by Kate Ryder
Gentle knocking at the door, and light pools into the room. ‘Ollie, why are you standing in the dark?’ Deanna flicks a switch by the door and four uplighters immediately throw some light upon the scene. ‘How’s the script?’ she asks, not moving from the threshold.
‘OK. Not sure I want it, though,’ Oliver says, walking back to his chair.
‘Why not?’ she asks.
‘It’s a good role but I’d have to commit to several months away in the States and the Far East. Not sure I want to do that.’
Deanna moves slowly towards him. Perching on the arm of his chair, she places her hand lightly on his shoulder and asks, ‘Darling, wouldn’t a change be as good as a rest?’
Oliver glances at her. Not for the first time he wonders how she is always so sure of herself. In all that she undertakes Deanna is never at a loss, even when dealing with the children. If only he were half as confident then perhaps he could put his demons to rest once and for all. The only time he feels truly whole is in front of the cameras, deep in characterisation, but he knows it’s these personal gremlins that make him so good at his craft. He is a first-rate actor.
Oliver shakes his head. ‘I need to read more of the script before making a final decision.’
Squeezing her husband’s shoulder, Deanna changes the subject. ‘Are you ready to join us for supper tonight?’
Oliver would love to have supper in his study again, but can he really get away with it three nights in a row? His conscience tells him to pull himself together and embrace the world once more. Without realising, he sighs.
Deanna gets to her feet. ‘Ollie, if you’re not ready I can prepare a tray for you.’
‘What time is it?’ he asks.
‘Approaching six.’
‘I’ll join you at seven,’ he says.
She bends and kisses him lightly. ‘Seven it is, then.’
As she turns to leave, Oliver catches her hand. ‘I don’t deserve you, Dee.’
‘Oh, Ollie, of course you do! You’re great at your job and a wonderful husband and father. You’re the best.’ He doesn’t look convinced and she frowns. Softly she adds, ‘And besides, I fancy you like mad… even now, after all these years.’
He wants to say, ‘I am such a burden to your soaring eagle’ but knows it will sound ridiculous, as though he’s whining, even though it is how he feels. Instead, he pulls her into his lap and returns her kiss.
Briefly, Deanna closes her eyes. ‘In an hour, Ollie,’ she says, rising to her feet. ‘Don’t be late.’
At the door she turns back but her husband gazes into the fire, once more introspective and distant. Had he been looking, Oliver would have seen the briefest moment of assessment before Deanna quietly closes the door behind her. But Oliver Foxley is gripped by a melancholy that refuses to shift.
Why does he always feel so adrift and incomplete these days? He has so much going for him. To the outside world they are a successful, goal-driven, tight-knit family. His children are healthy, good-looking, high achievers with all the opportunities available to them that a comfortable upbringing affords. He has established a successful career for himself, is critically acclaimed and in demand; not simply typecast in all-action hero parts but often considered for roles demanding a more versatile actor. He no longer has to work and can pick and choose those projects that interest him. A number of blockbuster directors have all made themselves known to him, or he can choose to work with less mainstream professionals. Oliver Foxley is one lucky man. Then, why does he always feel as if part of him is missing?
He picks up the script again. It really is a good role but he doesn’t respond to it. The film is certain to be a box office hit, but so what if it is? What difference does it make? Why put himself through it all again?
Oliver groans.
Glancing up, his eyes rest upon the painting displayed above the fireplace. In the flickering firelight the sea beyond the amphitheatre appears to come to life. Is it his imagination or is there a swell? Thinking back to that windswept day in September, when he and Deanna stumbled upon that little art gallery in Porthleven, he smiles at the memory of the pretty, flustered woman who proudly informed him how her talented daughter visualised images in a very different way and that the view she had captured across the Minack caught the atmosphere of the place.
‘One hell of an artist to create moving waves on canvas!’ he mutters.
Another knock at the door and Oliver wonders if the hour has passed already. He hopes not. As the door opens, hesitant blue eyes peer at him from under thick lashes.
