by Kate Ryder
‘Yes, I should get some sleep.’ Cara starts towards the door.
Greg rises from the couch. ‘I’ll walk you to your room.’
On the point of bolting, Cara takes a deep breath and allows him to accompany her along the corridor.
‘Cara,’ Greg says, as she places her key card in the door lock, ‘as you know, I want you in my life. I will do everything in my power to make you see that it will be good for you. You have to trust me on this. Your children will love America, as you will too. There are so many opportunities for them there.’ He gathers her to him in a hug. ‘I have only your best interests at heart.’
Cara wells up. His words should be soothing, but the terror in her heart makes her want to escape to the cove.
‘Get some sleep now,’ Greg whispers in her ear. ‘I’ll call for you tomorrow at seven forty-five.’
Fifty
Heather glances along the busy street as the taxi nudges its way through the early evening Soho traffic. She leans forward and taps the glass to gain the driver’s attention.
‘You can set us down here. We will walk the rest of the way.’
The driver nods. Indicating left, he pulls over to the kerb. As the taxi comes to a halt, Oliver opens the door and climbs out, and waits while Heather settles the fare. Earlier, when he said he’d pay for the evening she told him not to be so silly. This was her treat.
‘So, Ollie, how does it feel to be out on the town with li’l ole me?’ Heather asks, linking arms and putting on a sultry American South accent.
Oliver looks down at her. ‘Mighty fine,’ he says, in a matching accent.
She laughs flirtatiously. ‘Just like old times.’ Heather turns and glances over her shoulder. ‘Just checking your wife isn’t following us,’ she says, giving him a cheeky smile. ‘I can’t believe she let you out on your own tonight, foolish woman!’
Oliver doesn’t respond. He knows he should stand up for Deanna, but their marriage is hurtling down a rocky road and Heather’s wickedly delicious company is something of a relief. A couple of passers-by brazenly ask for autographs, and Heather and Oliver happily oblige before resuming their walk along the street.
‘London in June,’ Heather says huskily. She links arms with Oliver again. ‘I’ve always loved this time of year over here.’
It’s easy to see the location of the gallery. A buff and immaculately turned-out doorman stands at the bottom of three granite steps, and a number of stylish men and women congregate on the street outside. Each holds a glass of champagne. As Oliver and Heather draw near, they hear an animated discussion taking place about the painting displayed in the window. As it comes into view Oliver’s steps falter. The painting is astounding – he’s seen it before – but it’s the lettering etched on the window that sets his heart racing.
‘Coast’
a collection of works by Cornish Artist
CARA PENHALIGON
‘Goodness, that is dramatic,’ says Heather, gazing at the painting in admiration.
Oliver nods. He can see her brushstrokes now, although the painting is in a different style from the canvases displayed on his study wall. Altogether more fantastical.
‘Isn’t the bold use of colour simply glorious?’ says a young woman standing to Heather’s right.
‘It is very powerful,’ Heather says.
‘You should see the larger version in the gallery,’ comments a young man standing on the other side of the woman. ‘The artist utilises layers of oil paint and a rich wealth of colour to create paintings that visibly pop with vibrancy.’
Heather regards the speaker for a long moment. ‘Maybe I should buy the painting. I could do with a bit of visibly popping vibrancy!’
As the young man turns towards her with an alarmed expression on his face, Heather laughs and winks at him.
‘Come on, darling,’ she says, turning to Oliver, ‘let us view more of these glorious paintings.’ She heads up the steps, checking out the doorman on the way.
Grappling with a mix of emotions, Oliver follows more slowly. When Heather told him she had an invitation to a private viewing of a talented young artist’s solo exhibition, he had no idea it would be Cara. He tries to still the anxious beating of his heart.
There’s a buzz of excitement in the gallery and people move slowly around, discussing the various paintings on display. Oliver recognises several musicians and models mixing with the aficionados of the art world, and as he and Heather move further into the gallery a number of celebrities stop to chat. A dashing young waiter approaches with a full tray of champagne flutes, followed by a pretty young girl holding aloft a dish of canapés.
