by Kate Ryder
‘Oh, I’ll have to check…’ Cara swallows her words. She can’t be flaky around Greg. He hates it.
‘Please make yourself available, Cara. That’s not a request.’
Cara frowns again, but excuses his tone because of his circumstances. ‘I will. And once again, Greg, I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘We all knew it was only a matter of time,’ Greg says, the pain evident in his voice. ‘Goodbye, Cara. Not long before we see each other again.’
‘Goodbye.’ Cara replaces the handset and sits for a while, unaware of the deep frown furrowing her brow.
Carol exchanges a swift look with Sheila. ‘Is everything OK, darling?’ she asks lightly.
Cara shakes her head. ‘No, Mum. It’s Marietta. She’s gone…’
Two
‘Would you like a newspaper, Mr Foxley?’ The air hostess’s make-up is flawless; her manner professional and cool.
‘Thank you. The Times.’
‘Oliver, may I speak with you about my character’s motivation?’ asks an eager young man, peering over the barrier separating their seats.
‘Of course, Tim. Always happy to share my experience and encourage younger actors’ aspirations. Besides, we’ve got a long flight ahead.’
The young man smiles. ‘Thanks. It means a lot. Perhaps after you’ve read your newspaper?’
Oliver nods, remembering the uncertain and insecure actor he was when first starting out in his acting career. However, very quickly the critics noticed him and his name was soon on the lips of those in the know. Deanna, too, was there for him. His ‘rock’… or so he’d believed. Pinching the top of his nose between forefinger and thumb, Oliver attempts to stem the approaching headache. What a journey he and his wife have had twenty-four years, and four children, later.
Oliver opens the newspaper. As he skims the newsprint, a piece in the obituaries catches his attention.
On February 27th, following a long illness, the respected and renowned artist Marietta Latimer-Jones sadly succumbed to lung cancer, aged 55.
Socialite daughter of the late Polish aristocrat, Baron Tomasz Von Baranski, the beautiful and age-defying Marietta was known all over the world for her trademark strong, flamboyant brushstrokes, full of joie de vivre. She first met her future husband, the illustrious art critic, Greg Latimer-Jones, in her native Poland as a talented but undiscovered artist. As Latimer-Jones’ protégée, she moved to America to further her career and the couple quickly became the darlings of New York society, fêted wherever they went. As soon as Latimer-Jones’ divorce came through, the couple married.
Interestingly, although both husband and wife achieved great personal success, they never had children. Whenever quizzed about her childless state, Marietta would respond: ‘Art is my life’s work. My paintings are my children.’
The artist is survived by her husband.
Oliver stares out of the window, instantly transported back to two summers ago when his perception of life was irrevocably altered. He never met Marietta Latimer-Jones while she was recuperating in the cove, but he did her husband. The man intrigued him. There was something unusually taut about Greg, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and he’d never trusted him – especially where Cara was concerned.
Cara…
Oliver allows himself a moment’s tender reflection. A sudden violent jolt, followed by a series of lesser ones, brings the seat-belt sign springing into life as the plane is buffeted on a pocket of air turbulence. The air hostess is back, suggesting he buckles up and can she get him a drink to ease the discomfort of the flight? He orders a gin and tonic and she flashes a megawatt smile before making her way unsteadily back to the galley.
Oliver glances to his right. The young actor looks pale. ‘It’s OK, Tim,’ he says reassuringly. ‘We’ll be through it soon enough.’
The young man can’t be much older than his daughter and his thoughts turn to Samantha, now happily studying fashion in London at Central Saint Martins. How lucky she is to have her life ahead of her.
‘Here you are, Mr Foxley,’ the air hostess says, placing a miniature bottle of gin on the tray in front of him. Then, laying down a small paper doily, she puts a glass filled with ice on top of it. ‘I hope you are finding everything to your satisfaction?’
On face value the question is innocent, but Oliver is a past master at recognising underlying suggestion.
‘Very satisfactory, thank you.’
