Cottage on a Cornish Cliff

by Kate Ryder

  ‘The room is south facing so you will want to have the windows open.’ Greg places her suitcase on the bed. ‘I’ll leave you to settle in.’ He glances at his Rolex. ‘I’ve booked dinner for six at a restaurant just a block away. It’s walking distance. Come down to the Great Room when you’re ready.’

  Cara nods and places her hand luggage on the bed beside her suitcase.

  ‘Cara.’ She turns at the sound of his voice. ‘I’m so pleased you agreed to visit. Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you for arranging it,’ she says, hiding her surprise. Greg has never thanked her for anything.

  Greg smiles. ‘Feel free to use the phone any time you want to call England during your stay.’ He turns towards the door.

  Cara quickly unpacks her bags. Unsure of what to bring, she’s packed a selection of clothes for most occasions. She hangs her clothes in the wardrobe and places two pairs of shoes beneath, and then carries her washbag through to the en-suite bathroom. Luxuriously appointed with a large glazed, double shower, this room, too, has a wall of windows overlooking the river. It’s like living in a goldfish bowl, thinks Cara. Any eagle-eyed person cruising down the river could catch an eyeful if they happened to glance in this direction at an inopportune moment!

  As Cara freshens up she considers Greg. He’s being so attentive, she has the feeling he’d grant her anything she desired. She frowns. This is not the Greg she has come to know. Usually, he makes her feel slightly ridiculous in his company, as if he finds her secretly amusing. She has always felt the pressure to raise her game to meet his standards. But on his home turf Greg is showing her a different side. Which is the real one? Maybe she will know by the end of her stay.

  Kicking off her boots, Cara changes out of her leggings into a pair of black trousers. She selects a clean T-shirt and a casual, floral over shirt. Opening her jewellery roll, she takes out a long necklace and fastens it around her neck, the heavy pendant hanging down almost to her navel. As she brushes her long blonde hair Cara looks at herself in the mirror. What is she doing here? Why did she allow Greg to persuade her to visit New York? She knows he wants to show her the city, and he’s keen for her to see his house in the Hamptons too. Why didn’t she just say no? She looks herself squarely in the face. You know why, Cara. Fear flutters in the pit of her stomach. Why does the thought of being with Greg have this effect on her? Life would be comfortable and her children would have opportunities that she, alone, cannot offer. Cara shakes her head. How horribly black and white. She has never considered life in these terms before. She was always happy to go wherever the wind took her, and this philosophy served her well… until four years ago. Losing Christo at such a tragically young age altered everything.

  ‘Life is changing, Cara Penhaligon,’ she says sternly to her reflection, ‘and however uncomfortable it makes you feel, you will just have to adapt.’ She hardly recognises the woman staring back. Taking a deep breath, Cara turns away from the mirror and heads for the door.

  *

  Greg puts his arm casually around Cara’s shoulder as they walk along West Side Highway towards Charles Street. It’s still early evening and the traffic is heavy along the embankment. He loves this environment. Life is never dull. Noise and mayhem equate to people making things happen. It’s only lack of imagination that limits you. He knows all about that – his parents couldn’t see beyond their pitiful existence. Charlotte taught him to look beyond his circumstances and dream big, and it has paid off.

  Greg tightens his hold on Cara’s shoulder. She is his big dream now. Funny how life turns out. During that summer two years ago, when that actor, Oliver Foxley, arrived in the cove, he thought he might have lost his opportunity with Cara, although she always said there was nothing between them and that she and Oliver were just friends. But, what with Marietta’s passing and Oliver having conveniently disappeared off the scene, opportunities are finally falling neatly into his lap. He wonders about Cara’s youngest child. They’ve never discussed him, and he’s never bothered to find out who the father is. Probably a one-night stand. But he’s not worried about that. Once she and the children are living in America, as long as he can bask in the glory of Cara’s talent and the kids don’t get in the way, that’s all that matters. He’s already successfully reinvented himself once and he’s sure he can play the nice stepfather, as long as he has Cara.