‘Don’t you think these paintings are just stunning?’ comments Heather, helping herself to a glass of champagne.
‘I do,’ says Oliver.
As is the artist. He glances nervously around.
‘In fact, I own a couple of Cara’s paintings,’ he adds.
Heather turns to him. ‘You do?’
He nods.
‘I always knew you were sublime, my darling, but now I must add to that appraisal a man of exceptional taste.’ She smiles beguilingly at him.
Oliver studies the painting on the wall immediately in front of him. It’s a remarkable portrayal of a disquiet sea at sunset, Turneresque in style. Despite a torrential downpour, the sun puts on a final, powerful display, washing the clouds and highlighting the waves with an orange tinge before sinking below the dark horizon. Transfixed, Oliver realises he has experienced this very moment – with Cara. Walking the cliff path one evening, they were caught out by a sudden downpour. Laughing and holding hands, they ran for the shelter of The Lookout’s porch where they stood together and gazed out over her beloved cove while watching the sun go down. Oliver’s heart swells with pride. She has captured the moment perfectly. He wonders if it is the same snapshot of memory for her too, or did she simply paint a scene ingrained in her being? He looks around for her again.
In the far corner, a rather arrogant journalist from one of the UK’s top art magazines interviews Cara. Not only is he a snob, she thinks, but he has surely gone overboard with the Botox.
‘So, Cara, do tell our readers how you came to be offered a solo exhibition with the Kaplans. A highly covetous achievement, by the way,’ he says, his voice as false as his immovable face.
‘People constantly judge.’ Greg’s voice rings in her head. ‘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.’
Cara takes a deep, silent breath. ‘I confess I owe it all to Greg Latimer-Jones. Without his initial approach to Elliot and Kat, I would not be standing here now.’
‘Ah, yes, Mr Latimer-Jones. So sad about his wife. She was an exceptional talent.’ The journalist eyes Cara speculatively. ‘So, let’s take a step back in the journey. How do you know Mr Latimer-Jones?’
Cara casts around. Why isn’t Greg beside her to guide her? What, and how much would he want her to say? But Greg is deep in conversation with a silver-haired member of the aristocracy whom she vaguely recognises. She turns back to the interviewer, his eyes registering mild surprise at her lack of an immediate response.
‘I met Greg and Marietta a few years ago and we struck up a friendship.’ The pause that follows this statement makes Cara squirm.
‘More, give them more,’ she can hear Greg say. ‘You must engage.’
‘I am very fortunate Greg has taken an interest in my career,’ she adds.
‘Indeed,’ says the journalist, a crafty edge creeping into his voice. ‘Greg, I believe, took an interest in Marietta’s work as well when she was an unknown artist. Do you hope he will do professionally for you what he did for his wife?’
It’s a straightforward question, so why does she get the impression it’s loaded? She feels as if she’s teetering on quicksand, and Cara looks around again for Greg.
Having successfully negotiated the sale of four paintings t
o the aristocrat, Greg looks across the sea of people towards his protégée. She appears distracted and flustered, and he frowns. Instantly recognising the journalist standing with her – and knowing the prestigious and influential magazine he represents – he makes his way swiftly across the room.
‘Good evening, Quentin. We are so pleased you agreed to honour us with an interview.’ Greg’s voice is as smooth as silk.
‘Good evening, Mr Latimer-Jones,’ says the journalist. ‘Thank you for the invitation. It’s a wonderful event, I must say, and so well attended.’
‘Yes. We are fortunate indeed that Elliot and Kat granted us the opportunity to showcase Cara’s work as the opening artist at their UK gallery.’ Greg smiles at the man.
Cara listens to their interplay. On the surface it’s a shallow conversation, but each sentence drips with hidden meaning and deeper intent. This highbrow toing and froing is exhausting. She already feels drained at having to second-guess and watch her words, and the evening has only just begun! She’d really like to be sitting on a cliff and looking out over the ocean, watching the sun go down… Cara’s mind drifts to the cove, but on hearing the interviewer’s next comment she is rudely drawn back to the here and now.
