by Kate Ryder
The door to the café opens and a group of people exit, heading up the slope towards the road. Kev is amongst them and he calls out, ‘Give me a bell sometime, Ben.’
‘Yeah, will do. Right, that’s it. I can’t take much more of this wind. Let’s go.’ Grabbing Cara’s hand, Ben marches her towards the street.
Tristan puts his arm round Jane and pulls her close. ‘That lad’s got a steep learning curve if he wants to win over Cara,’ he says quietly.
At the top of the slope, Ben and Cara turn left and walk briskly towards his car, parked alongside the gardens commemorating the coronation of George V’s wife, Queen Mary. Cara opens the passenger door, wishing she were already home with her children.
‘What I’d give to follow the surf like Kev,’ says Ben, getting in the driver’s side and turning the heat on full.
‘You’d miss us,’ Cara says, waving at Jane and Tristan as they walk by.
‘I’d miss you, Cara, not much else,’ Ben replies, putting the car into first gear and pulling out into the road.
‘That’s just the drink talking. I think you’d miss much more than that. By the way, how much have you had?’
‘Don’t worry. Nothing I can’t handle. Anyway, the Gylly chilli has soaked up most of it!’ Ben turns onto Western Terrace. ‘When’s Rick’s café opening full-time?’
‘Easter, I think.’
‘I don’t understand him. Why settle for British weather when you could live in Australia?’
‘Maybe he likes Cornwall,’ Cara suggests.
‘More likely got something to hide or running from something.’
‘I don’t know, Ben. I’ve never questioned his reasons for ending up in the cove. He’s a great guy and that’s good enough for me.’
‘A great guy?’ Ben glances at her.
‘Yes! He’s funny and generous, and great with the kids.’
‘I could be great with your kids.’
She doesn’t say anything and the silence weighs heavily between them. Staring out of the window at the passing countryside, Cara glances up at the night sky. No stars tonight. The only light comes from the few oncoming cars, their headlights assaulting her senses and intruding upon her dark, private cocoon. She wishes she could just close her eyes and float away to some other land where a golden, young man opens his arms to her and smiles…
‘What do you think?’ Ben’s voice brings her back to the present.
‘Sorry. What?’
‘I was saying we could do this more often.’
Cara takes a deep breath. She doesn’t want to hurt him. ‘Life’s pretty complicated at the moment.’
‘But I could help make it less complicated.’
‘I have so many things to sort out and little people to take care of. They come first. My life is secondary.’
‘Cara, you cannot put yourself second forever,’ Ben says grumpily.
‘I can for the next twelve years or so.’
‘Then I’ll wait.’
‘Oh, Ben!’ Exasperated, she’s also quite touched. ‘I haven’t got time to be involved with anyone. I like seeing you on a casual basis and if you’re happy to run with that, then that’s great. If you want something more, well… I’m sorry.’
Ben stares straight ahead, his knuckles turning white as he clutches the steering wheel. Never before has he voiced his hopes.
‘I don’t know if I can just see you on a casual basis,’ he says eventually. ‘You don’t know what you do to me. A guy has needs, you know.’
This is so not what she wants.
Cara changes the subject. ‘What does Kev do?’
Ben doesn’t answer immediately. ‘Don’t know what he does now but he was a graphic designer. Talented too.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘About three years ago. Why so interested? Would you like to see him on more than a casual basis?’ he asks sulkily.
‘Oh, Ben, now you’re just being foolish.’
‘Sorry, Cara.’ He glances at her and places a hand on her knee. ‘I’m so confused by all this.’
‘Just get me home safely,’ Cara says, removing his hand and placing it firmly on the steering wheel. ‘This road can be lethal at night.’
They pass through the village of Gweek, skirting RNAS Culdrose, and turn onto the A3083. A few minutes later, just as the heavens open, Ben indicates right and switches on the windscreen wipers. On either side gnarled and wizened trees top the Cornish hedges. Some distance ahead, picked up in their lights, a fox slinks across the road. In one elegant bound it jumps onto the stone wall and looks back at the approaching car before disappearing into the night. The wet tarmac glistens in the beam of the headlights – like a road from a fairy tale leading to who knows where, but, for Cara, it’s the way to the cove where she feels safe and protected from the outside world.
