by Kate Ryder
‘Sky, you did not hear me say that!’ Sheila cries, her hands flying to her mouth.
The boy looks up. ‘I did,’ he says innocently.
‘Do you want to watch TV with us?’ asks Carol to distract him.
‘No, thank you, Grandma. I’m playing with Barnaby.’
Sorry, mouths Sheila to Cara.
Cara shrugs. What can she do? He’s so bright and quick off the mark.
Carol picks up the remote control and joins her daughter and granddaughter on the couch. An image of the Award Ceremony host fills the screen. As verbose and witty as ever, he incorporates a couple of risqué gags into his opening monologue.
‘Crikey, he’s cheekier than normal,’ remarks Sheila.
‘It looks wonderfully glamorous at the Royal Opera House,’ says Cara. ‘How many times has he hosted it?’
Without hesitation, Sheila provides the answer and Carol nudges her daughter. Her friend loves anything to do with celebrity.
‘Ever thought of appearing on Mastermind?’ Ken comments, as he and Barry enter the room. Sheila snorts. ‘What’s everyone’s poison?’ Ken heads towards the drinks cabinet.
As the Awards Ceremony host entertains the audience with his rapier wit, typical wordplay and lovable silliness, Sheila’s concentration is total. Ken barely manages to divert her attention when he hands her a gin and tonic.
‘Must get a dictionary to hand for his particular style of hosting,’ he says, nodding at the image on the screen.
‘Now we come to the first award of the evening,’ announces the host, ‘Outstanding British Film.’ The cameras pan across the audience, picking out a plethora of well-known faces.
As Carol and Sheila discuss the various actors and actresses, Cara feels her pent-up tension lift. Safe here, with her parents and their friends, she can block out the harsh realities of her life. Bethany snuggles closer and Cara gives her daughter a little squeeze.
A young, up-and-coming actor – the current Superman – reads out the nominations and, as the relevant clips are played, one particular actor catches Sheila’s attention.
‘Gosh, he’s looking very dapper! Don’t you think he just gets better with age, Carol?’ Thoughtfully, she sips her drink.
‘Oh, here we go!’ says Barry, rolling his eyes.
‘Shhh, Bar…’ Sheila waves her hand to silence her husband, and Bethany giggles. Barry smiles at the young girl.
‘And the award for Outstanding British Film goes to…’ Superman pauses, milking the moment and keeping the audience on tenterhooks.
As the winner is announced, the audience inhales as one before erupting. Immediately the cameras sweep across the sea of faces, homing in on the winning team. Sitting in the row behind are Oliver and Deanna.
‘Oh!’ shrieks Sheila, spilling her drink down her front. ‘Damn and blast!’ Ineffectively, she dabs at her blouse, not once taking her eyes off the screen.
‘That’s his wife, Sheila,’ says Carol.
‘Yes, I remember,’ says Sheila excitedly. ‘Looks a bit of a hard nut to me. Now that I think of it she was rather aloof that day he was besieged by autograph hunters, poor love.’
Carol glances at her friend in amusement. She was one of those autograph hunters too!
‘Who are you talking about?’ asks Cara.
‘Him!’ Sheila cries, waving at the screen. ‘Oliver Foxley!’
‘As you say, Barry,’ mutters Ken, ‘here we go…’
Cara stares at the handsome actor who appears comfortable in the artificial surroundings of the Royal Opera House and assured of his standing within the elite gathering. Of course, he is stunning in his black tuxedo and bow tie, but she also thinks he looks genuine and honest.
‘No one can be that good-looking,’ she says under her breath.
‘Oh, he is,’ says Carol. ‘Better actually.’
Cara smiles accommodatingly, not believing her for a moment. She glances at her mother and Sheila and is taken aback by the effect the actor is having on them. It must be because they’ve met him.
‘Is he the man who bought your painting?’ asks Bethany.
‘Yes, The Minack,’ Cara replies. ‘Weird to think he’s got one of my little old paintings.’
‘Should have put another thousand on it,’ comments Barry drily. ‘He can afford it with the money he earns.’
