Cottage on a Cornish Cliff

by Kate Ryder

  What’s this? Is Deanna now thinking we will buy a property for Samantha?

  He reads a further set of details. Another apartment in a similar location. This one has been asterisked. A two bedroom, two bathroom apartment with a grand reception area and outside space located between Knightsbridge and the Brompton Road. He thought his daughter was sharing with two other girls, but this only has two bedrooms. Perhaps she’s thinking ahead. He looks at the price and his frown deepens. Two million. It’s one thing to expect him to fork out for rent, but to purchase a flat for Samantha at this level. That’s something else!

  With the property details in his hand, Oliver walks to the window. It’s a clear evening and as he looks out over the lawns stretching down to the lake at the edge of the forest, he observes a call duck and her brood of chicks dabbling amongst the grasses at the water’s edge. New life… like Toby. The beautiful vista usually settles him, but not today. Something’s coming, and he doesn’t know what. Unable to shake off the feeling of change in the air, he turns from the window and replaces the property brochures on the bedside table.

  Oliver walks briskly from the room and, putting aside his concerns, throws himself into the evening’s celebrations for his son.

  Eleven

  Greg glances up from his newspaper and looks towards the hotel’s revolving doors. Taxis come and go, and each time one pulls up his pulse races a little faster. It’s busy in the foyer and several of the female guests have noticed the attractive, well-dressed man sitting on his own reading a newspaper and nursing a cup of coffee.

  The hotel attracts a glamorous, upper-class clientele and Greg feels comfortable in its surroundings. He glances at his gold Rolex. It won’t be long before she’s here. He checks himself. It’s important he sets the right tone. He mustn’t make a fast move; he doesn’t want to scare her off. It’s going to be hard, though, because something about Cara makes him sweat.

  A couple of ladies make eye contact as they pass by on their way to the lift. Greg acknowledges them with a nod but doesn’t offer any further encouragement. Both women are attractive and elegantly dressed, and either one would look good on his arm. Used to moving in the upper echelons of New York society, Greg oozes worldly sophistication. There’s a sense of order about him too. He’s in control. Well-versed in polite small talk, he can turn on the charm if he so chooses. Today, however, Greg has no such desire to waste time on these women. He has another prize in his sight.

  A taxi pulls up, and even before the car door opens he knows it’s her. She gets out and lifts a small travel bag onto the pavement. Greg reins himself in. Cara is casually dressed in black leggings, leather ankle boots and a long coat, her long blonde hair glistening in the afternoon sun. As she walks towards the revolving entrance doors, Greg neatly folds the newspaper and places it on the table next to the half-empty coffee cup. He watches as she enters the hotel. Even though the foyer is full of perfumed, coiffed and cultivated women, not one is a match for Cara. As with the first time he saw her standing at her studio window in that little Cornish cove, she represents a breath of fresh air to him. Her beauty is natural and sun-kissed, stirring memories of carefree, hazy summer days. Sure, she’s unsophisticated, but he and Marietta discussed that. Slowly, he is putting into action their plans for creating an acceptable artist worthy of the wider art world… and one who is worthy of him.

  Greg rises to his feet and walks towards her. ‘Cara.’ He kisses her on both cheeks. He’d like to kiss her on the mouth but he doesn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to himself in these surroundings. ‘Did you have a good journey?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ She gazes around the grand entrance hall.

  ‘Let’s get you booked in,’ he says, guiding her by the elbow towards the reception desk.

  Registration is handled quickly and efficiently, and the front office receptionist calls to a porter to carry Cara’s travel bag to her room. Greg swiftly intervenes. Informing the man it’s unnecessary, he picks up the bag himself and walks Cara towards the awaiting lift.

  ‘Once you’ve settled in I thought we would have afternoon tea here,’ says Greg, pressing the fifth-floor button. ‘I’ve also booked a couple of tickets for a show this evening.’ As the lift doors close, he smiles at her. ‘I thought we should have some fun before the work begins tomorrow. Elliot and Kat expect us around ten. We will spend most of the day going through the arrangements for the exhibition.’

