by Kate Ryder
Cara gazes at the unfinished canvas. The sea could take more magenta and this, too, could then be reflected in the sunset; perhaps, also, a touch more cadmium red. She has applied deep indigo to the far horizon, hinting at a threatening storm, and it now provides her with the opportunity to create more movement in the waves. She will ‘up’ the drama. After all, Greg told her she needs to make a statement: ‘A painting to dominate the rear wall of the Kaplans’ gallery. We want people unable to drag their eyes away.’
As Cara finishes the pasty her mobile beeps. Wiping her hands on a paper towel, she picks up the phone and opens the message.
I’m in love! Mo xx
‘Don’t blow it,’ Cara mutters under her breath. She immediately messages back.
Slow and steady wins the race! ☺ xx
Climbing off the stool, she ties her hair in a loose knot. Then, picking up the palette and paintbrush, she approaches the canvas again. Before long Cara is oblivious to her surroundings, lost in the vivid colours and powerful nature of her creation.
*
Oliver stands on the edge of the slipway looking out over the boats. To the right of the inner harbour, the lights from the restaurants wink enticingly in the deepening gloom. All is still and quiet, apart from the sound of live music pulsating from the Harbour Inn. The last time he stood on this spot and gazed at this view was with Deanna during an autumn break when they walked part of the South West Coast Path. It was the year before he took the lead in Tas’s play, touring Cornwall for the summer. They discovered Cara’s art gallery purely by chance. How innocent that time feels now! Little did he know what emotional turmoil was destined to test him. Oliver breathes in deeply, the salt air tickling a memory. When he stood here before it was in a strengthening storm and he watched, mesmerised, as nature’s drama unfolded. Its energy fed his soul and made him feel invigorated and vitalised. His day-to-day existence is never enough, and becoming an actor has helped keep his depression in check. With Cara, however, he experienced a balancing of emotions and his incessant need for drama diminished. Her love was enough. She released him from his constant searching for something more. Tomorrow he will visit her. He is so very close. The excitement bubbling up from nowhere is almost too much to bear.
A group of young people passing by call out to a lad walking towards the Harbour Inn, and they set off at a jog in his direction.
How lucky to have no more pressing decisions other than which pub to go to.
Oliver’s gaze returns to the inner harbour. The light is so poor he can barely see beyond the first line of boats, but he knows that beyond is the outer harbour, the pier and the open sea. Squares of light dot the surrounding hillsides and he wonders what dramas unfold behind Porthleven’s closed doors. Do any compare with the one that has taken over his life? Not in a million years did he think he would be haunted by such longing. The intervening months have done nothing to diminish his feelings for her.
Oliver glances up at the night sky. No stars tonight. He remembers other night skies, when they gazed in wonder at the moon and the constellations, and witnessed a meteor shower. It was as if the universe sent them a message of approval at their joining, but it was just a flight of fancy on his part and Deanna reclaimed him. Oliver shivers. How unfair it was of him to sweep Cara along with his own yearning and desperation. He had the recurring dream again last night and awoke to the taste of her on his lips, his skin still tingling from the touch of her hand. He tried desperately to hold onto the images and feelings his dream had stirred, but they evaporated into thin air as the ‘grey mist’ fluttered around his temples before descending rapidly and claiming him. All that was left was a series of stills from an old movie. Knowing he shouldn’t, he took the last two lithium tablets in the bottle.
Oliver checks his watch. Nearly eight. It’s far too early to go back to the hotel. Following his frantic dash west this afternoon, he arrived at the hotel feeling restless and knew he had to do something. Almost immediately, he took the bike out for a spin. With no firm destination in mind, it was a surprise when he arrived in Porthleven. He could kill for a drink, but he can’t face the inevitable gawping and fawning if he went to the pub. He has to be in a certain mindset when entering a public place, and he doesn’t have that tonight. He’s too wired at the thought of what tomorrow may bring… and if it is the right thing to do. What to do now? He will check out Cara’s gallery. He knows it will be closed, but it will help bring her closer to him.
Setting off around the harbour, Oliver passes the pub just as the door opens and two skimpily clad women, teetering on high heels, spill out onto the street. The blast of music is deafening. He glances through the open doorway and notices the bar is packed.
