by Kate Ryder
‘Quite sure, Sabrina. Family matters come first.’
‘Well, if that’s really your final decision…’ She trails off.
Oliver catches the disappointment in her voice. He knows she’s hoping for a change of mind.
Suddenly businesslike again, Sabrina says, ‘Let’s check our diaries for that lunch date.’
Oliver reaches into a drawer and pulls out a diary overflowing with his sons’ timetable of events.
‘What about Wednesday after next?’ Sabrina suggests.
He flicks through to the date. Deanna has scheduled him in for the morning school run, but it still gives him time to get into London. ‘Yes, that’s doable.’
‘Twelve-thirty at the office? I’ll book that fabulous little restaurant just around the corner. There’s a new chef and the food is divine.’
‘Looking forward to it, Sabrina. See you then.’ Oliver replaces the handset.
It will be odd not having another project in the offing once filming has wrapped on the current movie. He glances up at the paintings hanging above the fireplace and wonders what Cara and her family are doing. What he’d give to be in Cornwall right now! It gnaws away at him that she refuses to let him be a part of their life, although he understands her reasons for denying him the opportunity. If he were her, he’d want nothing whatsoever to do with the famous actor who swept into her life, fell head over heels in love with her and then, ultimately, didn’t follow through. But when Deanna so effectively stepped in, using Jamie as a pawn and destroying any possibility of a future with Cara, he was torn apart and plummeted headlong into deep depression. Even though he desperately tried to find a solution that worked for everyone, it didn’t present itself. And then, several months later, he learnt of Toby’s existence.
Opening the top drawer of his desk, Oliver reaches into a hidden recess and removes a well-thumbed photograph of a baby wrapped in a fleece. The little boy is beautiful. How could he not be with a mother like Cara? Together, they have created the most precious of gifts: a son born of the deepest love and the highest faith. He turns the photograph over and sees her distinctively creative writing on the back. Toby. Oliver swallows hard.
Maybe I could have successfully run two families.
But as soon as the thought presents itself, he knows it’s something he would never do. Worried that Jamie also shares his tendency towards depression, Oliver has a strong sense of responsibility that has kept him firmly with his original family, despite the personal sacrifice he had to make. As he thinks of Cara and Toby, some remnant of Cara’s powerful healing light touches his soul and, briefly, Oliver experiences relief from the habitual ‘grey mist’, as his family calls the mental imbalance that plagues him. His thoughts turn to his strong, independent, attractive wife who has been with him since drama school days. They have lived through a lot. But since that fateful summer, two years ago, their relationship is strained; perhaps even before then. Although his glittering career is all-encompassing, Oliver has very little influence over home life. Home is definitely Deanna’s territory. When he returns from filming assignments he often feels excluded; cast out to live on the periphery. Well, no more. He is now fully involved with ‘family’ as never before. Oliver turns the pages, each day filled with a number of obligations regarding the boys. He’s not complaining! He enjoys the interaction with his sons. Perhaps this change in roles will work out for the best, especially if Deanna feels fulfilled. Maybe they will find a way back to each other…
The sound of a ringing phone startles him from his musings.
‘Hi, Dad. What are you up to?’ His daughter’s voice lifts him from his troubled thoughts.
‘Turning down work for the next year, or so,’ Oliver says, replacing the photograph in its secret compartment and closing the drawer.
Samantha laughs. ‘Bet Sabrina isn’t happy about that!’
‘Don’t think she is,’ agrees Oliver. ‘How are you, darling?’
‘Well, thanks. The course is great and London rocks.’
Oliver smiles. Even as a babe in arms, Sammy embraced all that came her way. In fact, all his children share her adventurous, go-getting nature. Apart from Jamie.
‘Dad, I’m glad I’ve got you because I want to ask a favour.’
‘What’s that, then, Sammy?’ he asks, temporarily putting aside concerns for his youngest son.
‘You know that grotty bedsit I live in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, a couple of the other students and I have seen a house that would suit us all. I’m hoping to go in with them.’ Samantha’s words tumble out of her mouth in an excited, nervous rush. ‘It’s kind of out of my league financially but the house is fab, and its top floor is an amazing open-plan space that so deserves to be a studio.’ She pauses, waiting for her dad to say something. ‘Oh, and it’s only twenty minutes by bus from Saint Martins,’ she adds, as if this will clinch the deal.
