Cottage on a Cornish Cliff

by Kate Ryder

  ‘You haven’t missed much,’ says Cara, glancing around again. Greg is still safely out of the way talking to the woman, and she notices both Elliot and Kat Kaplan have now joined him. ‘Only an interview with a seriously snobbish journalist.’

  Johnny laughs. ‘Yeah, well, you’re in the right profession for that!’

  Oliver immediately warms to the young man with the boyish good looks.

  ‘Johnny, this is Oliver Foxley,’ she says, avoiding eye contact with the actor.

  ‘Hi. Great to meet you,’ Johnny says with an easy smile. ‘I’ve enjoyed many of your films.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ says Oliver, returning the young man’s smile. ‘I’ve enjoyed making them, although I’m currently taking a bit of a sabbatical.’ He glances at Cara, but still she refuses to meet his eyes.

  All at once Greg is with them. ‘Oliver,’ he says stiffly, ‘I hadn’t realised you were invited.’ Casually draping an arm around Cara’s shoulder, he gives Oliver a superficial smile.

  ‘I came as a guest,’ Oliver replies, gritting his teeth.

  ‘Ah, that explains it,’ says Greg, his voice arrogantly dismissive.

  During the ensuing uncomfortable pause, Johnny shifts awkwardly from foot to foot.

  ‘Hasn’t she done well?’ Greg says, squeezing Cara’s shoulder. ‘There are some wonderfully accomplished paintings adorning these walls.’

  Cara’s countenance remains unreadable.

  ‘Yes,’ agrees Oliver, including Cara in the conversation. ‘Very different from your usual style.’ She doesn’t respond and he gives her a questioning look.

  Why are you silent? This is your show! What’s making you so passive?

  ‘We’ve been experimenting, haven’t we, sweetheart?’ says Greg to Cara. Oliver flinches. ‘And it’s paid off. Already 40 per cent have found buyers. We may have to restock before the end of the exhibition.’

  ‘Wow! That’s fantastic, Cara,’ says Johnny enthusiastically.

  ‘Incredible!’ says Cara, responding at last. She directs an affectionate smile at the young man.

  ‘Oliver, darling,’ says Heather, placing a hand on Oliver’s arm and immediately bringing a charge of energy to the uncomfortable meeting. ‘Care to introduce me to your friends?’

  ‘Of course.’ Oliver lets out a ragged breath. At least Heather will shake things up. ‘This is the artist, Cara Penhaligon.’

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ Heather says graciously. ‘What a mighty talent you possess.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cara responds politely.

  ‘And this is Johnny, whom I’ve only just met,’ Oliver says.

  Heather’s eyes open wide. ‘Well, it sure is a pleasure to meet you,’ she says playfully.

  Oliver swallows a smile. The woman is incorrigible!

  ‘And this is Greg Latimer-Jones,’ he says in a level voice, turning his attention to the man still with his arm around Cara’s shoulders.

  ‘Oh, I’ve followed your column for years,’ Heather says. ‘I must say, you have an interesting take on the art scene. Quite unique opinions.’

  Greg’s eyes flicker with interest. Removing his arm from Cara’s shoulder, he holds out his hand to the actress. ‘Why, thank you, Dame Heather,’ he says, ensuring his handshake is firm. ‘I, too, have followed your career over the years. May I ask, do you have an interest in art?’

  His smoothness is intact, but Oliver notices an uncharacteristic flush to Greg’s cheeks.

  ‘I do, though I am by no means an aficionado,’ Heather says with a charming, tinkling laugh. ‘But I know what I like, and I love this young woman’s work.’ She flashes a smile at Cara.

  ‘Has any particular piece caught your eye?’ asks Greg, his concentration now fully on Heather.

  ‘Yes, as it happens.’ Teasingly, she keeps him waiting.

  Oliver glances at Cara. Although listening, she doesn’t engage with this discourse at all. He frowns again. What is going on behind those glazed eyes? It’s as if she has closed down.

  ‘Would you care to show me which one?’ suggests Greg, maintaining a pleasantly light voice.

  ‘But of course!’ says Heather. ‘Come with me.’

  Like a puppy dog, Greg obediently follows. Oliver allows himself a small smile.

