by Kate Ryder
Switching off the lights, Cara steps outside and locks the door, surprised to be thinking how much she loves her life in Cornwall. Without waiting a moment longer, Ben grabs her hand and marches her out of the courtyard.
There’s a hint of early spring on the breeze. The seagulls’ raucous cries fill the air as they swoop around the fishing boats entering the inner harbour. Rising up the harbour wall, a huge swell follows Ben and Cara as they make their way towards the pub. Ben pushes open the door and enters with Cara in his wake.
‘Hi, Cara,’ the landlord says, as they approach the bar. ‘How was your day?’
‘A few more customers than normal. How about you?’
‘Wednesday in early March? Can’t complain!’
‘Where shall we sit?’ asks Ben, glancing around. Although several tables are occupied, there’s still plenty of choice.
‘How about by the window?’ suggests Cara.
‘OK. Choose something to eat and go grab a table,’ Ben instructs, oblivious to the landlord’s eyebrows shooting skywards.
‘What’s the special today?’ Cara asks.
‘Fish pie. Couldn’t be fresher. Straight from Patrick’s haul this morning.’
‘Sounds good to me. And I’ll have half a cider please.’
Walking towards the window table, Cara acknowledges a couple that visited the gallery earlier in the afternoon. As she pulls out a chair she looks out at the familiar view of houses and restaurants on the far side of the harbour and feels an uncharacteristic melancholy, as if all she has ever known is slipping away. Get a grip! Can’t be all soppy around Ben. She looks up and smiles as he approaches with the drinks.
‘Bottoms up!’ Ben clinks her glass and takes a hefty swig of Doom Bar. Placing his glass heavily on the table, he smacks his lips together and lets out a loud and satisfied, ‘Ah!’
Why is everything about him so big? So different from Greg. She fingers the business card in her pocket. Chief Art Director with The New York Times! Cara frowns. Why did her mother squirrel it away in the drawer?
‘So, babe, have you given us any more thought?’ Ben asks hopefully.
Cara sighs. She wants to give him an abrupt ‘no’ but knows this is way too harsh. ‘Ben, one day at a time.’
Ben groans. ‘I know you’ve needed time to grieve but don’t you think you’ve done that by now?’
Cara reels in shock and then seethes with anger.
‘Shouldn’t you let someone new into your life?’ Ben leans across the table and traps her hand beneath his. ‘Christo would want that.’
‘Drop it, Ben,’ she says quietly. Swiftly, she removes her hand.
‘Argh!’ He leans back heavily in his chair. ‘You can be so trying at times!’
So this is how it’s to be, is it?
‘Ben, you have no idea,’ Cara says evenly.
The tense atmosphere is broken by the waitress arriving with their food. Cara doesn’t recognise the girl. She must be a new recruit, at the start of the season.
‘Who’s having the fish pie?’ the waitress asks and Cara nods. ‘And you must be having the steak.’ The girl flashes Ben a broad smile.
As they busy themselves sorting cutlery and condiments, Ben picks up the thread of their conversation.
‘And neither do you, Cara,’ he says sulkily.
‘Neither do I what?’
‘Have any idea.’
Inwardly Cara groans. She can’t be all things to all people. She has her children to think of. She knows what he wants but if he can’t chill and just accept her as a friend, she will have to stop seeing him completely. She looks round as the pub door opens. In walks Tristan and she has never been so thankful to see him.
Approaching their table, Tristan kisses Cara on the cheek and acknowledges Ben with a nod. ‘That looks good,’ he says, eyeing up Ben’s steak. ‘Think I’ll order one myself.’
Ben sighs. Now Tristan is going to cramp his style.
‘How’s that studio ceiling holding up?’ Tristan asks, pulling out a chair.
‘So far so good, though I’ve got a couple of buckets in place.’
‘What if Rob and I come over one day and make good? Would that do or does the whole roof need replacing?’
‘Don’t know really, Trist,’ says Cara. ‘Christo built the studio about six years ago so I guess we’ll find out once we peel back the layers.’