‘Hello, Jamie.’
‘Is it OK to come in?’ the boy asks cautiously.
‘Of course!’ Oliver pushes aside his gremlins and smiles at his youngest son. He opens his arms wide.
Running across the room, the boy climbs onto his dad’s lap and snuggles against his chest.
‘Are you having supper with us tonight?’ Jamie asks.
‘Yes.’ Oliver’s heart pinches; he is racked with guilt and full of remorse. He needs to look after his family… especially this son.
At nine years old, Jamie is quiet and prone to introspection. So like him at that age. His depression was already in evidence; although no one knew what it was in those days or even acknowledged it. He is determined his son will not follow in his footsteps. He will do all he can to prevent his youngest from falling prey to the debilitating mental condition that afflicts him. Oliver strokes Jamie’s hair.
The boy looks up expectantly. ‘Will you help us decorate the tree afterwards? Sammy’s got the decs out and she’s going through them now.’
Christmas Eve! How could he forget? Where has he been? If nothing else, this is a time for the kids.
‘Of course! Come on, Jamie, let’s join the others.’
*
It’s late afternoon by the time the Christmas lunch is over. Ken and Barry, still wearing their Christmas cracker crowns, finish their annual washing-up ritual and wander into the living room to a round of applause.
‘Well, that’s given you a bit more practice, Bar,’ says Sheila. ‘Maybe you’ll give it another go during the coming year?’ Her husband laughs.
‘Let’s have a look and see what’s on the box,’ says Ken. He sits in the armchair and thumbs through the Radio Times. ‘Missed the Queen’s speech,’ he mutters, and then more forcibly, ‘You’d think they’d find something of interest to put on at this time of year, wouldn’t you? Why rerun oldies year-on-year? Remind me why we pay our licence fee!’
‘Quite right,’ agrees Barry. Sheila rolls her eyes.
‘Oh, hang on, here’s one just about to start. A murder mystery. Always good subject matter for Christmas, don’t you think, Barry? And, ladies, one for you too.’ Ken grins at the women sitting on the couch. ‘Starring that heart-throb who gets you all in a flutter!’
‘Well, now, who could he possibly mean?’ says Carol in mock indignation.
‘You know,’ Ken says, casting his wife an affectionate look, ‘that actor who bought Cara’s painting.’
Cara smiles. Yes, he’s eminently watchable! She notices her mother and Sheila flush crimson.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Sky concentrates on weaving his remote-controlled Batmobile round the legs of the dining table. It’s a Christmas present from his grandparents and he’s been playing with it all day. He’s getting quite expert at controlling its movements. Without breaking concentration, in a sing-song voice he says, ‘Oliver Foxley.’
Chapter Three
Deanna studies her husband asleep beside her. He looks so serene; his features free from the stresses of the day and his demons stilled. A smile lingers on his lips. Even after all these years her heartbeat quickens at the sight of him – her beautiful husband – but little did she know what she was taking on the day she accepted his tentative offer of a first date. He was already well into his acting course when she arrived at the college to study stage management. He was instantly noticeable – the best-looking student
. The other girls, and a number of the boys, watched in envy as he singled her out and showered her with his charm. And it worked. Her tough exterior melted under his adoring gaze. She would never consider herself beautiful, although she knows she possesses a certain attractiveness, but the young Deanna was aware enough to understand it was her strength of character and independence that Oliver liked most about her. He would be amazed if he knew how she truly felt about him at that time, but she was careful to maintain a cool persona and set herself the task of perfecting those qualities he liked in order to hold his attention. This strategy worked in her favour because, over the years, she has had to rely heavily on those character traits.
Deanna gazes up at the ceiling. She has slept fitfully and feels exhausted. Still uncomfortable, she turns onto her side and peers at the alarm clock. Should she get up or try for another hour’s sleep?
