by Kate Ryder
Cara’s eyebrows shoot up. How many are they thinking of buying? Placing the teaspoon on the drainer, she picks up the mugs of coffee and walks back into the gallery.
‘Thank you, young lady,’ says the man, taking a mug from her.
‘Who is this young girl?’ asks the woman.
‘My daughter, Bethany. She was five at the time,’ says Cara. ‘She’s eleven now.’
‘Oh, how delightful!’ exclaims the woman. ‘A painting of the artist’s very own daughter. This one’s definitely a keeper, Harry.’
‘I agree,’ says the man, winking at Cara.
Cara sips her coffee. Through the gallery window she spots Carol and Toby entering the courtyard. ‘Excuse me while I help my mother.’
‘You carry on, dear. We’ve got plenty to discuss,’ says the woman, grabbing Harry’s arm and dragging him to the next painting.
‘Hi, Mum.’ Cara holds open the door. ‘Potential American buyers,’ she whispers with a grin.
Carol pushes the buggy into the gallery. Since winning the Threadneedle Prize her daughter has experienced a steady stream of sales, particularly to Americans. They can’t seem to get enough of Cornish land and seascapes. It must have something to do with the Poldark effect.
Cara leans down to Toby’s outstretched arms. ‘OK, young man. Just wait a minute while Mummy undoes your harness.’
‘I bought a carton of milk,’ says Carol. ‘I noticed we were running short.’
‘Good. I’ve just used the last drop,’ says Cara, releasing Toby from his constraints. She swings him high into the air and the little boy giggles with delight. Kissing him firmly on his podgy cheek, she places his feet on the ground. Toby takes determined steps across the gallery floor.
‘Look, he’s getting more confident by the day,’ Cara comments.
As she removes her coat, Carol watches her grandson and smiles.
Reaching the playpen, the little boy grabs hold of the frame and bounces in excitement at the toys all lined up waiting for him.
Cara removes his jacket. ‘There you go, Toby,’ she says, lifting her son into the playpen. ‘Playtime!’
‘Hello,’ says Carol, passing the man on her way to the kitchen with the buggy.
‘Hi. Aren’t these paintings marvellous?’ he says.
‘They are,’ agrees Carol, ‘but then I’m a bit biased. They’re my daughter’s.’
‘You must be very proud of her,’ the man says, glancing from Carol to Cara.
‘Oh, that I am,’ says Carol with a smile. Even in Cara’s darkest moments she somehow manages to shine the brightest of lights on all their lives.
‘Harry, honey,’ calls the woman from the other side of the gallery, ‘I’ve got a shortlist. Let’s compare notes.’
At the kitchen doorway, Carol pulls a hopeful face at Cara before disappearing inside.
Cara sits at the sales counter. It’s astounding the number of people from all over the world who manage to find the gallery, tucked away as it is, but her paintings seem to be a particular favourite with Americans. Maybe Greg’s counsel is wise. Her future is in the States. What would her parents say? They wouldn’t hold her back, if that’s what she wants, and she knows they would visit regularly. Perhaps Greg is offering a future she should grasp with both hands. But still there’s that niggle.
Carol joins her daughter at the sales counter, a mug of coffee in her hands. ‘Once they’ve gone I’ll do a bit of dusting,’ she says, sitting on a stool.
‘OK.’ Cara smiles fondly at her mother. How would she cope with her daughter and grandchildren moving overseas? She’s so involved with the children. She would feel their absence the hardest. Silently Cara sighs. Why does she always feel so stretched, having to be all things to all people? Why can’t she just be…? Fear gnaws away in the pit of her stomach. Reminding herself to take each day as it comes, Cara concentrates on the colourful couple heading across the gallery towards them.
‘We’ve arrived at a decision,’ says the man in some wonder.
‘Yes,’ says the woman. ‘We’ve decided on eight.’
Hearing her mother’s sharp intake of breath, Cara makes sure she remains straight-faced.
‘Now,’ the woman continues, ‘my husband and I are in the UK for the next month, so we’d like you to arrange for the paintings to be sent to New York to coincide with our return.’
‘Of course,’ says Cara.
‘That’s a nice long holiday,’ Carol comments.
