Summer in a Cornish Cove

by Kate Ryder

  Sky gives his sister a withering look.

  ‘Did you know the waves move too?’ Oliver says in as serious a voice as the girl’s.

  Carol laughs. How charming!

  Wide-eyed, Bethany looks up at Oliver. He winks. Quickly she dips her head but not before he’s caught her shy smile.

  ‘It may seem unbelievable, but I have studied that painting at length and I swear your daughter has given it life,’ Oliver says to Carol.

  Carol smiles and weakens her grip on her granddaughter’s shoulder.

  Walking from the interior of the café, Tas sees that Oliver has attracted a bit of a crowd – a pretty, older woman, typically flustered, and a cute, young blonde girl, gazing spellbound. However, the boy leaning against the glass with the Labrador at his feet seems to be taking it all in his stride. Tas approaches the little group.

  ‘Tas, this is Carol, mother of the artist Cara Penhaligon,’ Oliver says, standing aside to include his friend. ‘This, here, is young Sky and his dog, Barnaby, and, last but not least, this is the delightful Beth.’ He smiles warmly at the young girl.

  ‘Hello, one and all,’ says Tas, sweeping into a deep, theatrical bow to which Sky laughs, Bethany giggles and Carol smiles. ‘I hope you will come and see our production when we’re in the county next month.’

  ‘What are you performing?’ asks Carol.

  ‘A drama. The Tasmanian Devil Theatre Company’s production of Sorrows in the Sand and Oliver is the leading man,’ Tas says, knowing this will pull in the ladies and put bums on seats.

  ‘The Tasmanian Devil Theatre Company,’ repeats Sky quietly, trying out the words.

  ‘I’ll certainly come along and bring some friends,’ promises Carol.

  ‘That would be a great start!’ says Tas with a chuckle. ‘I look forward to seeing you there.’

  ‘So,’ says Oliver, ‘I’ve met the family Penhaligon and yet I have still to meet the artist herself.’

  ‘If you’re in the cove you’re bound to meet Mum,’ says Sky.

  ‘Oh, why’s that, then?’ asks Oliver playfully. ‘Does she also hang out at Rick’s Beach Hut?’

  ‘Sometimes, but we live over there.’ Sky points to the cliffs at the far end of the beach.

  ‘Talking of which,’ says Carol, ‘I must get you home before she gets back.’ She doesn’t have to but, for some reason, feels the need to halt the course of this conversation. She holds out her hand to Sky.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Oliver Foxley,’ Sky says, pushing himself off the glass. Calling to Barnaby, he walks towards his grandma.

  ‘And very nice to meet you too, Sky Penhaligon.’ Oliver smiles in amusement. It’s only then that he wonders how the boy knows his full name.

  Carol bids the men farewell.

  Oliver and Tas watch the little family as they make their way along the beach. Sky, once again, throws the Frisbee for his dog. About thirty yards away, Bethany looks back and seeing Oliver still watching, breaks into a shy smile and waves. With his heart surprisingly pinching, Oliver returns her wave. Why does this little family group fascinate him so?

  ‘Even the young, Mr Fox,’ comments Tas. ‘No one leaves untouched…’

  *

  It’s dark in the lane and Sylvie switches on the small torch. She’s already turned her ankle once. Loud rustling in the hedgerow a few feet away makes her jump. With her heart thumping wildly, she shines the torch in the direction of the sound and flashes the light up and over the hedge. All is still. Turning back to the task in hand she continues up the lane towards the farmhouse, avoiding the deep ruts.

  Sylvie has spent the day following the Jeep from village to village. When it finally pulled up at the café on the beach, she waited until Oliver and the driver were inside before parking at the rear of the car park. Not knowing how long they’d be there, she walked along the beach and sat on the warm sand some distance away. For the next hour, or so, she kept her binoculars trained on the café. When she witnessed a woman and two children stop and talk to Oliver she vented her frustration with an angry shout. Why should this woman so easily approach him?

  Sylvie trips and twists her ankle. ‘Bloody road!’