Her movements disturb Oliver and his fingers find their way under her T-shirt. Gently he caresses her smooth, flat belly. ‘Mmm… you feel good,’ he says, nuzzling the back of her neck. ‘Why are you awake?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘I know what you need,’ he says, gently rolling her onto her back.
As her body yields to him, Deanna momentarily casts aside the precision-like restraint by which she runs her life. Submitting to the sensations coursing through her, fleetingly she loses control and, moments later, with ragged breathing and muscles taut, Oliver finds his own release. Almost immediately Deanna moves restlessly beneath him, already thinking of her day ahead. Like yesterday, it is full of chores and expectations to fulfil.
Propping himself on one elbow, Oliver thoughtfully observes his wife.
‘You always did know how to play me, Ollie,’ Deanna says quietly, her eyes closed.
He smiles and gently runs a finger over her belly from one hip bone to the other.
‘What time is it?’ Deanna asks.
‘Still early.’ Oliver re-straightens her T-shirt and turns onto his back, one arm bent behind his head.
‘Half an hour more, then.’ Deanna turns away.
Oliver looks up at the ceiling, as his wife had only minutes before, as familiar disjointedness takes hold. Why does everything feel so discordant and hollow? Life has dealt him a pretty good hand. What more could he possibly want? It’s as if there are no challenges left. He yearns for something but doesn’t know what – just something more. Maybe it’s his mid-life crisis. Possibly he should accept that film role. God knows, his agent is persistent enough!
Perhaps Deanna is right; a change would be as good as a rest.
But still he’s unsure. Deep down he knows that accepting the role simply to take his mind off his disquiet is not the answer. It might have worked in the past, diverting him from his emotional battles for a short while, but his mind has grown wise to this avoidance technique.
Taking care not to disturb his wife, Oliver slips out of bed and pads silently across the room to the en-suite. Running the shower as hot as he can bear, he stands with water cascading over his head. This bout of melancholia has had him locked in its grip for a while now and he knows he needs to do something different to kick-start his lighter side. Deanna is always stoic regarding his mental disorder but sometimes it would be refreshing if she weren’t so independent and, seemingly, indifferent.
Sometimes it would be nice to think she understood my inner demons and not simply ignored them. He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the thought.
Standing with arms outstretched, palms flat against the cool tiles, Oliver closes his eyes and lets the full force of the water rain down upon the back of his neck.
When he first asked Deanna out it wasn’t just because he found her attractive. It was as much to do with her confidence. She was a warrior of a young woman and his frightened, confused, inner self stilled in her presence. He was fascinated to understand what made her tick and what made her so different. She had none of his insecurities and he found the differences between them exhilarating. As they spent more time in each other’s company they discovered they complemented each other well, and as soon as he graduated they found a flat together. Deanna continued her studies, while he ventured out into the competitive world of show business. Initially, it was his looks that drew attention and he was quickly snapped up for a controversial West End musical that broke new ground. It wasn’t long before he came to the attention of the critics, and they loved him. His sensitive portrayal of the difficult role in which he was cast earned him critical acclaim and his looks were relegated to second place. His name was soon on the lips of people ‘in the know’ and there where whispers – ever-growing – that he was the young actor to watch. It would be a further eighteen months before he gained mass recognition and became a household name, and then life would never be the same again.
Water cascades over his shoulders and down his back. It should be soothing yet his mind gives him no rest. He has read through the whole script and it’s a very good film with a strong, action-packed storyline providing an adrenalin rush for both actors and audience alike, but deep down he knows he doesn’t want to be involved. He needs to do something, but what? Perhaps he should revisit Holy Isle. Rubbing shampoo into his hair, Oliver deliberates whether this is the answer and the more he thinks about it, the more the idea appeals. He could leave the world far behind for a while and indulge in his own spiritual needs. Then, maybe, this disquiet will be put to rest. Reaching for the bottle of shower gel, he squeezes a small amount onto the palm of his hand and rhythmically works it into his chest and stomach. As soon as he finishes showering he will check the website and make enquiries about the next course.