  Greg’s arm feels a deadweight around Cara’s shoulder, and everything seems so alien. The roar of the traffic is an assault to her senses and the pavement beneath her feet harsh and unforgiving. She’s like a fish out of water and longs to feel the sand between her toes. Even the restaurant, as stylish and fashionable as it was, seemed clinical, with its hard, angular lines, concrete and steel structures and endless windows. And the unnecessarily busy carpet irritated her. The food and its presentation, however, were faultless. Greg was obviously well known and the staff fussed over them; she had to stop herself from smiling at how they ingratiated themselves to her by default. As Cara glances across the busy highways to the Hudson River – always drawn to water; be it sea, lake, river or stream – a beautiful eighty-foot schooner in full sail glides by.

  ‘The sunset cruise,’ says Greg. ‘It’s a good way to see many of the famous sights and the New York City skyline. If there’s time, we can book a tour.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ says Cara. Perhaps, if she’s out on the water it might make her feel more at home.

  ‘I’ve already planned a tour of the Statue of Liberty,’ Greg continues. ‘We will catch the ferry at Castle Clinton, on the southern tip of Manhattan. It will be crowded but there’s no way to avoid that. It will be worth it, though. The views are astounding from the statue’s observation decks. You can see not only the New York skyline but also New Jersey and Ellis Island.’

  His passion for New York is endearing. Still as smooth and sophisticated as ever, his voice has acquired an extra quality as he talks of life in the Big Apple.

  ‘Were you born in New York, Greg?’ Cara asks.

  Was that hesitation?

  ‘No. I came here in my mid-teens. The city has been good to me. It’s given me not only a home but also a career.’

  She wonders about Greg as a boy and is about to ask more when she glances at him and swallows her questions. He has closed up. That particular conversation is over. This is the man she knows; the one who doesn’t invite further investigation.

  They walk on in silence, one revelling in the atmosphere of the concrete jungle, while the other thinks of wild cliffs and golden sands. The blackthorn and honey-scented gorse are out, and the primroses are abundant in places. She even discovered a patch of perfumed dog violets behind The Lookout.

  As they approach the condominium, the doorman springs to attention and opens the door.

  ‘Thank you, George,’ says Greg.

  ‘A lovely evening for a stroll,’ the doorman says, discreetly eyeing up Cara.

  ‘It is indeed,’ Greg says coldly, daring the man to continue his subtle ogling. The doorman quickly averts his eyes.

  As the lift doors open, Greg intends to pull Cara into an embrace. He’s waited this long and the restraint is killing him. But a man enters with them and he is forced to abandon that idea. Reaching his floor, Greg guides Cara into the lobby.

  ‘You must be tired, Cara, after your long journey today,’ he says, unlocking his front door and walking into the hall. ‘Can I get you a drink or would you like to retire to your room?’

  Cara stifles a yawn. ‘I am feeling rather exhausted. I think I’ll go straight up and then I’ll be fresh for the morning.’ She smiles at him. ‘Thanks for a great introduction to your city, Greg.’

  He watches as she climbs the stairs. As she disappears along the landing, Greg heads to the Great Room and pours himself a large Scotch on the rocks.

  At ten he turns in, but not before pausing outside the guest bedroom. All is silent, though a light shines from under the door. Turning away, Greg enters the master bedroom. Removing his cl
othes, he walks briskly to the en-suite bathroom and fastidiously prepares himself. Energetically swilling mouthwash, he spits into the basin and mops his mouth on a luxuriously plump towel while staring at his image in the mirror and scrutinising his body. Not bad for a man in his mid-fifties. Perhaps a little too much around the waistline, but apart from that there’s not much to criticise. His gaze travels southwards. Everything’s in perfect working order. Glancing up, he meets Gary’s steady stare and a wolfish grin spreads across his reflection’s face.

  ‘Not bad at all.’

  All day Greg has watched himself. To anyone else, the level of self-control he has exerted would be exhausting, but he’s a master. This is the price he’s paid for the life he’s led over the past forty years. By treating Cara in a gentlemanly and attentive fashion, he has shown her the best side of both himself and the city. It’s early to retire by New York standards. However, he’s desperate for her and, despite his resolve, Greg has no intention of ending the evening just yet. He takes a silk dressing gown from the back of the bathroom door and slips it on, the cool material sensual against his hot skin. He ties the tasselled belt around his waist and opens a mirrored wall cabinet. Removing a box of condoms, he checks inside. Will this be enough to last him over the next few days? He may have to buy more.