She smiles. Instead of putting the bottle of tonic water on the tray she hands it to him, her fingers lingering on his as they accidentally touch. ‘If there is anything I can do to make your flight more comfortable, please don’t hesitate to ask. I’m Annette.’ The blue eyes that gaze at him are suggestive and flirty but her face is perfectly poised, giving nothing away.
‘Thank you, Annette. I will,’ Oliver responds politely. He watches as she moves away to assist another passenger in the Upper Class cabin, the neat airline uniform beautifully outlining the contours of her slim, willowy figure.
Oliver unscrews the bottle of gin and pours it into the glass. Topping it up with tonic water, he takes a sip. He’s about to put the glass down when he notices something scrawled in black ink on the paper doily. Her name and telephone number. If he had a different mindset he might take her up on the offer but, as one media-wit once commented: ‘Oliver Foxley may look like a player but his heart is firmly with family.’ His family… Again his mind wanders to that long, hot Cornish summer during which his heart was set on fire and his world spun out of control and onto a different trajectory. It tilted his perception of who he was. Cara! She is still as vibrant in his mind’s eye, and he knows he will never be able to simply consign to memory the feelings she stirs. Oliver frowns. He still can’t come to terms with the fact she won’t allow him to meet their son, or accept any financial contribution towards him. But life goes on… although it’s a far paler version of the one that was so briefly – and tantalisingly – promised.
Leaning back in his seat, Oliver settles in for the rest of the incident-free flight. When the air hostess returns to collect his empty glass, he hands back the paper doily.
Arching one elegantly plucked eyebrow, she closes her cool fingers over his. ‘Keep it. You never know.’
Several hours later they clear customs and Oliver immediately spots his driver sitting in a dark blue Mercedes outside the Upper Class entrance. Turning to his director and fellow cast members, he bids them farewell.
‘Thanks for your advice, Oliver,’ Tim, the young actor, says. ‘You’ve given me a very different angle to consider.’
‘My pleasure. It’s always good to discuss motivation and get the next generation’s take on things. See you Monday.’ Oliver heads towards the exit. As the plate-glass doors slide open, a squall of cold air hits him squarely in the face.
‘Mr Foxley, how was your flight?’ asks the driver, hurrying to take his suitcase from him.
‘Good, thanks, Terry. Hong Kong has its place but I’m happy to be back on British soil. How’s everything at home?’ he asks, as they walk towards the parked Mercedes.
‘Much the same. I drove your lad to college last week, not that he’s much of a lad any more.’
Oliver smiles. His eldest son, Charlie, was visibly maturing by the week before he departed for the Far East. He wonders what differences the intervening three months will have brought.
The driver is about to open the door for Oliver when a flurry of noise and activity distracts them. Both men turn as several of the airline’s cabin crew exit the building looking remarkably fresh, despite the twelve-hour flight. Dressed in dramatic double-breasted red drape coats with oversized collars, the female crew are a sight to behold. Some wear their coats open, showing a glimpse of white asymmetric frill-front blouses and smart red jackets with nipped-in waists and high collars. Neat, figure-hugging, red pencil skirts with a double pleat at the back and red shoes complete the look. Wheeling her suitcase behind her, the cool blonde air hostes
s turns in Oliver’s direction and raises her hand to her ear, holding an imaginary phone. As she strides down the pavement with the rest of her crew she bestows him a dazzling smile; all red lipstick and white teeth.
Momentarily forgetting the hierarchy of their relationship, Terry glances at Oliver and raises his eyebrows. Just a couple of blokes acknowledging a mutual understanding. However, as soon as the moment passes he lowers his eyes and, gruffly clearing his throat, opens the car door for his client. But as he places the actor’s suitcase in the boot of the car he allows himself a twitch of a smile.
It’s late afternoon and the British weather is grey and dull. Oliver welcomes the change. During the past three months, Hong Kong has been intense with unseasonably high temperatures and humidity, but filming went well and to schedule, even though they were forced to dodge frequent heavy rains. Now they can concentrate on studio-based scenes, and this means being at home with the family for the foreseeable future. As the Mercedes eases onto the M25 and joins the anti-clockwise traffic, Oliver stretches out his legs and relaxes.