  Stopping to rub the offending leg, she freezes. Is that a car? Frantically she looks around, but there’s no obvious escape. Ignoring the pain in her ankle, Sylvie scrambles up the bank, switches off her torch and presses herself tightly into a prickly blackthorn in early bloom. Headlights appear in the near distance before sweeping in through the granite entrance pillars. Doors open and close and voices briefly fill the air. Then silence. Gingerly, Sylvie clambers down the bank, rubbing her arms and pulling out several thorns. Should she abandon her plan and go back to the car? No, she’s so close now.

  There are five cars parked in front of the farmhouse. From two downstairs windows, light illuminates part way into the garden. Stepping out from behind one of the granite pillars and keeping close to the garden wall on her right, Sylvie makes her way stealthily towards an outhouse a short distance away. As she slips undercover of the lean-to she can see figures moving from one room to another. It’s a clear night and the moon, though on the wane, shines its silvery light as she creeps across the lawn towards the farmhouse. Suddenly a figure appears at a window. She freezes. It’s the driver of the Jeep. Sylvie holds her breath. If he looks out now he is sure to see her.

  But Tas doesn’t look out. His attention is elsewhere as he roughly closes the curtains, leaving a narrow gap. Sylvie lets out a long breath. It would be too embarrassing if she was caught wandering about in the garden. What would Oliver think of her then? She starts walking towards the farmhouse again. Peering through the gap in the curtains, she can see a large inglenook fireplace in which a fire has been lit. A man and a woman sit on a couch, their faces rosy from the heat. In front of them, a large coffee table is littered with several open bottles of wine and a number of glasses.

  The lawns lead directly up to the farmhouse and Sylvie makes her way across the grass to the next window. Here, the gap in the curtains is wider, allowing a better view, and as she looks through she catches her breath. Sitting in a wingback armchair is Oliver, looking relaxed in an open-necked shirt and denim jeans. He is so damned gorgeous! She watches as he smiles at someone approaching. All at once, a tall, blonde woman walks into view, wearing tight-fitting jeans, a wide leather belt and a silky, loose, strappy top. She bends forward to hand Oliver a glass, at the same time giving him an eyeful of cleavage.

  Sylvie’s eyes narrow. What a bitch, openly flaunting herself like that! Watching carefully, she observes the look in the woman’s eyes as she speaks to Oliver. He says something that makes her laugh and she flicks her hair over her shoulders, not once taking her smouldering eyes off him. Sylvie fumes. So near and yet so far. Why is he being so cruel, keeping her waiting? What is she going to do about it? Her mind is in turmoil. There are no clear answers and she must get back to her job… if she wants to keep it.

  As she watches Tania perch playfully on the arm of Oliver’s chair and flirt with him, Sylvie’s jealousy grows until she is white with rage. She wants to throw a brick through the window, or, better still, smash the woman’s head against a rock. How she’d love to feel the warm, sticky ooze of blood seeping through her fingers as the bitch’s life drains away.

  Sylvie turns away. She cannot watch any longer. Walking towards the corner of the farmhouse, she peers through the windows but all are in darkness, apart from the kitchen. The driver of the Jeep and another man sit at a table, drinking. A television in the background displays the news. It must be past ten. Sylvie carries on round the property, which is larger than it looks from the front. As she turns the corner, a door suddenly opens and an oblong of light pools out across the lawn. A burst of laughter and two figures step out into the garden. It’s Oliver and the bitch. Shrinking into the shadows, Sylvie watches as the woman turns to the actor.

  ‘So, Oliver, how about it, then? You and me,’ Tania says, confident of her sexual prowess.
r />   ‘I’ve told you, I’m a married man.’

  ‘Bet that’s never stopped you before.’ Oliver laughs. ‘Go on,’ she coaxes, ‘I just know we’d make sweet music together.’

  Moving towards him, she puts her arms around his neck and presses her body against his. He can feel her breasts against his chest and the large buckle of her belt digs into his belly. Teasingly she sways against him. Placing his hands firmly on her hips, Oliver holds her still. Flattering as it is, he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t know what, but he has come to Cornwall for something else.

  ‘Tania, it’s not that I don’t find you attractive,’ he says, not wanting to offend her. ‘You are a stunning woman and I am only human…’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ Tania purrs, ignoring Oliver’s firm hold and swaying against him once again.

  ‘As I said, I’m married.’ Oliver tightens his grip. ‘And you are with Rick.’

