by Kate Ryder
‘So pleased to meet you, Cara. Do come and sit with me. Greg, darling, would you be a dear and make some tea, or would you like something stronger?’ Marietta looks questioningly at Cara.
She’d kill for something stronger but she must keep her wits about her. ‘Tea would be fine.’
‘Earl Grey?’
‘Thank you.’
As Greg leaves the room, Marietta repositions her wheelchair amongst the plants.
‘Do take a seat,’ she says, motioning to a wicker chair. Cara sits as instructed, feeling insignificant by comparison to this exotic being. ‘Greg tells me you are an artist.’ Marietta’s American accent is tempered with something else, which Cara struggles to identify.
‘Yes.’
‘Successful?’
Wow! Straight to the point! No messing with this woman.
‘To a degree.’
As Marietta’s pale blue eyes scrutinise her, Cara has the uncomfortable feeling this woman has the power to expose her to the core.
‘And to what degree is that success?’
‘Um…’ Cara’s mind has gone blank. Why does she get the feeling she’s being interviewed? But for what? Think! ‘Local press coverage, exhibitions in the South West, Internet presence.’ It must sound so cosy to this cosmopolitan and sophisticated woman. ‘And, of course, the gallery.’
Cara shifts in her seat. It’s so hot in the conservatory.
A sudden noise at the door and the Marsdens’ springer spaniel enters the room, closely followed by Greg holding a laden tea tray. The dog trots up to Cara and she pats his head, silently thanking him for the welcome distraction.
‘Milo, good boy. Come.’ Marietta taps the side of her chair and the spaniel obliges, lying down against its wheel. ‘He’s missing Veronica and John, I fear, but we will just have to do for a few weeks yet.’
Placing the tray on a Victorian cast-iron table, Greg picks up the silver teapot and pours tea into a bone-china cup. With a pair of silver tongs, he selects a slice of lemon from a small, dainty dish and adds this before passing the cup to Marietta. Cara watches transfixed. Everything about this couple is so studied; it makes her fearful to move in case she makes a fool of herself.
‘I don’t know about you, Cara – we always have lemon with Earl Grey,’ says Greg, ‘but there’s milk if you prefer?’
‘Milk, please.’
‘Do you add the milk last?’ he asks.
It feels like a test and Cara wants to laugh. Is it important? If so, she’s fallen at the first hurdle by having milk with Earl Grey instead of lemon! As it happens, she does add the milk last but there’s no room in her life for what she perceives as such pretentiousness. However, she’s not about to start discussing the finer points of tea etiquette now. She nods, unsure how she might sound if she speaks.
‘Weak or strong?’ he asks.
There’s no getting away from it, she’s going to have to speak. ‘Not too strong, thank you.’
Greg pours the tea. Again, she is mesmerised by his smooth, refined movements. It’s as if it’s a ritual. As he hands the cup to her she concentrates hard on not spilling a drop. It would be just too humiliating to be on her hands and knees cleaning up in front of this couple.
‘So, Cara, do tell us a bit about yourself,’ Marietta says.
Cara takes a deep breath. She is definitely being interviewed. ‘Well, I was born in St Ives. At a very young age I was introduced to the world of art and dabbled in oil paints and charcoal, freely exploring the possibilities of their application. I spent three years at Falmouth School of Art doing a Fine Art degree and, soon after graduating, fell pregnant with Bethany. I was lucky because my husband was very hands-on and he supported me in all my artistic endeavours, which gave me the time to emotionally and creatively focus on my art. Then I fell pregnant again and when my son was about a year old I opened the gallery in Porthleven, which has enabled me to display my work from another platform.’ Cara pauses, wondering if this is what they want. Both Greg and Marietta listen intently. ‘I work in both acrylics and oils, but as time goes by I find I prefer working in oils. I exhibit throughout Cornwall and have been interviewed by the local press, and the county magazines have published articles about my art.’
‘And how do you feel during the creative process?’ Marietta asks.