‘I like the new motor, Terry.’
In the rear-view mirror the driver’s eyes meet Oliver’s. ‘Thanks. I’m pleased with it.’
Just over an hour later, the car sweeps in through a pair of opening electric gates onto a gravelled driveway and comes to a halt in front of a handsome lodge house.
‘It’s an early start on Monday, Terry. Apologies,’ Oliver says, as the man opens the door for him.
‘No problem, Mr Foxley. I’ll be here just before five.’
‘At least you’ll be in and out of London before the worst of the traffic,’ Oliver says, by way of compensation.
Opening the car boot, Terry lifts out Oliver’s suitcase and sets it down on the gravel. Nodding at the actor, he climbs back in the Mercedes.
Oliver watches as the car disappears through the stone entrance pillars and turns left onto the track leading to the parish lane. As the electric gates glide to a close, he turns and looks up at the house situated at the base of the North Downs. Hunter’s Moon appears closed. Not even the porch light is on to welcome him home. He tries the door and finds it locked. Extracting a key from his pocket, he inserts it into the lock and opens the front door. He switches on the hall light and quickly punches in the code for the security alarm, then places his suitcase at the foot of the stairs. There’s no sound of family life anywhere in the house. That’s odd. Deanna is usually home at this time with Sebastian and Jamie. He calls out and is met by a stony silence. Walking to the kitchen, Oliver makes a coffee and takes it through to the study, his inner sanctum. As he switches on the computer he glances up at the two paintings displayed above the fireplace. Cara’s brushstrokes still speak to him in a way he can’t put into words, and her gift – the painting of the south coast of Cornwall – never fails to bring an ache to his heart.
Waiting for the computer to power up, Oliver walks over to the French doors and looks out across the extensive manicured lawns leading down to the lake at the edge of the trees. In the late afternoon gloom, all is still. With no suggestion of a breeze, the forest is motionless. Raising his gaze to beyond the tree line, Oliver can still make out the dark bulk of the North Downs. Despite the high welded mesh fence that now defines the property’s boundary – a necessary precaution because of the attentions of the sadly deranged stalker two summers before – it still feels a great house; secluded and away from other properties. Over the years Hunter’s Moon has provided the space to comfortably raise a family away from prying eyes. But children grow up fast and the dynamics are changing. Samantha rarely comes home, such is the draw of the city, and Charlie is already beginning to test his flight feathers. It’s just the two youngest boys, Sebastian and Jamie, at thirteen and eleven, who routinely fill the house with noise and laughter.
Oliver sighs heavily. He hates viewing life like this. It feels so mapped out. His day-to-day existence is never enough and he needs drama, or so he always believed. It wasn’t until he met Cara that he discovered life could be different. Her spiritual, all-seeing essence spoke to him on so many levels that it effectively laid to rest his fears and troubles. But eighteen months is a long time to hold onto the memory of a feeling… Without Cara in his life, he has slipped back into full medication for the depression that has plagued him since late childhood, and recently – worryingly – he’s noticed a tendency to increase that medication.
Oliver closes the curtains and turns away from the French doors. Where are Deanna and the boys? He checks his mobile. No messages from his wife, only one from his agent welcoming him back to the UK and asking him to phone as soon as possible. Logging on, he checks his emails. Several demand his immediate attention. It’s a further forty minutes before he hears the front door open and voices fill the hall. Oliver rises from his chair and walks to the study door. His wife and their two youngest sons stand in the entrance hall.
‘Dad!’ Jamie cries, his eyes lighting up as soon as he sees him. Setting off at a run down the hallway, Jamie bowls straight into Oliver and throws his arms around his dad’s waist.
‘Hello, Jamie,’ Oliver says, hugging his son. The boy’s jacket feels chilly from the early evening air.
