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Set against the stunning backdrop of the glorious Cornish Rivieria, this summer will change their lives for ever!
Oliver Foxley is an acclaimed movie star, global heartthrob and one half of Hollywood’s golden couple. But under the glare of the spotlight his ’perfect’ life is slowly starting to crumble.
Cara Penhaligon is a struggling young Cornish artist, and widowed mother of two children. Life has been unbearably harsh to Cara, but meeting Oliver might just give her a second chance at the happiness she deserves. As each begins to heal the other, the pieces of Oliver's frustrating jigsaw puzzle effortlessly fall into place. But as the Cornish summer draws to a close, Oliver faces the toughest of choices, and no one emerges quite as they were at the start.
Welcome Page
About Summer in a Cornish Cove
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About Kate Ryder
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
For my sisters,
who share my love of hidden Cornish coves
Imagine meeting
someone who understands
even the dustiest corners
of your mixed-up soul
Late September and the weather is on the turn, reminding the last remaining summer tourists the holiday season is finally over. Time to head home. With a threat of rain in the air people hurry along the streets, their collars turned up and heads bent low against the wind. The sea, the same colour as the sky, has no clearly defined horizon, merely a subtle merging of varying shades of grey. In the relative safety of the inner harbour fishing boats bob furiously, their rigging clanging in the strengthening wind. Beyond the outer harbour, huge waves smash against the rocks, sending plumes of spray rocketing skywards before plummeting to earth and cascading over the stonework of the pier. A group of reckless lads dare each other to face the force of the ocean, retreating at the last moment before edging their way, once again, to the end of the pier. Seagulls are buffeted sideways by gusts of wind and those that take to the wing are tossed about like puppets at the mercy of an inexperienced puppeteer.
Oliver stands at the edge of the slipway watching the drama unfold. This energy is what feeds his soul; his day-to-day existence is not enough. He glances at his wife standing beside him holding onto her waxed hat, her long dark hair flying madly. She was right to suggest they visit Cornwall at the end of the season. He feels invigorated and vitalised.
‘Happy?’ she asks, turning towards him, and he smiles. ‘Let’s find a café.’ Not waiting for a response, she turns and walks along the harbour road.
Despite the deteriorating weather, the town is busy with people going about their business but several stop and stare as the couple pass by. At the entrance to a courtyard Oliver’s wife halts. Swiftly she reads a display board listing the shops hidden within before leading her husband into its relative sanctuary.
*
It’s been a quiet afternoon in the gallery. Engrossed in a book, listening to her favourite Moody Blues CD, Carol is pleased there have been so few customers as the book is a page-turner and she’s almost at the end. Glancing out of the window, she sees a couple enter the empty courtyard and hopes they won’t come in. Quickly she returns to the unfolding story, but a flurry of excitement outside diverts her attention. A gaggle of people have also entered the courtyard and her friend, Sheila, waves at her from the entrance. Flushed and excited, more so than usual, she points to the couple. As Carol peers through the window to see what all the fuss is about, the bell above the door clangs. A slim, attractive, dark-haired woman enters and acknowledges Carol with a brief smile before turning to the man following.
‘Look, darling, what wonderful paintings.’ Her cut-glass accent fills the gallery. ‘Isn’t that the Minack?’ She points to a canvas perched on the easel just inside the door.
By now, yet more people have entered the courtyard. Torn between finishing the novel, dealing with a potential sale and her desire to find out what’s occurring outside, Carol places the book face down on the counter and turns her attention to the couple now studying the paintings displayed on the rear wall. The woman is in her late thirties or early forties. A strong, no-nonsense woman who knows exactly who she is, thinks Carol, before turning her attention to the man. Although he is facing away from her, she can sense his commanding presence. As the couple move slowly round the gallery, discussing the various paintings and examining the range of gifts on display, it’s an interesting lesson in body language. The woman, with her all-commanding inner strength, appears to be in control, whereas the man, although possessing a strength of his own, seems to follow in her wake; not weakly but as an extension to his companion.
I wonder how Ken and I are perceived, Carol idly speculates, but as the man turns in her direction her eyes open wide and she breathes in sharply. He smiles a resigned smile; one of reluctant acceptance at her reaction to him.
‘These paintings are superb,’ he comments in a deep, distinctive voice. ‘Do you know the artist?’
Carol can’t find her voice and thank God she’s sitting, as she seems to have lost the use of her legs. Summoning her fast-diminishing strength, she says in the smallest of voices, ‘Yes, my daughter.’
The man’s smile relaxes into one of sincerity, making his handsome face even more attractive.
‘She has a wonderful talent.’
Intelligent, clear blue eyes.
Carol blushes and nods. She is so very proud of her lovely Cara.
As the woman calls over, he turns away. Knowing it’s ridiculous at her age to be so affected in this way, Carol attempts to still her beating heart.
The noise in the courtyard has increased and she glances out of the window again. The enclosed space is full of people and Sheila, with her nose pressed flat against the glass, peers through the window.
That woman is so indiscreet, thinks Carol as she pulls a face at her dear old friend.
Lucky you, mouths Sheila.
