by Kate Ryder
Eventually, Oliver falls into a fitful sleep where he is visited by Sylvie’s dark energy and Deanna's cool strength. He longs to return to his dream, to bask in Cara’s golden light once more, but try as he might it evades him.
Nine
Barnaby’s sudden barks startle Cara from her concerns about what to wear for her forthcoming meeting at the new London art gallery. She looks up from feeding Toby and sees the fine art mover’s van pulling up outside The Lookout. Removing the little boy from her lap, she props him securely between the cushions on the sofa.
‘Beth, keep an eye on Toby while I answer the door.’ Bethany looks up from her Kindle and nods. ‘And make sure you take the bottle away when it’s empty. I don’t want him sucking on air.’
As Cara opens the porch door, Barnaby rushes out and circles the man, sniffing at his trouser leg. Facing away from the bungalow, staring out at the ocean, the courier leans down and pats the dog’s head before turning. Approximately mid-thirties with long mousey hair tied back in a ponytail, he is dressed all in black; his pale complexion standing out in stark contrast.
‘Don’t worry about Barnaby. He won’t bite,’ Cara assures him.
The courier’s eyes open wide. ‘Good dog,’ he mumbles.
‘I take it you’ve come for the painting?’
‘Yes.’ The courier turns away and looks slowly along the cove towards the beach café. A strong gust snatches at his ponytail.
‘Why don’t you come inside?’ suggests Cara. ‘These north-easterlies can whip around the headland.’
The courier turns back to her. Meekly he steps inside the porch.
‘I won’t be a moment,’ she says, turning away. Cara bounds up the wooden stairs leading to her art studio.
Following Greg’s instructions, she’s already packaged the commission in preparation for collection and delivery to his London hotel. She assumed the painting would go directly to his client in the States, but Greg wants to see the finished piece for himself before arranging its onward journey. Lifting the painting from her preparation table, Cara carries it carefully back down the stairs and into the hallway, automatically checking on her children as she passes the opening to the living room. The courier hasn’t moved an inch.
‘Here you go,’ she says, holding out the precious package to him.
‘There’s some paperwork to complete,’ the man says in a strong South London accent. He extracts a notepad from the rear pocket of his trousers and removes a pen from behind one ear. As if drawing confidence from these familiar acts, he continues, ‘You live in an out-of-the-way spot, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Cara says. ‘Did you find it OK?’
‘A few wrong turns.’ The man glances at her in embarrassment. ‘I know London like the back of my hand,’ he adds, defiantly.
Cara smiles. She wanted to use a Cornish courier but Greg wouldn’t hear of it. A city-based company had to be sourced. ‘Can’t trust the locals to get it right.’
Handing over the paperwork in exchange for the consignment, the courier turns and walks back to his van. He opens the rear doors, slides the boxed painting in and straps it securely against a side wall. Then, straightening up, he stares at Cara again before walking around to the driver’s door. As if in shock, he scans the cove once more and then, with one leg inside the van, glances back at Cara still standing at the open porch door.
‘I’ve never seen anything so gorgeous in my life.’
Cara laughs. ‘It is kind of special,’ she responds, knowing full well he’s not talking about the cove.
‘Sure as hell is!’
‘It’s a tight turning space. Be careful you don’t go too close to the cliff edge,’ Cara warns.
‘Will do.’ Reluctantly, the man climbs into his van.
Cara watches as he executes a four-point turn, inching closer to the cliff edge than she would dare, and wonders whether he’s miscalculated or just showing off. As the courier drives slowly away down the track she can see his eyes still watching her in the side mirror. Cara turns back inside the bungalow and smiles to herself.
‘Did Toby finish his bottle, Beth?’ she asks, glancing at her youngest son still nestled amongst the cushions.
‘Yes.’
‘Will you watch over him while I sort things out for my trip?’
Bethany nods. ‘OK. I’ll stay here and read my book. I won’t let anything happen to Toby.’
Cara smiles. Walking past her eldest son’s open bedroom door, she notices Barnaby sitting patiently in the centre of the room, sporting a black eye patch and wearing a Jolly Roger flag tied loosely around his neck.