‘Hi, Dad,’ says Sebastian, dumping his jacket on the floor. ‘When did you get back?’
‘A couple of hours ago. Where have you been?’ Oliver asks, as Deanna admonishes Sebastian for not hanging up his jacket.
‘Watching rehearsals for Mum’s play,’ Sebastian says, grabbing his jacket and throwing it in the general direction of the coat rack.
‘How’s it going?’ Oliver asks Deanna.
‘Getting there,’ she says, bending to pick up her son’s jacket from the floor and hanging it on a hook.
‘We met a really funny man today,’ says Jamie, looking up at Oliver with wide eyes.
‘Yeah, looks like a girl,’ adds Sebastian.
‘He does not,’ says Deanna.
‘He does,’ Sebastian says. ‘He’s got long floppy hair and wears fancy shirts and coloured trousers.’
‘And make-up!’ Jamie adds breathlessly.
Oliver ruffles his young son’s hair. ‘That’s not surprising if he’s an actor. This profession appeals to all sorts.’
‘He’s not an actor. He’s a costume designer called Pins,’ Sebastian says authoritatively.
Jamie giggles. ‘It’s not his proper name. He’s really called Danny Silverman but he says all his friends call him Pins.’
Deanna watches silently as her sons chat with their father, thankful they’re present. During the three months her husband has been away filming in the Far East she’s become fully involved with the local amateur dramatics company and has loved every minute of it. Now, uncharacteristically, she doesn’t know what to say or how to act around her husband.
‘Hey, Dad, come and see this brilliant new game I’ve got,’ Jamie says, tugging at Oliver’s hand.
‘In a minute, Jamie, I just want to have a word with your mother.’
‘I’ll give you a game, Jamie,’ says Sebastian, ‘and thrash you while I’m at it!’
‘You will not,’ counters Jamie.
‘Wanna bet?’
Pulling a face at his older brother, Jamie lets Oliver go and runs towards the TV room.
Oliver gazes down that hallway to Deanna, still standing in the entrance hall. She appears strained.
No warm homecoming, then?
‘Did you forget I was arriving today?’ he asks.
‘I’ve had so much on recently,’ Deanna says, unable to meet his gaze, ‘I forgot if it was today or tomorrow.’ She walks down the hallway towards him and gives him a peck on the cheek. ‘Coffee?’
As she continues on to the kitchen, Oliver turns and follows.
Deanna approaches the sink, fills the kettle and switches it on. She makes no effort to talk and Oliver frowns. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? He knows their relationship was strained before he departed for the Far East, but he hop
ed time apart would thaw the atmosphere between them. A vision of life at home stretches before him and leaves a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Oliver steps towards his wife. Turning her to face him, he says, ‘Deanna, we have to make an effort, if only for the kids.’
‘For the kids?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about us?’ she asks.
‘Yes, of course for us,’ Oliver says. ‘That goes without saying.’
The eyes that assess him are full of resentment, and something else he can’t quite place.
He draws her into a hug but her body is stiff and tense and he soon releases his hold. Oliver takes a step back and considers his wife.
‘Deanna, I know things have been tough between us but you can’t hold onto such hatred towards me,’ he says softly. ‘It will make you ill.’
‘Hatred?’ Deanna says evenly. ‘I don’t hate you, Oliver. You’re living your life, and now I’m living mine too. That’s all there is to it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that.’
‘But you’ve always lived your life,’ Oliver says, perplexed.
‘Really? Who is it that’s always here looking after the children while you’re away enjoying yourself?’
Not that old chestnut again!
‘You know my career takes me away,’ Oliver says quietly. They’ve had this conversation so many times. He watches as Deanna gathers her strength and braces himself to receive the full force of his independent wife’s stubbornness.
‘Pins says I should pursue my dreams and not put my life on hold any longer. He says in supporting you I’ve been hiding my light under a stone.’ She pauses, having the grace to look sheepish before continuing, ‘Pins says it’s shining so brightly it can’t do anything more to remind me of my own needs and interests, and now it’s up to me.’