‘Hello, my ʼansum,’ says one of the women. ‘Are you going in?’
‘Far too energetic for me,’ he says, walking on with a smile.
‘The band’s lousy,’ the woman says. ‘The Corringtons are way better.’
Oliver stops in his tracks. Morwenna and Tristan Corrington! Everything is so familiar. It’s as if time has stood still… waiting for him to catch up.
He turns back to the woman. ‘I agree. They are good.’
Behind her, leaning against a stone wall, her friend lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. Curiously, she observes him.
‘Morwenna’s voice is heaven,’ says the first woman, ‘and I so would do Tristan, given half the chance, but he’s well loved-up.’ She gives a deep belly laugh.
Oliver smiles. Tristan, the surfer; saved by a schoolteacher, if he remembers correctly.
‘Sure you don’t want to go in?’ the woman persists. ‘We could do with some good-lookin’ fellas in there.’
‘Sorry. I have to be somewhere.’ Smiling apologetically, Oliver turns away.
‘If you change yer mind, my lover, you know where we are,’ the woman calls out after him.
‘Jean, don’t you know who that is?’ her friend says in a loud whisper.
Oliver grimaces. Dipping his head, he carries on walking.
‘Nah. Who?’
‘Oliver Foxley!’
‘Yer havin’ a laugh, maid! What would Oliver Foxley be doin’ in a dive like Porthleven?’
‘Well, if it ain’t him it’s definitely a lookalike.’
Oliver increases his pace.
Within fifty yards he arrives at the entrance to the courtyard. He hesitates, his heart hammering against his ribcage as memories surround him. He could really do with a drink, but he can’t face running the gauntlet of that pub. Taking a deep breath and steadying his nerve, he turns into the alleyway.
Light floods from the gallery into the courtyard, seeking out the furthest shadows. A large painting of the cove fills the main window and Oliver takes a step towards it. Perched high on the cliffs is The Lookout. He smiles. She has even painted the wooden steps leading down to the sand. Seagulls wheel in the air above a tide almost fully in, the beach empty, apart from a couple walking hand in hand along the shoreline. Feeling as if he would like to step into the painting, Oliver approaches the window. A movement from within makes him peer further into the gallery. It’s only then he sees her painting an enormous canvas propped against the far wall, its vibrant colours and imagery so powerful. The drama she creates with just a paintbrush and a few colours always astounded him. As if for the very first time, Oliver watches Cara and his breath catches in his throat. Warmth spreads through his body and his eyes soften, and a small smile plays upon his lips. Her loose knot of hair has unravelled and wayward strands fall softly around her exquisite face. He studies her, taking in every little detail: the way she stands back assessing her painting, the little frown of concentration on her brow, her small straight nose and those kissable pale lips. His memory has not deceived him. She is as lovely as ever. This woman is everything to him – home, friend, lover, soulmate – and suddenly it becomes painfully clear just how much of a living hell his life has become.
As Oliver stands for a while observing Cara at work, h
is eyes follow her every move and he knows he is falling in love all over again. Although she wears a loose shirt, her close-fitting jeans accentuate the neat figure hidden beneath; one whose geography he knows so well. Desire stirs deep in his belly and a shiver runs up his spine. They have a son together! The enormity of what he has sacrificed bites keenly, and Oliver swallows hard. But what the hell is he doing? Who does he think he is? He can’t just turn up out of the blue and expect her to welcome him back into her life. He has nothing to offer her. His hands are tied. And his depression is back with a vengeance. He will not inflict that upon her. Oliver rakes a hand through his hair. However painful it is for him to accept, he must realise she is right: her family are better off without him. Taking one last look, Oliver steps back into the shadows.
Cara concentrates on the canvas, fully absorbed. The paints are working well tonight and her brushstrokes are free-flowing. She applies one last dash of turquoise to the waves in the foreground and then steps away. Experience has taught her to stop when there’s still more to do. The CD finished a long time ago but she didn’t notice. She glances out of the window and sees the night has drawn in. Was that a movement in the courtyard? She approaches the door and looks through the glass. No… just shadows. How long has she been painting? She checks the time. Hell! Quickly, she makes the call.