Cara considers her question. ‘Excited. It’s like going on a journey. It’s having a conversation. I use photographs a lot and when I’m in the location I want to paint, I drink in its atmosphere and absorb it in my bones. It needs to hit at a cellular level. I’m grabbed by aesthetics: light against dark; the colours of green in the sea; the darkness of the wet sand. I see beauty in everything. I get excited by what I see – shape; texture; colour; the feel of the waves. I get caught up in it. When I look at the images back in my studio, my emotions connect with what I’m seeing and then it plays out in front of me. Although I’m making decisions throughout the process, there’s a place of stillness deep inside where everything just makes sense. There’s an absolute clarity.’
For a long moment, neither husband nor wife says a word.
Greg is the first to break the silence. ‘And what is your inspiration, Cara?’
Feeling as if she’s in the middle of the most intense examination, Cara shifts in her seat again. She didn’t realise she’d have to sell her soul.
‘As I mentioned previously, Greg…’ Should she call him that in front of his wife, or Mr Latimer-Jones? ‘My inspiration comes from the ever-changing landscape and sense of peace that Cornwall provides. Each work I find is a culmination of emotions and memories utilising the beautiful landscape surrounding me. I spend as much time as possible painting in my studio and use the dynamic sea and heathland walks around me to gain creative clarity.’
Cara is astounded by the seriousness with which Greg and Marietta reflect upon her words.
‘I feel I was born to be an artist. It was written in the stars,’ she says. ‘I get so lost in what I’m doing. It is an absolute knowing.’
Silence hangs in the air.
‘And where do you see yourself in five years?’ Marietta eventually asks.
‘Oh, I don’t have a game plan, as such. I have two young children to consider and it’s enough for me to paint, run the gallery and provide for them. There are such things as school timetables to adhere to!’
She catches the swift look that passes between husband and wife and wonders what she has said to pique their interest.
‘And do you have help with that?’ Marietta enquires.
‘Yes, my parents. And I’m surrounded by good friends.’ Cara takes a sip of tea. It’s hot and scalds her mouth. Willing herself not to spill a drop, very carefully she places the cup and saucer back on the table.
For some reason, she feels the need to qualify what she has said. ‘I live very simply, Marietta. I love Cornwall and the cove is enough for me. It’s my home. I’ve known little else and I’m not sure I would want to either.’
Marietta glances at her husband again. ‘May we have a look at your paintings?’
Rising from his chair, Greg brings Cara’s canvases into the conservatory. Marietta leans down and gently pushes Milo away before turning the wheels of her chair, expertly manoeuvring it into position. She examines each canvas carefully as Greg holds them up for his wife to view. Cara frowns; perplexed. She thought Greg was the art director. Pulling at the neck of her tunic, she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, feeling as if she’s having the interview of her life. Suddenly Marietta looks at her husband and smiles, a hidden communication passing between them. Propping the canvases against the living room wall, Greg, once again, sits in the wicker chair opposite Cara.
‘Cara, I’d like to keep hold of these three paintings,’ Greg says, leaning forward. Placing his elbows on his knees, he presses his hands together to form a steeple, the tips of his fingers supporting his chin. ‘I have contacts in London that I would like to show your work to.’
Cara considers her
canvases and hesitates.
‘There are competitions I feel your work should be entered for,’ Greg continues.
Although aware of these competitions, Cara believes they have nothing to do with her everyday life. In any case, she’s never had any spare money for the entrance fees. She’s about to say so but then thinks it’s a little churlish on her part. After all, Greg has taken the trouble to look over her work and, being Chief Art Director at The New York Times, he obviously knows what he’s talking about. But, before she has a chance to respond, Marietta speaks again.
‘Cara, life is very precious and opportunities like this do not often come along. You are young and carefree but, believe me; I know how finite life is. You don’t think I wear this turban from some bohemian fashion sense, do you? No, I’m battling cancer and don’t have the opportunity to consider what I’ll be doing in five years’ time. Grab all the opportunities that come your way with both hands while you have the chance.’
Cancer. How awful! But why should Marietta assume she is carefree? Again, Cara feels the need to explain.
‘I’m so sorry to hear of your illness, Marietta, and I truly hope you overcome it, but I am not carefree, as you think. My husband died two years ago.’ She does not elaborate.