‘Leave it to me. I’ll get it sorted,’ Tristan says, rising to his feet and fishing out the ringing mobile from his jeans’ pocket. ‘Hi, Jane. Where are you, honey?’
Cara smiles to herself. It’s good to see Tristan in love.
Within half an hour Tristan’s girlfriend joins them and, distracted by the easy banter, Cara finds Ben’s company acceptable. At seven, they leave Tristan and Jane in the pub. Ben insists on walking her to the car.
As she opens the driver’s door he restrains her. ‘Cara, I need to say something. I don’t care how long it takes but I have plans for you and me. I am prepared to wait but you need to know how I feel about you,’ he says, the words tumbling out of his mouth; his eyes imploring.
‘Ben, just chill and enjoy the moment.’ Cara attempts to get in the car but he blocks her way. She looks up at him enquiringly.
‘Just one kiss, Cara, please.’
His need of her is sweet, but it’s so not what she wants.
Taking advantage of Cara’s hesitation, Ben moves in closer and wraps his arms around her. It’s so unexpected he can hardly control himself and the ensuing kiss is wet and sloppy. Cara draws back.
‘I won’t push it, I promise,’ he says, ‘but I have needs.’
And then he’s gone, walking out of the traders’ car park and heading towards the town’s main car park, whistling to himself.
Cara climbs in the car feeling numb. How could she be so stupid? Now he will never be able to keep his hands off her! She removes Ben’s slippery wetness from her lips with her sleeve and rests her forehead against the steering wheel. Suddenly she remembers Greg’s business card. Intrigued, she removes it from her pocket and punches the number into her mobile. She counts the number of rings and is just about to switch off when Greg answers.
‘Er, hello, Greg,’ she says, suddenly uncertain. It’s Cara Penhaligon.’
‘Cara!’ He sounds delighted, but also amused.
‘My mother said you called by the gallery and asked me to phone.’
‘Correct on both accounts,’ he responds in his smooth American accent. ‘I very much liked what I saw. We wondered if you would come up to the house tomorrow evening with your portfolio?’
‘I don’t have a portfolio, just the website.’ She hears the sharp intake of breath and knows he’s thinking, what artist doesn’t have a portfolio? She feels flustered, and it has nothing to do with the incident with Ben. ‘It was destroyed in a flood a few years back,’ she hurriedly explains.
‘Well, perhaps you could bring a couple of your canvases with you, particularly the large one of the wave at Portreath.’
‘Of course. What time shall I call by?’
‘After eight. You know where we are?’
‘Yes, I know,’ she says, feeling ridiculed. Was their conversation the other day of such little consequence?
‘We look forward to seeing you.’
‘Bye.’ Cara ends the call. Well, she’s done it now! There’s no looking back.
*
Oliver packs his bag. He and Tas expect to be away for a week and he wonders what the weather will have in store. He is deliberating over jumpers, T-shirts or fleeces when a flash on the periphery of his vision catches his attention. He looks out of the bedroom window towards the edge of the woods. It’s a crisp, clear day and the sun, though weak, shines brightly. The manicured lawns stretch down to the lake and he sees the call ducks swimming undisturbed amongst the grasses at the water’s edge. It’s a beautiful vista and, not for the first time, he thanks his accountant for having given him such good advice all those years ago. Anothe
r flash… to the right of the lake. What is that? Perhaps it’s glass? If so, he needs to clear it up before he departs. It wouldn’t do for the kids to hurt themselves.
Knowing Deanna has just taken the children to school, Oliver finishes packing. Things have been frosty between them since the milk incident. Well, he thinks so. It seems to him that it doesn’t bother Deanna whether they’re getting on or not; she always copes. Again, he wonders about his standing within the family. Perhaps every father feels this way but it’s playing on his mind more and more these days. Deanna is so capable. The thought depresses him. Briskly, he zips up the bag and carries it downstairs. Tas will be here within the hour. His friend is good, intelligent company and it’s been a long time since they last shared an adventure. It will be fun to be on the road with him again. Placing the bag in the entrance lobby and grabbing a jacket, he walks to the kitchen. As he opens the back door there’s another flash. Oliver steps down from the stone terrace and sets out across the lawns.