‘Cara was just about to answer my question. I asked if she has any hopes of you doing professionally for her what you did for your late wife. By the way, my most sincere condolences.’
‘Thank you,’ Greg says, pausing briefly. ‘The poet, Guy de Maupassant, once said, “The great artists are those who impose on humanity their particular illusion.” I believe all artists blessed with a natural talent achieve this, regardless of whether I have had a hand in guiding their course.’
Cara stares wide-eyed at Greg. It’s unlike him to play down his importance. What game is he playing now?
‘Of course, but it’s always helpful to have someone of influence and of a certain calibre to help them along the way,’ the journalist simpers.
‘True, I have contacts. But Marietta’s talent was there from the start,’ says Greg in a voice that invites no further comment. Glancing at Cara, he quickly adds, ‘As is, of course, Cara’s.’
Oh, so that’s it! He’s slipped back into being Greg and Marietta. It’s really all about him. Irritated, Cara’s gaze slides across the room.
Standing in front of her painting of Cape Cornwall on the far side of the gallery, a woman has gathered a bit of a crowd. The young men surrounding her appear entranced. As the woman turns Cara recognises the award-winning actress, Dame Heather McMullen. Feeling humbled that the famous film star should find the time to visit her solo exhibition, Cara studies the woman with interest. Small and petite, with an expensive-looking haircut, the actress is elegantly turned out in a sharp, black trouser suit, but it’s a shock to see she is older than her media photos suggest. Her gamine, elfin features always make her appear ageless! However, Cara can tell by the body language and engagement of the young men surrounding her that she still has the power to hold the opposite sex in the palm of her hand. Cara’s eyes sweep across the other guests, as she wonders who else of note may have made the effort to attend the private viewing.
Because Heather has attracted a lot of attention, and keen to experience Cara’s paintings without distraction, Oliver has moved away from the group of fawning young men surrounding Heather. The next painting is a study in blue – a vast expanse of sand leading to a shimmering sea. In the near distance, offset from centre, is a dark and misty image of St Michael’s Mount against a dusky headland on the far horizon. To one side, a small flock of gulls fly low over the water and lift into the air. At once, Oliver is there. He can feel the firm sand beneath his feet and see the light reflecting off each pebble. And he can hear the cry of the gulls. Wherever he is in the world, that sound alone has the power to transport him back to their summer of love when Cara shined her glorious, healing, golden light upon him and effectively banished the greyness from his soul. A tingle runs down the full length of his spine and he turns. She is looking straight at him. As with the first time he ever set eyes on her, Oliver’s stomach contracts and his heart misses a beat. She is simply breath-taking. As the moment lengthens, he smiles uncertainly. But Cara’s face remains impassive; no returning smile or any outward acknowledgement. Oliver watches as Greg puts his arm around her waist and draws her back into conversation with the man standing with them.
Oliver frowns.
So, Janine was right. Greg has taken his interest to the next level.
Greg smiles graciously at the journalist and says, ‘I feel very fortunate that Cara has agreed to consider swapping continents.’ He tightens his hold on Cara’s waist as he feels her body tense. ‘There are so many opportunities in the United States for someone with such a talent. She will, of course, continue to exhibit in England and we intend to break into Europe, but Cara knows that for her art to be appreciated on a wider stage she has to expand her horizons.’
As the interviewer looks enquiringly at Cara for confirmation of this juicy fact, she fixes a smile on her face. How could Greg do this to her? Not only is he telling the world and forcing her into a decision she has yet to make, but also he’s discussing her as if she’s not even here!
‘That makes sense,’ says the journalist. ‘I know the Kaplans are highly influential in America and it will certainly give your career a boost, although maybe you won’t need one, judging by the number of red dots appearing beside your paintings this evening!’ The man’s smile – more of a grimace due to the Botox – doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Thank you for the interview, Cara. I will ask my photographer to take some shots of you both.’ He glances around and waves frantically to a stick-thin young man dressed in red skinny jeans and a brightly coloured shirt. ‘Pierre, be a love. Shots of Cara and Greg together, if you please, and then Cara on her own.’