‘Go on, you scurvy old dog. Walk the plank!’ Dressed as a pirate, Sky play-attacks the long-suffering Labrador with a plastic sword.
‘Careful you don’t poke out his eye with that, Sky. Barnaby’s only got the one!’
‘It’s only a game!’ Sky grins at his mother.
Cara carries on down the hallway to her bedroom. Flinging open the wardrobe doors, she stares at her clothes in dismay. She knows what’s in there and she’s sure Greg will find fault with whatever she chooses. Two hours later, she pulls an exasperated face at her reflection in the mirror. Unobserved, Basil slinked in earlier and is now curled up asleep amongst the mountain of clothes on her bed. What a frustrating couple of hours! She can’t imagine Greg approving of any of the outfits she’s tried on so far. She remembers the occasion when he and Marietta grilled her about her life’s aspirations and whether she wanted her art to be seen on a wider stage. It was an interview to beat all interviews and she felt she was handing over her life. She remembers deliberating over what outfit to wear then. In the end she chose a tunic over leggings, although she did ditch her usual Ugg boots in favour of a long suede pair. Cara stares at her image and sighs. The smart trousers and blouse feel unnatural and restricting. What would Greg think? She can guess what his remarks would be.
Cara searches through the remaining clothes in her wardrobe. She usually wears baggy jumpers or T-shirts over leggings but that’s not going to impress anyone, and Greg has given her strict instructions. She hears his voice in her head. ‘Elliot and Kat Kaplan are sophisticated New Yorkers who can have their pick of British talent to showcase at their opening exhibition. You have to present yourself in such a way that there will not be the merest suggestion of doubt.’ He also informed her that although they are passionate about her art, this alone is not enough. She will have to make them fall in love with her. Cara sighs again, as her fingers pause on a hanger. Will this outfit do? She hasn’t worn it in years. Removing the suit, she critically assesses it. The last time she wore it was at her grandfather’s funeral, before she had children. Will it still fit? Unzipping her trousers, she quickly steps out of them. Then, inching the short navy skirt over her hips, she eases up the zip. The skirt is tight but it still fits… just. She studies her image in the mirror.
‘You look nice, Mum.’ Bethany says from the doorway. The glass of squash in her hand has a vibrantly coloured, curly straw poking above its rim.
‘Do you think so?’ Cara asks, hot with frustration.
‘Yes. You look very pretty.’
Is pretty what she wants to convey? Greg will want her more dynamic than that.
‘Where’s Toby?’ Cara asks.
‘Sky’s playing with him.’
Putting the glass down on the bedside table, Bethany climbs onto her mother’s bed. She loves spending girly time with her mum. Sitting cross-legged amongst the pile of clothes, she pulls Basil into her lap. Obligingly, the cat settles into its new position.
‘Hang on. I wonder if this will work.’ Cara pulls out another hanger.
Taking off the dainty floral blouse she is wearing, she replaces it with a crisp white shirt. At once, she feels more the part. Buttoning up the shirt, she smooths it down over her hips and then shrugs on the skirt’s matching jacket. Finally, flicking her long blonde hair out from under her collar, she turns to face her daughter.
‘
Well, Beth, what do you think?’
‘Nice. Fresh. Smart,’ Bethany says, stroking the cat and making him purr.
Cara turns back to the mirror. It is smart; sophisticated too. The suit’s sharpness is offset by the shirt’s subtle, feminine ruffling along its placket and cuffs, and the short skirt adds a cheeky playfulness to the overall effect. Opening a drawer, she pulls out a pair of navy tights and slips them on. Then, rummaging through the bottom of her wardrobe, she finds a pair of long suede boots; the same ones she wore to that first meeting with Greg and his wife. The skirt fits her like a glove and as Cara pulls on the boots, hopping from one foot to the other, she hears her daughter giggle.
‘OK, Beth, answer me honestly. Do I look like someone you’d take seriously?’
Bethany reaches over for her drink. Sucking on the curly straw, she carefully considers her verdict. ‘Yes.’
Cara nods. Bethany has inherited a wise head on young shoulders, and if it’s good enough for her daughter, well, then, it’s good enough for her. However, it’s another matter altogether if it will be good enough for Greg.