After a mile or so they reach Rick’s Beach Hut. The building is in darkness and the car park empty. As Ben turns the car onto the track, its lights sweep across a tumultuous sea and Cara knows there will be rich beachcombing pickings to be had. In the distance, The Lookout’s porch light winks at her – a reassuring beacon.
Quiet since turning off the main road, Ben now breaks his silence. ‘Cara, I don’t like this awkwardness between us.’
‘Ben, I don’t know what more I can say,’ she says, wondering if he’s going slowly on purpose to prolong their time together. Suddenly flustered, she knows there will be that moment before she can escape.
‘Just don’t say anything final,’ he says, pulling up in front of the bungalow. He leaves the engine running. Intermittently, the wipers sweep the windscreen clear. ‘I know it’s hard for you, Christo was such a great guy, but I’ve sat back and waited patiently.’
What can she say? She’s already told him...
‘There’s no pressure but I really would like to see you more,’ Ben says beseechingly.
For a fleeting moment Cara feels as if she’s the biggest bitch in the world but, without warning, Ben’s hand encircles the back of her head. This is the moment she’s been dreading. As he draws her towards him, Cara averts her face and Ben’s lips connect with her cheek. Instantly, he releases his hold. The look of hurt on his face is almost too much for her to bear.
‘Ben,’ she says softly, ‘I can’t do this.’
‘Can’t you just give me some hope?’ His eyes plead with her.
She cannot be all things to all people! She is too stretched as it is.
‘Thanks for a great evening. It was very kind of you to ask me.’
‘I’ll phone,’ he says disappointedly.
‘Yes,’ she says, and then wonders why she said it.
Opening the car door, Cara escapes through the rain. From the safety of the porch door she watches as he executes a three-point turn, carefully avoiding the other two cars parked in front of The Lookout.
Before heading up the track Ben glances at her, his face set in a grimace.
Chapter Seven
Casually dressed in sweatshirt and jogging pants, Oliver lies on the bed reading about Ngondro practice. The teachings are giving him plenty to consider.
Although it’s late, he can’t sleep and his mind is restless, despite hours of meditation. As he thinks back over his life, re-examining many of the choices he has made, there is the dawning realisation that those choices have not always been in his best interest. Depression settles around him like a thick blanket as his mind takes him back beyond the time when he found control of his destiny to his troubled and lonely childhood. Why he should have been the son with all the problems he still can’t truly comprehend. Even the expensive therapy sessions didn’t uncover the trigger point. Whereas his horizons appeared filled with unfathomable gathering storms, his three outgoing and older brothers easily sailed through childhood into adulthood, all finding successful careers in their chosen areas of expertise. He too, thankfully, fell into a fulfilling and highly successful career, one that has subsequently eclipsed those of his si
blings, but this is where any similarity ends. Always the thinker and more introverted of the boys, Oliver struggled to make himself heard above his boisterous brothers. Even when he was heard, no one seemed to understand. On the rare occasions his mother would listen to the feelings he was trying to express, she would look at him aghast and either change the subject or turn away, which only compounded his fears and feelings of strangeness. Loneliness grabbed the young Oliver Foxley by the throat and turned his thoughts inwards; traits he is only too aware of in his youngest son. He will not let Jamie suffer as he did. As long as he has breath in his body, he will do all he can to show the boy there is a light on the horizon, despite the threatening thunder clouds.
Oliver buries his head in his hands. These severe bouts of depression are a physical pain, hard to bear.
Soft tapping at the door stirs him from his dark thoughts. His watch, lying on the bedside cabinet, tells him it’s just after midnight. Tapping again. More insistent this time. There must be some crisis! Immediately, his thoughts turn to Jamie. Swinging his legs off the bed, Oliver strides across the room and opens the door. Standing on the threshold is Sylvie, looking a little lost and unsure, dressed in a baggy cardigan over pyjamas and a pair of slippers.