‘Sorry, Mum, I lost all sense of time. It’s just as well it’s not a school day tomorrow. I’ll be with you in half an hour.’
Thirty-five
Terry opens the boot of the car and extracts Deanna’s bag. It’s pitch black. The moon hides behind thick cloud cover and not a single star shines in the night sky. It’s so peaceful at this time of the morning.
‘Thanks, Terry,’ says Deanna, taking the bag from him.
‘See you on Monday at eleven,’ he says.
‘Yes. Have a good weekend.’
‘You too,’ he replies.
Deanna approaches the house, which, apart from the porch light, is plunged in darkness. At two-thirty in the morning everyone will be asleep. She enters and stands for a moment in the quiet of the hallway. Home – her creation – and, yet, with everything that has happened during the past eight days, it doesn’t feel like home at all. Her job is not only demanding and all-consuming but also totally fulfilling. Thankfully, being organised is second nature to her. With the responsibility of ensuring performances go without a hitch, she’s coordinated rehearsals, managed the cast, the lighting and sound technicians, the props and costume department, as well as overseen set changes in between scenes while handling any problems as they arose. She’s met a multitude of fascinating and different characters, and feels her own personality is rapidly reshaping into something it was meant to be all those years ago. It’s so exciting and she hasn’t had a moment to reflect. But now, in the stillness of the sleeping household, she considers who she is. No longer is she simply the wife of Oliver Foxley and mother to his children. The former Deanna Harrington is becoming the woman she should always have been. She smiles to herself. Once her transformation is complete she will have the best of both worlds.
Deanna carries her bag upstairs and checks on her sons’ bedrooms, satisfying herself that the boys are all home. Continuing along the hall to the master bedroom at the far end, she opens the door quietly and peers into the darkness. From the light of the hallway she can see the bed is undisturbed. So, Oliver hasn’t changed rooms. She thought he might have chosen to move back in, ready for her return. She will surprise him in the guest room. After all, she wants him to benefit from her newly acquired sense of self too, which she hopes will put their relationship back on track.
Deanna switches on the bedroom light and enters the room. Placing her bag on the bed, she quickly unpacks. Then, slipping out of her clothes, she throws on her dressing gown and opens the door again. Silently, she crosses to the guest bedroom, glancing along the hallway as she does. The house is beautifully coordinated and she congratulates herself on her eye for detail. If she weren’t so intent on rebuilding her theatrical career she might have considered interior design. Deanna pushes down on the handle and opens the door to the guest suite. For a moment she doesn’t comprehend and a look of consternation settles on her face. This bed is also empty. Flicking on the light, she enters the room and strides to the wardrobes and, with hammering heart, throws open the doors. His clothes are still on the hangers. She frowns and turns to face the room again.
Where is he? She wants to celebrate her new-found sense of fulfilment with him!
Entering the en-suite, she notices his flannel is missing, as are his toothbrush and toothpaste. What’s her husband playing at?
‘For God’s sake, Oliver. Why do you always have to complicate things?’
Switching off the light, Deanna marches back to her bedroom and paces the floor. Where the hell is he? This is what infuriates her the most. Over the years she’s been the mastermind behind their life, but as soon as he’s left in charge he goes off at a tangent and disrupts all her plans. She never knows where she is with him. If she doesn’t keep tight control of the reins everything falls apart. Deanna angrily throws back the bedspread. It’s only then she sees his note as it sweeps onto the floor.
Dee,
Something came up and I had to go to Cornwall. Don’t worry, Charlie kept an eye on Seb and Jamie. I expect to be back Monday midday.
Hope the week went well. Will phone tomorrow to catch up on your news.
Oliver x
‘Bloody Cornwall…’ she screams.
Ripping off her dressing gown, which suddenly feels as constricting as a straitjacket, Deanna climbs into bed and sits with the covers up to her waist. Her eyes narrow. What came up in Cornwall? Something to do with that house he’s buying, or something else? Immediately, Deanna’s thoughts turn to Cara. The golden girl. There’s no denying it, she was stunning! But Oliver is often approached by beautiful women and over the years she’s had to train herself not to mind and simply allow these women their five minutes of fame with her husband. With this woman, however, it was different. When she first saw Cara she felt subservient and inadequate; unfamiliar feelings to her. It shocked her when she felt apologetic for not allowing her life to be stripped away. The only thing she believed gave her power over Cara was the fact that she’d given birth to Oliver’s children.