Greg’s attention is absolute.
‘Then you, too, have first-hand experience of how precious life is,’ Marietta says without compassion. It’s simply a statement of fact. ‘We are merely skin and bone and death will eventually come to us all. What is important is how we spend our time while we have breath in our bodies.’
Wow! Heavy for a Thursday night. Glancing from husband to wife, Cara has a sudden, urgent need to be home with her children. ‘OK. Show the paintings to your London contacts.’
Marietta smiles weakly.
‘Good girl,’ says Greg. ‘I will give you a receipt but, rest assured, I will take the utmost care.’ He rises from his chair.
‘I had better go,’ says Cara, getting to her feet. ‘It’s past the children’s bedtime and they have school tomorrow.’ She fights the urge to curtsey, so strong is the feeling she’s in the presence of royalty. ‘It was nice meeting you, Marietta.’
‘And you, Cara,’ Marietta says. Leaning back heavily in the wheelchair, she watches Cara walk from the conservatory.
‘What value have you given your paintings?’ Greg asks, sitting at a desk in the corner of the living room.
Cara glances at the canvases. ‘The Wave at Portreath has a price tag of one thousand pounds, Kynance Cove four hundred and The Men-an-Tol is two hundred and fifty.’ Suddenly embarrassed, she wonders if she has overvalued her work.
Greg jots something down on a piece of paper. Placing the pen on the desk, he folds the note and walks to the door. As Cara follows, she glances back at Marietta. The woman looks exhausted; her eyes tightly closed. Cara closes the living room door quietly behind her.
At the front door, Greg turns to her. ‘Here’s the receipt, Cara.’
‘I’m so sorry about your wife,’ she says, taking it from him.
‘It’s something we’ve lived with for a while. Marietta doesn’t always use the wheelchair. Hopefully, with the new drugs she’s taking she will be able to make long-term plans, despite what she says. But we live from day to day.’ Cara easily empathises with the sadness in his eyes. ‘I’m going to London at the weekend and will contact you once I have some news.’
Cara nods. She holds out her hand, but Greg steps forward and chastely kisses her on the lips. Astonished, she wonders if this is how polite New York society conducts itself. But, chaste or not, it’s such an intimate thing to do when they’re hardly more than strangers!
‘Goodnight, Cara.’ She watches amusement briefly replace the sadness as he opens the door.
Cara walks purposefully towards her car, trying to make sense of that kiss. And why does he always find her so amusing? Opening the car door, she glances back at the house, but Greg is no longer there. She climbs in, switches on the interior light and looks in the mirror. She’s so hot and there’s an unflattering, high blush to her cheeks. Lowering the window, she breathes in the cool sea air. Then, she unfolds the receipt.
No way! Surely he’s made a mistake?
*
‘Well, what do you think?’ asks Greg, entering the living room.
‘You are right.’ Marietta turns towards her husband. ‘An undiscovered talent and future major player.’
‘I know they’re still grossly undervalued but I added three thousand pounds to each painting,’ he says.
Marietta nods once. A heavy silence fills the room.
‘And that other thing?’ Greg knows he shouldn’t, but he cannot resist asking.
Marietta hesitates before answering. ‘Raw and unsophisticated, but simply lovely.’
His eyebrow twitches with emotion. Abruptly, Greg turns away from his wife. It would be just too cruel for her to witness his smile.
*
Rick switches off the café lights and pulls the door to. It’s a clear, cold night and a full moon illuminates the way to the car park. A few feet away from the boardwalk the high tide quivers, as if the mighty ocean, too, feels the chill. Oliver glances towards the horizon. The night sky is filled with the Milky Way. It’s never as clear as this in Surrey. The air is too polluted, what with London and Heathrow in one direction and Gatwick in the other.
‘My place is a couple of miles further down the coast,’ Rick informs Tas.
It is so silent. The only sound is the gentle whoosh of waves on sand, and the tranquillity speaks to something deep within Oliver. Hunching into his jacket, he takes one last look out to sea.
