by Kate Ryder
Oliver watches as the tears run unchecked down her cheeks. He recognises her pain and feels a surge of sympathy towards this strange woman. She’s like a broken child and he wants to comfort her, but knows this will only make matters worse.
‘Hush, Sylvie, don’t cry. Life is not as dark as you think.’
Listen to me! Maybe something has rubbed off from that expensive therapist after all.
At last Sylvie unclenches her ankles. Oliver rolls off.
‘Don’t go,’ she says in a small, cracked voice.
He lies at her side.
Thank God the paparazzi aren’t here!
Turning towards him, Sylvie holds him tightly. As she rests her head on his chest, involuntarily Oliver’s hand touches her hip bone. Her skin feels cold.
‘If you won’t put your clothes on at least let me cover you,’ he says, grabbing the throw and pulling it over them both.
It is very intimate lying with Sylvie and Oliver is acutely aware of her nakedness. Little moaning noises emanate from her throat and he wonders at her mental state. It must be hard never having anyone to discuss things with, or not having someone with whom to share your life. In adulthood, he has never had to face that; Deanna has always been there. And then the children arrived and life, since, has been filled with noise, laughter and loving mayhem. But before then, throughout his late childhood and teenage years, it was very different, and it doesn’t take much to remember what it was like.
Eventually, Sylvie stops moaning as she slips into sleep. With this troubled soul clinging to him and recognising only too well the haunted look in her eyes, unwittingly, Oliver is dragged back to his childhood. How dark life seemed then and how utterly helpless he felt. As the ‘grey mist’ descends with crushing intensity, laying waste to anything in its path, Oliver closes his eyes and succumbs to mental exhaustion.
*
Oh, it feels good! Warmth spreads through his body, filling the darkest recesses of his soul. Oliver groans. The ‘grey mist’ shrouds him, holding him in its throes, suffocating, but there’s a golden light beckoning, enticing him to come forward to breathe its pure air. Higher and higher it asks him to travel and he quickens his pace, reaching ever more towards that beautiful golden light, longing to feel its warmth as it spills over, eradicating all pain and suffering. He groans again as he feels the hotness of her mouth on him, the tantalising flick of her tongue licking and swirling, up and down, prodding and probing – investigating.
Sylvie watches beneath hooded eyes. As Oliver emerges from deep sleep, in one swift movement she straddles him, her small breasts jiggling as she rides him hard.
What the…?
Oliver’s eyes fly open; his hands on her hips in an instant. He tries to push her off, but her manic energy drives him on, higher and higher, towards not what is a glorious and forgiving, golden light. Feeling disgusted and dirty – and so angry at this betrayal – in that moment he hates her. Her moans have the edge of madness and Oliver bites down hard on his lip, refusing to give voice to his own. Unable to hold back, he reaches orgasm, and the full shame of his situation rains down upon him as the ‘grey mist’ claims him with a hollow laugh.
Looking at him with wild eyes, Sylvie unravels, spiralling down around him, possessing him and shouting out his name.
Shit! Someone must have heard that.
She falls forward onto his chest, breathing hard, and he can feel her heart beating rapidly as she repeats his name like a mantra. Forcefully, Oliver pushes her off. Rising from the bed, he pulls up his jogging pants. How the hell did she manage that without waking him? Looking down at Sylvie, all wanton and spent on his bed, he has never seen anything so hideous… nor has he ever felt so violated.
And in this special place, of all places…
Sylvie smiles; all warm and glowing inside. ‘You know it’s fate that brought us here under the same roof,’ she says. ‘You and me, we’re destined to be together.’
Oliver stands with his back firmly against the far wall, desperate for a shower. He just wants her gone. ‘Get out!’ he says, his voice low and menacing.
He sees the hurt on her face. Ordinarily, his natural warmth and generosity would respond, but pity and understanding have crystallised into deep anger.
Confused, Sylvie frowns. ‘But, I thought…’
Oliver cuts her short. ‘Leave me alone,’ he says, running a hand through his hair.
Sylvie gets off the bed. Misguidedly confident, she bends to pick up her clothes and crudely exposes herself to him. Slowly she pulls on her pyjamas.