‘Sod you, Oliver!’
As the emotions of that summer flood back to her, Deanna stares unseeing into the room. It seems only yesterday she drove to Cornwall in a mad panic, on the verge of losing her husband and all that she’d created over the years. She took Jamie with her, even though he had a broken wrist, because she knew that whatever her husband planned to do he’d hesitate if he saw his youngest son was in trouble. They surprised him, turning up unannounced at his final performance at the Minack Theatre. But she, too, was surprised. He looked so different. In all the years she’s known him Oliver has battled his inner demons, but he seemed happy and relaxed, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Unable to prevent her mind from travelling there, Deanna relives her shock at the realisation he looked whole. She remembers how deep instinct told her that Oliver and Cara belonged together. Deanna bites her lip. Not everyone ends up with the person they’re meant to be with. Oliver has a life with her and the children. Surely, he’s not going to jeopardise that now, having already returned to the family once? Yet again he has done something to reaffirm her reasons for building a life outside their marriage. She won’t allow him to make her feel inconsequential, but she knows it’s a fine juggling act that she’s trying to pull off.
Deanna glances at the alarm clock – 3:45 a.m. Where is her husband? What’s he doing now? Is he with the golden girl? Deanna hugs her knees. Life is changing and she must not allow her trademark strength and control to slip an inch. She has to keep moving forward.
Thirty-six
‘Time to give those cobwebs a dusting, Barnaby,’ Cara says, walking through the living room and scooping her hair into a ponytail. Needing no furthe
r encouragement, the Labrador gets off his bed and trots across the room after his mistress.
It’s a quiet and still day on The Lizard. Cara stands at the open porch door and breathes in the scenery. She never tires of this view. In any season it offers solace and a realigning of the soul. The tide is out and the beach is empty, apart from a lone dog walker and a young family setting up camp for a picnic. Powder-puff clouds dot an ice-blue sky and a weak sun attempts to provide warmth to the people on the beach. Will America offer this? She banishes the thought from her mind. Nothing is going to spoil this moment.
Following in Barnaby’s wake, she sets off towards the steps leading down to the beach and smiles at the dog’s ungainly movements as he copes with the wooden treads. Once at the bottom, the Labrador races towards a flock of gulls at the water’s edge, scattering them into the air. With that game over, he turns and wags his tail at a West Highland terrier and a springer spaniel fast approaching to investigate the newcomer on the beach.
Cara steps onto the sand at the base of the cliffs. Turning in the direction of the café, she walks to firmer sand, left wet by the outgoing tide, and breaks into a jog. Barnaby tears himself away from his new-found friends and races across the sand towards her, the spaniel in hot pursuit. Together, the dogs run wide circles around Cara.
This is good. This shakes things up and helps her to see her way forward more clearly. Greg’s keen, that’s for sure, but he cannot expect her to make such a major decision without giving her time to digest all the permutations and ripples it would cause. Moving the family to the States is not something to undertake lightly. She understands his reasoning where her career is concerned – he has the influence and contacts – but is it fair to pluck the children from all they’ve ever known? She hears his voice in her head. ‘Cara, children adapt. It’s only fair you think on a bigger scale for your offspring!’ He used blackmail – in that suave, sophisticated way of his, which never feels like blackmail until after the event – suggesting a lack of imagination on her part might scupper her children’s chances and she owed it to them to expand her horizons. ‘No gain without pain,’ he said, as if she’s never experienced pain in her life. Cara frowns. It’s generous he also thinks of her children, not just her, so why is it so frightening? As her throat constricts, she feels as if she’s suffocating. Slowing her pace, she jogs on the spot to catch her breath. Barnaby and the springer have now been joined by the Westie. This is what it’s all about – out on the beach, being part of nature and enjoying all that the world has to offer for free. For now, she will put Greg’s latest demand out of her mind and simply concentrate on the moment. She sets off once again and the dogs bark with excitement as Cara powers on towards the beach café, her ponytail bouncing from side to side.
