by Kate Ryder
Sylvie jumps to her feet. Rushing towards him, she throws her arms around his neck and tries to kiss him. Averting his face, Oliver pushes her away.
‘Sylvie, sit down!’ he says in exasperation. He sits opposite and glances across the sand.
Sparkling in the sunshine, the sea is a wonderful shade of blue, and the air is filled with the sounds of happy families. It’s too beautiful a day to be anything less than joyful, but Oliver feels only despondency and gloom.
‘Can I get you anything?’ asks a pretty, young waitress.
‘Coffee, please, black.’ He smiles and the girl returns his smile. Oliver watches as she disappears inside the café. Turning his attention to Sylvie, he removes his sunglasses and observes her dispassionately. ‘So, Sylvie,’ he says in a flat voice, ‘what are we going to do?’
Sylvie stares at him, rocking slightly. Having seen the loving way he looks at Cara, she doesn’t like the coldness in the eyes that meet hers. Folding her arms on the table to still her movements, she says, ‘You haven’t phoned.’
‘I told you, I’m busy,’ Oliver says impatiently. ‘I also told you I would phone you from time to time, Sylvie. Time to time…’
‘But you haven’t.’
Oliver groans. He so doesn’t want this.
‘And as you haven’t phoned me, I thought I’d come to you instead!’ Sylvie says, as if cleverly providing the perfect solution to a perplexing conundrum.
‘But why, Sylvie? What in God’s name makes you think I want you to come to me?’
The waitress arrives with his coffee. Setting it down on the table, she flashes him a dazzling smile before moving on to the next table. Sylvie scowls. How dare that little tart smile at her man, as if she weren’t even there?
Noticing Sylvie’s look of hatred directed at the waitress, Oliver snaps her attention back to him. ‘Sylvie, answer me.’
Her eyes grow large. Why is he talking to her so harshly? Of course he wants her to come to him. She is his lover!
‘Because you love me.’
Oliver gives a hollow laugh. ‘How wrong you are. Listen to me.’ Slowly he accentuates each word. ‘I_ do_ not_ love_ you!’
‘But you loved me in Scotland.’
Feeling sick at the memory, Oliver sips his coffee. It’s hot and scalds his mouth but he welcomes the pain, distracting him from the unwelcome vision of Sylvie writhing on top of him. He looks at her again with eyes of steel.
‘What do you not understand, Sylvie? I have never loved you and never will. I love my wife and family and that’s all there is to it.’
Sylvie rocks to and fro, blinking rapidly and chewing her cheeks. This is not the romantic breakfast date she envisaged. Suddenly she grows perfectly still. Relaxing her jaw, she looks challengingly across the table at Oliver.
‘If you love your wife and family so much, what were you doing with that blonde from the cliff bungalow?’ Sylvie spits out the words.
Dear God, she does know where Cara lives!
Oliver turns pale and his blood runs cold. How dare this woman stalk him and threaten all those he cares for?
‘Yes, I saw you, smooching up to her and kissing her. What would your wifey think of that, Oliver?’
‘Sylvie,’ he growls menacingly, ‘it has nothing to do with you how I conduct my life or what my wife thinks.’
Sylvie hesitates, thrown by his tone. Quickly she changes tack. ‘But I love you so much, Oliver,’ she says in a girly voice. ‘Why are you being so cruel?’
Oliver watches as tears run down her face. ‘Are you on medication?’ he asks more gently.
She shakes her head and then nods.
‘Is there anyone you can talk to?’ He remembers the woman with her on Holy Isle. ‘Your aunt, perhaps?’
Wiping her face with the back of her hand, Sylvie nods. This is good. He’s looking at her in a much more kindly way now. Keep the tears falling.
‘Why don’t you phone her? Maybe your medication needs adjusting. If so, you will feel so much better. It will help you see life from a different perspective.’
Sylvie bites her lip and Oliver glances at his watch. He’s had enough of this. Putting on his sunglasses, he wedges a fiver under the saucer.
Sylvie looks on in alarm. ‘Don’t go, Oliver,’ she pleads.
‘I have to.’
‘No!’ she shouts.