Not waiting until she’s fully dressed, Oliver picks up Sylvie’s cardigan and slippers, grabs her by the arm and roughly marches her towards the door. Unceremoniously, he dumps her out into the corridor.
‘Do not trouble me again,’ he growls, shutting the door firmly in her face.
Sylvie stares open-mouthed at the closed door. Her arm smarts and she rubs it. Why is he being so rough, her love? Perhaps he likes it that way? He was very aroused. But, it’s hardly surprising. After all, he’s been her constant companion during many an evening in the lonely environs of her Twickenham flat and she’s had years to fantasise and perfect that particular scenario. A smile curls Sylvie’s lips. So this is the game he likes to play! One minute loving her, the next playing the distant, hard man. Yes, she can accommodate that, if that’s what it takes. She likes the challenge he has set. She likes the chase.
Putting on her slippers, Sylvie picks up her cardigan and makes her way back to the Wisdom wing, humming to herself and playing the last half-hour over in her head, like a re-run of one of his movies.
Chapter Eight
Cara is still dissatisfied with her painting of the cove. To anyone else it would be considered brilliant but she thinks it doesn’t possess her usual magic. Basil snoozes on the window ledge, having found a spot warmed by the rays of a weak February sun. Glancing out at the flat, grey sea, she wonders where her flair has gone. The tide, on its way out, has left great swathes of wet sand and the gulls have moved in, checking for any stranded small fish, crab or marine worm. There’s no hint of a wind in the cove today – a still life in monotint.
‘Argh!’
The cat flicks an ear.
In the background a radio presenter is having a lively discussion with his guest, an up-and-coming young actor who will be presenting one of the awards at the forthcoming Film and Television Awards Ceremony. Although Cara enjoys film and theatre, and likes to support Cornwall’s performing arts, she feels so far removed from the glitz and glamour of award ceremonies that it’s like listening to a discourse from another planet. Christo was always more of a music man. She smiles, recalling his obsession with Coldplay and Chris Martin and how, over the years, she gained the nickname Gwyneth. But that was then. The smile fades from her face. Placing her paintbrush on the palette, Cara descends the wooden stairs and enters the living room. Barnaby looks up expectantly from his dog bed.
‘Don’t get excited, I’m just making coffee.’ She checks the water level in the kettle and switches it on, then immediately switches it off. ‘OK, Barns, change of plan.’
The Labrador is up and out of his basket in an instant. Cara smiles. He has so much energy, he reminds her of Ben. Her smile fades again. What is she going to do about him?
Dumping her painting shirt on a chair, she grabs a fleece from the hallway and Barnaby’s lead from its hook by the porch door, just in case. As soon as she opens the door, the Labrador rushes towards the steps leading down to the deserted beach. Cara follows. As she sets off at a steady jog towards Rick’s Beach Hut with Barnaby racing around her in large circles, she feels something shift within; something stodgy that has been holding her back. Breathing evenly, Cara increases her pace, challenging herself not to stop until she’s reached the café. She arrives at its steps red-faced, despite the cold, and doubles over to catch her breath.
‘That was one serious run.’ Rick’s Australian accent is unmistakable. ‘Been watching you a
ll along the bay.’
She looks up and nods, unable to speak.
Scattering a flock of gulls at the water’s edge, Barnaby races across the sand towards them.
‘You deserve a cappuccino after that marathon,’ Rick says.
‘Good idea,’ Cara says breathlessly and follows him inside.
The Labrador shoots through the open door and laps noisily at a water bowl placed conveniently in the entrance. Suddenly, from the rear of the café a springer spaniel appears. Barnaby turns to face it. Sniffing each other, tails wagging, with a couple of barks they tear away, play-chasing through the tables.
‘Milo, here.’
Cara turns towards the voice. It’s the man on the beach. An American!
‘Hope my dog’s not being a nuisance?’ she says.
‘Doesn’t seem to be,’ he responds with amusement in his tone.
‘Cara, this is Greg,’ Rick says from behind the counter. ‘He and his wife are staying at the Marsdens’ place for a few weeks.’
‘Bet there are great views from up there,’ Cara comments.
‘That’s for sure,’ Greg agrees smoothly.