  ‘Cara, darling.’ Kat Kaplan approaches. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to kidnap you for a while. Elliot and I would like to introduce you to someone.’ She loops her arm through Cara’s and turns to Oliver, gifting him a dynamic smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  He does. He needs to find out what’s going on inside Cara’s head. But, graciously, he lets her go. As Kat leads Cara away from him, Oliver mutters under his breath, ‘Thwarted by Americans.’

  ‘Yeah, a real bummer,’ Johnny says, good-naturedly. ‘We get everywhere!’

  ‘No offence meant,’ Oliver says to the young man.

  ‘None taken!’

  ‘What are you doing in the UK, Johnny? Do you live here?’

  Johnny shakes his head. ‘Nope. I’m en route to Europe via a stopover in Cornwall.’

  ‘Great place for a stopover.’

  Or a stop…

  ‘Yeah. I’ve had a great time. The people are real welcoming and the beaches are amazing. Do you know it?’

  ‘I do.’

  As they fall into easy conversation, Oliver wonders if the young man is Cara’s boyfriend. Jealousy stabs him, but he has no claim! Although Johnny appears younger than her, it’s not by so many years and it’s obvious she feels at ease in his company.

  ‘So, you’re a friend of Cara’s?’ he asks casually.

  ‘I like to think so,’ Johnny says. ‘I met her on a flight from the States and we got on well. I’d planned to spend a few days in London before travelling to Paris but Cara invited me to Cornwall.’ Oliver smiles. That’s typical of the Cara he knows… or thought he knew. ‘It seemed like an opportunity too good to pass up and I’ve not been disappointed. Her art is incredible! Have you visited her gallery?’

  Oliver smiles at the passion in the young American’s voice. ‘Indeed, I have.’

  ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’

  Oliver nods.

  Heather approaches from across the room, her eyes twinkling. ‘I’ve been really naughty, Oliver, and just bought that gorgeous painting in the window,’ she says. ‘Obviously, it will have to stay where it is until the end of the exhibition but Greg assures me it is mine. Every time I look at it now I will visibly pop with vibrancy!’

  Oliver laughs. Johnny looks on, bewildered.

  ‘Don’t worry, Johnny, just an old dame having a bit of fun,’ says Heather, smiling flirtatiously at the man young enough to be her son. She glances at her watch. ‘Sorry to drag you away, Oliver darling, but I’ve booked a table at my favourite Soho restaurant for eight.’ She winks at Johnny. ‘Raw oysters and champagne for us tonight!’

  Johnny glances at Oliver and raises his eyebrows.

  Oliver raises an eyebrow in response. ‘Enjoy your travels in Europe, Johnny.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m looking forward to it.’

  Unsettled by Cara’s aloofness, Oliver glances around. He wants to say goodbye, but she’s in conversation with the Kaplans and the smart, attractive woman, and he cannot catch her eye. Reluctantly, he says, ‘OK, Heather, I’m all yours.’

  ‘If only,’ she says, winking at Johnny again.

  They leave the gallery, but stop to marvel at Heather’s latest acquisition. The colours are truly glorious and Cara’s masterpiece resonates with movement and vibrancy.

  ‘Poor Ian,’ Oliver mutters. ‘The man doesn’t stand a chance!’

  ‘Nonsense. My husband will be pleasantly surprised. He loves vibrancy, especially when it’s visibly popping.’ Heather gives a deep laugh.

  Oliver peers through the window into the gallery. He hates to leave without gaining one last glimpse of Cara. He can see her standing at the back of the gallery still chatting to the Kaplans and the woman, an
d now Greg has joined them. Although she appears more animated than she has all evening, an odd coolness still shrouds her, dimming her light. He wills her to look in his direction but Cara’s concentration remains with the woman. Sick with disappointment, Oliver turns away.

  ‘OK, Heather, let’s go eat oysters,’ he says, forcing a smile onto his face.

  Linking arms, Heather gazes up at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. ‘Wonder what will be served up for dessert!’

  Listening to Greg’s monologue about contracts and timescales, Cara’s mind drifts. She knows she shouldn’t allow it to – after all, it’s her work they’re discussing – but for some reason Greg’s voice is having a soporific effect on her. It was such a shock seeing Oliver again! He looked so good. Ignoring the telltale fluttering in her tummy, she anxiously glances around. Her gaze slides to the gallery window and she sees him standing outside with Heather, discussing her painting. Everything about him is so familiar; it’s inconceivable he’s not part of her life. As the famous actors link arms and turn away, she catches the smile that passes between Heather and Oliver.