As he rises from the table, so does Sylvie. With a desperate lunge she grabs him around his waist and falls to her knees. ‘I’d do anything for you!’
‘Don’t do this, Sylvie,’ he says, shaking her off. ‘Don’t demean yourself.’
Sylvie falls prostrate to the floor. Several tables now watch the unfolding drama with interest.
‘I love you,’ she sobs.
‘Rubbish, Sylvie. Get some help,’ Oliver growls, as he walks briskly away.
‘But I do, Oliver. I love you,’ she screams.
He doesn’t look back.
Sylvie watches him as he climbs the slope and disappears down the road. Turning to collect her handbag, she glares at the people inquisitively staring.
‘What are you dumb suckers looking at?’ she shouts.
No sign of tears now…
Chapter Twenty-Nine
As Oliver lowers the window, a blast of warm air hits him squarely in the face. The cove is cloaked in peaceful serenity and the tide gently laps the shoreline. A low hum of voices, interspersed with sudden laughter, wafts over from the decking; people enjoying a Friday night out. He sits a while longer, breathing in the unique atmosphere. During the last week he’s barely slept. He should be feeling dreadful, yet he feels more alive and invigorated than ever. Starting the engine, he noses the car out of the car park and heads towards The Lookout. He has never felt so nervous. He’s like a schoolboy on his first date.
Cara looks round the room one more time and tells herself not to panic. Just breathe. She glances up at the surfboard on the wall and gazes at Christo’s characterful face.
‘I know, I know,’ she whispers, ‘but it’s just a meal. Nothing’s going to happen. How can it?’
No longer can she ignore her growing feelings for Oliver. He has lifted her from deep despair and she will always be grateful to him for that. However, she cannot forget or discount the fact that he has a wife and children waiting for him in Surrey. She will not be the catalyst for tearing that precious achievement apart.
Headlights sweep the track before she hears his car. Despite her assurances to Christo, the butterflies lift and swirl. She breathes in deeply, trying to instil some calm, knowing she has no one else but herself to blame. She asked him. Smoothing down her dress, Cara walks to the porch door, her nerves jittering and those damned butterflies refusing to settle. She feels as giddy as a schoolgirl with a heavy crush. As she reaches for the handle her hand trembles. It’s just a meal, she tells herself again.
With one last deep breath she opens the door.
Oliver grabs the bottle of wine from the passenger seat. He considered champagne but somehow it didn’t feel appropriate. Eventually he settled on a good red wine. Climbing out of the Mercedes, he turns towards The Lookout and his heart misses a beat. Bathed in a glorious golden light, Cara is simply beautiful.
‘Hi,’ he says, walking towards her and hoping his voice doesn’t give away his nervousness.
‘Hi yourself,’ she says, wondering whether she should kiss him on the cheek in welcome.
But, before Cara has a chance to decide, Oliver wraps her in a passionate embrace. He meant it to be a light-hearted hug but, as if it has a life of its own, his mouth immediately seeks hers. As the kiss deepens, it turns into something else. Eventually they prise themselves apart and stare at each other in amazement. Nerves settled; eyes shining. No longer is Oliver lost and adrift in the wilderness. He has come home.
‘Hello, you,’ he whispers tenderly, as if to a lover rediscovered after many years apart.
Cara smiles. Without saying a word she leads him inside.
; *
Whoa! This feels weird. Oliver glances down. To his surprise, he’s wearing a wetsuit and sitting astride a brightly coloured surfboard. The top of his head prickles under the heat of a merciless sun. Unbalanced, he repositions his body and tries to relax, offering no resistance to the swell. In the distance he can hear the sounds of a day on the beach: breaking surf, shouts, laughter, babies crying and dogs barking. As the swell effortlessly lifts his board Oliver grips the rails, aware of a deep, vast ocean beneath.
Sudden laughter and Oliver turns. Clear blue eyes dance in merriment as they consider him. The young man with the memorably characterful face is deeply tanned, his blond hair sea-wet dark.
‘OK, man?’ Christo asks, paddling his surfboard alongside.
‘Think so,’ says Oliver as another swell rocks his board and threatens to unbalance him.