‘How far out of your league?’
Samantha hesitates. ‘Quite a bit actually. But, Dad, it’s such a beautiful place. It’s a town house with lovely airy rooms and a couple of huge bathrooms and a kitchen that opens out into a conservatory, and there’s a fabulous roof terrace with views over London. It’s just brill!’
Oliver smiles at his daughter’s attempt to sell it to him. ‘How much, Sammy?’
‘Well, here’s the thing. It’s in Notting Hill, so you can imagine the prices!’
‘I’m trying not to…’
‘The rent will be split between three of us, so it’s not such a shock.’
‘Go on, surprise me.’
‘Two thousand five hundred each per calendar month,’ Samantha says quickly. She waits with baited breath. Getting no response, she adds, ‘Just six hundred and twenty-five pounds a week.’
Oliver considers his daughter’s request. It’s not as if he can’t afford it but she’s only nineteen and when he was her age he lived in a bedsit not dissimilar to the one she currently rents. ‘I’m not saying no, Sammy, but I’d like to speak to your mother first.’
‘Oh, Dad, thank you!’ Samantha’s voice rises with excitement. ‘Wait ’til you see it. You’ll fall in love!’
‘Samantha, I haven’t agreed to it yet. Who are you sharing with?’
‘Annika, she’s Swedish and on the jewellery design course, and Elspeth. She’s studying ceramics. It’s in a really quiet, cobbled mews close to Westbourne Grove, Portobello Road and Notting Hill Gate Underground.’
‘Certainly well located,’ Oliver says. ‘Are there any details to show your mother?’
‘Yes, on the Internet. I’ll email you the link.’ Samantha takes a deep breath. ‘Please, Dad. This bedsit’s disgustingly grotty and the guy upstairs is so noisy. He must have a different girl every night!’
Oliver raises an eyebrow. ‘Leave it with me, Sammy. I’ll speak to your mother.’
‘Thanks. Love you.’ Samantha blows a kiss down the phone.
‘Love you too,’ Oliver says with feeling, ‘and, Sammy, invest in some ear plugs.’ He hears her laugh as she disconnects.
His eldest child is fast growing into a very attractive and confident young woman; the spitting image of Deanna at that age. Despite his pride in his daughter it depresses him to think she’s a child no more. Where have all those years gone? He’s missing so much. He glances up at the canvases again. In her painting of the Minack Cara has captured the atmosphere of the place and it fills his soul. He recalls Bethany, her adorable daughter, advising him in that quiet and serious way of hers how the cormorants standing on the rocks in the painting flapped their wings when no one was looking. Oliver smiles sadly as he studies them now; their wings still. His gaze moves to the painting displayed alongside – the hidden view from the cliffs beyond The Lookout. The letter that came with her gift to him said it was his from the very first brushstroke. He’s studied it so many times since receiving it and each time he sees something new. He never tires of the sweeping vista depicting the south Cornish coas
t from the cove, past Loe Bar to Praa Sands and Prussia Cove, across a shimmering Mounts Bay with the tip of iconic St Michael’s Mount rising out of the water, sweeping on past Penzance and Newlyn to the cliffs at Porthcurno and, in the far distance, Gwennap Head. But when he first saw it, propped on Cara’s easel as a work in progress, inexplicably it made him want to cry. Now he understands why, and it still brings a lump to his throat. A keen reminder of all the lost opportunities.
