by Kate Ryder
‘Thank you, Heather,’ says Oliver graciously. ‘It was always our intention to give the children a grounded upbringing.’
‘Ah, yes, you have brothers,’ says Heather, turning back to Samantha. ‘Three, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And are they all like Oliver?’
Samantha considers the actress’s question. ‘They all resemble him in one way or another, but I guess the one most like Dad in character is Jamie.’
‘The youngest,’ Oliver says softly.
Heather smiles at Samantha in the mirror. ‘It must be wonderful to have brothers. I bet they spoil you rotten!’
‘Not particularly,’ Samantha says, ‘but they have their moments.’ As Heather turns away from her, Samantha pulls another face at her father.
Oliver grins and winks at his daughter.
‘So, darlings, let’s celebrate.’ Heather waves at the young assistant in the corner of the room sorting out the leading lady’s wardrobe. ‘Amanda, bring me three more champagne glasses.’
‘Coming right up, Ms McMullen,’ says the girl, temporarily abandoning her duties.
To one side of the dressing table, a bottle of champagne sits in an ice bucket. ‘Have a seat, darlings,’ Heather says, taking out the bottle and topping up her glass. Daintily, she takes a sip.
As the assistant returns with three flutes, Heather pours champagne into the glasses. She passes one to Oliver with a twinkling smile before handing the others to Sabrina and Samantha.
‘Santé!’ Raising her glass to her guests in general, Heather makes direct eye contact with Oliver.
‘Salute,’ says Sabrina.
‘Cheers!’ Samantha responds.
‘To you, Heather,’ Oliver says, understanding only too clearly the unspoken promise in her eyes. ‘And here’s to many more spectacular performances.’
‘Ah, yes,’ she says, a suggestive smile playing on her lips, ‘to spectacular performances…’
Oliver averts his gaze. He’s always enjoyed Heather’s wicked sense of humour and subtle innuendo, but this is neither the time nor place with his daughter sitting on the opposite side of the room.
‘The play has a terrific cast, don’t you think, Heather?’ Sabrina asks, diverting the interplay between the leading lady and the award-winning actor.
Heather gazes at Oliver for a fraction longer. Giving an almost indiscernible sigh, she turns her attention to her agent and enters into an educated discussion about theatre. Soon, the bottle of champagne is finished and Heather orders another, refusing to hear that they all have homes to go to.
‘You can’t leave a Dame drinking all on her ownsome,’ she pleads in a deep, husky, sexy voice.
Some time later, Oliver glances at his watch. It’s way past midnight. At this rate he will be cutting it fine if he wants to reach Hunter’s Moon before Deanna gets back. He places his empty glass on a small side table. ‘As much as it grieves me, Heather, I have to go.’
Disappointment registers in Heather’s eyes. ‘I suppose it takes a while to get back to that country pile of yours, even at this time of night.’
Oliver smiles. ‘It’s been a wonderful evening. Thank you.’ He rises to his feet.
‘I’m so pleased you all came,’ Heather says. She glances at Samantha. ‘If you, young lady, and your friends would like tickets, please let me know. I like to encourage the younger generation to become theatregoers.’
‘Thank you,’ says Samantha politely. ‘I may do. Several of my college friends are keen on theatre.’
‘Well, don’t hesitate to ask,’ says Heather. ‘I mean it.’
Oliver is about to follow Samantha and Sabrina out into the corridor when Heather grabs his hand.
‘Darling, I will be in touch.’ she says. ‘There’s so much I want to do while I’m in London and it would be such a thrill if you agreed to participate in some, if not all.’
Oliver gazes down at her. There’s never been any hidden agenda with Heather. Her attitude to life is straightforward; fun, for fun’s sake. And what he needs in his life right now is some fun.
‘I’d like that very much,’ he says with a smile.
‘Oh, good,’ Heather says. ‘Indeed, what I have planned I think you will very much like!’
She glances along the corridor and sees Sabrina and Samantha at the far end, deep in conversation. Standing on tiptoes, she kisses Oliver on the lips.
‘And that,’ Heather says, the mischief dancing just beneath the surface of her eyes, ‘is for starters!’