‘Golfing holiday,’ says the man. ‘We’re working our way through the great golf courses your little country has to offer, ending up at St Andrews. We’ve been staying at St Mellion and now we’re at Trevose.’
‘Ah, Trevose is a wonderful part of the county,’ says Carol.
The man nods. ‘The championship course is one of the finest in the UK and the Cornish coastline there is remarkably beautiful. We’ve played a couple of rounds so far. Had to battle the elements, though.’
‘Our weather can be changeable,’ Carol sympathises.
The man’s wife clears her throat. ‘Harry, we haven’t come here to discuss golf.’
‘Quite so, Esther.’ The man winks at Carol.
‘Now, we’d like your darling painting of your daughter on the sand,’ says the woman to Cara, ‘and Harry is particularly smitten with your large sea painting.’
‘Unfortunately, that’s not for sale,’ says Cara. ‘At least, not yet. I’m painting it for an exhibition in London this summer. If you’re still here I can send you an invitation to the private viewing in June.’
‘Aw, that’s a shame. We’ll be back home by then,’ says the woman. ‘But we don’t want it as large as that one, do we, Harry?’
‘No,’ agrees her husband. ‘Could you paint a smaller one for us?’
‘I can, but it won’t be exactly the same. I’d have to make some changes, perhaps adding a couple of dog walkers on the beach, or an island in the sea.’
‘What about a lighthouse on the horizon?’ the man asks.
‘Of course,’ says Cara, ‘anything is possible.’
‘Would it be ready in time to dispatch with the other paintings?’ asks the woman.
Cara frowns. The large seascape is coming on well but she has the smaller one to do for the Kaplans’ window display. She also needs to do a couple more paintings for the exhibition, especially if this couple are going to buy eight. ‘It will be tight, but I’m sure I can manage it.’
‘Good,’ says the woman. ‘Now, let me show you the others we would like to purchase.’ She holds out a podgy hand covered in rings to Cara. Her nails are painted purple and exactly match her outfit.
Obediently, Cara allows herself to be led around the gallery. The eight paintings come to five figures in total, plus shipping. On the point of breaking into a rapturous smile, Cara hears Greg’s voice: ‘People constantly judge. It’s what comes out of your mouth and how you present yourself to the world that creates the impression. You must be aware of that, at all times.’
‘If you’d like to give me your New York address and mobile number I can find out about shipping costs and arrange everything for you,’ Cara says. ‘I will require a 10 per cent deposit, however.’
‘Card, Harry,’ instructs the woman. Dutifully, her husband removes a credit card from his wallet.
Ten minutes later the transaction is completed.
‘Well done!’ exclaims Carol, as the colourful couple depart the gallery. She hugs her daughter proudly.
‘Crikey, I’ve got some work to do in the next few weeks!’
‘If you want cover for the gallery I’ll free myself up, and I know Sheila is itching to do more.’
‘Thanks, Mum. Where would I be without you?’ Cara says, thoughtfully.
‘Well, that’s not an issue, is it? I’m always here for you, Cara. I’m not planning on going anywhere!’
Thirty-three
Pausing on the galleried landing, Oliver peers over the balustrade to the hallway below.
The boys are at school but there’s a different level to the quietness pervading the house. It’s as if the building acknowledges its mistress’s absence. How is this set-up going to work? Deanna is so sure of herself. Maybe she thinks that by sheer strength of character alone everything will fall into place and everyone will quietly and seamlessly fit in with her plans. But children’s needs outweigh the parents’ desires. He knows that only too well, having learned the harsh lesson two summers before. As his mind wanders back to the cove, Oliver wonders what Cara is doing. Mid-morning. She’s probably at the gallery. Or perhaps in New York… He frowns. Is Greg making a move on her? He can’t blame him if he is, but there’s something about the man that has never sat comfortably with Oliver. He’s so taut! It’s as if his sophistication would slip given the slightest jolt… and then what would the world see? Deep in thought, he descends the stairs and enters his study.
