‘Thanks for doing supper for the kids this evening.’ Cara speaks into her mobile. ‘I’ll be over to collect them around nine.’
‘OK, darling. Just concentrate on your exhibition piece,’ says Carol.
‘Thanks, Mum. You’re a lifesaver.’
Finishing her call, Cara looks around the gallery. She’s made a few sales today, mostly gifts and cards, and she’s itching to pick up her paintbrush to continue with her masterpiece. It’s drawn a great deal of attention and a journalist from one of the county magazines interviewed her about the forthcoming London exhibition. He wanted to photograph the unfinished canvas, but she knew Greg would want to keep it under wraps. Instead, the reporter had to be content with several of her other paintings, including her newest artwork – The Song of the Sea Cave at Nanjizal beach.
It’s late afternoon and a grey stillness fills the air. Grabbing her purse, Cara turns the sign to ‘closed’. She steps into the empty courtyard and pulls the door to behind her. There’s a nip in the air and, as she locks the door, Cara considers going back in to get her jacket but decides to walk briskly to the bakery. Crossing the courtyard, she hurries through the alleyway and turns right onto Harbour Road. The tide is out. In the inner harbour, a number of fishing boats and pleasure craft lean heavily over the sand, their brightly coloured fenders giving the impression of festive bunting. As she walks past the various galleries and souvenir shops, she notices a number of brave souls squaring up to the chill and sitting at picnic benches on the cobbled seating area in front of the Harbour Inn. She nods to a couple that visited her gallery earlier in the day.
‘Hi, Marion,’ she says, entering the pasty shop.
‘Cara. How’s it going?’ asks a middle-aged lady with greying hair and a ruddy complexion from behind the counter.
‘Can’t complain! I’ve sold a few items.’
‘We’ve been surprisingly busy too. Almost sold out of meat pasties.’
‘Just in time, then,’ says Cara with a smile.
‘What can we tempt you with, my bird?’
‘Chicken, leek and vegetable pasty, if you have any left! I’m working late tonight and need something to sustain me.’
‘Coming right up,’ says the bakery assistant. Picking up a pair of tongs, she turns to the warming oven behind her. ‘How’s that painting of yours coming along?’ she asks over her shoulder. ‘I hear it’s almost bigger than the gallery.’
‘You could say that!’ responds Cara. ‘It’s certainly drawing visitors in and I’ve been interviewed today for an article in Cornwall Living.’
‘Ooh, we’ll have to look out for that,’ says the woman, dropping a pasty into a paper bag. ‘The tourist board should be paying you for bringing people into Porthleven!’
Cara laughs.
‘Anything else for you, my lover?’ asks Marion, passing the bag to Cara over the counter.
‘That’s all, thanks,’ says Cara, handing over some coins, before exiting the shop.
‘Enjoy!’ the woman calls out through the open doorway.
As Cara walks briskly back to the gallery she glances across at the restaurants lining the street on the opposite side of the harbour. The grey afternoon has quickly embraced early evening and restaurant lights twinkle in the gloom, each vying for customers to try their latest dishes. As much as she would enjoy the latest creation at Rick Stein or Amélies, she will just have to make do with a pasty this evening. Cara turns into the courtyard and unlocks the gallery door. Pouring herself a juice, she puts the pasty on a plate and selects a CD. Then, sitting at the sales counter, she eats her supper while listening to Adele’s remarkable voice.
Cara gazes at the unfinished canvas. The sea could take more magenta and this, too, could then be reflected in the sunset; perhaps, also, a touch more cadmium red. She has applied deep indigo to the far horizon, hinting at a threatening storm, and it now provides her with the opportunity to create more movement in the waves. She will ‘up’ the drama. After all, Greg told her she needs to make a statement: ‘A painting to dominate the rear wall of the Kaplans’ gallery. We want people unable to drag their eyes away.’
As Cara finishes the pasty her mobile beeps. Wiping her hands on a paper towel, she picks up the phone and opens the message.