  Fifty-one

  ‘Here’s to you, Cara,’ says Elliot, saluting her with his champagne flute. ‘A successful opening show if ever there was one.’

  ‘To Cara,’ says Kat, sipping her champagne, ‘and to Greg for introducing you to us.’

  Cara smiles and glances around the now-empty gallery. Several red dots shout from beneath her canvases, not least the masterpiece dominating the rear wall.

  ‘That was a major coup, sealing such a prestigious contract,’ says Greg, noticing her line of sight.

  Cara nods. The woman Greg and the Kaplans monopolised for most of the evening turned out to be the owner of several boutique hotels. Eager to acquire the gigantic painting of the turbulent sea at sunset, she also purchased several others, and, following robust negotiations with Greg, successfully commissioned Cara to paint more.

  ‘Hoteliers are always looking at ways for unique branding,’ says Elliot, smiling at Cara. ‘It’s a wonderful idea to add an extra dimension in having their hotels instantly recognisable by the art on their walls. Your work is perfect for that vision, seeing as all her hotels are coastal.’

  Cara nods again. She has no idea where she will find the time to produce the number of paintings the woman has requested. Greg obviously thinks he can keep her locked away without any consideration for other responsibilities she may have in her life.

  ‘Well,’ says Kat, glancing at her diamond-encrusted Cartier watch, ‘I think that’s about it for this evening.’

  Elliot drains his glass. ‘I guess we will all sleep well tonight.’

  ‘We’ll call by tomorrow after lunch, should anyone want to meet the artist,’ says Greg.

  ‘Well done, Cara,’ says Elliot, giving Cara a swift kiss on the cheek. ‘A victorious opening exhibition.’

  *

  ‘What a wonderful evening,’ says Heather, passing Oliver a tumbler of whiskey. She kicks off her shoes and sits next to him on the couch. ‘I love my new painting. It will have pride of place there above the mantelpiece until I take it back to the States.’ She indicates the intricate marble fireplace in her rented London apartment. ‘Don’t some people just have it in spades? Not only does Cara have a marketable skill but she’s absolutely gorgeous as well!’

  Oliver takes a long sip of whiskey.

  ‘Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed, Oliver darling,’ Heather teases, ‘and as for that young American, if only I were a few years younger…’ She lets the sentence hang.

  Oliver snorts. ‘I noticed you’d gathered quite a crowd of young men earlier this evening. At one point I thought you were taking over the show!’

  ‘It does wonders for my vanity that I’m still able to hold the attention of men of a certain age,’ Heather says, smiling suggestively at Oliver. She takes a small sip of champagne. ‘How did you first discover Cara?’

  An iron fist squeezes his heart. It’s painful to revisit and it’s not something he wants to share. ‘Deanna and I came across her gallery one walking holiday in Cornwall,’ he says in a matter-of-fact manner.

  Heather considers him thoughtfully. ‘She has a remarkable talent.’

  Oliver nods.

  ‘Greg tells me it’s rare she leaves her native Cornwall.’ Heather takes another sip. ‘He said he was very lucky to have winkled her out of the county!’ She laughs. ‘Now, he’s an interesting one, don’t you think?’

  Oliver glances at her. ‘I guess so, but why do you say that?’

  Heather places her champagne flute on a side table. Plumping up a couple of cushions, she leans back and stretches out on the couch, resting her dainty feet on Oliver’s lap.

  ‘What I said is true. I have followed Latimer-Jones’ column for years. He is still an attractive man, but when he was younger he was a dead ringer for Richard Gere. He was quite a man about town, you know. I always felt sorry for his, then, wife. She looked very much the long-suffering accessory, wheeled out only when it suited him and more often found lurking in the background, patiently waiting for him to finish whatever it was he was doing.’ Heather stretches languorously. ‘Be a darling and massage my feet, Ollie. I haven’t walked so much in years as I have tonight!’

  Oliver knocks back his whiskey. Leaning forwards, he places the empty tumbler on a large, marble-topped coffee table and takes one of Heather’s petite feet in his hands. He starts to lightly massage, working his thumb along her instep.

  Heather shivers. ‘You always did know how to light my fire, Oliver.’

  He laughs softly. ‘Go on, tell me more about Greg.’