Shafts of sunlight flood through the French windows and pool onto the dark blue carpet. Switching on the computer, he gazes out at the view. The gardener rides the sit-on mower across the lawn, producing immaculate stripes in the grass. Glancing up at the pale blue sky, Oliver watches a plane jetting away from Gatwick and wonders where it’s heading. He sighs heavily. This new living arrangement is a learning curve for them all. In the past he’s had the comfort of knowing mental stimulation would never be far away. Before too long, he would have the excitement of being on a film set in a part of the world he had probably never visited before, meeting new people and losing himself in the latest character portrayal. Now he has to find another way to keep the ‘grey mist’ at bay, and he must not allow that to be an increase in medication, however tempting.
Oliver turns away from the window. Sitting at the desk, he clicks on his emails and opens one from the solicitor in Truro that Zennor recommended.
‘I wonder what news you have for me,’ he mutters under his breath.
The email is positive, informing him that his purchase of the old coastguard cottages is going well and that the searches are back. As he is a cash buyer, the solicitor envisages a smooth transaction with exchange of contracts and completion within a few short weeks. Locking his fingers behind his head, Oliver leans back in his chair. If all goes according to plan he could be in by the end of May. That would fit well with half-term. He could take Jamie and Sebastian with him and camp out in the cottage. The boys would enjoy the adventure. He imagines his two youngest sons exploring the wild cliff gardens, the private beach and discovering the delights of the river. As always, his gaze falls on Cara’s paintings displayed above the fireplace. How he longs to feel the sun on his face and the breeze ruffling his hair. He can almost smell the fresh Cornish air and taste the salt on his lips. Life is changing, and wherever it takes him he will not put up a fight. He will go with the flow.
Oliver checks the remaining emails, immediately opening one from his agent.
Oliver, how are you coping? I wonder how you fill your days. Are you still content to play the house-husband or can I tempt you with offers of work? There are several piling up. Phone me between the household chores!
On another note, Heather McMullen has contacted me. I have secured a six-month stint for her on the West End stage from the middle of May. She would like to make contact with you and asked for your number, but I said I would get you to contact her. Her email and telephone numbers are below.
I look forward to hearing from you soon. And don’t forget to wear the Marigolds! Sabrina xx
Oliver snorts. Cheeky!
Dame Heather McMullen… The last time he’d seen her was at the BAFTAs a couple of years previously. The award-winning actress is a good ten years older than him, but the energy that radiates from her is age-defying. He’s always found her gamine looks exquisite and her mischievous sense of humour delicious. She’s so wickedly suggestive and her lively wit always lifts his spirits. It would be good to catch up with her again. Where’s the harm in that? After all, Deanna now has Pins as her special friend. It would be a relief to have some light distraction and fun in his life again with an uncomplicated and entertaining person.
Oliver composes an email to Heather. Once it is sent, he leans back in his chair and considers his former leading lady. As a young actor, he found her a force to reckon with. He smiles wryly, his older self recognising that he didn’t stand a chance. In her prime and already a megastar when he was cast as her love interest, Heather not only encouraged the good-looking, vigorous young actor to enjoy her company off screen but positively demanded it. She made it perfectly clear there were no strings attached.
Almost immediately a reply email arrives.
Darling, how wonderful to hear from you! I’m so pleased Sabrina alerted you to my request. I am breathless with anticipation at the thought of six whole months in London all on my very own! Ian tells me he will try to visit, but he’s so busy with his latest production I doubt I will see much of him. So, little old me thought: What can I possibly do to pass the time? And guess who popped into my head?
I arrive in the UK on 15th May and I’ve taken an apartment overlooking the Thames, not far from the theatre. I do hope we can meet. We have so much catching up to do and I long to see how my favourite actor is shaping up!
As always, with love and affection, Heather x
Oliver smiles. Even the impersonal nature of an email has been demolished by her innuendo. He remembers how she made him feel. Invincible! That anything was possible. At the time, when he was just starting out in show business and unaware that stardom and financial security were just around the corner, to his uncertain, sensitive character these were powerful emotions. He was high on adrenalin and his depression was halted in its track. But he wasn’t invincible. She was just play-acting for the duration of the movie. As soon as filming wrapped, as if to punish him, the ‘grey mist’ returned with vengeance. It was only when he met Cara, and for the first time in his life felt ‘whole’, that he truly dared believe anything was possible. As an iron fist tightens around his heart Oliver places a soothing hand on his chest. Will his keen sense of loss ever diminish? How can he survive the rest of his life knowing he will never again experience the affection and warmth she so unconditionally offered? And how will he cope on his deathbed not having ever known the son born of such love? Oliver groans. This is lunacy! He has to do something.