Sylvie lowers her binoculars and ducks behind a tree. Pressing her back firmly against its bark, she wills it to swallow her up. This won’t do. She can’t let him find her spying on him. But, damn him, he hasn’t phoned! What should she do? He’ll discover her in seconds. Quickly she darts through the foliage towards the main trail and by the time Oliver arrives at the edge of the woods, the trees have closed in around her.
Oliver studies the ground but there’s no glass lying around. Funny, because he’s sure this was where the flash came from. He thought he saw a movement through the trees but it could have been a deer. They have plenty around here. Oliver searches amongst the undergrowth and finding no obvious sharp implements, returns to the house.
Arriving at her car, parked at the entrance to the forest trails, Sylvie climbs in and tries to regulate her breathing. That was close! She desperately wants to see him, but not under such circumstances. As her heart beats a rapid dance against her rib cage she wonders what to do next. An hour ago she watched his family leave the house. Should she just brazen it out, walk up to the house and ask him why he hasn’t phoned? No, he likes to play hard to get. Maybe if she teases him and suggests she won’t be around for much longer, it will stir him into action.
In the rear-view mirror she notices a vehicle driving down the track. Picking up the binoculars, she turns in her seat. A big, masculine, bearded man is at the wheel of a ‘look at me big bollocks’ black Jeep. Childishly, she giggles at her description as she watches the vehicle turn into the driveway. What’s going on here, then? Sylvie starts the car and turns it to face in the direction of the road, leaving the engine ticking over. Five minutes later she switches off. She is contemplating making her way back through the woods to spy on the house again when the Jeep pulls out onto the track and heads back towards the road. As she peers through the binoculars, Sylvie sees Oliver sitting in the passenger seat. Frantically, she turns the key in the ignition and aggressively puts the car into first gear. In her panic it stalls.
‘Crap!’
She turns the key again and, grinding her way through the gears, drives up the track towards the road. She cannot lose them now, though the Jeep will be easy to pick out in the traffic. However, as she rounds the corner, the Jeep is stationary some twenty yards ahead with the Range Rover alongside. She can see Oliver’s wife chatting to the man in the driver’s seat. Double crap!
‘Like Piccadilly Circus here today,’ comments Tas, looking in the side mirror.
Oliver turns in his seat and looks over his shoulder. Sylvie ducks. She’s quite a distance away but she sure as hell doesn’t want to be recognised.
‘Better move on,’ Deanna says. ‘Have a good journey.’
‘I’ll phone tonight,’ Oliver says to his wife through the open window as the Jeep pulls away.
Deanna nods once and drives towards the entrance gates, keeping an eye on the dark blue car slowly approaching. As she turns into the driveway it speeds past, narrowly missing the Range Rover by a few inches.
*
‘So what’s with the wheels?’ Oliver asks Tas.
‘You know me and American Jeeps!’ his friend says with a grin. ‘Ever since I saw that first episode of M*A*S*H I knew there was no other vehicle for me. It’s also a bit of a babe magnet.’ His grin broadens.
Oliver laughs. Being so masculine and larger than life, Tas is quite a babe magnet without any props. ‘When did you get it?’
‘A couple of months back. Special order. Waited a while for it to come through, but it was worth it.’ Tas slows at the roundabout before easing out into the traffic. ‘Hey, Mr Fox, you and me hitting the open road again!’
‘Brilliant,’ says Oliver, conscious of the sudden excitement deep in his belly. ‘So, who’s this guy we’re staying with?’
‘An old mate from way back,’ explains Tas. ‘Rick had a bit of a wrangle with the law back home and found his way over here. He’s been in Cornwall, all respectable-like, for the past four years. Runs a café in some out-of-the-way cove. Says he feels safe there!’
‘Sounds like a storyline for a play.’
‘Hey, you could be onto something.’
Falling into companionable banter, soon they are driving over the Hogs Back, leaving behind comfortable, commuter-belt Surrey and heading towards the Hampshire countryside. A couple of hours later they stop for petrol outside Ilminster. As neither want to run the gauntlet of interested stares from diners in the Little Chef, Tas visits the shop for sandwiches. On his way back to the Jeep he spots a dark blue car parked discreetly, but simply thinks it odd that once you’ve noticed a particular model of car you tend to notice it all the time.