Forty-two
As the taxi turns in through the electric gates, Deanna notices the gardener’s car parked in front of the house. She frowns. What’s that doing here? Perhaps it’s broken down. She glances up at the dark silhouette of Hunter’s Moon, its chimneys reaching up to a star-studded sky. The porch light is on, but the rest of the house is in darkness. Charlie is staying over at a friend’s, and at this late hour the two youngest boys will be in bed. Her husband is probably watching a film in the cinema room at the rear of the house. A brittle jitteriness settles in the pit of her stomach. She knows she was overly harsh during their last conversation, demanding he was home when she returned from the theatre tonight, but it’s only fair he pulls his weight and shows some inclination to being there for her. After all, she’s been there for him since drama school.
As the car comes to a halt, the driver gets out and opens the door for her. Deanna steps out, turning to retrieve her holdall. She stands for a moment and watches as the taxi sweeps out of the drive, the electric gates closing soundlessly behind it. As she glances up at the house again, the jittery feeling in her stomach increases and she frowns. Entering the house, she hears the sounds of canned laughter coming from the TV room. Deanna hangs her jacket in the entrance hall and, depositing her bag at the foot of the stairs, views her image in the hall mirror. Hmm… there could be more colour to her cheeks; she pinches them. And she could appear less businesslike. Running her fingers through her hair, she teases it into a more natural look. She winks at her reflection before walking down the hall to the television room. When she enters, she’s surprised to find the gardener’s girlfriend sitting on the couch and forces a smile onto her face.
‘Hello, Mrs Foxley,’ the girl says, straightening up.
‘Hello, Amy,’ Deanna responds, looking around the room as if half expecting to find Oliver hiding behind one of the armchairs.
Amy mirrors Deanna’s scrutiny of the room. ‘Is everything OK?’ she asks.
‘What?’ Deanna says, distractedly. ‘Oh, yes. I just wasn’t expecting to find you here.’
‘Didn’t Mr Foxley tell you? He asked me to babysit as he had to go to London this evening. The boys have been no trouble.’
Deanna controls her temper. ‘Did he say what time he’d be home?’
‘Well, I did expect him home before now,’ the babysitter says. ‘I expect he’s got held up in traffic.’
‘Probably. The traffic was particularly bad this evening. I’ll get some money for you. It’s very late,’ Deanna says, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, ‘or should I say early.’
As she walks to her bag, Deanna silently rages. Where the hell is he? She gave him strict instructions. Unzipping the bag, she pulls out her purse.
‘Thank you for keeping an eye on the boys,’ Deanna says, turning to Amy, who has followed her into the hallway.
‘Any time, Mrs Foxley. To be honest, I could do with the money.’
Deanna accompanies the girl into the entrance hall. Through the glass panels in the front door they see the electric gates opening and headlights sweep in.
‘This must be him now,’ says Amy, pocketing the money. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Thank you, Amy. Drive safely,’ Deanna says, not taking her eyes off the approaching car. Steady, she says to herself.
As the babysitter climbs into her car and drives away, Terry’s limousine passes her by. Through the window, Oliver acknowledges Amy with a wave before turn
ing his attention to Deanna standing at the porch door. Silently, he assesses his wife’s mood.
‘Don’t get out, Terry. I’ll let myself out,’ he says, as the car comes to a halt in front of the house
‘OK, Mr Foxley.’ Terry glances at his client in the rear-view mirror. ‘Perhaps you’d let Mrs Foxley know I’ll be here at eleven sharp on Monday.’
‘Will do.’ Oliver opens the car door and steps out onto the gravelled drive.
All is quiet and still. The soft scent of pine wafts on a cool breeze from the forest and Oliver draws it deeply into his lungs as he watches the Mercedes drive towards the entrance gates. Bracing himself for his wife’s reception, he turns, but Deanna no longer stands at the open door. Oliver enters the house and hangs up his coat. All is silent. Perhaps Deanna is in the kitchen. If there’s going to be a fight it should be now, with the children safely out of the way. He makes his way down the hallway, but the room is in darkness. Switching on the light, he crosses to the sink, fills a glass from the cold tap and gazes out at the large area of illuminated manicured lawn. He thinks of the old coastguard cottages perched on the wild cliffs overlooking Falmouth Bay. Everything about Hunter’s Moon is orderly – a direct reflection of Deanna’s hold on their lives – and yet the cottages, little more than derelict, speak of freedom. He smiles thinly at the paradox. He longs for his life to lighten up. Oliver considers his options, realising that by simplifying his life he may achieve this. He glances up at the night sky just as a waxing crescent moon peeps out from behind a shifting bank of clouds.