Opening the desk drawer, he pulls out the family’s timetable. Deanna is due back late Saturday night after the evening performance, returning to London the following Monday after dropping the boys at school. If Charlie kept an eye on Sebastian and Jamie on Saturday evening until Deanna’s return, Oliver could leave for Cornwall that afternoon and be back in time to collect the boys from school on Monday afternoon. If Charlie has other plans for Saturday night then Oliver will have to rethink, but he will make the reservation regardless. After all, what’s a couple of hundred quid?
Picking up the phone, Oliver calls the hotel.
Thirty-four
‘Thanks for doing supper for the kids this evening.’ Cara speaks into her mobile. ‘I’ll be over to collect them around nine.’
‘OK, darling. Just concentrate on your exhibition piece,’ says Carol.
‘Thanks, Mum. You’re a lifesaver.’
Finishing her call, Cara looks around the gallery. She’s made a few sales today, mostly gifts and cards, and she’s itching to pick up her paintbrush to continue with her masterpiece. It’s drawn a great deal of attention and a journalist from one of the county magazines interviewed her about the forthcoming London exhibition. He wanted to photograph the unfinished canvas, but she knew Greg would want to keep it under wraps. Instead, the reporter had to be content with several of her other paintings, including her newest artwork – The Song of the Sea Cave at Nanjizal beach.
It’s late afternoon and a grey stillness fills the air. Grabbing her purse, Cara turns the sign to ‘closed’. She steps into the empty courtyard and pulls the door to behind her. There’s a nip in the air and, as she locks the
door, Cara considers going back in to get her jacket but decides to walk briskly to the bakery. Crossing the courtyard, she hurries through the alleyway and turns right onto Harbour Road. The tide is out. In the inner harbour, a number of fishing boats and pleasure craft lean heavily over the sand, their brightly coloured fenders giving the impression of festive bunting. As she walks past the various galleries and souvenir shops, she notices a number of brave souls squaring up to the chill and sitting at picnic benches on the cobbled seating area in front of the Harbour Inn. She nods to a couple that visited her gallery earlier in the day.
‘Hi, Marion,’ she says, entering the pasty shop.
‘Cara. How’s it going?’ asks a middle-aged lady with greying hair and a ruddy complexion from behind the counter.
‘Can’t complain! I’ve sold a few items.’
‘We’ve been surprisingly busy too. Almost sold out of meat pasties.’
‘Just in time, then,’ says Cara with a smile.
‘What can we tempt you with, my bird?’
‘Chicken, leek and vegetable pasty, if you have any left! I’m working late tonight and need something to sustain me.’
‘Coming right up,’ says the bakery assistant. Picking up a pair of tongs, she turns to the warming oven behind her. ‘How’s that painting of yours coming along?’ she asks over her shoulder. ‘I hear it’s almost bigger than the gallery.’
‘You could say that!’ responds Cara. ‘It’s certainly drawing visitors in and I’ve been interviewed today for an article in Cornwall Living.’
‘Ooh, we’ll have to look out for that,’ says the woman, dropping a pasty into a paper bag. ‘The tourist board should be paying you for bringing people into Porthleven!’
Cara laughs.
‘Anything else for you, my lover?’ asks Marion, passing the bag to Cara over the counter.
‘That’s all, thanks,’ says Cara, handing over some coins, before exiting the shop.
‘Enjoy!’ the woman calls out through the open doorway.
As Cara walks briskly back to the gallery she glances across at the restaurants lining the street on the opposite side of the harbour. The grey afternoon has quickly embraced early evening and restaurant lights twinkle in the gloom, each vying for customers to try their latest dishes. As much as she would enjoy the latest creation at Rick Stein or Amélies, she will just have to make do with a pasty this evening. Cara turns into the courtyard and unlocks the gallery door. Pouring herself a juice, she puts the pasty on a plate and selects a CD. Then, sitting at the sales counter, she eats her supper while listening to Adele’s remarkable voice.