‘Sylvie, do you know what time it is?’ he says, his increased heart rate easing a little.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she says, as if this is an acceptable answer. ‘I thought I’d go for a walk and then saw your light was on.’
What’s she doing in the Harmony wing at this time of night? He knows her room is in the Wisdom wing. She made a point of telling him.
Sylvie hesitates and Oliver watches dispassionately as she steels herself. ‘Can I come in?’
He studies her carefully before standing back from the door but, as soon as she’s in the room, realises his mistake. During the seven days he’s known her, Sylvie’s intensity has increased.
Whatever possessed me to let her in? My ridiculous, misplaced sense of compassion. I must be mad!
‘Have a seat,’ he says, indicating the only chair in the room.
Obediently, she sits in the wicker chair and looks up at him, her face displaying myriad emotions: fear; lust; anguish; love – he skirts over that one – but mainly loneliness.
‘Why have you come here?’ Oliver asks.
‘To the retreat?’
He meant his room, but nods.
‘I’ve been through a bad spell,’ she says, plucking at the sleeve of her oversized cardigan.
Oliver groans inwardly. Sitting on the end of the bed, he rakes a hand through his hair.
‘When Aunt Margaret said she was coming to the UK to visit Holy Isle I thought it would be good to join her,’ Sylvie explains, looking at him uncertainly. ‘To get away for a while.’
‘And has it been?’
Her eyes grow large with raw emotion. ‘I don’t know,’ she says in a small voice.
God, I’m no good at this! What would Deanna do? She’d be practical.
‘Would you like some tea?’ Oliver asks, rising to his feet. ‘It might help you sleep.’
She nods.
He walks to the small table where a tray with a selection of hot drinks is laid out, all the while aware of Sylvie’s hawk-like scrutiny.
‘You told me you worked in publishing,’ Oliver says, switching on the kettle and sorting out mugs and teabags. ‘What do you do?’
‘Editorial. I like words.’
‘I like words too… which is just as well in my profession, I suppose,’ he says with an ironic laugh.
‘Words are my friends,’ she says.
‘Do you have many, Sylvie?’ He glances at her. Seeing the shock on her face, compassion overwhelms him. ‘A boyfriend?’ he asks gently.
She shakes her head.
What am I doing?
As the kettle comes to the boil Oliver pours hot water into the mugs. It’s only then he realises he’s out of milk. He picks up the empty jug and turns to Sylvie, his skin prickling as she watches his every move.
‘Just going to get some milk,’ he says, waving the jug at her.
Is it safe to leave her alone in the room? Is there anything I don’t want her to see?
He thinks he’s overreacting. Sylvie’s odd but she seems harmless enough. However, as soon as he steps out into the corridor, tension leaves his body.
The quicker this is over with, the better.
Hastily he makes his way down to the dining room. As he fumbles for the light switch, several energy-efficient lightbulbs cast a hesitant glow across the room and a dozen tables and chairs loom like marooned ships emerging through a sea of gloom. Oliver walks towards the small kitchen area and, opening the fridge door, quickly fills the jug from an open carton of milk. He heads back to his room deep in thought.
What causes one person to marry and have responsibilities that allow little room for anything else other than to get through each day at a time, and another to face four walls every evening with, maybe, a cat for company? It all comes down to choice.
Before entering the room, Oliver hesitates. It’s important he take control. Sylvie will stay for one cup of tea and then he will escort her back to her wing. But as soon as he enters he’s aware of a shift in atmosphere. The main light is no longer on and a side lamp casts a softer glow over the bed in which Sylvie now lies. Quickly scanning the room, he notices her clothes lying in a heap by the chair.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks sharply.
‘Oliver, I need you,’ she says, looking at him with vulnerable, saucer-like eyes.
‘This is ridiculous, Sylvie. Get dressed.’ He closes the door, walks across the room and places the jug on the table.