‘Imagine the ocean is a beguiling woman,’ says Christo, grinning. ‘Don’t resist, just go with the flow.’ He laughs again.
Something about Christo is so alive; a young man embracing every experience to come his way. His energy is infectious.
Oliver paddles his board sideways to the beach. They are some way offshore. To their right is Anvil Rock and directly in front is The Lookout, perched high on the cliffs. Other surfers are in the sea, either sitting and waiting, or standing and riding the waves, but Christo and he are alone in this section of water. As Oliver’s eyes become accustomed to the light, figures on the beach take shape and he sees a young Cara looking in their direction, shielding her eyes against the sun. She waves and Christo waves back. Oliver’s heart skips a beat. She is aged about twenty, her long blonde hair reaches to her waist and her bikini-clad body is lithe and naturally sun-kissed. She is stunning – as he knew she would be – untouched by any stain of future tragedy.
‘You’ve noticed the wife, then,’ says Christo good-naturedly, his eyes dancing with laughter. ‘She’s an angel. Don’t know what I did to deserve her. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.’ His voice is full of pride.
Dragging his eyes away from Cara, Oliver sees the look of love on the young man’s face.
‘Besides the surf, that is,’ adds Christo with a grin.
Oliver gives a small smile.
How did I get out here on the ocean with Christo? And what the hell am I doing on a surfboard?
‘OK, man, ready to catch waves?’ Effortlessly, Christo turns his board to face the ocean. ‘Just remember, duck-dive any breaking wave over two feet. That way, all the progress you’ve made paddling out won’t be lost by being washed backwards by the wave. Simple!’
Lying flat on his board, Christo pushes himself up and arches his back, chest up. With a steady stroke he paddles across the plate-glass sea towards the rhythmic, big peaks on the horizon.
Do I know how to do this?
Oliver turns back to look at Cara one more time and his heart leaps. The young Cara stands on the beach watching him, but the look she gives him comes straight from the mature woman he knows today… and it promises him the world. Slowly she smiles.
‘Come on, Oliver!’ shouts Christo. ‘It’s now or never. Take on the forces of Mother Nature for the thrill of your life.’
Because the tide is full, the current is very strong. Keeping Christo in his sights, Oliver paddles past Anvil Rock, battling through the waves to the line-up. When the first wave comes he turns and, with head down, pulls water hard, paddling his board as fast he can. As he starts to accelerate down the face of the wave, Oliver rises to his feet and balances himself. Gritting his teeth in determined concentration, he maintains speed to outrun it; the explosion at his heels. And he makes it. He gets away! After that there’s no stopping him. Together, actor and surfer catch wave after wave, making it down the face of each before it hits the curve, trips and topples over, crashing down on them.
The sun, still strong, dips rapidly towards the horizon, gifting the remaining people on the sands a magnificent fiery sunset. He and Christo have been out there for hours and every muscle in Oliver’s body aches, yet he feels invigorated and full of life. He has survived! Together, they carry their boards up the beach, exhausted yet never more alive.
‘Wow, man, you sure know how to surf,’ Christo says. ‘It’ll be Mavericks for you next!’
Oliver laughs. ‘It’s one of the most exciting things I’ve ever done.’
Planting his board in the sand, Christo unzips his wetsuit. ‘Yeah, it’s one hell of a thrill, that’s for sure. But you’re wrong.’ He glances sideways at Oliver. ‘One of the most exciting things you’ll ever do is waiting for you up there.’ He jerks his head towards The Lookout and Oliver’s eyes open wide. ‘But I tell you, man, don’t play with her heart.’ Christo’s voice is deadly serious. ‘If you can’t follow through don’t even start…’
*
Oliver’s eyes flicker open. A pre-dawn light fills the room and for a brief moment he wonders where he is. And then it all comes flooding back. Rolling onto his side, he sees her sleeping peacefully beside him. Throughout the night they have found solace in each other’s touch; the one fixing the other.
Oliver props himself on one elbow, careful not to disturb her, and gazes at Cara in wonder. She looks so young, just like the girl in his dream, without a care in the world. He, too, feels as if he hasn’t a care in the world, though he knows he should have every care. For the first time in his life Oliver feels whole, all the missing pieces of the frustrating jigsaw finally having found their rightful place. Reaching out, he draws Cara gently to him. He so wants to make love to her again but, for now, he will let her sleep. As he curves his body protectively around her sleeping form, Oliver hears Christo’s warning ring in his ears. Silently, he promises he will follow through.