Does Cara also gaze up at the constellations and think of me?
What an overblown, arrogant ego! Why would she? He has brought her generous, untainted spirit nothing but turmoil and additional responsibility. He thinks of the son they have together; for him, merely a treasured photograph of a baby wrapped in a fleece. Toby will turn one in a couple of days, but he, Oliver, will not be with him to celebrate it. He smiles sadly, and then his mind turns to Heather. The woman is incorrigible! She’s made it blatantly obvious what she expects from him during her stay in London but, though he enjoys her company, he has no such intentions. He wants to simplify his life, not make it more entangled.
Downing the water in one, he places the empty glass in the sink and makes his way upstairs to the guest suite, briefly pausing outside the marital bedroom. No light seeps out from under the closed door. No doubt Deanna will have something to say about his late arrival home and he considers whether he wants to hear it now. Does he really want to face her wrath at this early hour? Oliver turns away.
Forty-three
A soft moan escapes from Cara’s lips. This is the most magical time in the cove, before anyone stirs. She has the beach to herself. The sky is a cloudless, cornflower blue and the warmth of an early morning sun caresses her skin, teased by a gentle summer breeze. The sands are pristine, washed clean by the last full tide, and she walks the shoreline listening to the gentle whoosh of the waves. Her white jeans are rolled up to her knees. On her left ankle, the iridescent hummingbird tattoo shimmers in the sunshine as she checks the flotsam and jetsam for pieces of driftwood and any objects of interest. Although she’s beachcombed this cove a thousand times before, each tide brings in a different treasure trove. A yellow seashell catches her eye and she stoops to pick it up, turning it over in her hand and feeling its ridges.
Suddenly aware of being watched, she glances up at the cliffs towering high above this natural and wild stretch of sand, only accessible at low tide. There’s no human habitation in sight. Looking back along the beach, she notices Oliver standing at the far end observing her. Without warning, her heart flutters as she sees the expression on his face. It was one hell of a night! She left him sleeping; needing time alone to assimilate all that had passed between them. She raises her hand and waves. He looks different this morning. Still devastatingly good-looking, of course, but there’s an additional element to his countenance. What is it? She smiles as it comes to her. He looks free.
‘Fancy a swim?’ she calls out along the lonely beach.
‘What, now?’
‘No time like the present,’ she says with a laugh.
Unzipping her jeans, she steps out of them and then peels off her T-shirt. Lastly, she removes her knickers. Standing vulnerable and naked on the sand, she gives him a look of deep-rooted compassion before running into the sea. The water is much colder than she anticipated and she breathes in sharply. Before she has a chance to change her mind she dives and her neat buttocks rise briefly before disappearing beneath the waves. Surfacing a few yards further out, she shakes her long, wet hair out of her face before turning to face him. Then, with the sun behind her, she rises out of the ocean and stretches out her arms. Raising her hands high above her head, she allows the water to cascade through her open fingers, giving the impression of wings.
‘Come on in, Oliver,’ she says, a smile lighting her face. ‘It’s as warm as a bath.’
She watches him glance up at the cliffs and along the beach before unbuttoning his shirt and placing it on the sand. He checks the beach and clifftop again and removes his jeans. Oliver stands naked on the sand.
Even though she’s just spent the most glorious night with him, Cara’s heart misses a beat. He’s in great shape: no spare flesh; muscles well defined; and she can see an outline of a six-pack. As she drinks in his physique, telltale butterflies lift in her stomach. She watches him enter the water and wince. Playfully, she grins.
‘Just you wait ’til I get you,’ he threatens with a smile.
She gives him a wide-eyed look and lets out a little shriek.
Her eyes don’t leave him as he wades in deeper and dives beneath the waves to resurface in a sea of bubbles. He sets off towards her in an overarm crawl, his muscles glistening as he powers through the sea and, soon, he is beside her.
‘Nothing like a bracing swim to start the day,’ she comments.
‘Warm bath, you said!’ He gives her a mock stern look.