‘You always look nice,’ Bethany says.
Caught off guard, Cara’s eyes well with tears and she quickly turns away. Grabbing a tissue, she blows her nose noisily.
‘Mum, Toby’s just walked all the way from my bedroom to yours!’ Sky announces from the open door. He holds onto his half-brother’s podgy hands.
‘Well done, Toby,’ Cara cries, lifting the little boy high into the air. Toby gurgles happily and grabs hold of her long blonde hair.
‘What are you doing?’ Sky asks, staring at all the clothes on the bed.
‘Looking for something to wear when I’m in London.’
‘Have you found it?’ Sky asks, clambering onto the bed and joining his sister.
‘I think I have,’ says Cara, placing Toby between Bethany and Sky.
Turning back to the mirror, she pulls her hair into a loose plait. This will do. She turns again and looks at her rear-view reflection. Is the skirt too short? It might not be seemly for someone in their mid-thirties. But the image reflected back at her is smart, laced with a touch of fun. She catches sight of three pairs of eyes watching her and her heart contracts painfully. There should be a father in the picture! However, the scene in the mirror allays her fears. Her family is grounded, sunny-natured and lovely.
Swallowing the lump forming in her throat, she turns back to her children. ‘OK, enough of this fashion show. What do you want for tea?’
Ten
Precariously balanced on a set of kitchen steps, Samantha pins the bunting in place and holds out the opposite end to her father. ‘This is the last one.’
Oliver takes hold of the string. Walking in the opposite direction, he stretches out the little flags into an arc and pins the string to the wall.
Samantha climbs down from the stool and stands back, judging the display. ‘What do you think?’
‘Very celebratory!’
Three lines of bunting announce, Happy Birthday Charlie.
Oliver looks down the full length of the dining room. Many strings of small triangular flags, falling in crescents from the edges of the ceiling and gathered at the central rose, give the impression of a softly draped canopy.
‘I was trying to create a Bedouin tent,’ Samantha explains.
‘Why?’ Oliver asks, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Are you expecting some dashing sheikh to turn up and whisk you away on his Arab stallion?’
‘Dad!’ Samantha exclaims, pulling a face. ‘This room is large and the ceiling’s high. I was trying for a cosy effect.’
‘It looks wonderful, Sammy.’ Oliver smiles at his daughter.
‘Do you like the photos?’
Oliver nods. A number of bunting flags display photos of Charlie – on his own, or with family or friends. Several flags also have the number seventeen stitched onto them.
‘I had photos printed for every year of his life,’ Samantha explains.
‘You’ve been busy.’
‘Just a bit!’
‘Any idea how many are coming tonight?’ Oliver asks, glancing at his watch.
‘I think eighty or so.’
Oliver’s eyebrows rocket skywards. Even as a young boy, Charlie’s easy-going nature assured him of a varied social life. A good-looking lad, tall and sporty, and popular with both sexes – they were forever ferrying him between engagements. There was that tricky time when, aged fifteen, and torn between two girls, Charlie came to Oliver for advice, but his son has not approached him since. He assumes all was satisfactorily sorted.
‘Ready to give Charlie his present now?’ Deanna asks, appearing at the dining-room door. ‘We should do it before the friends arrive.’ She glances around the room. ‘This looks nice, Sammy. Well done!’
Without waiting for an answer, Deanna turns away. Samantha folds up the kitchen steps and walks to the door. She turns and takes one last look at her creation before exiting the room. Oliver follows his daughter into the hall.
‘Charlie. Can you come down, please?’ Deanna calls up the stairs.
A few seconds later they hear a door open. Appearing on the galleried landing and flanked by his friends, Nathan and Gary, Charlie peers over the balustrade.
‘What?’ Charlie asks, seeing his parents and sister at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Has something happened?’
‘We have a surprise for you,’ says Deanna.
Taking the stairs two at a time, all three boys arrive in the hallway just as Sebastian and Jamie emerge from the TV room.
‘Is it time?’ asks Sebastian.
‘Time for what?’ Charlie asks, eyeing his younger brothers with suspicion.
‘Turn around, Charlie,’ his mother instructs.