  Cara smiles, feeling nervous and jittery in the unfamiliar surroundings, but he’s got it all organised. All she has to do is turn up and perform.

  The lift doors open and – ever the gent – Greg motions Cara to exit first. Arriving at her room, Cara slots the key card into the lock, opens the door and enters. She swallows the gasp in her throat. Decorated in an elegant Edwardian style and retaining much of its original character, the luxurious room directly overlooks the River Thames.

  ‘Wonderful views, aren’t they?’ says Greg, placing her bag on the floor and walking to the windows. ‘That’s the South Bank over there.’

  ‘Spectacular,’ agrees Cara.

  Greg glances at his watch. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Is half an hour long enough for you to unpack and freshen up?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine.’

  ‘I’m in the next room should you want anything.’

  Cara nods. ‘I won’t be long. I’ll just change out of these clothes.’

  Greg turns away, curbing his excitement at the thought. It’s been a long time since he’s had her all to himself. Of course, he made sure he was with her when she won the Threadneedle Prize and he paid for her to stay in the same hotel as him, but he was married to Marietta then and nothing happened. This time, however, there is no such obstacle. They are both consenting adults. As long as he doesn’t frighten her off, the evening should end as he has imagined.

  As soon as Greg leaves the room Cara jumps onto the mountainous king-sized bed. She sinks back into its comfortable mattress and laughs out loud. The room is so extravagant. It’s a world away from anything she’s experienced before. She sits up and looks around at the custom-made furnishings. There’s a writing desk, armchair and sofa, an enormous flat-screen television, DVD player and an iPod docking station. There’s also a personal bar, and complimentary tea-and-coffee-making facilities. Her gaze moves to the river view and London’s most recognisable landmarks. It’s very generous of Greg to pay for her, but she knows he expects a lot in return. She hopes she can deliver. A tap at the door distracts her from her thoughts. Has he remembered something else to tell her? Scrambling off the bed, Cara opens the door to a young man dressed in hotel uniform and holding aloft an exquisite bouquet.

  ‘For me?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Cara casts around the room. ‘Perhaps on the table by the window.’

  The man does as instructed before quickly retreating.

  Cara approaches the elaborate floral display of cascading gypsophilia, cornflowers and stunning pale pink, Savoy Hotel roses. The bouquet is pretty and delicate and she sniffs the roses. Their fragrance is light. She removes a card.

  A beautiful bouquet for a special lady, G x

  Cara frowns. Tapping the card against her mouth, lost in thought, she gazes again at the mighty Thames. Pulling herself together, she quickly unpacks her bag and hangs her suit and shirt on the hangers in the wardrobe. Then, grabbing her wash bag, she walks to the bathroom. Again she gasps, only this time out loud. You could have a party in here! The luxurious and generously proportioned marble bathroom is completely opulent with a large walk-in shower as well as a free-standing claw-foot tub. She can’t wait to have a long, hot soak in that! Cara laughs, thinking of her small en-suite shower room at The Lookout.

  Knowing that Greg hates to be kept waiting, Cara washes and changes into a pair of smart black trousers and a flattering, floral tunic with gorgeous ruching and front pockets. She brushes her hair, applies more mascara and a fresh coat of lipstick, a
nd emerges from the bathroom just as there’s a knock at the door.

  ‘Ready?’ Greg asks, as she opens the door.

  ‘I am,’ Cara says. ‘Thank you for the flowers, but you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Indulge me, Cara,’ Greg says with a smile. Cupping her elbow, he guides her towards the lift. ‘Now, let us enjoy this hotel’s world-famous afternoon tea while being serenaded by a pianist from the winter garden gazebo. I hope you are hungry because there’s plenty of choice.’

  Twelve

  ‘So, let me get this right,’ Oliver says, staring in disbelief at his wife. ‘You’ve accepted a job and will be moving to London.’

  It’s Deanna looking for a property, not Sammy!

  ‘Only for part of the week, Ollie,’ says Deanna, nervously fingering the property details in her hands. Digging deep, she attempts to maintain her trademark cool. ‘I’ll be at home all day Sundays and won’t have to go in again until Monday afternoons.’