‘Well, to a cold-blooded creature it probably is,’ she says mischievously, ‘though you proved last night to be anything but…’
He reaches out to her and pulls her through the water towards him, his eyes not once leaving hers. She can feel his strength as he lifts her gently out of the sea, sending water in rivulets from her shoulders across her soft, rounded breasts and teasing her nipples erect. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. The look in his eyes says it all. Placing her arms around his neck, she wraps her legs around his waist and nestles against him, safe in his arms, so strong and powerful. Briefly, she allows herself to believe that together they can face the world. She feels him brace against the rhythmic swell of the sea as his hands cup her buttocks and she is drawn into a loving kiss.
‘Cara, you have saved me,’ he whispers, in a deep, husky voice that sends shivers down her spine. He gazes at her, spellbound. ‘You are my one, my all.’
All around them, diamonds glitter upon the surface of the ocean and she hears the raucous sound of a gull’s cry high up on the clifftop, but Cara’s focus is on the pulse beating heavily in his throat and the hard length of his arousal pressed firmly against her. As she slides her fingers through his hair, the blood courses through her veins and she delights at the low groan escaping from deep in his throat. Slowly, deliciously, she lowers herself onto him. Very soon they are oblivious to their surroundings. Cara moans again. His lovemaking is urgent but tender and she feels the many months of agony over Christo’s death roll away, leaving her forgiven and at peace with herself.
After a while they reluctantly ease apart. As they emerge from the surf, she once again notices him anxiously glance up at the clifftop. He bends to pick up his clothes, and then holds out his hand to her. Although his skin is cool, his touch is loving. The morning sun caresses her body as she walks naked beside him, and the sand sensually works its way between her toes. When they reach the rocky outcrop that separates the hidden cove from the main beach, he glanc
es cautiously along the empty sands. Cara lets out a carefree, light-hearted laugh.
‘Can’t help it,’ he says with a lopsided grin, holding his clothes in front of him. ‘You never know who may be snooping.’
She considers the constraints of his life, so different from her own. ‘It’s so early, Oliver,’ she says reassuringly. ‘I doubt there will be anyone on the beach for at least an hour.’ She smiles up at him.
‘Cara, you are full of surprises,’ he says, gazing at the small but vibrantly coloured hummingbird tattooed on her ankle.
‘Oh, that,’ she says, turning her leg and glancing down at the image. ‘One wild summer when I was sixteen. Seemed a good idea at the time. I still like it, though.’
He nods and smiles.
‘What time do you have to go?’ she asks, suddenly uncertain.
‘I can stay until three.’
‘That gives us around seven hours,’ she says. ‘What would you like to do?’
‘That’s easy,’ he says. ‘You!’
Cara rolls over and groans. Her eyes flicker open; eyelashes laced with tears. How treacherous her mind is. She can be strong during daylight hours and banish his presence but in sleep, when her guard is down, there he is knocking at the door reminding her of all that is lost. Sitting up in bed, she hugs her knees to her chin and stares, unseeing, into the pre-dawn light filling the room. Turning her head, she rests her cheek on her knees and tries to swallow the lump in her throat.
Forty-four
Oliver zips up his tracksuit top and glances around the swimming pool one last time. Switching off the lights, he steps out into the sunshine. Even though it’s still early, there’s a promise of a good day ahead. He pulls the door to and sets off up the path towards the house. Out of the corner of his eye he sees movement and his attention is drawn to the lake at the edge of the forest. Two moorhens emerge from the reeds, closely followed by half a dozen chicks. He stops and smiles. New life! The moorhen chicks are a tiny version of their parents. Their red and yellow beaks show up clearly against the green water as they move across the surface keeping close to the two adult birds. One chick, more independent than its siblings, remains amongst the reeds, investigating and dabbling at the weeds. As the parents and their brood reach the safety of the small island in the middle of the lake, one of the adults gives an urgent, rapid call. Suddenly, the errant youngster emerges from amongst the vegetation, calling out its high-pitched answer. Oliver watches, fascinated, as it efficiently navigates its way to the island, once again finding safety within the security of its family. As he gazes at the scene, he notices two young roe deer lying in the long grass to one side of the lake, their coats russet-gold as they bask in early morning sunlight. They eye him suspiciously, alert to the least signs of danger and ready for flight. All is well with the world… at least, out here. Oliver turns and resumes his journey to the house.