Charlie glances at his friends. ‘Do you two know what’s going on?’
‘Nope, not a thing, birthday boy!’ Nathan says. Gary shakes his head.
‘Close your eyes,’ Deanna says.
‘Mum, you’ve got to be kidding me!’ Charlie exclaims.
Nudging Gary in the ribs, Nathan smirks.
‘Indulge us, darling,’ Deanna says. ‘After all, we can’t play these games with you for many more years.’ Dutifully, Charlie closes his eyes as Deanna ties a scarf around her son’s head. ‘Can you see anything?’
‘Nope. Nada. Zippo.’
‘OK. We’re ready, then. Sebastian and Jamie, you lead the way.’
Each grabbing a hand, the younger boys guide their older brother out of the house and across the gravelled driveway towards the triple garage. As they approach the building Deanna presses the remote in her hand and the roller doors glide up.
Charlie hears his friends gasp. ‘What?’ he asks.
‘Take off the scarf, Charlie,’ says Samantha, ‘you lucky boy!’
Lifting the scarf from one eye, Charlie stares in disbelief. ‘No way!’ He removes the scarf and wraps it casually around his neck as he walks towards the garage.
Beneath the helium balloons attached to its wing mirrors, a convertible silver Mini sparkles at the young man. Blue ribbons are tied to its windscreen wipers, door handles and anything else his siblings were able to attach them to. Charlie walks slowly around the car.
‘Wow, Charlie! A Mini Cooper S!’ Gary says in awe.
‘Look, it’s even got black alloy wheels and run-flat tyres!’ says Nathan.
‘And black and white chequered flag side mirrors,’ adds Gary.
Oliver smiles, remembering the excitement of a first car.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ says Charlie, lost for words. He walks towards his parents and hugs them both. ‘Mum, Dad, thank you. It’s great!’
‘Now, you’ll just have to pass that test,’ says Deanna, putting an arm around her eldest son towering above her. She gives him a squeeze.
‘Great incentive,’ calls out Nathan, covetously stroking the Mini’s racing-inspired black bonnet stripes.
Oliver watches the scene unfold. He’s pleased t
he money he earns provides opportunities for his children he didn’t have as a child. Toby pops into his consciousness. He so wants to provide for him. He cannot continue like this. Something has to give! Without warning, the familiar ‘grey mist’ descends.
‘You know you’re the best dad in the world, don’t you?’ says Samantha, linking her arm through Oliver’s.
He glances down at his daughter, so like her mother, and swallows hard; his throat constricting with emotion.
‘Thanks a million for agreeing to the Notting Hill pad.’
Oliver looks sharply towards his wife. He thought they were still in discussion.
‘Look, Charlie, your friends are arriving,’ Deanna quickly says, avoiding eye contact with her husband.
The sound of crunching gravel makes them all turn and they watch as a car drives through the entrance gates.
‘It’s Rosie!’ squeals Samantha. Extracting herself from her dad, she runs towards the approaching car.
Time to make myself scarce! Oliver turns away. Rosie’s mum has a habit of coming over all unnecessary in his presence.
‘Ollie, don’t forget I want you to sort out the drinks,’ Deanna calls out after his rapidly disappearing figure.
Without looking back, Oliver raises a hand in acknowledgement.
But, once inside, he doesn’t immediately go to the wine cellar. Instead, he makes his way to the master bedroom and strides across the room to the en-suite. Removing a bottle from the bathroom cabinet, he unscrews the cap and pops two lithium tablets into his mouth. Oliver throws back his head and swallows. He knows it’s unwise to increase the dosage, but the dark thoughts swirling around his head have no right to be there on his son’s seventeenth birthday. He will enjoy this time with his children. Before long they will all have flown the nest. With hands clasping either side of the basin, Oliver stares at the handsome face reflected back at him in the mirror. Not for the first time he is struck by the irony of his situation. No one would ever suspect the pain in his soul and the constant battle with himself.
Replacing the cap, he returns the bottle to the cabinet and exits the shower room. He’s about to walk to the bedroom door when a pile of papers on Deanna’s bedside table catches his eye. Oliver approaches. Picking up the papers, he frowns. London estate agents’ sales brochures.