He’s miles away and jumps when Deanna enters the bathroom. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and jeans, she gathers her hair into a ponytail as she walks across the room to the double basins.
‘Do you want breakfast, Ollie?’ she asks, turning on the cold tap.
‘Please,’ Oliver says, rubbing gel into his thigh and feeling the firm muscles beneath his fingertips.
‘Scrambled egg and toast?’ Deanna reaches for her toothbrush.
‘Sounds good to me.’ He will definitely find out about a course. His soul yearns for nourishment, to be lifted from the mundane.
As Deanna leans over the basin to brush her teeth, Oliver appraises her slender figure. He smiles at her wiggling bottom. He’s always been fascinated how her slim body has stretched and expanded during four pregnancies, yet always returned to such firmness. At forty, she is toned and in very good shape. Whenever anyone comments on her physique Deanna always puts it down to having inherited good genes, but Oliver knows his wife exacts the same discipline and control over what she puts into her body as she does the running of the household.
Deanna spits into the basin, replaces the toothbrush in its holder and straightens up. In the mirror she catches Oliver’s appreciative eye and smiles. ‘I’m taking Sammy to the station this morning. She’s going to Guildford with Rosie.’ She turns to face her husband. ‘Then I’m dropping Seb and Jamie at football practice. Is there anything you want while I’m in town?’
Peace of mind would be good.
‘Nothing I can think of.’ Oliver turns off the water. ‘You have it all under control.’
Opening the shower door, he pulls a plump, Egyptian cotton bath towel from the heated rail and vigorously dries himself, as Deanna walks from the room. With a game plan in mind he feels stronger and the ‘grey mist’, temporarily suspended, flutters on the edge of his consciousness.
Securing the towel around his waist, Oliver walks to the basins and catches sight of himself in the mirror. His reflection always takes him by surprise. It’s so different from how he sees himself. He, too, is in good shape – muscular and trim. At his age it’s imperative not to lose his edge and allow younger actors the chance to knock him off the top spot before his time, and this means daily workouts. But he also knows this is not the only reason he puts himself under such pressure. It’s as much to do with match
ing Deanna, like-for-like. He cannot fall behind. Looking at the handsome face staring back at him, once again Oliver is struck by the irony of his situation. No one would ever suspect the troubles he endures, the pain in his soul and the constant battle with himself.
Seeing what the world sees reflected back at him, Oliver looks himself in the eye and growls, ‘Skin deep, Ollie. Skin deep.’
*
Cara is in her studio working on the latest painting. On the easel is a sweeping view of the cove with her bungalow, The Lookout, in the far distance. It is not going well. She is about to give up when her iPhone springs into life. Laying the paintbrush aside, she moves to the window and picks up the mobile propped on the sill.
‘Cara, how’s it going?’
Silently, she groans. ‘Hi, Ben. I’ve got painter’s block.’
‘What you need is a change of scene. What are you doing Sunday evening?’
‘Why?’ she asks cautiously. As much as she likes Ben as a friend, she knows he wants more and it’s getting increasingly difficult to keep him at arm’s length.
‘There’s live music at Gylly Beach. Do you want to come?’ Ben asks hopefully.
She’s about to say there’s no way she can get a babysitter in time, but hesitates. Maybe a night out is what she needs. It might give her the inspiration to crack on with this painting.
‘The gang will be there,’ Ben continues. ‘Chilli and a pint for seven quid and the music’s free. It’ll be cool. Please, Cara.’
She looks out at the ocean; dark grey today under a bleak, colourless, January sky. Desolate, like her soul. She shivers. ‘I’ll just make a phone call and get right back.’
‘Great. I’ll be waiting.’
He sounds so hopeful. What is she going to do about him?
The wind whistles eerily and from deep within the bowels of the bungalow she can hear the children’s voices above the sound of the television. Her mother answers on the third ring.