Rejoining the A303, they head west once more: Destination Cornwall.
Chapter Thirteen
Lights blaze from Rick’s Beach Hut as Cara drives by. She notices two cars in the car park: Rick’s beaten-up old Land Rover and a big, black, American Jeep.
He’s staying late. Wonder what he’s up to?
As she follows the steep, narrow lane leading out of the cove, headlights ahead dip into darkness. Cara drives past a car parked in the only passing place on the lane.
What madness to stop there, and in darkness too! She could easily have ploughed into it.
At the brow of the hill she turns into the Marsdens’ driveway and pulls up in front of the white house positioned high above the cove. She switches off the engine and sits for a moment. Why is she so nervous? Taking a deep breath, Cara gets out of the car and walks across the stone-chipped driveway. As she approaches the steps leading to the front door she considers walking away but, before she has the chance to bail out, she rings the doorbell. There’s no getting out of it now. Cheery chimes sound from deep within the house. Backing down the steps, she stands on the driveway and grimaces, recalling the last hour during which she has tried on numerous outfits. Her bed is now littered with rejected clothes. Suddenly Greg’s figure appears behind the obscure-glazed door. Too late to turn and run now. As the door opens she smiles nervously at him.
‘Cara, so good of you to come at such short notice.’
She accepts his firm handshake, again noting the smooth, manicured hand.
Greg is dressed in a thick knit jumper, tan corduroy trousers and shiny brown leather shoes, and Cara is instantly struck by the outfit’s studied casualness. It’s as if he’s just stepped out of a Barbour catalogue, which makes her feel even more insecure about her choice of outfit. Preferring comfortable clothes – mainly baggy jumpers, leggings and Ugg boots – this evening she has made an effort and has chosen a tunic over leggings with a pair of long suede boots.
‘Thank you for inviting me.’
‘Do you have the canvases with you?’
She looks towards the car. ‘Yes, I’ve brought three, including the Portreath painting you asked for.’
‘Good. I’ll help you bring them in.’
Why does she feel as if she’s about to hand over her life?
He follows her to the car. As Cara op
ens the boot and leans in, she knows her tunic will rise up, but she can’t do anything about that. She pulls the large Portreath canvas towards her and passes it to Greg before removing the two smaller canvases. Holding one in each hand, she closes the boot with her elbow and glances at him inquisitively. She knows he’s been checking her out.
Greg smiles, but his face gives nothing away. ‘Marietta is looking forward to meeting you.’
Marietta… How exotic!
Cara follows him to the house. She’s never been inside before and, on entering, debates whether to remove her boots. Feeling unaccustomedly clumsy, she wonders if the surroundings make her feel this way or whether it is Greg himself. Always so immaculate, he seems quietly amused. Greg strides down the hallway and Cara follows, entering a spacious, open-plan living room straight off the pages of an interior design magazine. She should definitely have taken off her boots; the shag-pile carpet is pale cream. The furniture and decor are tasteful and the room leads directly out into a Victorian-style conservatory filled with plants. As Greg props the large Portreath painting against the wall and relieves Cara of her canvases, she glances around. A large marble fireplace dominates one wall, its mantelpiece crammed with photographs of the Marsdens and various people, no doubt family.
‘Darling, Cara has arrived,’ Greg calls through to the conservatory.
There’s movement amongst the plants and Cara finds herself face-to-face with a striking, middle-aged woman with the highest and sharpest of cheekbones. Meticulously made-up, she is dressed in a colourful caftan with matching turban. There is something extraordinarily aristocratic about Marietta Latimer-Jones and Cara feels hopelessly inadequate, despite the fact that the woman is in a wheelchair. She shakes Marietta’s hand, which, like her husband’s, is smooth and manicured. Unlike her husband’s, however, her handshake is limp. Perfectly shaped, crimson nails add to the sense of the exotic, but – despite her overall appearance – there’s no masking the illness in Marietta’s watery, pale blue eyes.