  ‘Only if you promise never to stop what you’re doing,’ she says seductively. ‘Well, now, let me see.’ Heather wriggles into a more comfortable position. ‘Greg was always very good at spotting emerging talent and he travelled quite extensively through Europe during his early career. All at once, his column was all about an undiscovered Polish talent. You could tell how excited he was – it literally jumped off the page at you!’ Heather wiggles her other foot at Oliver. ‘It’s getting lonely, darling.’

  Oliver obliges.

  Heather smiles. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t long before Marietta von Baranski arrived on the scene. Do you know her work?’

  ‘I can’t say I do.’

  ‘She’s remarkable! At least, she was. A figurative artist. Her paintings full of joie de vivre.’ Arching her back, Heather presses her foot into Oliver’s thumb. ‘Ooh, darling, don’t stop. That’s definitely hit the spot.’

  ‘You’re very demanding,’ Oliver says with a grin. ‘Does Ian have to do this?’

  ‘He’s allowed to do so on special occasions!’ Heather’s eyes twinkle at Oliver mischievously. ‘Anyway, back to Marietta. She swiftly became Greg’s protégée. I must say, he has a type. She, too, was blonde and beautiful.’

  Oliver’s thumb comes to a halt. He stares at Heather, his heart thumping with panic.

  ‘Don’t stop, darling.’

  Slowly, his thumb starts to move again.

  ‘Greg encouraged her to move to America to further her career,’ Heather says, picking up the story once more. ‘He was still married at the time, and I remember being curious as to what his wife thought of the arrangement. Anyway, he and Marietta soon became the darlings of New York society and, inevitably, his marriage fell by the wayside.’ She pauses, enjoying a particularly deep sensation coursing through her body.

  ‘What became of wife number one?’ Oliver asks.

  ‘I don’t know. I guess she quietly disappeared into the background from whence she came. But background is not a place Mr Latimer-Jones likes to inhabit. Soon after Marietta arrived in the States they were married; a large and stylish affair covered by all the mainstream papers and magazines. We all believed it happened in haste due to a pregnancy, but there were never any children. I suppose having a family would be a hindrance when you’ve set your sights on conquering the art world.’

  �
��That’s sad,’ says Oliver. ‘Being creative is wonderful but it never replaces the experience of nurturing a child.’

  Heather regards the great-looking actor for a long moment. Removing her foot from his hand, she rises off the couch and stands in front of him. Then, placing a leg either side of his knees, she slips her arms around his neck and lowers herself onto his lap.

  ‘You know there are no strings attached, Oliver,’ she whispers in a deep, sexy voice, as she brings her mouth down on his. She kisses him deeply; her tongue teasingly flirting with his.

  Feeling relaxed – as he always does in Heather’s company – Oliver knows it’s also partly due to the not inconsiderable amount of alcohol in his system. He puts his arms around her waist and, drawing her to him, closes his eyes. She feels pliant and lissom, just as he remembers. For once the ‘grey mist’ has not claimed him, despite Cara’s aloof treatment earlier in the evening that left him reeling. The end of a dream. It could so easily have pushed him over the edge into depression. He knows there are no repercussions with Heather – she and Ian enjoy an open marriage – and his own is as good as dead in the water. There’s nothing to stand in the way of their enjoyment of each other. And yet…

  A much younger Oliver Foxley succumbed to Heather’s advances, but the man of today cannot muster the enthusiasm. Gently Oliver pushes her away.

  Fifty-two

  Cara reaches the rocky promontory almost at the cliff edge and edges her way carefully around the rock face. As always, she stops and takes a moment to marvel at the view. However many times she sees it, it always takes her breath away. Thirty feet below, two fat gulls sit on The Lookout’s ridge tiles. Her eyes skim over the half-dozen assorted properties skirting the cove, which, today, is a kaleidoscope of colours from summer visitors’ beach paraphernalia. At the far end is Janine’s Coffee Shop & Café, its car park full of cars shimmering under the heat of a midday sun. Her gaze continues on, taking in the south coast of Cornwall spread out like an enormous 3D map and stretching away into the distance. Easy to see is the impressive Loe Bar, dividing the sea from a freshwater lake that sparkles in the sunshine. At its far end, next to Porthleven’s pier and harbour entrance, the tower of the town’s most recognisable building, the Bickford Smith Institute, stands seventy feet high. Beyond this is Praa Sands, Prussia Cove and Mounts Bay, where the tip of iconic St Michael’s Mount can be clearly seen rising out of the water, then sweeping on past Penzance and Newlyn to the cliffs at Porthcurno. And in the far distance, Gwennap Head.