I’m in love! Mo xx
‘Don’t blow it,’ Cara mutters under her breath. She immediately messages back.
Slow and steady wins the race! ☺ xx
Climbing off the stool, she ties her hair in a loose knot. Then, picking up the palette and paintbrush, she approaches the canvas again. Before long Cara is oblivious to her surroundings, lost in the vivid colours and powerful nature of her creation.
*
Oliver stands on the edge of the slipway looking out over the boats. To the right of the inner harbour, the lights from the restaurants wink enticingly in the deepening gloom. All is still and quiet, apart from the sound of live music pulsating from the Harbour Inn. The last time he stood on this spot and gazed at this view was with Deanna during an autumn break when they walked part of the South West Coast Path. It was the year before he took the lead in Tas’s play, touring Cornwall for the summer. They discovered Cara’s art gallery purely by chance. How innocent that time feels now! Little did he know what emotional turmoil was destined to test him. Oliver breathes in deeply, the salt air tickling a memory. When he stood here before it was in a strengthening storm and he watched, mesmerised, as nature’s drama unfolded. Its energy fed his soul and made him feel invigorated and vitalised. His day-to-day existence is never enough, and becoming an actor has helped keep his depression in check. With Cara, however, he experienced a balancing of emotions and his incessant need for drama diminished. Her love was enough. She released him from his constant searching for something more. Tomorrow he will visit her. He is so very close. The excitement bubbling up from nowhere is almost too much to bear.
A group of young people passing by call out to a lad walking towards the Harbour Inn, and they set off at a jog in his direction.
How lucky to have no more pressing decisions other than which pub to go to.
Oliver’s gaze returns to the inner harbour. The light is so poor he can barely see beyond the first line of boats, but he knows that beyond is the outer harbour, the pier and the open sea. Squares of light dot the surrounding hillsides and he wonders what dramas unfold behind Porthleven’s closed doors. Do any compare with the one that has taken over his life? Not in a million years did he think he would be haunted by such longing. The intervening months have done nothing to diminish his feelings for her.
Oliver glances up at the night sky. No stars tonight. He remembers other night skies, when they gazed in wonder at the moon and the constellations, and witnessed a meteor shower. It was as if the universe sent them a message of approval at their joining, but it was just a flight of fancy on his part and Deanna reclaimed him. Oliver shivers. How unfair it was of him to sweep Cara along with his own yearning and desperation. He had the recurring dream again last night and awoke to the taste of her on his lips, his skin still tingling from the touch of her hand. He tried desperately to hold onto the images and feelings his dream had stirred, but they evaporated into thin air as the ‘grey mist’ fluttered around his temples before descending rapidly and claiming him. All that was left was a series of stills from an old movie. Knowing he shouldn’t, he took the last two lithium tablets in the bottle.
Oliver checks his watch. Nearly eight. It’s far too early to go back to the hotel. Following his frantic dash west this afternoon, he arrived at the hotel feeling restless and knew he had to do something. Almost immediately, he took the bike out for a spin. With no firm destination in mind, it was a surprise when he arrived in Porthleven. He could kill for a drink, but he can’t face the inevitable gawping and fawning if he went to the pub. He has to be in a certain mindset when entering a public place, and he doesn’t have that tonight. He’s too wired at the thought of what tomorrow may bring… and if it is the right thing to do. What to do now? He will check out Cara’s gallery. He knows it will be closed, but it will help bring her closer to him.
Setting off around the harbour, Oliver passes the pub just as the door opens and two skimpily clad women, teetering on high heels, spill out onto the street. The blast of music is deafening. He glances through the open doorway and notices the bar is packed.
‘Hello, my ʼansum,’ says one of the women. ‘Are you going in?’
‘Far too energetic for me,’ he says, walking on with a smile.
‘The band’s lousy,’ the woman says. ‘The Corringtons are way better.’
Oliver stops in his tracks. Morwenna and Tristan Corrington! Everything is so familiar. It’s as if time has stood still… waiting for him to catch up.