With concerns about the heroine’s fate now cast aside, Carol’s attention focuses on the potential customers. They make a very attractive couple and appear to move as one, no doubt honed over years of being together. They dress similarly too. Both wear Barbour jackets and denim jeans; in the woman’s case, tucked into a pair of Dubarry boots. The man’s striped scarf gives him the appearance of a student, though he must be in his early forties, and there’s the merest hint of silver at his temples on an otherwise full head of dark hair. But something doesn’t quite fit and a small frown furrows Carol’s brow. The woman has a straightforward clarity but there’s something darker to the man, despite his dazzling smile. She’s considering what that darkness might be when he turns and looks directly at her. Quickly Carol turns away, mortified he’s caught her studying him.
‘We love the way your daughter has captured the Minack Theatre under a clear night sky,’ he says, and Carol knows he’s being kind and putting her at her ease.
‘Yes, it’s a very different take,’ she mutters, a range of emotions surging through her. With a deep breath she continues, ‘So many artists paint it looking down at the amphitheatre and out to sea, but Cara’s ‘eye’ visualises images in a very different way. This view, I think, has certainly caught the atmosphere of the place.’
‘Indeed,’ the man says. ‘How much is it?’
‘Seven hundred and fifty.’
He glances at his companion, an unspoken communication passing between them. ‘We’ll take it.’
‘And I’ll have these driftwood photo frames as well,’ adds the woman. ‘Samantha will love them.’
Concentrating hard on walking across the gallery, Carol lifts the canvas from the easel. She wraps it carefully, places it in a large, white bag on which ‘The Art Shack’ is printed in vibrant peacock blue and props it against the counter. Then, wrapping the driftwood frames in tissue paper, she places these in another bag.
‘If you’re still here next week you may be interested to know my daughter is having an exhibition in Truro starting on Monday,’ Carol says, amazed that she’s managed a complete sentence without stuttering. She slides the credit-card machine over the counter towards the man.
‘Unfortunately we’re leaving tomorrow,’ the woman says.
‘That’s a shame. Have you been staying locally?’
The woman surveys her coolly. Instantly, Carol feels she’s overstepped the mark, but why? She was only being friendly.
‘Not far,’ the woman replies in a noncommittal manner.
Carol hands the man his card and receipt.
‘Please tell your daughter we will treasure this painting,’ he says, bending to pick up the canvas. ‘It’s a wonderful memory of our visit.’
She promises to pass his message on.
He starts to walk away but turns back to her. ‘I notice your daughter signs her paintings ‘Cara P’. What is her name?’
‘Cara Penhaligon.’
‘A true Cornish name if ever there was one!’ He smiles at Carol with a twinkle in his eyes. As her legs threaten to give way, Carol sits.
His companion is already at the door. As she opens it, the clamour of voices in the courtyard momentarily dips as the couple step out into the late afternoon air. Immediately people surge around and Carol notices how the man signs every scrap of paper presented to him with a quiet dignity, while the woman stands by proprietorially. He catches Carol watching him again and she blushes, embarrassed. He smiles. She can see he’s trying hard to mask his resignation but the darkness she’d noticed earlier once more envelops him. Before Carol can contemplate this further, her friend charges through the door in a state of high excitement.
‘Carol, can you believe it?’ Sheila exclaims. ‘Oh my God! Can you believe it? Here in little old Porthleven!’
Holding a piece of paper aloft, Sheila shimmies her way to the counter. Drawing the paper to her lips, she plants a firm kiss on the autograph. Carol laughs. Sheila is always a whirlwind of fun and enthusiasm, but her energy has extended beyond the norm this afternoon.
‘No, Sheila, I wouldn’t have believed it had I not witnessed it for myself.’
‘Oh my God! Wait ’til Betty hears what she’s missed.’
‘She will be well fed up,’ Carol says, looking out of the window at the now empty courtyard.
Bubbling with excitement, Sheila pulls Carol off the stool and spins her round. Both women giggle like schoolgirls.
‘Grandma!’
Carol turns in the direction of the voice. Her grandson bounds across the shop towards her, dragging his school bag behind him, all cheeky smiles under a mop of blond hair. Momentarily her heart pinches at the image he represents of that other golden child she once knew.
‘Sky, watch where you’re going,’ Cara calls from the entrance. Her daughter, Bethany, stands behind her.
Flinging himself at Carol, the young boy hugs her tightly, and she drops a kiss on the top of her precious grandson’s head.
‘Looks like you’ve been busy, Mum,’ Cara says, glancing at the empty easel. ‘Where’s The Minack gone?’
But before Carol has a chance to respond, Sheila shrieks, ‘Oh my God, Cara! You will never guess who your mother just sold your painting to. I can’t believe it! Oh my God!’ Aware that the boy stares at her, open-mouthed, she quickly adds, ‘Pretend you didn’t hear that, Sky.’
Cara looks from Sheila to her mother in bewilderment. Both women appear flushed with a feverish look in their eyes.
‘Who?’ she asks.
In unison the older women gush, ‘Oliver Foxley!’
Oliver leans over and switches on a side lamp, the glow from the fire no longer casting sufficient light to read the script lying open on his lap. He has been in his study for most of the day – in fact, the previous three days – but has yet to decide if the film is for him. His agent is right; it is a lucrative deal and the role is substantial. But, it will mean months away from the family on location. Can he face that again?