‘Up the hill, turn left, follow the road for about a mile and turn left again. I’m sure you’ll keep up. Your driving skills can’t have gone off that much!’ Rick gives Tas a friendly punch on the shoulder, and the Tasmanian lays one on his Aussie friend in return.
Oliver climbs into the Jeep. Soon, they are inching their way up the steep lane leading out of the cove. It’s narrow but they only pass one car halfway up, parked in darkness against the hedge. Turning right, they follow the cliff road as the full moon casts an eerie light across the Cornish landscape. They see no other cars.
‘I know Rick doesn’t want to be found but where the hell are we going?’ mutters Tas.
They follow the Land Rover across open heathland, an occasional stunted and twisted tree hinting at the extreme weather the peninsula can sometimes experience. After a further mile Rick indicates right and turns onto a rough track, full of potholes.
‘Obviously of the hermit persuasion,’ comments Oliver.
‘Never used to be. The life and soul, was Rick. Wonder if he’s shacked up with anyone at the moment? Bit of a free-spirit is our Rick.’
‘Guess you get a lot of those down here,’ says Oliver, thinking how nice it would be to be one.
‘Yeah, guess so. Here we go. Looks like we’ve arrived.’
Turning between two large granite posts, Tas parks the Jeep alongside the Land Rover. Before them is a traditional Cornish farmhouse.
‘Home sweet home,’ Rick announces, as they get out of the Jeep and retrieve their bags.
A lone car passes by.
‘Don’t often get vehicles down here. The lane doesn’t lead anywhere,’ Rick says, watching the car’s disappearing tail lights. ‘Probably a couple looking for a quiet spot!’ He laughs and walks towards the farmhouse. Pushing open the heavy front door, mimicking an American drawl, he calls out, ‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’
‘Guess he is shacked up with someone, then,’ comments Tas.
They enter a stone-flagged entrance hall and follow Rick through to a large and inviting sitting room, simply furnished with white-washed walls, exposed beams and a slate flagstone floor covered with scatter rugs. At the far end is an enormous inglenook fireplace in which a roaring log fire has been lit.
‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ Rick says, indicating several comfortable settees. ‘Hi, hone
y. Look who’s arrived.’
A tall, striking blonde stands in the doorway. Wearing a sweatshirt and tight skinny jeans, which only accentuate the length of her legs, she leans casually against the door jamb.
‘I don’t believe it,’ says Tas, dropping his bag onto the stone floor. ‘Tania Alexander! Well, would you credit it?’ Marching across the room, he sweeps the woman off her feet and plants a dramatic kiss on her lips.
‘Tas, put me down! Gawd, you haven’t changed,’ she says with a laugh. There’s no mistaking the Australian twang.
Tas stands back to appraise her, as does Oliver. There’s definitely something about Australian women.
‘Looking good, Tan! How long has it been?’
‘The Millennium, I think,’ she says.
‘Surely not? Wait a moment. Yes! The last time I saw you was at Niall’s party in that incredible pad of his overlooking Harbour Bridge.’
‘Yeah, that was a great night. Amazing fireworks.’ She smiles at some memory and Oliver has the distinct impression she’s not talking about Sydney’s pyrotechnic display.
‘So, are you two an item, then?’ Tas asks, glancing from Rick to Tania.
‘Kind of.’ She smiles broadly.
‘Rick, you never said anything, you secretive son of a gun!’ exclaims Tas.
‘Didn’t I?’ says Rick.
‘You know you didn’t.’
‘Guess I’ve become a bit more selective what I tell folk in my old age.’ Rick turns his attention to Oliver. ‘Honey, this is Tas’s friend, Oliver.’
Tania glances at Oliver for the first time and gasps.
‘Don’t worry, Tan,’ sympathises Tas. ‘Oliver is well used to rendering intelligent, grown women speechless!’
Rick looks on in amusement. His woman is never short of words.
‘Are you really him?’ Tania splutters.
Oliver laughs. ‘Yes, I’m really him.’
She strides across the room and hugs him. ‘Then welcome to our humble abode, Oliver Foxley.’ She looks him squarely in the eye and there’s no mistaking the interest lurking there.
‘Thank you, Tania Alexander,’ he responds courteously and she colours slightly.