  ‘Tell me, Deanna, just how do you think that’s going to work for the family?’

  Despite her resolve, Deanna blinks rapidly. ‘The family’s growing up fast and it’s time they realised their mother is also a career woman. Anyway, they’re used to you hardly ever being here.’

  Oliver runs a hand through his hair. ‘Deanna, as we’ve discussed, I’m all for you finding something fulfilling, but I didn’t expect you to break up the family and move away in order to do that.’

  ‘Ollie, I’m not breaking up the family. Cast your mind back – was I, or was I not, training to be a stage manager when we first met?’ She places the sales brochures on the kitchen counter.

  ‘That was over twenty years ago!’ Oliver exclaims. ‘Life evolves and yours moved in a different direction.’

  ‘Even though it was years ago,’ says Deanna patiently, ‘I’ve never lost sight of what I could have achieved in the theatre. Now that I’ve been offered the chance to do exactly what I trained for I’m not going to turn it down.’ She thrusts out her chin defiantly.

  ‘How do you honestly think this will work?’

  ‘Are you telling me I have to decline the job?’ Deanna asks.

  ‘Of course not. You know I wouldn’t force you to do anything,’ Oliver says, the strain clear in his voice.

  Deanna considers her husband. It’s true. She has done anything she’s ever wanted.

  ‘Listen, Oliver, I’ve been offered a second chance and I’m not going to let this opportunity pass me by. Anyway, you’ve been swanning around the globe for years enjoying yourself. It’s time I had some fun.’

  Oliver groans. How many times do they have to go over that old ground?

  ‘Don’t forget it’s my international career that provides us with the lifestyle we enjoy,’ he says carefully. ‘In order to maintain it, there’s no choice but to continue what I do.’

  ‘But, Ollie,’ Deanna says sweetly, ‘by my accepting this job I’ve given you the chance to have a choice.’ Oliver stares at his wife, hardly recognising the woman standing before him. ‘Anyway,’ she continues airily, ‘Charlie only has another year at school and then he’ll be away at university. And, let’s face it, he’s hardly at home these days; always staying over with friends.’

  ‘But what about Sebastian and Jamie? It’s several years before they reach that stage.’

  ‘I’ve already thought about that. If you have to be away on a job they can stay with me in London, or they can weekly board. There are numerous solutions, Oliver. Stop making such a mountain…’ Deanna busies herself clearing away the dirty breakfast dishes.

  Oliver watches his wife. Experience has taught him that when Deanna has made up her mind there’s no turning her, but he wonders how long this idea has been brewing. Since his return from Cornwall, their relationship hasn’t been what it was, despite attempts at rebuilding it, but he hadn’t realised the distance between them was quite so cavernous.

  ‘It probably won’t affect Sebastian too much, being the resilient lad that he is, but aren’t you worried what your absence will do to Jamie?’ Oliver asks, thinking of their youngest son, so quiet and fragile.

  Deanna strengthens her resolve. She can feel her success – it’s within touching distance – but Jamie is the only cause for deliberation. ‘He will be fine. Pins says it will bring another element to his life; one that will probably be the making of him.’

  ‘What the hell has it got to do with him?’ says Oliver angrily. Taking a deep breath, he continues, ‘It seems to me, Deanna, for someone who prides herself on being so independent, this Pins has quite a hold over you.’ His voice is dangerously low.

  Deanna doesn’t say a word. She, too, is shocked at her infatuation with the charismatic man.

  The tick of the kitchen clock is unnaturally loud as it fills the void of silence between husband and wife.

  Is this a taste of our future – a cold, sterile house that should be filled with laughter and loving mayhem? Oliver shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the feeling.

  ‘Oliver, I really want this job and I’m not going to retract my acceptance,’ Deanna says firmly. Turning away, she starts to stack the dishwasher.

  Oliver looks out of the window. A weak sun rises in a pale blue sky and high above the treetops a pair of buzzards circle.

  ‘OK, Deanna. We will try it your way. I want you to be happy and if this is what it takes, then we will give it a go.’