Despite Deanna and the kids being at home, it’s quiet in the house and he knows they are giving him the space he needs. It’s a well-honed strategy, perfected over twenty-plus years of marriage, and his children have never known anything different. It doesn’t make it any easier to survive the ‘grey mist’, as they call it, but it does allow him time to assimilate and finally accept, to some degree, the despair and confusion that have plagued him since childhood.
Oliver sighs. Laying the script on the floor, he rises and places another log on the fire. It spits and sends sparks flying up the chimney. The study is his inner sanctum and this is where he spends a great deal of time. He wanders over to the French doors. There is still enough light to look out across the extensive, manicured lawns down to the lake at the edge of the woods that stretch as far as the eye can see. Most of it does not belong to him; the forestry is in the ownership of the National Trust. All is still, with no sign of the threatened snow the weather forecasters have predicted, and he watches as a wintry sun sets behind the North Downs rising beyond the tree line. It’s a great house, Hunter’s Moon, and one that has comfortably provided the space in which to raise a family away from prying eyes. Located down a long track leading only to a public car park in the woods, it is secluded and away from other properties yet close enough to be part of the wider community, should they so desire.
Oliver breathes in deeply.
His first major film role – the one that set him apart from other actors of his age and firmly established him as a player of note in the British film industry – presented itself only a year after leaving drama school. At the time, his parents worried he wouldn’t be able to handle the fame and success so early in his career but Deanna was there for him. He smiles fondly as he remembers her arrival in the second year of his acting degree. She instantly stood out from the huddle of new students, the most attractive to him by far, not least because of her all-pervading, no-nonsense strength that filled the room, even then. She was not there to study acting but had enrolled on the stage management course. Nothing shallow about Deanna; she is his rock. Soon after the film’s release they married in a small, private ceremony with only close friends and family present. However, almost immediately following their honeymoon, Hollywood came knocking. Relocating to Los Angeles for a couple of years, he worked the circuit and established himself as a leading man on both sides of the Atlantic. His chiselled looks, expressive eyes and ability to tackle characters with a sympathy and depth beyond his years stood him in good stead and only Deanna was aware of the pain that lurked behind the handsome mask.
With his Hollywood breakthrough came the money. Receiving sound advice from his accountant, he invested in a substantial house with accompanying land, set on the edge of an affluent village in the Surrey Hills, safe in the knowledge that wherever his career took him Hunter’s Moon would be a lifetime home for his family. Close enough to London and the airports to enable him to continue his international career with ease, the property would also give the children, Deanna and he planned to have, the opportunity of experiencing as normal a life as possible; not one distorted by the excesses surrounding Oliver’s chosen career, but a life grounded in the countryside. Over the following years they witnessed many of their friends’ burnout and knew their decision during the early days of their marriage had been a good one.
Deanna loved the house as soon as she saw the sales particulars. Oliver recalls his wife’s mounting excitement as they sat together one morning on the balcony of their LA rental apartment, the intense heat beating down and the relentless smog lingering on the horizon. He watched her devour the estate agent’s particulars, amazed at his ‘rock’s’ display of emotion. At the time, she was four months pregnant and prone to severe bouts of morning sickness. Ever stoic, she said nothing, but he knew she was desperate to return to the UK. The general emptiness of the people surrounding them in Los Angeles did not sit comfortably with his young wife and, being pregnant and unemployed, Deanna had plenty of time to think. As soon as filming wrapped they returned to the UK in time for Samantha to be born on British soil.
Oliver sighs deeply. He knows this memory process is cathartic. His therapist explained it was this act of counting his blessings that allowed him to emerge once more from the gloom and into the sun. But it’s taking a long time, this time…
Gentle knocking at the door, and light pools into the room. ‘Ollie, why are you standing in the dark?’ Deanna flicks a switch by the door and four uplighters immediately throw some light upon the scene. ‘How’s the script?’ she asks, not moving from the threshold.
‘OK. Not sure I want it, though,’ Oliver says, walking back to his chair.
‘Why not?’ she asks.
‘It’s a good role but I’d have to commit to several months away in the States and the Far East. Not sure I want to do that.’
Deanna moves slowly towards him. Perching on the arm of his chair, she places her hand lightly on his shoulder and asks, ‘Darling, wouldn’t a change be as good as a rest?’
Oliver glances at her. Not for the first time he wonders how she is always so sure of herself. In all that she undertakes Deanna is never at a loss, even when dealing with the children. If only he were half as confident then perhaps he could put his demons to rest once and for all. The only time he feels truly whole is in front of the cameras, deep in characterisation, but he knows it’s these personal gremlins that make him so good at his craft. He is a first-rate actor.
Oliver shakes his head. ‘I need to read more of the script before making a final decision.’
Squeezing her husband’s shoulder, Deanna changes the subject. ‘Are you ready to join us for supper tonight?’
Oliver would love to have supper in his study again, but can he really get away with it three nights in a row? His conscience tells him to pull himself together and embrace the world once more. Without realising, he sighs.
Deanna gets to her feet. ‘Ollie, if you’re not ready I can prepare a tray for you.’
‘What time is it?’ he asks.
‘Approaching six.’