*
Oliver looks across the banqueting hall of the Grosvenor House hotel and sees Deanna chatting to a smattering of A-listers including the seriously hot American movie star, Kyle Hemmings. Noticing how the Hollywood hunk listens attentively to her every word, Oliver feels a surge of pride that his wife is able to hold her own amongst them. With the award ceremony now over, they are at the glittering after party. It has been a night for deserved winners with several likeable, non-irritating acceptance speeches and, for once, Oliver feels he is in the right place at the right time; his equilibrium reinstated.
‘Oliver, darling!’ The actress, Dame Heather McMullen, glides up to him. Resting her hand lightly on his arm, she rises on tiptoe and gives him a peck on the cheek.
‘Heather, you look wonderful,’ he says sincerely. She’s a good ten years older than him but he’s always found her gamine looks highly attractive.
‘And so do you, Oliver,’ she says, smiling up at him with playful eyes.
‘You flatter me.’
‘Not at all. You were always wonderful but, like a fine wine, you are maturing nicely.’
Oliver smiles. ‘Ian not here?’ he asks, wondering if Heather’s third husband and award-winning director is in attendance tonight.
She shakes her head. ‘These award ceremonies are simply a bore to him. He’s back home in San Francisco working on the next project.’
‘I’m a great fan of his work.’
‘As he is of yours.’ Heather gazes up at Oliver, her eyes wide and innocent. A suggestive smile plays at the corners of her mouth. ‘Is Deanna here?’
Oliver grins broadly. She is so wicked and so transparent.
‘Yes, chatting up a major Hollywood star the last time I saw her.’
Heather mirrors his grin, but quickly tempers it as she turns towards an approaching figure. ‘Catherine, how lovely to see you.’
‘Heather, my dear. Love the hair!’ Dame Catherine French, the legendary and world-renowned actress, air-kisses Heather, who pats her newly sleek, urchin cut.
Turning to Oliver, Catherine says, ‘So nice to see you again, Oliver.’
‘Likewise, Catherine,’ he responds, kissing her on the cheek.
‘I hear there are rumours of a new Bond film in the offing,’ she says. ‘I must say, I always believed you to be a strong contender for that role. Any thoughts in that direction?’
‘It has never occurred to me,’ says Oliver. ‘In any case, the current incumbent is doing an excellent job and I doubt the powers that be are looking for a replacement just yet, are they?’ He wonders if the actress has some insider knowledge but her face gives nothing away.
‘Just checking,’ she says, smiling sweetly.
‘Besides, they’d be looking for a younger actor, someone like…’ Oliver glances round the room ‘…that good-looking young man over there, for instance.’
The two actresses turn.
‘Ah yes, Sooperman!’ Heather says, suggestively accentuating the word.
Oliver laughs. He’s always loved her wit. She could make a shopping list drip with innuendo.
‘Well, if it isn’t Dame Heather of McMullen and Dame Catherine of French!’ says fellow actor, David Conan, as he approaches their group. He bows deeply to the two award-winning actresses, to which Heather bobs a cheeky curtsey in response. ‘And Oliver Foxley. Good evening.’ He nods respectfully to the actor.
They all slip into easy banter and, presently, the Master of Ceremonies calls for the gathering to take their seats. The room is spectacularly decked out, the tables dressed with props referencing each of the nominated films, and magnificent chandeliers glitt
er down upon the movers and shakers below.
Taking her leave of the Hollywood movie star, Deanna scans the room for her husband and Oliver watches as his wife makes her way through the throng. He thinks she looks every inch the star herself, adorned, as she is, in emerald and diamond jewellery. Having chosen a semi-goth look for the occasion, Deanna wears a Louis Vuitton black halter-neck dress with black Chantilly lace detailing adding a feminine touch, a deep slit teasingly exposing a flash of well-honed thigh. She takes her seat and grimaces.
‘These heels are so high, my feet are killing me,’ she says quietly to her husband.
‘Slip your shoes off,’ Oliver suggests.
‘I might never get them back on again.’
He introduces Deanna to the others at the table, which includes a pretty young starlet bubbling over with excitement at having won Best Supporting Actress. She’s met Heather and David before.
