredulously as a dark blue car swerves dangerously across the traffic from the inside to outside lane, narrowly missing the rear of one vehicle and the bonnet of another.

  Bloody idiot! No doubt it fancies bullying me out of the way.

  Oliver eases back to the speed limit. The dark blue car stays in the outside lane, matching his speed but keeping its distance. Checking the side mirror, Oliver joins the traffic in the middle lane, aware that the dark blue car does likewise. However, with no further incidents, he soon relaxes back into the ergonomic seat. The black leather upholstery with the contrasting silver inserts adds a stylish touch to the all-black interior and he’s pleased they chose this instead of standard cloth.

  Deanna certainly knows how to make something stand out head and shoulders above the crowd.

  But, this time, the thought does not bring a warm, contented glow and Oliver scowls as the familiar, pervasive ‘grey mist’ threatens to descend. How can it creep up on him out of nowhere? After all these years he’d hoped to have discovered some inner alarm alerting him to its insidious presence, but he can fall asleep happy and wake the next morning plunged in despair. Age has taught him nothing.

  ‘Count your blessings, Oliver. This will bring you to the light,’ his psychotherapist’s voice resounds in his head.

  He abandoned therapy several years ago, believing he was finally mastering his depression, but the depth of recent mood swings has caused great concern. Perhaps he should book further sessions.

  Oliver glances at the clock on the console. If the traffic remains at this level he should be on the Lizard by mid-afternoon. His mind wanders to the previous afternoon and his cycle ride with Jamie around the Surrey Hills. It was good spending quality time with his son, doing something physical. On their return to Hunter’s Moon, he even managed to persuade himself he had everything under control and that Sylvie didn’t pose a serious threat. Oliver shifts in his seat.

  To the west, a warm, welcoming glow lights the far horizon. Good, because the clouds above him threaten ominously. Suddenly the heavens open. In a gathering spiral, the ‘grey mist’ descends, swirling around him and seeping into every pore. As it claims him in its vice-like grip, Oliver surrenders to his old foe. Switching on the windscreen wipers, he selects maximum setting and powers on towards the beckoning light.

  *

  Rain lashes the windscreen and Sylvie curses. She watches in dismay as the Mercedes pulls smoothly away and curses again. The wipers have an erratic momentum of their own. As the blades slide across the wet glass, a long sliver of rubber on the driver’s side flaps madly with each sweep. In one, sudden, frantic motion the offending section breaks free, flying away into the slipstream and leaving an arc of rubber smeared across the windscreen in the centre of her eye-line.

  ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ Sylvie shouts, slamming her hand against the steering wheel. ‘Bloody weather!’

  The traffic closes in around her in a menacing fashion and she takes her foot off the accelerator. At once, the car stops its whining rattle and rapidly loses speed, causing the car behind to swerve into the outside lane to
avoid a collision. Horn blaring, it overtakes, and Sylvie watches dispassionately as the middle-aged man at the wheel glares at her through the torrential rain. A sarcastic smile curls her lips as she raises her middle finger.

  Passing a road sign alerting drivers to services half a mile ahead, she decides to stop for coffee and let the worst of the storm pass. There’s no way she will catch up with Oliver now. She can only hope he’s going back to that farmhouse on the cliffs. As her pent-up frustrations spill over, Sylvie screams at the darkening skies.

  The windscreen wipers continue their seamless dance, slipping and sliding over the wet surface of the glass in perfect symmetry, like a pair of well-rehearsed skaters executing impeccable turns, unfazed by the drama taking place in the driver’s seat.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘I’m just hanging up the washing,’ Cara calls to her children. It’s a fine, blustery day; perfect for drying.

  Grappling with the washing basket, she opens the porch door and steps out into the world. Immediately the wind whips at her long hair. Turning to get it out of her face, she glances along the track and does a double-take. Walking towards her, with an uncertain smile on his face, is Oliver.

  ‘Hello,’ he says.

  ‘Hi,’ she responds. Having not seen him since the beach party, she has successfully accepted their previous meeting as simply an amazing and ridiculously surreal experience. ‘What blows you this way?’ she asks, breaking a silence that threatens to develop into awkwardness.

  You! he wants to shout.