‘I’ll join you at seven,’ he says.
She bends and kisses him lightly. ‘Seven it is, then.’
As she turns to leave, Oliver catches her hand. ‘I don’t deserve you, Dee.’
‘Oh, Ollie, of course you do! You’re great at your job and a wonderful husband and father. You’re the best.’ He doesn’t look convinced and she frowns. Softly she adds, ‘And besides, I fancy you like mad… even now, after all these years.’
He wants to say, ‘I am such a burden to your soaring eagle’ but knows it will sound ridiculous, as though he’s whining, even though it is how he feels. Instead, he pulls her into his lap and returns her kiss.
Briefly, Deanna closes her eyes. ‘In an hour, Ollie,’ she says, rising to her feet. ‘Don’t be late.’
At the door she turns back but her husband gazes into the fire, once more introspective and distant. Had he been looking, Oliver would have seen the briefest moment of assessment before Deanna quietly closes the door behind her. But Oliver Foxley is gripped by a melancholy that refuses to shift.
Why does he always feel so adrift and incomplete these days? He has so much going for him. To the outside world they are a successful, goal-driven, tight-knit family. His children are healthy, good-looking, high achievers with all the opportunities available to them that a comfortable upbringing affords. He has established a successful career for himself, is critically acclaimed and in demand; not simply typecast in all-action hero parts but often considered for roles demanding a more versatile actor. He no longer has to work and can pick and choose those projects that interest him. A number of blockbuster directors have all made themselves known to him, or he can choose to work with less mainstream professionals. Oliver Foxley is one lucky man. Then, why does he always feel as if part of him is missing?
He picks up the script again. It really is a good role but he doesn’t respond to it. The film is certain to be a box office hit, but so what if it is? What difference does it make? Why put himself through it all again?
Oliver groans.
Glancing up, his eyes rest upon the painting displayed above the fireplace. In the flickering firelight the sea beyond the amphitheatre appears to come to life. Is it his imagination or is there a swell? Thinking back to that windswept day in September, when he and Deanna stumbled upon that little art gallery in Porthleven, he smiles at the memory of the pretty, flustered woman who proudly informed him how her talented daughter visualised images in a very different way and that the view she had captured across the Minack caught the atmosphere of the place.
‘One hell of an artist to create moving waves on canvas!’ he mutters.
Another knock at the door and Oliver wonders if the hour has passed already. He hopes not. As the door opens, hesitant blue eyes peer at him from under thick lashes.
‘Hello, Jamie.’
‘Is it OK to come in?’ the boy asks cautiously.
‘Of course!’ Oliver pushes aside his gremlins and smiles at his youngest son. He opens his arms wide.
Running across the room, the boy climbs onto his dad’s lap and snuggles against his chest.
‘Are you having supper with us tonight?’ Jamie asks.
‘Yes.’ Oliver’s heart pinches; he is racked with guilt and full of remorse. He needs to look after his family… especially this son.
At nine years old, Jamie is quiet and prone to introspection. So like him at that age. His depression was already in evidence; although no one knew what it was in those days or even acknowledged it. He is determined his son will not follow in his footsteps. He will do all he can to prevent his youngest from falling prey to the debilitating mental condition that afflicts him. Oliver strokes Jamie’s hair.
The boy looks up expectantly. ‘Will you help us decorate the tree afterwards? Sammy’s got the decs out and she’s going through them now.’
Christmas Eve! How could he forget? Where has he been? If nothing else, this is a time for the kids.
‘Of course! Come on, Jamie, let’s join the others.’
*
It’s late afternoon by the time the Christmas lunch is over. Ken and Barry, still wearing their Christmas cracker crowns, finish their annual washing-up ritual and wander into the living room to a round of applause.
‘Well, that’s given you a bit more practice, Bar,’ says Sheila. ‘Maybe you’ll give it another go during the coming year?’ Her husband laughs.
‘Let’s have a look and see what’s on the box,’ says Ken. He sits in the armchair and thumbs through the Radio Times. ‘Missed the Queen’s speech,’ he mutters, and then more forcibly, ‘You’d think they’d find something of interest to put on at this time of year, wouldn’t you? Why rerun oldies year-on-year? Remind me why we pay our licence fee!’
‘Quite right,’ agrees Barry. Sheila rolls her eyes.
‘Oh, hang on, here’s one just about to start. A murder mystery. Always good subject matter for Christmas, don’t you think, Barry? And, ladies, one for you too.’ Ken grins at the women sitting on the couch. ‘Starring that heart-throb who gets you all in a flutter!’
‘Well, now, who could he possibly mean?’ says Carol in mock indignation.
‘You know,’ Ken says, casting his wife an affectionate look, ‘that actor who bought Cara’s painting.’
Cara smiles. Yes, he’s eminently watchable! She notices her mother and Sheila flush crimson.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Sky concentrates on weaving his remote-controlled Batmobile round the legs of the dining table. It’s a Christmas present from his grandparents and he’s been playing with it all day. He’s getting quite expert at controlling its movements. Without breaking concentration, in a sing-song voice he says, ‘Oliver Foxley.’