He turns back to the woman. ‘I agree. They are good.’
Behind her, leaning against a stone wall, her friend lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. Curiously, she observes him.
‘Morwenna’s voice is heaven,’ says the first woman, ‘and I so would do Tristan, given half the chance, but he’s well loved-up.’ She gives a deep belly laugh.
Oliver smiles. Tristan, the surfer; saved by a schoolteacher, if he remembers correctly.
‘Sure you don’t want to go in?’ the woman persists. ‘We could do with some good-lookin’ fellas in there.’
‘Sorry. I have to be somewhere.’ Smiling apologetically, Oliver turns away.
‘If you change yer mind, my lover, you know where we are,’ the woman calls out after him.
‘Jean, don’t you know who that is?’ her friend says in a loud whisper.
Oliver grimaces. Dipping his head, he carries on walking.
‘Nah. Who?’
‘Oliver Foxley!’
‘Yer havin’ a laugh, maid! What would Oliver Foxley be doin’ in a dive like Porthleven?’
‘Well, if it ain’t him it’s definitely a lookalike.’
Oliver increases his pace.
Within fifty yards he arrives at the entrance to the courtyard. He hesitates, his heart hammering against his ribcage as memories surround him. He could really do with a drink, but he can’t face running the gauntlet of that pub. Taking a deep breath and steadying his nerve, he turns into the alleyway.
Light floods from the gallery into the courtyard, seeking out the furthest shadows. A large painting of the cove fills the main window and Oliver takes a step towards it. Perched high on the cliffs is The Lookout. He smiles. She has even painted the wooden steps leading down to the sand. Seagulls wheel in the air above a tide almost fully in, the beach empty, apart from a couple walking hand in hand along the shoreline. Feeling as if he would like to step into the painting, Oliver approaches the window. A movement from within makes him peer further into the gallery. It’s only then he sees her painting an enormous canvas propped against the far wall, its vibrant colours and imagery so powerful. The drama she creates with just a paintbrush and a few colours always astounded him. As if for the very first time, Oliver watches Cara and his breath catches in his throat. Warmth spreads through his body and his eyes soften, and a small smile plays upon his lips. Her loose knot of hair has unravelled and wayward strands fall softly around her exquisite face. He studies her, taking in every little detail: the way she stands back assessing her painting, the little frown of concentration on her brow, her small straight nose and those kissable pale lips. His memory has not deceived him. She is as lovely as ever. This woman is everything to him – home, friend, lover, soulmate – and suddenly it becomes painfully clear just how much of a living hell his life has become.
As Oliver stands for a while observing Cara at work, his eyes follow her every move and he knows he is falling in love all over again. Although she wears a loose shirt, her close-fitting jeans accentuate the neat figure hidden beneath; one whose geography he knows so well. Desire stirs deep in his belly and a shiver runs up his spine. They have a son together! The enormity of what he has sacrificed bites keenly, and Oliver swallows hard. But what the hell is he doing? Who does he think he is? He can’t just turn up out of the blue and expect her to welcome him back into her life. He has nothing to offer her. His hands are tied. And his depression is back with a vengeance. He will not inflict that upon her. Oliver rakes a hand through his hair. However painful it is for him to accept, he must realise she is right: her family are better off without him. Taking one last look, Oliver steps back into the shadows.
Cara concentrates on the canvas, fully absorbed. The paints are working well tonight and her brushstrokes are free-flowing. She applies one last dash of turquoise to the waves in the foreground and then steps away. Experience has taught her to stop when there’s still more to do. The CD finished a long time ago but she didn’t notice. She glances out of the window and sees the night has drawn in. Was that a movement in the courtyard? She approaches the door and looks through the glass. No… just shadows. How long has she been painting? She checks the time. Hell! Quickly, she makes the call.
‘Sorry, Mum, I lost all sense of time. It’s just as well it’s not a school day tomorrow. I’ll be with you in half an hour.’