  ‘I had a few hours to kill and wondered how you were.’

  Ignoring the butterflies in her stomach preparing for flight, Cara wonders why.

  ‘Looks like you’ve been busy.’ Oliver nods to the overflowing basket. ‘Here, let me help.’ He takes a step towards her.

  Hastily Cara steps back. ‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of it! Go in and make yourself comfortable. I’ll only be a few minutes.’ The last thing she needs is this world-famous actor pegging out her smalls! ‘The children are inside,’ she adds.

  He watches as Cara disappears around the side of the bungalow. She’s as lovely as he remembers, if not more so. Since their first meeting, it’s been hard to get her out of his mind. Oliver steps over the threshold into Cara’s world.

  As he enters the living room, Bethany looks up from her Kindle and smiles.

  ‘Hey, Oliver! Have you come for lunch?’ asks Sky excitedly.

  Oliver laughs. ‘If I’m asked, I guess.’

  ‘Oh, stay for lunch,’ Bethany pleads.

  ‘Watch this,’ commands Sky. ‘I’ve taught Barnaby a new trick.’ Grabbing Oliver’s hand, he pulls him onto the sofa next to his sister.

  Glancing down at the young girl shyly observing him, Oliver asks, ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘Harry Potter, the Order of the Phoenix. Have you read it?’

  ‘I have,’ he says.

  ‘You have?’ she exclaims, her eyes opening wide.

  ‘Yes, I read it with my son, Jamie.’

  Her face breaks into a smile.

  ‘Look, Oliver!’ shouts Sky.

  Alert to the boy’s every action, the Labrador sits attentively.

  ‘Roll over,’ Sky commands, making a circular motion with his hand. The dog obediently lies down, rolls over and then sits, eagerly awaiting the next instruction. Sky laughs and pats the Labrador’s head. ‘Good boy, Barnaby!’

  ‘Well done,’ says Oliver, aware that Bethany has closed the gap between them.

  ‘How old is your son,’ she asks.

  ‘Jamie? He’s nine.’

  ‘The same age as me,’ says Bethany.

  Oliver smiles. Jamie would like her, if they ever met. But how could that ever occur?

  ‘I have two other sons and a daughter as well. Charlie, Sebastian and Samantha.’ His heart softens as he thinks of his children, all so different but each contributing to the whole.

  ‘BLP is nine. BLP is nine,’ chants Sky, circling the dog.

  ‘Shut up,’ Bethany cries, her body suddenly rigid; her face frozen.

  Oliver frowns. What’s happening here?

  ‘BLP is nine, Beautiful Little Princess is nine!’

  Bethany jumps to her feet. ‘SHUT UP SKY!’

  ‘Hey, what’s going on?’ Cara stands in the doorway, the empty washing basket in her hand. She glances from Bethany to Sky and then at Oliver. What must he think?

  ‘Mum, make him stop, please,’ Bethany pleads.

  Sky continues chanting, but more quietly now.

  ‘Sky, stop calling Beth by that name and stop circling Barnaby. Just look how excited you’ve made him.’ She glances at Oliver again. ‘Sorry.’

  Oliver shakes his head and gives a bewildered smile.

  On the verge of tears, Bethany says to her brother, ‘You horrible, stupid, fat pig.’

  ‘Oh, Beth! That’s not helping, is it?’ Walking to her daughter, Cara hugs her, while making an angry face at her son. ‘I’m sorry you had to witness this,’ she says to Oliver.

  ‘I don’t actually know what I’ve just witnessed,’ Oliver says.

  ‘BLP are Beth’s initials,’ pipes up Sky, grinning. ‘Beautiful Little Princess.’

  ‘Mum!’ wails Bethany.

  ‘Let’s all take a deep breath,’ suggests Cara, glancing up at the surfboard on the living-room wall.

  ‘But that’s wonderful, Beth, and perfect for you,’ Oliver says. ‘What is your middle name?’

  The young girl blinks at him, the threatened tears stemmed.

  ‘Lowena,’ Sky sings out his sister’s name.

  ‘What a lovely name,’ Oliver says, and Cara watches as her daughter’s face is transformed with a small smile.