Deanna studies her husband asleep beside her. He looks so serene; his features free from the stresses of the day and his demons stilled. A smile lingers on his lips. Even after all these years her heartbeat quickens at the sight of him – her beautiful husband – but little did she know what she was taking on the day she accepted his tentative offer of a first date. He was already well into his acting course when she arrived at the college to study stage management. He was instantly noticeable – the best-looking student. The other girls, and a number of the boys, watched in envy as he singled her out and showered her with his charm. And it worked. Her tough exterior melted under his adoring gaze. She would never consider herself beautiful, although she knows she possesses a certain attractiveness, but the young Deanna was aware enough to understand it was her strength of character and independence that Oliver liked most about her. He would be amazed if he knew how she truly felt about him at that time, but she was careful to maintain a cool persona and set herself the task of perfecting those qualities he liked in order to hold his attention. This strategy worked in her favour because, over the years, she has had to rely heavily on those character traits.
Deanna gazes up at the ceiling. She has slept fitfully and feels exhausted. Still uncomfortable, she turns onto her side and peers at the alarm clock. Should she get up or try for another hour’s sleep?
Her movements disturb Oliver and his fingers find their way under her T-shirt. Gently he caresses her smooth, flat belly. ‘Mmm… you feel good,’ he says, nuzzling the back of her neck. ‘Why are you awake?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘I know what you need,’ he says, gently rolling her onto her back.
As her body yields to him, Deanna momentarily casts aside the precision-like restraint by which she runs her life. Submitting to the sensations coursing through her, fleetingly she loses control and, moments later, with ragged breathing and muscles taut, Oliver finds his own release. Almost immediately Deanna moves restlessly beneath him, already thinking of her day ahead. Like yesterday, it is full of chores and expectations to fulfil.
Propping himself on one elbow, Oliver thoughtfully observes his wife.
‘You always did know how to play me, Ollie,’ Deanna says quietly, her eyes closed.
He smiles and gently runs a finger over her belly from one hip bone to the other.
‘What time is it?’ Deanna asks.
‘Still early.’ Oliver re-straightens her T-shirt and turns onto his back, one arm bent behind his head.
‘Half an hour more, then.’ Deanna turns away.
Oliver looks up at the ceiling, as his wife had only minutes before, as familiar disjointedness takes hold. Why does everything feel so discordant and hollow? Life has dealt him a pretty good hand. What more could he possibly want? It’s as if there are no challenges left. He yearns for something but doesn’t know what – just something more. Maybe it’s his mid-life crisis. Possibly he should accept that film role. God knows, his agent is persistent enough!
Perhaps Deanna is right; a change would be as good as a rest.
But still he’s unsure. Deep down he knows that accepting the role simply to take his mind off his disquiet is not the answer. It might have worked in the past, diverting him from his emotional battles for a short while, but his mind has grown wise to this avoidance technique.
Taking care not to disturb his wife, Oliver slips out of bed and pads silently across the room to the en-suite. Running the shower as hot as he can bear, he stands with water cascading over his head. This bout of melancholia has had him locked in its grip for a while now and he knows he needs to do something different to kick-start his lighter side. Deanna is always stoic regarding his mental disorder but sometimes it would be refreshing if she weren’t so independent and, seemingly, indifferent.
Sometimes it would be nice to think she understood my inner demons and not simply ignored them. He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the thought.
Standing with arms outstretched, palms flat against the cool tiles, Oliver closes his eyes and lets the full force of the water rain down upon the back of his neck.
When he first asked Deanna out it wasn’t just because he found her attractive. It was as much to do with her confidence. She was a warrior of a young woman and his frightened, confused, inner self stilled in her presence. He was fascinated to understand what made her tick and what made her so different. She had none of his insecurities and he found the differences between them exhilarating. As they spent more time in each other’s company they discovered they complemented each other well, and as soon as he graduated they found a flat together. Deanna continued her studies, while he ventured out into the competitive world of show business. Initially, it was his looks that drew attention and he was quickly snapped up for a controversial West End musical that broke new ground. It wasn’t long before he came to the attention of the critics, and they loved him. His sensitive portrayal of the difficult role in which he was cast earned him critical acclaim and his looks were relegated to second place. His name was soon on the lips of people ‘in the know’ and there where whispers – ever-growing – that he was the young actor to watch. It would be a further eighteen months before he gained mass recognition and became a household name, and then life would never be the same again.
Water cascades over his shoulders and down his back. It should be soothing yet his mind gives him no rest. He has read through the whole script and it’s a very good film with a strong, action-packed storyline providing an adrenalin rush for both actors and audience alike, but deep down he knows he doesn’t want to be involved. He needs to do something, but what? Perhaps he should revisit Holy Isle. Rubbing shampoo into his hair, Oliver deliberates whether this is the answer and the more he thinks about it, the more the idea appeals. He could leave the world far behind for a while and indulge in his own spiritual needs. Then, maybe, this disquiet will be put to rest. Reaching for the bottle of shower gel, he squeezes a small amount onto the palm of his hand and rhythmically works it into his chest and stomach. As soon as he finishes showering he will check the website and make enquiries about the next course.
He’s miles away and jumps when Deanna enters the bathroom. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and jeans, she gathers her hair into a ponytail as she walks across the room to the double basins.
‘Do you want breakfast, Ollie?’ she asks, turning on the cold tap.