Oliver closes his eyes. In his mind’s eye he can see the roof of The Lookout and, at the far end of the sweep of sand, Rick’s Beach Hut. He doesn’t need to see the painting to be there. It is etched upon his heart, as is she. He will never forget her. How can he? She is part of him! Sometimes, when he meditates, he can still sense her lightness of spirit and beautiful, golden glow that so effectively banishes the ‘grey mist’ from the very darkest recesses of his being. He tries to clear his mind now, longing to hear her carefree laugh that offers up so much hope and promise. And isn’t that a bark and a young boy’s shout? He yearns to see Sky chasing after his dog along the beach and playing in the surf at the water’s edge. An image of Bethany comes to him with her shy, yet wise, smile and Oliver swallows hard, his chest tightening. If he looks hard enough will they all come to life? He knows they won’t, but still he opens his eyes and scans the cove for the little family that so completely captured his heart, longing for Cara to somehow manifest. His craving for her never fades. But the beach is empty. There is no golden girl.
Oliver drags a hand through his hair. He should have been there to care for her during her pregnancy. He would have been so proud to watch her body changing, knowing it was because something of him was inside her. He wishes she’d told him, but she hadn’t. Selflessly, she’d saved him from further anguish. All he has is the treasured photograph of his baby son. But Toby is already nine months old… and he has never seen the boy.
‘Argh. This is madness!’
Oliver rises from his chair. Striding from the room, he makes his way to the handsome, leisure complex barn situated behind the house and, for the next two hours, punishes his body with a gruelling workout in the gym, followed by forty lengths of the pool.
Five
Standing back from her easel, Cara critically assesses the canvas. The commission is almost finished, but not quite. She’s still not satisfied with the turreted mansion perched on dramatic cliffs looking out over the ocean, but she doesn’t want to overdo it. At this stage in the process it’s important not to overpaint, but she can’t leave the house in its current state. The commission is for one of Greg’s American contacts and she knows he will be highly critical if she doesn’t create something stunning. She understands. It’s important that each artwork is individual and memorable, but why doesn’t Greg realise she already takes great pride in her work? She’s self-critical enough as it is without having the additional pressure of him breathing down her neck!
Without having visited the location, and using only a photograph as reference, Cara paints the commission – a property on the west coast of Ireland overlooking Galway Bay towards the Aran Islands. Greg’s contact merely asked for her interpretation of his ancestor’s pile. Flustered at not really knowing what she’s dealing with, Cara has emailed photographs of the work in progress to Greg. ‘The composition isn’t right; the sea needs more drama; the cliffs need more height; the colours don’t convey the atmosphere of the location.’ His damning observations have further curtailed her usually unbridled imagination.
Cara sighs and walks to the windows overlooking the cove. It’s a beautiful, clear day and the recently washed sand shimmers in the sunshine. Spring is on its way. A couple of dog walkers stroll along the beach, their canines racing ahead, and a large flock of greedy gulls inspect the sand at the water’s edge. Cara glances up at cotton-wool clouds scudding across an ice-blue sky. Slowly, she rotates her shoulder blades and tries to release some of the pent-up tension. Greg has organised a train ticket to London at the end of the month and booked a hotel room for her. Where business is concerned he takes care of her every need. Even if she wanted to, she cannot get out of the meetings he’s arranged. It’s an honour to be offered the chance to exhibit her work at the opening of a new gallery in Soho, so why does she feel ungrateful? At once Cara feels guilty. She must find enthusiasm for his plans for her, and yet, at the same time, curtail it. Greg demands it. At all times, she must maintain a smooth exterior and never show excitement; otherwise she will be perceived as an unsophisticated woman. How did he put it? ‘It’s important to be seen as someone with worldly knowledge, Cara. You have to be upbeat, yet cool.’ But it’s so hard. She feels as if her whole persona is shifting and being moulded into something uncomfortable and alien.
Turning away from the window, Cara walks back to the easel and picks up the paintbrush once more. Ten minutes later she throws it down in exasperation. She takes off her painting shirt and descends the wooden stairs to the hallway. Barnaby lies on the floor of the living room with his nose on his paws, his eyebrows twitching as he observes the baby playing in the playpen. He looks up and wags his tail as Cara appears in the doorway.
‘Good boy, Barns, watching over Toby.’ She pats him on his head.
Toby gurgles and holds out his arms to her.
‘OK, young man, I’m just going to warm some milk for you,’ Cara says, disappearing into the kitchen.