Oliver continues to watch. He doesn’t have a choice. She’s gorgeous and still speaks to him on every level. Nothing will ever change that, but there’s something uncharacteristically remote about her this evening. A thin veneer of sophistication dims her God-given light. It’s as if he’s viewing a different version of Cara, and his heart pinches. He knows all about that – giving the world an acceptable version while struggling not to lose the burning embers of one’s own essence.
Oliver carefully studies Cara. Her make-up is flawless, though heavier than he remembers her wearing it, and her skin glows from a flattering early tan. Perhaps it’s the way she’s dressed. The natural, free-spirited beauty is not present tonight. Instead, in her place is a sexy young woman dressed in tight, figure-hugging, black leather trousers, a pair of long fringed black boots, a trendy, extra long-sleeved, pale grey blanket cashmere cardigan, chunky black earrings and a matching statement necklace. Several wisps of hair escape from her loosely tied bun. Oh, how he’d love to tuck those wisps behind her ear; to feel the softness of her cheek once again. Completing the image, fashionable sunglasses perch neatly on her head. Altogether, the perfect vision of a stylish, sophisticated, enigmatic young woman shrouded in mystery and allure.
As Greg and Cara pose for photographs, Oliver’s eyes narrow. Why doesn’t the man leave her alone? It must drive her mad, his constant fussing and tweaking of her cardigan or changing the angle of her position! It’s only when Cara has to pose for her solo photoshoot that Greg reluctantly moves aside. Suddenly an attractive woman approaches Greg and, engaging him in conversation, points to the dramatic canvas exhibited on the rear wall; the gigantic version of the painting on display in the gallery window. Her enquiry must be of great interest, thinks Oliver, as she immediately gains Greg’s full attention. A sardonic smile plays on Oliver’s lips as he watches Greg place his hand in the small of the woman’s back and guide her towards the painting.
At last, the photographer moves away to pursue a different subject and Cara is on her own. Momentarily paralysed, Oliver forces his feet to move. As he makes his way across the gallery, cultured voices and cultivated discussions drift to him. His
heart races and his mouth turns dry. Suddenly he is standing before her – just a boy standing in front of a girl. Consumed by a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, he can hardly find his voice.
‘Cara,’ he manages, in a husky whisper.
They have so much shared history – not least, a son – and there is so much he needs to say to her, but how can he explain it all here? Placing his hand gently on her arm, he kisses her softly on the cheek. Although the gallery is warm, generated, no doubt, by the sheer number of people in it, her cheek is cold.
‘Oliver,’ she responds in a cool voice.
He draws back. She has every right to be frosty with him, but this is not the Cara he knows. Oliver frowns. He was always mesmerised by her extraordinarily beautiful dark brown eyes with their pools of hidden depths that invited him to dive in and never resurface, and he holds her gaze now for a long heartbeat, searching for the emerald-green and golden lights he knows dance within. A darker line defines each iris but the eyes that gaze back at him are free of sparkle; guarded and glazed. Her emotions are unreadable – unfathomable – trapped beneath a layer of thickly obscured glass.
Aware of Oliver’s scrutiny, Cara looks away. She sees Greg deep in conversation with a smart, attractive woman. Perhaps he’s negotiating another sale.
‘Congratulations,’ Oliver says, breaking a silence edging towards awkwardness. ‘Your paintings are stunning. I expect you will have a sell-out show.’
She turns back to him. ‘Thank you,’ she says politely. ‘And thank you for coming, although I didn’t know you were on the list.’
‘I came as Heather’s guest,’ he explains, looking towards the actress in the opposite corner of the room, still the centre of attention amidst a growing crowd of admirers.
Cara follows his gaze. Yes, that would make sense – two world-famous, A-list, award-winning actors together. Whatever possessed her to think he would ever change his life for her?
‘Hi, Cara. Sorry I’m late.’
Oliver watches in fascination as Cara smiles warmly at the young man who has just joined them; a glimpse of the girl he knows so well peeping through. The pleasant-faced American wears his dark hair drawn back in a man bun.