‘Please,’ Oliver says, rubbing gel into his thigh and feeling the firm muscles beneath his fingertips.
‘Scrambled egg and toast?’ Deanna reaches for her toothbrush.
‘Sounds good to me.’ He will definitely find out about a course. His soul yearns for nourishment, to be lifted from the mundane.
As Deanna leans over the basin to brush her teeth, Oliver appraises her slender figure. He smiles at her wiggling bottom. He’s always been fascinated how her slim body has stretched and expanded during four pregnancies, yet always returned to such firmness. At forty, she is toned and in very good shape. Whenever anyone comments on her physique Deanna always puts it down to having inherited good genes, but Oliver knows his wife exacts the same discipline and control over what she puts into her body as she does the running of the household.
Deanna spits into the basin, replaces the toothbrush in its holder and straightens up. In the mirror she catches Oliver’s appreciative eye and smiles. ‘I’m taking Sammy to the station this morning. She’s going to Guildford with Rosie.’ She turns to face her husband. ‘Then I’m dropping Seb and Jamie at football practice. Is there anything you want while I’m in town?’
Peace of mind would be good.
‘Nothing I can think of.’ Oliver turns off the water. ‘You have it all under control.’
Opening the shower door, he pulls a plump, Egyptian cotton bath towel from the heated rail and vigorously dries himself, as Deanna walks from the room. With a game plan in mind he feels stronger and the ‘grey mist’, temporarily suspended, flutters on the edge of his consciousness.
Securing the towel around his waist, Oliver walks to the basins and catches sight of himself in the mirror. His reflection always takes him by surprise. It’s so different from how he sees himself. He, too, is in good shape – muscular and trim. At his age it’s imperative not to lose his edge and allow younger actors the chance to knock him off the top spot before his time, and this means daily workouts. But he also knows this is not the only reason he puts himself under such pressure. It’s as much to do with matching Deanna, like-for-like. He cannot fall behind. Looking at the handsome face staring back at him, once again Oliver is struck by the irony of his situation. No one would ever suspect the troubles he endures, the pain in his soul and the constant battle with himself.
Seeing what the world sees reflected back at him, Oliver looks himself in the eye and growls, ‘Skin deep, Ollie. Skin deep.’
*
Cara is in her studio working on the latest painting. On the easel is a sweeping view of the cove with her bungalow, The Lookout, in the far distance. It is not going well. She is about to give up when her iPhone springs into life. Laying the paintbrush aside, she moves to the window and picks up the mobile propped on the sill.
‘Cara, how’s it going?’
Silently, she groans. ‘Hi, Ben. I’ve got painter’s block.’
‘What you need is a change of scene. What are you doing Sunday evening?’
‘Why?’ she asks cautiously. As much as she likes Ben as a friend, she knows he wants more and it’s getting increasingly difficult to keep him at arm’s length.
‘There’s live music at Gylly Beach. Do you want to come?’ Ben asks hopefully.
She’s about to say there’s no way she can get a babysitter in time, but hesitates. Maybe a night out is what she needs. It might give her the inspiration to crack on with this painting.
‘The gang will be there,’ Ben continues. ‘Chilli and a pint for seven quid and the music’s free. It’ll be cool. Please, Cara.’
She looks out at the ocean; dark grey today under a bleak, colourless, January sky. Desolate, like her soul. She shivers. ‘I’ll just make a phone call and get right back.’
‘Great. I’ll be waiting.’
He sounds so hopeful. What is she going to do about him?
The wind whistles eerily and from deep within the bowels of the bungalow she can hear the children’s voices above the sound of the television. Her mother answers on the third ring.
‘Hi, Mum. How’s it going?’
‘Cara, darling, your father is driving me to distraction!’
Cara laughs. ‘What’s he done now?’
‘He’s only agreed to an exhibition of wildlife photography the very week I want to go to Madrid. He says I don’t communicate with him so how is he supposed to know what plans I’ve made!’
‘Have you already booked flights?’ Cara asks.
‘Well, no…’ Carol’s voice falters and then rises defensively ‘…but that’s not the point! I wanted to go that particular week because of the fiesta. I’ve been talking about it for months, if not years! He’s so damn maddening, your father.’
‘But adorable, Mum,’ Cara says, smiling at her mother’s histrionics. Everyone knows Ken is the calming influence in that relationship.
‘Oh yes, of course! He wouldn’t be your father if he wasn’t. Anyway, enough of me. How’s everything with you, darling?’
Cara wonders what her mother would say if she told her the truth. Forcing a smile into her voice, she says, ‘I’ve been asked out on Sunday night. Are you free to do a spot of babysitting?’
She knows her mother would like to see her settled with someone and senses, rather than hears, the sharp intake of breath.
‘Of course. You know I love spending time with my grandchildren. What time do you want me over?’
As Cara gazes along the empty expanse of sand, she notices a vehicle pull up in the café’s car park at the far end. A man gets out, swiftly followed by a springer spaniel.
Must be mad to be out in this!
She watches the man zip up his jacket and pause to look out to sea before walking down the steps onto the sand, his body bent into the wind. The dog is already on the beach, racing up to the water’s edge and barking at the waves.