Sylvie sits up, the fleece blanket falling to her waist and exposing her small breasts. ‘Oliver, I’ve loved you for so long. Please make love to me. No one need ever know.’
Incredulously, he stares at her.
If the press got hold of this…
‘Love me? You don’t even know me,’ he says evenly. ‘Cover yourself up.’
She kicks off the throw, exposing the full length of her body to him. She’s thin but he can’t help but notice her surprisingly shapely legs.
‘Oliver, please,’ she purrs. Little miss lonely knows how to play the minx. Seductively, she runs her hands over her breasts and trails her fingers across her belly, down to her inner thighs. Teasingly, she parts her legs.
‘Sylvie, don’t prostitute yourself in this way. You are worth more than this.’
She leans back on her elbows and arches her body towards him. ‘Am I?’
‘Of course you are!’
Moving towards the bed, Oliver picks up the throw and roughly covers her body. With a sudden movement, her fingers lock around his wrist and, before he has a chance to react, his hand is pulled down to her breast.
‘Sylvie, stop!’ he says, recoiling. ‘I am not in the habit of bedding fans.’
Or deranged women!
‘But I won’t tell,’ Sylvie purrs again.
‘Get dressed.’ Avoiding eye contact, Oliver picks up her clothes and dumps them on the bed.
‘But, Oliver Foxley, I love you. Why won’t you sleep with me?’
‘You do not love me. You love an image in your head.’
‘No! I LOVE YOU!’ she shouts.
Shit! What if someone in the next room hears?
‘Shhh... Sylvie.’
Sylvie sits up. Once again, the throw falls to her waist. ‘What if I don’t shush? What are you going to do then?’
Dear God!
‘Don’t play this game,’ he says.
Suddenly she’s on her feet, standing naked before him. ‘Oliver, I need you!’
He steps away but Sylvie launches herself at him. Clinging on tightly, she wraps her legs around his waist. She’s surprisingly strong and Oliver staggers back.
‘Get off,’ he says, trying to prise her fingers apart.
‘No!’ she screams. ‘Love me!’
Blood
y fool! Why the hell did I let her in?
‘Sylvie, I’m just going to lay you on the bed.’ Oliver speaks soothingly, as he would to an agitated, small child.
Perhaps, if she thinks I’m going to sleep with her she will lessen her grip.
Putting his arm around her waist, he stumbles across the room. As his knees come to rest against the end of the bed, Oliver leans forward but her weight takes them both.
‘Oliver Foxley, I love you!’ Sylvie says, immediately grinding her hips into his.
He tries to get off, but she increases her vice-like grip.
‘Make love to me. I beg you,’ she pleads.
‘No, Sylvie, I won’t. And do you know why?’
‘Your wife,’ she says sadly.
‘No, not because of my wife. Because of you.’
She stills. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Let me sit up and I’ll explain,’ Oliver says, but her arms tighten around his neck. ‘At least let me take my weight off you. I must be heavy.’
‘I like you heavy on me,’ she says, but her grip eases a little.
Looking down at her as he would a lover, the irony is not lost on Oliver. She looks a mess: dishevelled and desperate.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he asks kindly. ‘You should have more respect for yourself.’ He takes his weight on his elbows but her legs clamp around him. ‘Sylvie, I have to breathe. Just let me get comfortable.’
‘Promise not to go?’
‘Promise.’
This is ridiculous!
Her grip is lighter now and Oliver shifts his weight. ‘Wouldn’t you be happier if I lay by your side?’
‘No. Why won’t you sleep with me?’ she begs. ‘Don’t you find me attractive?’
Oliver considers his words carefully. He must not give her false hope. ‘I think you are a lovely woman,’ he says without emotion, ‘but the Oliver Foxley you know exists only inside your head. I am not that man. There will be someone for you, Sylvie, believe me. I don’t want you to look back at your time at the retreat and have any regrets. This is a turning point in your life. Embrace it and move towards a brighter future. You probably can’t imagine it, but it will happen.’
Listening intently, Sylvie absorbs his words and silently weeps.