‘Here you go.’ Rick places a large cappuccino on the bar in front of her. A couple of Amaretti biscuits nestle on the saucer.
‘Rick, you spoil me!’ she says, hopping up onto a stool. ‘At this rate I’ll have no alternative but to run on my return journey!’
Rick smiles warmly. ‘Hey, Greg, you’re into art. You should check out Cara’s paintings. She has a rare gift.’
Cara sips her coffee. It’s hot and frothy, and just what she needs after her run.
‘What’s your style?’ Greg asks.
She swivels in the direction of the man. Yes, her first impressions of him were correct: attractive, sophisticated and smooth.
‘Mainly landscapes and seascapes.’ She has the feeling he’s filing away the information. ‘The one I’m working on at the moment refuses to take shape, hence my exertions on the beach. I hope it may shake things up a bit.’
‘Yes, that can work,’ he says authoritatively.
Intrigued, Cara asks, ‘Are you an artist?’
‘Of sorts,’ he says cryptically, and smiles.
Randomly, Cara wonders what his wife’s like. Believing they are at the end of their discourse, she turns away.
‘Do you have a website?’ he asks.
She turns to him again. ‘Yes, I have one for the gallery.’
‘The gallery?’
She nods. ‘I have a gallery in Porthleven. Perhaps you and your wife would like to visit while you’re here?’
‘I’d like that very much, though I doubt my wife will be up to it.’ He doesn’t elaborate. ‘What’s the name of this gallery?’
‘The Art Shack. It’s in the courtyard off Harbour Road.’ Yes, he’s definitely filing away the information. ‘At this time of year we’re open Tuesday to Saturday between eleven and three.’
The man nods. Conversation now over, Cara returns to her coffee.
Greg rises from his seat, the chair legs scraping noisily over the tiled floor and disturbing the dogs lying at his feet.
‘Great English breakfast, Rick,’ he says, walking towards the counter. He produces a soft leather wallet from his jacket pocket and hands Rick a twenty-pound note. ‘Nice meeting you, Cara. I hope our paths cross again.’
‘Me too,’ she says, accepting the smooth, manicured handshake.
His grey eyes dance with amusement and something else, and Cara shifts awkwardly, caught out by a look that suggests ‘a different time and place…’
Greg squeezes her hand. Pocketing his change, he turns towards the door. ‘Milo, come.’
Cara places a restraining hand on Barnaby’s neck as the spaniel peels away and considers that look. She didn’t see it coming. She’s so out of practice!
‘Enjoy your walk,’ Rick calls out after the American.
‘Thanks. This cove is kinda special,’ Greg says. He stands back from the door, allowing a middle-aged couple to enter.
As Rick fusses over the new customers, Cara finishes her coffee.
‘What’s wrong with Greg’s wife?’ she asks on his return.
Rick shakes his head. ‘He said they’re house-sitting for a couple of months while the Marsdens are in New Zealand, but I think it’s more to do with his wife’s recuperation. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.’
Of course, Milo belongs to the Marsdens.
She watches as Rick loads a tray with two cups of coffee, a plate of carrot cake and a hefty slice of Black Forest gateau.
‘Well, this isn’t getting anything done and you’re tempting me with those scrummy cakes! I’d best be off. What do I owe you?’
‘Nothing, my lovely. It’s on the house.’
‘Aw, Rick. Are you sure?’
He nods.
‘Well, you’re a mate, no doubt about that!’ Cara hops off the bar stool and walks to the door, Barnaby at her heels. She turns and waves.
Rick smiles in return, his eyes following her as she walks along the boardwalk with her dog. It’s not right that someone so lovely has been dealt such a raw deal. Life sure can suck! Sighing heavily, he picks up the tray and heads towards his customers.
Cara heads across the car park deep in thought. The cove attracts an interesting mix of people and Greg has intrigued her. He’s certainly attractive, in that smooth, moneyed way American businessmen can have. She wonders what he does for a living. She doesn’t have him down as an artist. And what’s wrong with his wife? And that look! Maybe she has still got it. Feeling a few spots of rain, she breaks into a jog. Beside her, Barnaby matches her pace. As they near The Lookout she spies Greg and the spaniel way below on the beach, and the Labrador stops at the edge of the track to watch them.