  Deanna turns again and smiles at her husband. ‘Thank you, darling. I knew you’d come around.’ She makes a move to kiss him.

  Oliver holds up his hands, blocking his wife. ‘But, if Jamie shows the slightest signs of floundering you must promise to be flexible and reshape your life so that he is not compromised.’

  ‘Of course. You don’t think I’d toy with his frailties, do you?’

  ‘To be frank, I don’t know what you’d do any more.’

  ‘Oh, Ollie, of course you do. You know me through and through. I’d never play with our children’s lives. What a silly thing to say.’ Placing her hands on his shoulders, Deanna drops a soft kiss on her husband’s lips.

  ‘So, let’s have a look at these properties,’ Oliver says.

  Deanna passes him the brochures, surprised that he’s taking it so well. She thought he’d put up more of a fight.

  Oliver flicks through the half-dozen sales particulars. ‘Which one’s it to be? Egerton Gardens, Hans Crescent, Ebury Street, Artillery Mansions, Denbigh Street or, perhaps, Grosvenor Waterside?’

  ‘I haven’t made up my mind,’ Deanna says.

  Oliver fixes his wife with a stare. ‘Do let me know when you have. You see, I have my own plans to make.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Deanna asks, aware of a slight quaver in her voice.

  ‘Just that.’

  Oliver inhales deeply and steadies his breathing. He is so disappointed and angry… not just with his wife, but also with himself. He has sacrificed so much to still be here. He will never forgive her the underhand tactics of using Jamie to ensure he did just that. And he feels so lonely, but it’s not loneliness from being alone. It’s loneliness from being so far removed from himself; so far from the man he once had the chance to be. He has traded his whole identity and sacrificed his entire life to still be here. He knows it’s the depression making him think this way, but he can’t shake off the feeling that this is all his life will ever be. Will he have the strength to force himself through yet another day? He is so drained. He yearns for the things that bring nurture to his tired body and soul, and he longs to journey back to his own heart.

  ‘As I said, Deanna, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know when you have made up your mind.’ He hands his wife the property details.

  Without further discussion, Oliver makes his way to his study and closes the door firmly behind him. Walking to the fireplace, he gazes up at Cara’s paintings. As usual, something about her brushstrokes soothes his troubled soul. He turns away and approaches his desk, switches on the computer and searches the
Internet. Then, picking up the phone, Oliver makes the call.

  ‘Hello, is that By the Sea Property Finders? I’m looking for a house in Cornwall on the Lizard Peninsula and I’d like you to find it for me.’

  Thirteen

  ‘So, Cara, what do you think?’ Kat Kaplan peers over the top of her designer glasses.

  ‘I’m excited and already have several ideas.’

  ‘We thought about four metres by three,’ says Kat, rising to her feet. The tall, willowy gallery owner paces out the distance against the far wall, her luxuriant locks of auburn hair glistening under the gallery’s spotlights.

  ‘Something that will make a powerful statement,’ says Elliot. Uncrossing his long, thin legs, he leans forward in his chair and gazes intently at Cara.

  ‘What are your ideas, Cara?’ asks Greg.

  Cara swallows hard, trying to calm her nerves. This, too, feels like an interview to end all interviews. What is it about people who make their living from other people’s art? In her experience, their exacting demands far outweigh the artist’s own critical self-assessment.

  ‘I was thinking along the lines of a tumultuous sea under a threatening sky with a vibrant sunset bursting through.’ She glances nervously at the influential couple. ‘Lots of movement and vivid colours.’

  Nice as they seem, the stylish Elliot and Kat Kaplan, Jewish New Yorkers, shriek ‘designer’ perfection and it’s hard not to feel a lesser being in their presence. Having made their money bringing unknown artists to the world’s attention, they are expanding their empire into London’s Soho. As soon as Greg presented Cara’s work to them, they were keen to secure her as their opening artist.

  ‘Would you also like a smaller version?’ Cara asks.

  ‘That would be marvellous. We can place it in the window to draw people in,’ says Kat, glancing at her diamond-encrusted Cartier watch. ‘We should get to the restaurant, Elliot.’