Cara snuggles into Oliver’s warm embrace and a smile settles on her lips. Later, when she thinks back to this moment, she is never sure whether it was just her imagination or if she did hear him whisper, ‘Thank you for showing up, beautiful girl of my dreams.’
*
The sound of waves and a scratching, tapping noise drag Oliver from a deep, healing sleep. He doesn’t want to wake – he’s warm and peaceful where he is – but the noise increases. Slowly he opens his eyes. Shafts of sunlight filter through the wooden slatted blinds and a pair of calico curtains billow in a gentle breeze. The sound comes from the roof. Looking up to the vaulted ceiling, he follows the tapping as it works its way along the roofline. An animal of some sort – is it a rat? A shrill, raucous cry identifies it as a gull. Unseen, the bird rises off the ridge tiles and hovers briefly on an air pocket before swooping out over the cliffs towards the shoreline in search of breakfast. Sounds of beachside living. How he’d love to wake to this every morning.
Clasping his hands behind his head, Oliver looks around. It’s a simple, understated room. Even though she makes a living from the use of vibrant colour, everything in Cara’s bedroom is painted white, even the A-frames. He loves this paradox in her. His hand reaches out to her side of the bed – the sheets are cold – and it occurs to him he might be in the middle of another dream. The surfing dream with Christo seemed real enough. Maybe he will wake to find he’s in bed at the farmhouse, or in Surrey with Deanna. This last thought makes him pause…
The alarm clock displays 06:15. By rights, he should be exhausted but he feels super-energised. Throughout the night they made love and his staying power amazed him, but with Cara it all seems as natural as breathing. Eventually they fell asleep, entwined in each other’s arms.
Oliver gets out of bed and retrieves his clothes from a heap on the floor, smiling wryly as he recalls how he couldn’t get out of them quickly enough last night. He pulls on his jeans and shirt, and walks down the hallway, calling for Cara. All is silent. As he makes his way through the living room to the kitchen, Oliver notices her car parked alongside the Mercedes. Taking a glass from a cupboard, he fills it with cold water and takes a sip.
‘Morning, Basil.’
From its favourit
e position amongst the pot plants on the window sill, the cat blinks at him, stretches and then resumes its slumbers.
Where is she?
Oliver peers through the kitchen window, but there’s no sign of Cara. Perhaps she’s painting in her studio and hasn’t heard him? He climbs the wooden stairs and stops at the door, respectful of her inner sanctum. The room is a wonderful space for an artist’s studio. Light floods in on three sides from windows with commanding views over the cove. Propped against the walls are numerous canvases, but it’s the one on the easel that catches his eye. On it is an outline of the hidden view she shared with him when they were on the cusp of something profound, only for Greg to break the moment. Was that only four weeks ago? Time has taken on a different dimension in Cornwall; his Surrey life is but a vague recollection. The work in progress promises to be achingly beautiful, but it causes an odd sensation. It makes him want to cry. Oliver frowns.
Must be a reaction to the enormity of what we’ve started.
He descends the wooden stairs. As he enters the living room, a note propped against a vase on the dining table catches his eye.
Help yourself to tea or coffee.
If you want something a little more adventurous
follow the footprints in the sand…
He smiles. As with her paintings, Cara’s handwriting is distinctively creative.
Oliver decides not to bother with shoes. Closing the porch door behind him, he gingerly crosses the stony track onto grass and heads towards the steps leading down to the beach. The sky is a cloudless, cornflower blue and the warmth of the early morning sun caresses his skin. A gentle summer breeze ruffles his hair. He pauses at the top of the steps and looks along the full expanse of the cove. There’s not a soul about. The sands are pristine, washed clean by the last full tide, and a flock of seagulls zealously guard the water’s edge eyeing up the next meal. Glancing to his left, Oliver sees footprints leading across the sand before disappearing around a rocky promontory. He descends the steps and follows her trail.