  ‘So?’ Tania challenges. ‘Rick wouldn’t mind. He’s cool.’ She steps away from him, out into the oblong of light so he can see her more clearly.

  Knowing she’s in danger of being discovered, Sylvie shrinks further into the shadows.

  Tania raises her hands high above her head. Her skimpy top rides up to expose a flat, firm stomach and the cool night air teases her nipples erect under the silky material. She starts to sway, dipping and rising, not once breaking eye contact with Oliver. There’s something deeply primal about her moves – a private, erotic dance just for him. Oliver swallows hard. She sure is one sexy lady.

  ‘Just let it happen, Oliver,’ Tania says in a husky whisper. Moving closer again, she rocks her body against his and draws him into a kiss.

  Briefly, Oliver closes his eyes. She’s sensuous, hot and tastes of whisky.

  ‘Argh, Tania. Stop!’ he groans, pulling away. ‘You are one very naughty lady.’

  Tania gazes up at him, disappointment reflected in her eyes. ‘She must be pretty special, this wife of yours. One helluva pistol-packing woman.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Oh, well, I won’t hold that against you.’ She laughs hollowly at her small joke and swallows her desire. ‘But you can’t stop me flirting with you, Oliver Foxley.’

  Laughing softly, Oliver shakes his head.

  ‘Come on then, we’d better join the others,’ Tania says. ‘They’ll be wondering where we’ve got to.’ Reluctantly, she turns back into the farmhouse.

  Sylvie’s eyes have narrowed to mere slits as she lurks in the darkness. Sick with jealousy, she clenches her fists, her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. She’s so confused. He won’t phone her but he’ll fool around with that Australian harlot. Why? She thought he liked to play hard to get, but, apart from that lame excuse about being married, he wasn’t exactly unavailable to that woman. The bitch! How dare she? He belongs to her! She will have to remind him of that.

  Sylvie contemplates her next move and it might just have to involve that pistol-packing wife of his.

  Chapter Fifteen

  True to their word, Tristan and Rob fix the leaking studio roof, making good until Cara can afford a more permanent repair. Jane accompanies them and Cara delights in her company. The feeling is mutual, and the companionable, easy day quickly slips into evening. When she eventually gets to her bedroom, Cara sits on the edge of the bed and picks up the photo frame on her bedside table. It’s her favourite picture of Christo, taken on the day she told him she was pregnant with Sky. His eyes are warm and full of love for his best friend who just so happens to be his wife. Their little family will soon be complete and life is good. They are not financially well off, nevertheless they want for nothing.

  ‘Oh, Christo. Why?’

  It’s a heart-rending plea and Cara’s eyes mist over. The hurt is as keen as ever. Time has not lessened the pain, merely masked it. Ominous, dark clouds obliterate her usually sunny outlook. Holding his photo tightly to her chest, she curls up into a ball as a hot, wet tear slides down the side of her face.

  ‘Why?’ The word is on her lips as she falls asleep.

  Cara wakes several hours later in the same position, her face puffy and blotchy. Replacing the photo frame on the bedside table, she glances at the clock – 4.30 a.m. As she makes her way down the hallway and checks on her children, Barnaby appears at the living-room door.

  ‘It’s OK, Barns,’ she whispers. The dog cocks its head to one side; it’s unusual for a human to be up at this time.

  Returning to her bedroom with Barnaby at her heels, Cara swiftly undresses and hops under the duvet. She closes her eyes against her reality, the enormity of which is overwhelming at this early hour, and when the dog jumps onto the bed she doesn’t have the strength to send him away. As Barnaby lies down beside her, Cara draws his body to her for comfort. Eventually she falls into a fitful sleep.