  ‘Lowena is old Cornish for joy or happiness,’ Bethany proudly informs him.

  ‘And what’s your middle name, Sky?’ Oliver turns his attention to the boy.

  ‘Fat. Stupid Fat Pig,’ Bethany says angrily and Cara groans.

  Ignoring his sister, Sky says, ‘Felix.’

  ‘Latin for happy or lucky,’ adds Cara, as if to herself.

  ‘And what about you, Cara? Do you have a middle name?’ Oliver asks.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think it has any particular meaning. Justine. My mother tells me she gave me that name because in her youth she used to hang out with the Moody Blues and had a thing for Justin Hayward!’ She laughs.

  Oliver smiles. ‘Well, my initials are OTF, and they don’t stand for Old Tragic Fool. See if you can guess what my middle name is.’

  There’s something about the way he says it that gives Cara pause. Is he being funny? She doesn’t think so. But why would he say that? Why would he see himself in that light?

  ‘Tree,’ offers Sky.

  ‘Er, no…’

  ‘Timothy,’ suggests Bethany quietly.

  Oliver shakes his head.

  ‘Trumpet.’ Sky warms to the challenge.

  ‘Wrong again.’

  ‘Thomas?’ asks Bethany.

  ‘Tractor!’ Sky giggles.

  Cara laughs. How absurd!

  She watches in fascination as Oliver successfully turns the potentially explosive situation into a fun game. Both her children appear entranced.

  Aware of her gaze, Oliver looks up and smiles. He had no idea what he was doing earlier, coming to find her like that, but he was powerless to keep away. He was racked with indecision but it has, nevertheless, turned out well. This is just what he needed.

  ‘Do you know, Cara?’ he asks.

  She tries to recall if she’s ever seen his full name in print. She shakes her head.

  ‘Tobias,’ he says, ‘and it, too, has a meaning. In Hebrew, Tobias means God is good.’

  ‘Tobias,’ says Bethany, ‘I like that. Tobias… Toby.’ She plays with the name, a serious look on her face.

  ‘Yes, Toby is the shortened version,’ Oliver says.

  Cara smiles. She likes the name too. Glancing up at the clock on the kitchen wall, she
asks, ‘Would you like to stay for lunch, Oliver?’

  ‘Please stay,’ says Bethany.

  Sky grins conspiratorially at the actor.

  *

  The afternoon slips towards evening and Oliver reluctantly drags himself away. He’s performing tonight, but he’d much rather spend the evening with this little family.

  As Cara opens the stable door and steps outside, a strong breeze catches her hair. She holds it out of her face. A lone windsurfer skims across the water, jumping the waves and moving briskly from one side of the cove to the other.

  Oliver stands beside Cara as they watch in silence. He longs to move closer. It’s not just that she’s so lovely. He feels a connection so strong and is drawn to her in a way he has never known before.

  ‘So, now you’ve experienced an afternoon at home with the Penhaligons,’ Cara says, groaning inwardly. How pompous that must sound!

  An afternoon? I’d like it to be a lifetime!

  The thought takes Oliver by surprise and he glances down at her. ‘Much like an afternoon with the Foxleys.’

  She laughs. ‘You must miss your children, being here without them.’

  Oliver nods slowly. His children, yes. Instantly he feels guilt at the omission of his wife.

  ‘What was all that about earlier with Beth and Sky?’

  Looking down at her feet, Cara kicks a small stone lying on the track. When she meets his gaze, sadness pools deeply in her eyes. ‘Christo used to call Beth his “Beautiful Little Princess”.’

  ‘I heard what happened,’ Oliver says softly. ‘I’m so very sorry, Cara.’ He wants to hold her so badly and soothe away her pain.

  Biting her lip, she blinks rapidly.

  ‘Will you do something for me?’ he asks. It’s unimaginable to think he may not see her again. ‘Will you show me your Cornwall, if you have the time?’

  Please have time!

  Oh, so that’s the reason he’s here! thinks Cara.

  ‘Well, I have some commissions to finish and I work several days at the gallery.’ Cara considers Oliver for a long moment. ‘But I’m sure I could make the time.’ She smiles. ‘Yes, I’d like to show you my Cornwall.’