  ‘Time for your treat, Gary, my lad,’ Greg says to his reflection as he slips the box into his pocket. He allows the wolfish grin to appear briefly before carefully removing any trace of it from his face.

  *

  Propping the pillows against the oak headboard, Cara climbs into bed. Normally she sleeps naked and the newly bought nightdress feels alien against her skin. Although she’s exhausted, sleep is a long way off. She glances inquisitively around the room. Greg’s apartment is a surprise. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but it wasn’t this. As luxury apartments go, this one is bland; minimalist, without any accoutrements and predominantly decorated in varying shades of beige and brown. The only life springs from the walls. There must be thousands, if not millions of dollars’ worth of original art on display. Paintings by old masters and collectible modern day artists too – Greg coolly pointed out a David Hammons and a Christopher Wool in the library. It’s odd there’s no evidence of Marietta, apart from the one framed photograph in the Great Room on the shelf beneath a vibrantly coloured Picasso. It’s as if she never resided here. Did the stylish couple always live like this? Perhaps Greg keeps his memories of Marietta tucked away in the privacy of the master bedroom. After all, he kept the door to that room firmly shut when he gave the tour of the apartment earlier. Maybe it’s a shrine to his late wife for no one else’s eyes. Or has he removed all evidence of Marietta following her death? If so, it’s sad to live so spartanly because reminders are just too painful.

  Cara yawns. She’s been up for hours but her head is buzzing. Over dinner Greg expanded on the full itinerary he has planned for her, commencing with a visit to the Museum of Modern Art. He warned it would be an early start. With this thought in mind, Cara snuggles down beneath the duvet and is about to switch off the side light when she hears a tap at the bedroom door.

  ‘Cara, are you awake?’

  She holds her breath.

  ‘Cara?’

  As the door opens slightly, Cara quickly closes her eyes and feigns sleep. She can feel the weight of his presence as he approaches.

  ‘Cara,’ he whispers.

  She remains motionless. As she feels his fingers brush her cheek, she wills herself not to flinch. After what must only be minutes but seems more like hours, she hears the click of the bedside light and senses the lightest touch of silk on her arm as Greg turns and walks away. Keeping her eyes tightly shut, Cara waits until she’s certain he’s no longer in the room before letting out a long, silent breath. She sits up; her heart racing and the palms of her hands feel sweaty. The lights on the other side of the Hudson River twinkle at her through the curtainless windows. She always knew he’d probably try it on, but now she’s under no illusion. They are at the point of no return. She will have to be very canny if she is to successfully keep him at a distance over the coming days.

  Twenty-two

  Zennor sits at a table on the beachside terrace. Dating back at least three hundred years, the charming inn, situated on the waterfront in North Helford Passage, is surrounded by wooded banks and sloping fields, and the views across to Helford Village are stunning. This is the most commercial part of the river and a number of rowboats weave amongst the many yachts and working boats bobbing on their moorings. With the sun on her face, Zennor shields her eyes and idly watches as the ferry makes its way across the river towards the north shore. This is one of the better parts of her chosen career – she can be out and about and enjoy the county when others are chained to their desks.

  ‘So, what are your first impressions?’ she asks, diverting her gaze to Oliver.

  ‘The area can’t be faulted,’ Oliver says, flicking through a property brochure. ‘I liked several aspects. The location is stunning.’ He looks up and smiles across the table at her.

  ‘What else?’ she asks, sipping the cider he’s bought her.

  ‘The grounds are well landscaped and I like that they go down to the water’s edge. The mooring with the property is a bonus.’

  ‘You can’t live on the Helford without getting into sailing,’ Zennor comments.

  Oliver imagines the boys learning to sail. It would be such fun for them, particularly Jamie, who so often holds back and gets pushed aside by his more robust, older brothers.

  ‘The outdoor swimming pool is a good size,’ she adds, ‘and heated.’

  ‘Yes. That would certainly get a lot of use.’