The evening is a complete success and the partygoers enjoy a sumptuous banquet along with first-class entertainment, followed by several hours of dancing. While busily chatting to David, Oliver spots the Hollywood hunk fast approaching their table.
‘You don’t mind if I borrow your wife, Oliver?’ the American movie star drawls with a twinkle in his eye.
The next minute, Deanna finds herself whisked around the dance floor under the jealous gaze of the other women in the room. Wryly, Oliver notices his wife’s heightened colour.
As soon as Deanna has vacated her seat, Heather is in it. ‘Good old Kyle following my instructions,’ she says mischievously. Oliver laughs. ‘Care to give me a turn…’ she pauses dramatically ‘…on the dance floor, Oliver?’
How can he resist? She’s so skittish.
‘My pleasure,’ he says, pushing back his chair and gallantly offering his arm.
As soon as they join the other dancing couples, Heather is in his arms. She is as he remembers: pliant and lissom.
‘Mmm, this feels good,’ she says softly, as they move to the beat of the music. ‘Do you remember, Oliver?’ she asks, her eyes darkening with desire.
‘I do, Heather.’
Slipping her hands beneath his tuxedo, slowly she slides them down his back, noting how well he has taken care of his body over the years. Her fingers come to rest on his firm buttocks.
‘Oh, if only your wife wasn’t here,’ she murmurs in his ear, ‘what fun we could have. Just like the old times…’
He smiles, memories stirring, but an image of Sylvie standing naked before him puts paid to any fleeting passion. Gently he removes her hands to his waist.
Heather looks up at him with a wistful look in her eyes. ‘Yes, I suppose I had better behave myself, but you were always my favourite conquest.’
‘Once again you flatter me, Heather.’
The actress shakes her head. ‘No, Oliver, not flattery. It’s true.’
Having been escorted back to the table, flushed and with a sparkle in her eye, Deanna casts around for her husband. When she sees him on the dance floor with Heather draped around him like a boa constrictor, she grits her teeth. She has always hated that woman! Over the years she’s had to get used to Oliver being public property, often having to remind herself that it is she who has him for a lifetime and to graciously allow others their five minutes of contact, but it still galls her that women think they can walk all over her to get to him. It’s three more dances before Oliver and Heather head back to join the others. Deanna can’t be sure but, as they approach their table, she thinks the actress is covertly caressing her husband. Again, Deanna grits her teeth.
As Heather takes her seat on the opposite side of the table, she allows her gaze to meet Deanna’s. For a long moment she regards Oliver’s attractive wife and then, with the briefest of smiles, turns away to engage Catherine in conversation.
‘Well, aren’t you the belle of the ball!’ teases Oliver, sitting down next to his wife.
Deanna smiles thinly, thinking about Heather’s patronising look. She knows there’s a connection between her husband and the actress. She’s not stupid! It dates back to his breakthrough Hollywood film, when she was pregnant with Samantha. Suffering from severe morning sickness, she didn’t want him anywhere near her, but it didn’t prevent her from noticing how touchy-feely Heather was with her young, good-looking husband. What was particularly hurtful was it didn’t seem to bother the older actress that Deanna and Oliver were expecting their first baby together. Heather simply acted as if Deanna didn’t exist; she was merely an inconsequential appendage.
As always, Deanna rises above her emotions. Putting on a display of strength and independence – the very qualities that set her apart from other women in Oliver’s eyes – she maintains a cool and level head throughout the evening. Several hours later, as the after party comes to a glittering end, they take their leave of fellow guests and head to their executive suite.
As soon as she enters the lift, Deanna removes her Jimmy Choo shoes and vigorously rubs her left foot.
‘Painful?’ asks Oliver. ‘I’ll give you a massage if you like.’
Glancing up, Deanna sees the promise in his eyes.
‘That would be very nice, Ollie,’ she says in a voice suggesting he has just won first prize.
He smiles at his wife; the mother of his children. So many of their friends’ marriages have fallen by the wayside and he knows their success has a lot to do with Deanna’s strength of character and purpose. God knows, women have offered themselves freely to him over the years and, had he chosen, he could have yielded to no end of temptation! Taking his wife in his arms, Oliver kisses her deeply. It has been a good evening and her response suggests it will continue to be for a while longer.