‘Barns, here,’ she calls.
Hesitating for only the briefest of moments, the dog turns to follow his mistress.
Chapter Nine
Since returning from Holy Isle, Oliver is in the grip of debilitating depression. Despite daily meditation, he’s unable to master the improving state of mind achieved before Sylvie’s shocking visit. Why the hell did he allow her into his room and let things get so out of hand?
As a result of the critical examination of his life while staying at the retreat, a long-forgotten incident during his early career has resurfaced and now plays on his mind. One of his leading ladies – older than him and in her prime – not only encouraged the good-looking, vigorous, young actor to enjoy her company but positively demanded it. Subsequently, he found himself in a compromising position. But it’s an unspoken rule on set that what occurs during filming stays amongst the cast and crew, and his marriage was not jeopardised. The actress in question – since recognised in the Queen’s Honours List and now a Dame – was busy conquering the world and simply notching up yet another Hollywood ‘rising star’ to her list. However, in real life, when an obsessed fan meets his or her idol, how fine a line do those boundaries become? Oliver can only assume this is what happened to Sylvie. Meeting him so unexpectedly and finding him accessible must have tipped her over into fantasy land.
It’s over a week since her visit to his room but Oliver still feels contaminated, and there’s a lingering whiff of something terribly offensive. Thankfully, he didn’t see her again until Captain Burrows arrived on the island two days later. A couple of the monks and several of his fellow attendees gathered to wave him off. As the helicopter effortlessly lifted from the helipad, he looked back to wave at the small gathering and saw her skulking around the side of the farmhouse watching him, her face as radiant as any lover’s. His hand had frozen mid-wave and a deep sense of unease and nausea enveloped him as the unhinged element of her misplaced emotions rocketed through the air like a heat-seeking missile, hitting him deep in the solar plexus. Shaken, he was unable to forget the madness in her eyes all the way back to Surrey.
Oliver glances at the bedside clock – late morning. Deanna’s perfume wafts from he
r pillow and fills his nostrils. They were finally intimate last night, the first time since his return, but the act seemed hollow and it took him a while to find his rhythm. Perhaps he was expecting too much, desperate to exorcise the memory of Sylvie. Disconcertingly, it was only when a vision of Sylvie straddling him, her small breasts jiggling, that his anger and disgust enabled him to satisfy his wife.
‘Dad. Phone!’ Samantha’s shout carries along the hallway.
Oliver groans. Climbing out of bed, he pulls on jeans and a sweatshirt and is almost at the top of the stairs when his daughter turns the corner. The vision halts him in his tracks. Samantha wears low-rise skinny jeans and a skimpy T-shirt, and a good deal of bare flesh is on show. When he left for Holy Isle she was seventeen and a teenager. Now, less than a month later, she has transformed into a sexy, attractive, young woman; the splitting image of Deanna at that age.
What? she mouths, momentarily distracted by the look on his face. He shakes his head and smiles. ‘It’s Tas,’ she says.
Taking the phone from her, Oliver kisses his daughter on the forehead and follows her downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs Samantha turns and sticks out her tongue, then smiles.
May look like a woman, but still a teenager at heart.
‘Tas! How you doing?’
‘Hello you old Fox. Long time no speak. What’s up?’
‘Family growing up too fast,’ Oliver says, sitting on the stairs.
‘Kids!’ exclaims Tas. ‘As if it’s not bad enough having a back catalogue of films to remind you of the passing years.’ Oliver laughs. ‘How’s that gorgeous god-daughter of mine? Sounds all grown-up.’
‘I swear she’s turned into a woman overnight.’
‘They have a habit of doing that, so I’ve been told!’ Tas says.
‘Looks just like Deanna at that age.’
Tas lets out a long, low whistle. ‘Think you might have your work cut out there, Mr Fox. Any spotty boyfriends hanging around?’
‘Don’t think so, at least not that I’ve been told.’ Recalling his surprise at learning Charlie has been dating for over a year, Oliver now considers his daughter. ‘Deanna might know differently but you know what these women are like, thick as thieves. I’d be the last to know!’