‘Six should be fine. I’ll do supper for the kids so you won’t have to bother.’
‘Don’t worry about that, Cara. I’ll rustle up Grandma’s special. I’ll even drag Grandpa out too and we can all spend some quality time together.’
‘Thanks.’ Knowing her mother is itching to discover who she’s going out with, Cara holds her breath waiting for the inevitable question and is surprised when it doesn’t come. ‘Where’s Dad’s exhibition?’ she asks.
‘Eden. He’s giving daily lectures as well so it’s not as if he can just hang the pieces and leave!’
‘But that’s brilliant! There’ll be other fiestas, Mum.’
Carol laughs. ‘Hey, who is the mother here?’
‘Me too, don’t forget! But I don’t like to think you feel you’re missing out.’
‘Never! But I would have liked to go to that fiesta,’ Carol says with some regret. ‘Anyway, Cara, I’m so pleased you’re giving yourself a night off.’
‘Bye, Mum, and thanks again.’
A sudden rain squall thrashes against the window panes, rattling the wooden frames. As the wind picks up, swirling under the eaves of the studio, an eerie sound like wailing women fills the air. Cara shivers. It’s cold, even with the heating on. Glancing up, she notices a stain spreading across the ceiling.
‘Great! A leaking roof. That’s all I need.’
Looking out at the turbulent sea, she sees white horses riding the crest of the waves. She never tires of this view, at any time of year. Every season has its merits. Even in January, when everything appears colourless and drab, the sweep of the bay is magical to her. She smiles at the memory of the first time she saw The Lookout. He was so unsure and worried she wouldn’t like it. But she loved everything about it – from its quirky, unusual layout and dilapidated air, as if yearning for someone to care again, to the wildness of the surrounding cliff garden. Where others only saw its dangers, perilously perched above the beach, she saw the cliffs rising steeply behind as mighty protectors providing shelter from the bitter north-easterlies.
Cara’s eyes follow the man who, undeterred by the weather, walks his dog along the beach. Behind him, the dark grey twist of road glistens in the rain, like a snake slithering through the countryside, making its way silently towards the sand before depositing visitors at the small car park serving the café. Her gaze follows the dirt track skirting the cove that gives access to the handful of properties hugging the cliffs. The Lookout is the last bungalow before the Atlantic and Cara likes the fact that its windows look out across the vast ocean towards Puerto Rico, some four thousand miles away. It is a relatively unknown cove and she likes that too, providing her with the privacy she needs to face her grief head-on and to find the strength to continue… for her little family.
Sighing deeply, she phones Ben. ‘All organised,’ Cara says, trying to muster some enthusiasm for the proposed outing.
‘Hey, Cara, that’s great! I’ll pick you up at seven.’ His excitement emanates through the ether and she removes the iPhone from her ear. ‘See you, babe.’
Babe!
She watches the man approach her end of the beach; one of the more intrepid explorers who occasionally stumble upon the hidden cove. Turning his back to the wind and rain coming in off the sea, he glances up at the window and spies her observing him. He nods and Cara acknowledges him with a smile. He’s older than she expected, but attractive and cloaked in an air of sophistication, as though he knows his worth. And he’s definitely not local – she would have remembered him.
‘Sorry, Ben,’ she says quietly to herself.
It’s late afternoon and the house is quiet. Alone in his study, Oliver checks the Holy Isle website.
‘Can I have a chat with you, Dad?’ His eldest son is at the door.
‘Of course. What’s up?’
Charlie walks across the room and sits in the leather armchair in front of the fire. He’s a good-looking lad, tall and sporty, with an easy-going nature and popular with both sexes. In fact, his social life astounds his parents.
Oliver waits for his son to speak. When he doesn’t, Oliver uses their affectionate childhood name for him. ‘Well, Charlie-Boy?’
Charlie glances up through thick brown eyelashes, a worried look clouding his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably but remains silent.
‘I hear you’ve got a science project to finish before Monday,’ Oliver says, diverting his son.
Charlie pulls a face. ‘It’s causing some problems, I can tell you, but Gary’s working on it. Hopefully we’ll have a solution by the end of the day.’
‘It’s a joint project, then?’
‘Yeah. Nathan’s also applying his humongous brain so, between us, we should be able to crack it.’
His son’s newly acquired deep voice makes Oliver smile. Only last summer he was a young lad. Now he’s almost a man.
‘So, if you don’t need your old man to apply his brain to your homework what do you want to talk to him about?’
Quickly Charlie looks away. It’s unlike him to be so awkward and Oliver frowns. When he was Charlie’s age he was in the grips of clinical depression with no one to talk to and nowhere to turn, but he knows this is not what afflicts his son.
‘It’s about...’ Charlie shifts again, his fingers picking at the leather trim of the arm rest. Taking a deep breath, he looks at Oliver, wide-eyed and vulnerable. ‘It’s Penny, Nathan’s sister.’
Ah! Fifteen and all those unharnessed hormones…
‘I remember her from your party. Very pretty.’
‘Yes, well…’ Charlie flushes with embarrassment and the ensuing words come out in a rush. ‘The thing is, she says she wants to go out with me but Karen’s pretty too and I’m kind of dating her.’
Charles Foxley dating! Oliver attempts to hold back the smile.