‘Wow, Ollie!’ says Deanna, drawing back for breath and sternly banishing any thoughts he may be thinking of Heather.
Oliver smiles again, thankful that the brick wall between them appears to be crumbling. Perhaps Deanna is thawing a little to his Cornish adventure with Tas after all. As he thinks of the summer months to come he is surprised by the excitement that takes hold deep in his belly.
*
Seven miles due west of the Grosvenor House hotel, Sylvie cannot sleep. Since returning to her flat two weeks previously, she has rushed home from work each day to watch Oliver’s films. She has many to choose from; she owns a full catalogue of his works. Her flat is crammed with magazines and articles covering various aspects of his career, and numerous scrapbooks burst at the seams with newspaper cuttings, some even touching upon his home life. Sylvie Clark knows a lot about Oliver Foxley. She even knows what his wife and children look like.
Tonight she has been glued to the television, watching and recording the Awards Ceremony in the hope that Oliver might be there. Each time the cameras panned across the auditorium she frantically scanned the audience for a possible sighting. When she spotted him Sylvie’s obsessive behaviour stilled and her breathing steadied, as she savoured every slight variation of his expression. But now, tossing and turning, her head is filled with his image as she recalls his voice, the handsome contours of his face and the feel of his body. How many times has she relived their time on Holy Isle? She can stand it no longer!
Throwing back the covers, Sylvie gets out of bed and crosses the room to a chest of drawers. Opening the top drawer, she removes a folded sheet of paper and walks through to the lounge. She switches on the television and sits on the floor in front of the screen and stares at the writing on the paper. How clever she was to have discovered it.
The day after her visit to Oliver’s room at the retreat, she informed her aunt she was feeling unwell and would give that day’s teachings a miss. However, once the first session started, and with her aunt safely out of the way, Sylvie headed for the office where a woman sat at a computer. She loitered in the corridor as inconspicuously as possible and pretended to study the noticeboard if anyone walked by. It was remarkably easy. When the woman left the room Sylvie slipped in and, being familiar with computers, almost immediately foun
d the database of attendees. Checking the door every few seconds, she searched for Oliver’s name and scribbled his details down on a notepad by the phone. Surrey – not too far away! Closing the database, Sylvie slipped out of the office unseen, leaving no trace of what she had done.
Throughout the night, Sylvie replays the recording of the Awards Ceremony, fast-forwarding and pausing on shots of Oliver. Obsessively rocking backwards and forwards, she hugs her knees and chews her lip. Dawn breaks over the Twickenham skyline and a frown furrows Sylvie’s brow as she plots her next move.
Chapter Eleven
Walking along Harbour Road, Greg turns up his collar against the biting wind blowing in off the sea. Hunching into his jacket and quickening his pace, he heads towards the courtyard.
Carol is carefully dusting shelves, listening to her favourite Moody Blues CD, and doesn’t hear the man enter. She’s miles away, concentrating on Justin Hayward’s mellow voice singing about the sun through the trees and a leaf on the breeze, and there’s a faraway look in her eyes as she breaks into song.
Greg watches, amused. Eventually, he says, ‘Justin might not be here, but I am!’
Carol spins around, rudely transported back to windy, overcast Porthleven. ‘Oh, sorry! I didn’t hear you enter.’
As the strains of ‘Forever Autumn’ fade and the more upbeat ‘The Voice’ fills the gallery, Carol studies the man before her. A smooth, attractive American; not the usual type found in Cornwall during February. She wonders what’s blown him in.
‘How can I help?’
‘It’s been suggested I should view Cara’s paintings,’ Greg says, looking around the gallery. ‘I assume these are they?’
‘Yes.’
As he stands back to examine the paintings adorning the walls, Greg experiences an intense emotion. Carol watches, fascinated. His clothes are stylish and expensive, and there’s an air of money about him. Like her daughter, she wonders what he does for a living.
‘Do you know much about the artist?’ he asks.
Carol laughs. ‘More than most!’
Greg drags his eyes away from the enticing canvases. ‘I take it she is special to you?’