  A blond, teenage boy with mischief in his eyes coaxes her to climb the cliffs. They know they shouldn’t. They’ve been warned against the crumbling cliff face many times, but they are young and invincible and defying their parents. The young Christo reaches down to her with outstretched hand and she extends her arm, yearning for his touch. But, just as his hand closes upon hers, the scene alters and here is Christo in his early twenties, happy and carefree. Lying on a towel on the sand, her body hot from a summer’s sun, Cara watches him ride the waves; at one with the ocean. This is when the joyful, young man is at his happiest. Hearing his laughter, she senses his exhilaration. Suddenly he’s running up the beach. Standing over her, he blocks out the warmth of the sun and shakes his head, showering her with cold droplets. Cara yelps. Once again, he holds out his hand, this time persuading her to come into the sea with him. Eagerly she reaches for him but as soon as she feels his tender, loving touch, he is gone…

  Cara wakes, exhausted, and engages with the day a ghost of her normal self. Janine arrives to collect Bethany and Sky for the school run and her larger than life presence and booming voice make Cara wilt under the assault. Once the children depart, she slumps onto the sofa with head in hands.

  Come on, Gwyneth, this won’t do. Christo’s voice fills her head.

  She looks up, startled. There’s no one there, of course, and she glances up at the surfboard dominating the living room wall with his characterful face smiling down at her.

  ‘It’s all very well you saying that,’ she moans. ‘You don’t know how you teased me last night.’ She can hear his joyful laugh. ‘Christo, why are you doing this to me?’

  Silence. She lies back and closes her eyes. Then, taking a deep breath, she steels herself and rises from the sofa.

  Good girl, Gwynnie.

  Is this what it’s like to go mad, hearing voices? No, that’s talking to yourself – she hasn’t got there yet…

  She makes a coffee and decides to tackle the painting of the cove again. As she climbs the stairs to her studio, Barnaby’s nails tap-tap on the wooden treads behind her. Padding over to the corner of the room, the dog flops down against the radiator. Basil is already settled on the window sill. Cara switches on the radio and places the canvas on the easel. She stands for a while critically examining the painting, then picks up the paintbrush. Two hours later she lets out an exasperated sigh. The painting still evades her. She is unhappy with its composition and her brushstrokes feel all wrong. She glances out at the beach – a subtle mix of grey with heavy mizzle diffusing the light. How fitting! In an attempt to shake herself out of the sombre mood threatening to derail her, she puts the painting aside and starts on something completely different. Suddenly Barnaby is on his feet.

  ‘What’s up, Barns?’

  The dog cocks its head and then trots to the top of the stairs. Barking once, he tap-taps his way down the wooden treads as Cara hears a knock.

  As she descends the stairs into the hallway, Cara sees Greg standing at the porch door, huddled into his jacket with collar turned up and his hat set at a jaunty angle, offering some protection from the rain. Even in a bedraggled state he looks refined. He s
miles at her through the glass.

  ‘Hello, Greg. Come in,’ she says, opening the door and wondering what she must look like. She hopes the bungalow is not too untidy, and then remembers the mountain of washing-up in the sink.

  ‘Cara,’ Greg says, planting a kiss on her lips.

  Once again, Cara is taken aback. Why does he think he can do that? Not that she particularly minds. It just seems odd.

  ‘You surely haven’t walked here?’

  ‘Only from the car park,’ Greg says, turning to shake the rain from his jacket out of the door.

  ‘Would you like coffee? I was just about to make one.’

  ‘Please.’ Greg hangs his jacket on the coat rack and places his hat on the shelf above.

  As Cara walks into the living room, she critically glances around. It’s passable but she definitely doesn’t want him to see the state of the kitchen. ‘Have a seat. How do you like your coffee?’

  ‘Black, no sugar.’ Greg sits on the sofa and looks round the room, taking it all in. His eyes settle on the art on the walls.

  Quickly, Cara prepares the drinks.

  ‘How was London?’ she asks, entering the room. She hands him a mug of coffee and sits in the opposite chair.

  ‘Very good.’ Greg takes a sip and then places the mug on the floor.

  The room fills with silence and Cara squirms.

  ‘While I was there I met up with friends and colleagues who are this year’s selectors for the Threadneedle Prize.’ Greg pauses. ‘You do know of the Threadneedle Prize?’ Arrogantly, he arches an eyebrow.

  Cara flushes, instantly transported back to her schooldays when she would panic before an exam. ‘I do know of it,’ she says, making sure to keep any emotion out of her voice.

  ‘Well, as you know, the Threadneedle Prize is one of the most valuable art prizes in Europe and registration is now open. Up to six works may be submitted, which must not have been entered or selected for any other prize or competition in the UK or Europe. Do we qualify?’