The lift door opens. With his arm firmly around her waist, Greg walks Cara along the corridor. They’ve enjoyed a fine meal in one of the hotel’s many restaurants and he’s plied her with drinks all evening. Surreptitiously, he asked the waiter to make her gins doubles, and he ordered wine with the meal. She tried to decline, saying that water was fine, but he smoothly pointed out that as this was her last night in London she should let her hair down and enjoy the last few moments of freedom without her children. Besides, he wanted them to celebrate her achievement at securing the Kaplans’ opening exhibition. She disagreed with the former – spending time with her children is her freedom – but felt she had to agree to the latter. Greg ordered the wine and made sure Cara’s glass was topped up at every given opportunity and, before long, the drink took effect. To finish off the meal he also ordered brandies.
Leaning heavily against him, Cara attempts to stop the corridor sliding away from her. She hasn’t been this drunk in years. Thank God he’s here for support! But what must he think of her? She concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other, but it’s no use. Her mind no longer has control over her body.
As they pass her door Greg braces himself and waits for Cara to say something, but she makes no comment. Arriving at his suite, he removes his hand from her waist and places his key card in the lock. Immediately Cara starts to sway and grabs his arm to steady herself.
‘I know what you need,’ he says. ‘Fresh air.’
Taking her by the hand, Greg enters the suite and leads her towards the balcony. Housekeeping has already prepared the room for the night and the curtains are closed. He draws them back and opens the door to a blast of cool night air.
‘Isn’t it spectacular?’ he says, leading Cara out onto the balcony.
Cara attempts to focus. She can make out the twinkling lights of London’s landmarks dotted along the dark snake of river below. It looks magical, but a sudden cacophony of angry horns reminds her she’s in the capital and a long way from home. She shivers.
‘Come here,’ Greg says. ‘Let me warm you.’ He wraps his arms around her body.
Wearily, Cara closes her eyes and leans against him. It’s been such a long time since a man has held her and these past couple of days in London have seemed so strange and unfamiliar. She feels exhausted and stretched to the limit. Acutely aware of Greg’s approval or disapproval and unable to relax for a moment, she has had to watch her every move and portray herself in a way that hasn’t felt natural. Now, with Greg’s arms around her, suggesting warmth and security, it only accentuates how very alone in the world she is. Cara welcomes the comfort he seems to be offering.
‘Feeling better?’ Greg asks softly.
She nods.
‘Don’t you just love the city?’ he says. ‘It’s so vibrant!’
She doesn’t reply. The city has no such effect on her. She yearns to be back in Cornwall, listening to the sound of the waves as they lap the shore, the cry of the gulls as they wheel in the air above The Lookout’s rooftop, and the shouts of her children from the beach way below.
‘There are so many opportunities a city can offer,’ continues Greg. ‘When you come to New York I will show you the best of it.’
‘When I come to New York?’ Cara repeats drunkenly.
‘Of course! Dear Cara, as I’ve said before, you can’t hide away in that far corner of England forever.’ Greg’s eyes dance with amusement. ‘Your art must be seen on the international stage.’
She feels so tired, she hasn’t the strength to argue.
‘And I’ll take you to my house in the Hamptons. It’s a beautiful home with a swimming pool and lawns leading down to a private jetty. Your children will love it. They can fish from the jetty or the boat. I want to show you so much.’
Momentarily, Cara’s mind comes into sharp focus. Why is he talking about her children in the States? They’re Cornish! Cornwall is where they belong. She pulls away from him and holds onto the balcony rail to steady herself. The London Eye is lit up against the night sky. Through a drunken blur she remembers her room doesn’t have a balcony. Why is she standing on a balcony? She turns to Greg and sees the look in his eyes promising a different future.
‘Cara, I want to share so much with you. I can give you so much,’ he says.
Despite strong emotions, Greg curbs his feelings. He must not alarm her. The stakes are way too high. Although drunk, Cara looks so beautiful against the London backdrop. All day he has watched her controlling her words and actions, trying to present herself in a way he would approve of. And she pulled it off. He is more than happy with how she came across. As each hour passed he witnessed the emergence of a more sophisticated version of her naturally free-spirited self. A thrill of excitement courses through him as he imagines, in the not too distant future, a Cara he would be very happy to have permanently at his side. Cautiously, Greg hugs her. Meeting little resistance, he dips his head and kisses her lightly on the mouth. He’s always done this with Cara, if he could get away with it. Originally, it was because he wanted her in a way that wasn’t acceptable while Marietta was still alive, and it was the only action he could think of that would satisfy his need for intimacy. But this time it’s no falsely platonic kiss he has in mind. As Greg’s fervour mounts, any thoughts of restraint abandon him.
What is he doing? Through a drunken haze, Cara feels Greg’s desire. She pushes him away and twists to escape his hold. Suddenly feeling extremely hot, despite the cool night air, she breathes rapidly through her nose and tries to stem the rising nausea. As Greg moves towards her again, Cara’s body jerks in a series of spasms. She can’t control it any longer, and her hands fly up to her mouth. Through her fingers, a projectile of vomit arcs through the air in Greg’s direction. If she weren’t feeling so ill, the look of horror on his face would make her laugh.
Taking a rapid step back, Greg raises his arms in an attempt to protect himself, but to no avail. Gingerly holding his lapels with the tips of his fingers, he holds his jacket away from his shirt and watches as her vomit drips onto the balcony floor.
‘Really, Cara, you must learn to hold your drink,’ Greg says, removing his jacket and shaking it over the balcony.
He walks to the bathroom. Angrily pulling a towel from the rail, he dabs at the spots on his trousers. Then he rings Reception and orders Housekeeping to clear up the mess.
‘Are you all right now?’ he asks, peering out onto the balcony.
Bent double, Cara retches again. When will it ever stop? Even morning sickness wasn’t this bad.
Greg stands at the open door, silently watching. ‘Finished now?’
Cara nods, holding her long hair out of her face. ‘I think so.’ Her hands are covered in sick.
Beads of sweat prick her forehead, yet she shivers. Why did she allow him to ply her with so much drink? What must he think of her now?
‘Let’s get you back to your room.’
As Cara staggers towards the opening, Greg stands back. He doesn’t want her inadvertently brushing past him. At arm’s length, he guides her along the corridor.
‘On the balcony,’ Greg says to an approaching Housekeeping boy. ‘It’s a bit of a mess.’
Cara cringes. This is so humiliating!
Carefully extracting the key card from Cara’s pocket, Greg inserts it into the lock and opens the door. He guides her towards the bathroom.
‘I would offer to undress you,’ he says, ‘but you’re covered. I’m sure you would prefer the dignity of sorting yourself out.’
As Greg swims into view, Cara meets cold steel-grey eyes.
‘Thank you, Greg. I’ll do it.’
‘Get some sleep,’ he says dispassionately and turns away.
As the bathroom floor threatens to rush up to meet her, Cara grabs hold of the basin. Taking deep breaths, she closes her eyes. Instantly, she is transported to a windswept Cornish cliff where she gazes out across the Atlantic towards Puerto Rico and wonders what all those people are doing four thousand miles away.