  ‘What about the house itself?’ Zennor asks.

  ‘That’s an interesting one.’ Tearing off a chunk of roll, Oliver dunks it in the cider sauce accompanying his bowl of mussels. ‘The architect has made a good job of designing a house that fits seamlessly into its environment. There are enough bedrooms and all are en-suite, so there’s no excuse for infighting.’ He gives her a lopsided grin.

  Zennor laughs.

  ‘I particularly like the large double-aspect lounge with its cathedral-style ceiling and doors leading out to the terrace. And those river views.’

  ‘I hear a “but”,’ Zennor says, moving her fork around her crab salad. It’s an interesting take with the addition of asparagus, fennel, burnt orange and hazelnuts.

  ‘Not really,’ Oliver replies. ‘The property would work very well.’ He looks at her and laughs. ‘OK, here’s the but.’

  ‘See, I knew there was one coming,’ Zennor says, spearing an asparagus tip with her fork.

  ‘I know it’s on an exclusive, private road with only five other properties, but…’ Zennor raises her eyebrow at him ‘…the area feels almost suburban. Where I live now is only thirty miles from London, yet it feels more remote.’

  ‘Most people aspire to the location,’ says Zennor. ‘Not only is Port Navas Yacht Club just across the creek but also the property is within walking distance of a prestigious country club hotel with golfing facilities.’

  ‘Maybe that’s it.’ Oliver picks up his pint glass and takes a mouthful, savouring the taste of the local Cornish ale, packed full of citrus, pineapple and grapefruit with a fine crisp bitter finish. ‘I’m not looking to appease my aspirations.’

  ‘Oh, well, one down, two more to go,’ Zennor says. ‘The next one is on the southern side of the Helford. It has a very different feel and looks out over Falmouth Bay.’ She glances at her watch.

  ‘Are we OK for time?’ Oliver asks.

  ‘We’re fine. I was just wondering if I would be able to show you another today, but I think we’ve missed the tide.’ She squints at him. ‘Would you consider raising your budget?’

  ‘I don’t really want to,’ Oliver replies. ‘Depends what it has to offer.’

  ‘There’s a property that’s confidentially on the market. It’s beautifully situated almost at the end of
the river, opposite the creek to Gweek. It’s been home to the family for over half a century. Personally, I’d love to live there.’

  ‘You’ve piqued my interest,’ Oliver says. ‘What money are we talking?’

  ‘Double the budget.’

  Oliver winces. It’s not that he doesn’t have the money but as this is to be a second home, and what with Deanna’s forthcoming purchase of the Egerton Gardens apartment and the monthly rental on Sammy’s Notting Hill property, it seems extravagant.

  ‘I tell you what,’ says Zennor. ‘I’ll make a phone call and arrange a boat to take us upriver. Then, we can do a drive-by viewing from the water!’ She laughs. ‘If it’s of interest I can approach the agents and arrange a viewing before you go back to Surrey.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  *

  Four hours later, having viewed the second property of the day, Oliver enters the offices of By the Sea Property Finders. He smiles at the young woman seated at a desk. As her face takes on the usual rabbit-in-headlights expression women tend to display on first seeing him, he follows Zennor into her office.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ Zennor asks. ‘Tea, coffee?’

  ‘Tea would be great.’

  ‘Two teas, please, Veryan,’ she calls through the open doorway.

  ‘You Cornish lasses have such wonderful names,’ Oliver comments.

  ‘You mean Cornish maids!’ says Zennor, exaggerating her Cornish accent.

  Oliver grins and glances around the office. Situated within a Victorian building, the room has a high corniced ceiling and sash windows overlooking the town and is simply furnished with a large desk, a couple of matching chairs and a filing cabinet. Apart from a tall, potted dracaena standing in one corner, the only adornment is a large painting on one wall. Immediately, Oliver’s heart begins to race. There’s no mistaking her style. He’d recognise those brushstrokes anywhere.

  ‘You have one of Cara’s paintings,’ he hears himself say.

  Zennor glances up at the canvas; a sun-kissed, shimmering St Michael’s Mount rising out of the mists. ‘You know her work?’