The little boy’s face crumples and his mouth quivers as he bursts into heart-wrenching sobs. Barnaby instantly scrambles to his feet with a worried look on his face. Crawling to the edge of the playpen, Toby pokes his podgy hands through the bars and grabs a handful of fur at the dog’s neck.
‘Hey, don’t fret so,’ says Cara, rushing back into the room. Leaning over the side of the playpen, she lifts Toby into her arms and, immediately, the little boy stops crying. As Cara lovingly wipes away a large wet tear sliding down the side of his face, a pair of beautiful blue eyes gaze at her.
‘You’re too gorgeous to be sad,’ she says, kissing him on the cheek. ‘Are you hungry? Is that what it is?’
As Cara walks to the kitchen with Toby in her arms, Barnaby shadows her, keeping a close eye on the infant. Balancing her son on her hip, Cara prepares his bottle. She glances up at the wall clock. Another four hours and Beth and Sky will be home from school. She must crack on with the commission to meet the deadline, but something is holding her back. Her brushstrokes refuse to flow today. Would a run on the beach free her up? Picking up the mobile phone from the work surface, she walks back into the living room and sits on the sofa with Toby in her lap. She offers the toddler his bottle. As he begins to suck, his gaze remains unwaveringly on his mother’s face. On the opposite side of the room Barnaby climbs into his bed. Circling once, he lies down with his nose on his paws, and solemnly watches.
Cara punches in the number. ‘Hi, Mum. Sorry to ask but are you busy this afternoon?’
‘Nothing that can’t be changed. Why?’
‘I feel stuck and I’ve got a deadline looming with that Irish commission. I wondered if you’d come over and keep an eye on Toby while I go for a run on the beach. I think it might free me up.’
‘Of course, darling. I’ll drag your father out as well. It will be good to see Beth and Sky too. Shall I buy a cake?’
‘You’re a star!’ Cara says with a smile. ‘Yes, get a cake and I’ll do tea when the kids are back from school.’
‘See you later,’ says Carol.
Cara leans back against the sofa and closes her eyes, allowing the peace and tranquillity to wash over her. The only noise is Toby sucking noisily on the teat of his bottle. It’s a comforting sound and she starts to drift off. Suddenly her mobile rings, bringing her rudely back to the moment. She glances at the screen. Greg! All at once she’s on high alert.
‘Cara, my dear. Thought I’d find out how Alan’s commission is coming along.’
Her stomach tightens into a sickening knot. ‘Almost there. Just a few finishing touches.’
‘I would think so,’ she says, pulling a face. ‘Did you want me to bring it with me?’
‘No, Cara. It’s too expensive a piece to be dragged around the British transport system!’ She cringes at the amusement in his voice. ‘I’ll arrange a courier. Just let me know when it’s ready for collection.’
‘It’s probably another couple of weeks.’
‘Are you pleased with it?’ Greg asks. ‘Did you take on all that I said?’
Cara’s stomach muscles tighten further. ‘Yes and yes.’
‘Good girl. I’m sure Alan will be thrilled.’
‘How did the funeral go?’ she asks softly, changing the subject.
‘It was more a celebration of Marietta’s life. Many people attended.’ Greg pauses. ‘You know, Cara, she saw a lot of herself in you. She believed you could be a major player and told me to nurture you.’
‘That’s nice,’ Cara says, not knowing what to say but not wanting to offend. With her baby now asleep on her lap, she stares out of the window at the ocean.
‘Nice?’ Greg says with an amused laugh. ‘It’s not “nice”; it’s a huge compliment from someone of Marietta’s talent! Cara, you must work on your responses. Once I’ve got you out of your beloved Cornwall and into the wider world you will have to be more engaging in your speech.’
Dots of colour appear on Cara’s cheeks as she continues to stare out of the window. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she says in a flat voice.
‘Cara, I know you will succeed,’ Greg says more gently. ‘It only needs a little tweaking here and there. You will win everyone over. Marietta always said that although you are raw and unsophisticated, you are simply…’ Greg pauses, gathering himself ‘… lovely!’
It’s the way he says it that snaps Cara out of her trance-like state. Suddenly she feels panicked and adrift. Toby stirs restlessly in her lap and she carefully removes the bottle from his mouth.