‘Can’t be too bad having two babes chasing after you?’
‘Dad, it’s awful!’ Charlie exclaims.
Oliver straightens up. How can that be awful?
‘I like them both, although Karen is getting a bit heavy...’ The sentence peters out.
There is so much time ahead for all this, thinks Oliver, but it’s crucial he advises wisely. He sees the worry etched upon Charlie’s usually carefree face, and his heart goes out to his eldest son. What would he do if he were in that situation? It’s not a problem he has ever had to face. Deanna has been there for most of his adult life.
‘Well, Charlie, you don’t have to tie yourself to either girl,’ Oliver says carefully. ‘You’re young and there will be many new experiences for you in the years to come. Just say you want to concentrate on getting good grades this year and then apportion your time between them.’
‘But Karen and I have sort of been together for a year.’
Now it’s Oliver’s turn to look wide-eyed. He had no idea, and his son lives under the same roof! What else has escaped his attention?
‘I really like Penny,’ Charlie continues, ‘but it will hurt Karen if I start seeing her best friend.’ The boy sighs in exasperation.
‘I don’t have much experience in that field,’ Oliver says honestly. ‘Before I met your mother I had a couple of girlfriends, though it was nothing serious. I was too preoccupied with sorting out my own gremlins. But, if I was in your position I would ask myself if I really wanted to commit to just one person at such a young age.’ Charlie listens intently. ‘And if that relationship isn’t all that it should be then I would remove myself from it and make myself more available to everybody. Not just Karen or Penny, but everybody. Enjoy your teenage years, experiment and experience things. Have some fun and don’t get too bogged down before your time.’ He smiles at his son. ‘I hope that’s of some help, Charlie.’
Deanna would have no problem dealing with this. She would know exactly how to handle it. Oddly, the thought depresses Oliver.
‘Thanks, Dad. You’ve given me quite a bit to consider,’ Charlie says, rising from the chair. ‘I’d better get back to my homework.’
‘Fancy joining me for a run later and getting some fresh air?’ Oliver suggests. ‘It’s amazing how clear things can become then.’
‘Yeah, catch you later.’
He watches his son walk from the room. The lad possesses an easy, athletic grace and Oliver wonders how many hearts Charlie will break before he finds his true path.
Turning his attention once again to the website, Oliver is immediately transported back to the island located off the west coast of Scotland where he spent a month the previous year. He was no stranger to the art of meditation; it was, however, the first time he encountered a special retreat devoted to Ngondro practice. His visit followed a particularly gruelling twenty months during which he worked back-to-back on two films – both box office hits – and it wasn’t over once they were in the can. A punishing schedule of press interviews, chat shows and associated red-carpet events led up to the launch of each film. His bank balance benefited enormously, but his health did not and he emerged exhausted and battling depression. Is this the reason he is reluctant to commit to the latest role?
Oliver massages his temples. Even now he can feel the powerful serenity and sense of direction he experienced during that period of personal time-out. He smiles at the memory of the gentle, wise man who gave talks and teachings on Buddhist topics, conducted personal interviews and led walks around the beautiful island. The daily meditation involved periods of silence; an almost impossible undertaking since returning to his world. Suddenly Oliver craves it again. He checks the details but the website states the course is full. Hesitating momentarily, he picks up the phone. Almost immediately, a serene voice answers. Explaining who he is, Oliver enquires whether a place can be found for him. He is put on hold.
Feeling guilty at playing on his public status, Oliver is considering retracting his request when the serene voice returns. ‘We wish you to know that you are held in the greatest respect, Oliver, and we are delighted you have chosen to further your studies with us.’
There and then, he books a two-week visit. Within a further ten minutes he has also booked a private helicopter to fly him to Holy Isle the following Saturday. For many years he has been unable to travel unrecognised in public and the pilots at the Hampshire-based flying company are used to landing their helicopters on the level paddocks behind Hunter’s Moon.
*
Cara is somewhere between sleep and waking. Feeling warm and comfortable, she basks in the glow of a dream from which she hopes never to wake. However, the wailing women have started up again and refuse to keep quiet. Groaning, she attempts to block out the world and hold onto her dream. This is the most difficult and longest day of the year to get through and she has no desire to face it just yet. But sleep’s sweet oblivion evades her and, reluctantly, she opens one eye. The room appears lighter than expected. Glancing at the alarm clock, she leaps out of bed and shouts to her children to get up. School starts within the next half-hour! As Cara runs from her bedroom into the hallway, the family’s Labrador appears at the threshold to Sky’s bedroom, excited by all the activity and noise.
‘Beth, Sky! Get up! We’re late!’
She peers into her son’s bedroom. The room is in its usual mess but he is not there. Her daughter’s room is also empty but, in contrast, tidy; the duvet straightened, clothes folded and toys neatly stacked.
‘Barnaby, get out from under my feet!’ Deftly sidestepping the dog, she bolts down the hallway into the living room.
Sitting at the dining table, dressed in their school uniforms, the children look up in surprise at her sudden entrance.
‘Sky was hungry so I made him some toast,’ Bethany explains, ‘and I’ve given the animals their breakfasts too.’
Cara’s heartbeat slows. Her daughter is so grown-up!