Greg watches as Cara alights from the Penzance train. She’s not expecting him, but, eager to see her, he decided to meet her at the station rather than leave her to make her own way across London to the hotel. He smiles to himself. He’d forgotten just how cute she is. But, as quickly as her appearance takes him by surprise, his attitude turns to one of irritation. Where’s her luggage? Has she forgotten to bring the outfit with her? Greg tuts. He planned a leisurely morning tomorrow before going to the private viewing at Kaplanz, but now it looks as if they’ll be shopping for clothes. Cara turns back to the train. Has she just realised she’s left her bag on the train? He watches as an arm extends from the carriage door and passes a bag down to her. The next minute, a young man steps down onto the platform and, effortlessly swinging a large rucksack onto his back, falls into step with Cara. Greg scrutinises the stranger. Who is he? Has she befriended him on the journey? They look good together although, of course, he’s a lot younger than her. Greg’s brow furrows as an unusual emotion engulfs him; the green-eyed monster never invades his space.
As Cara approaches the barrier she spies Greg and waves. She turns to Johnny walking beside her. ‘That’s Greg Latimer-Jones in the pale grey suit. I wasn’t expecting him.’
Johnny looks towards the barrier.
By the time they reach him, Greg has made sure any residue of the frown is gone and his smooth persona is neatly in place.
‘Hi, Greg,’ Cara says. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here.’
‘Cara,’ he says, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘As lovely as ever.’
Momentarily thrown, she gathers her thoughts. ‘This is my friend, Johnny.’
Greg shakes Johnny’s hand, aware of clear brown eyes surveying him. ‘A pleasure to meet you.’
‘You too,’ responds Johnny. ‘Cara’s told me about you.’
‘Ah, a fellow American,’ says Greg, picking up on the young man’s accent.
‘A fellow New Yorker,’ Cara points out.
‘What neighbourhood?’ asks Greg.
As they walk towards the exit, the men fall into a discussion about New York. Cara listens with interest.
‘So, Johnny, where are you heading?’ asks Greg, as they approach the taxi rank.
‘Thought I’d stay with you guys at The Savoy while I’m in London.’
Greg flinches.
‘I’ve invited Johnny to the private viewing,’ says Cara. She glances at Greg and is surprised to see him flush crimson.
‘Are you interested in art?’ Greg asks Johnny, quickly regaining his composure.
‘Yes. I’ve read your articles in The New York Times and I’ve visited Kaplanz on several occasions.’
Greg assesses the young man anew. Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt under a denim jacket – and carrying a rucksack – he doesn’t project an air of wealth, but to stay at The Savoy…
‘Let us travel together, then,’ says Greg, opening the door to a waiting taxi.
Sliding her bag across the floor of the taxi, Cara climbs in. Greg follows. Johnny brings up the rear with his rucksack.
‘The Savoy,’ Greg informs the driver through the glass divide. Sitting back in his seat, he observes the young American out of the corner of his eye.
As the taxi makes its way through the early evening London traffic, Cara and Johnny converse easily and comment on the various landmarks passing by.
So, he’s a friend, thinks Greg. She’s never mentioned him before. Just how good a ‘friend’ is he? Has he been staying with her in Cornwall? He will have to keep an eye on these two. He doesn’t want Johnny muddying the waters now that he’s so very close to accomplishing his carefully executed plan. He was going to wait until after the private viewing, but he will bring the moment forward. He will present Cara with his gift tonight.
*
The restaurant is decorated in an elegant 1920s style and offers an informal, yet luxury, dining experience. It suits Greg’s sophisticated tastes. He glances around Kaspar’s with satisfaction. Having enjoyed the Royal Fruits de Mer – the restaurant’s signature dish – followed by a selection of the finest artisan cheeses, he now wishes to prolong the experience before retiring to his river-view suite.
‘Shall we adjourn to the Beaufort Bar for cocktails?’ Greg suggests.
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ agrees Johnny.
Cara groans inwardly. She feels fit to drop. What she’d really like to do is sleep, but she knows it’s way too early to retire to bed. Stifling a yawn, she smiles at Greg. ‘Cocktails here we come!’
Greg rises from the table and leads the way. As they enter, Cara and Johnny gaze around the bar in wonder. With its jet-black walls, theatrical lighting and discreet touches of gold, the art deco Lalique-style bar, its mirrors glimmering, oozes elegance and glamour. In one corner a pianist serenades the guests. Ultra-suave and coolly low-key, it’s a hideaway of supreme style. As Greg embraces the opulent surroundings, he visibly grows in stature and Cara stifles a very uncool urge to giggle. It doesn’t get any easier when, seated at one of the gilded alcoves, Greg launches into one of his haughtily authoritative explanations.
‘This gold in this award-winning bar is rumoured to have cost around forty thousand pounds,’ he informs them, as if expecting them to be impressed. ‘And the calibre of drinks has twice earned the Beaufort a spot on the world’s “fifty best bars” list.’
Cara holds back the giggle so desperate to burst forth. Johnny notices and grins.
‘Are you feeling OK, Cara?’ asks Greg, as if to a strange exhibit demonstrating odd behaviour.
‘Fine, thanks,’ she says.
‘The bar sits on the old cabaret stage where Gershwin once performed,’ he continues imperiously. ‘Former patrons have included the likes of Frank Sinatra, Marlene Dietrich, Coco Chanel, Ernest Hemingway, Alfred Hitchcock, Katherine Hepburn and Tom Jones, amongst others.’
Grabbing a crisp linen serviette from the table, Cara stuffs her knuckles into her mouth and turns the giggle into a coughing fit.
Greg stares at her; the look on his face suggesting he’s stepped in something rather nasty.
Johnny’s grin increases. He’s thoroughly enjoying this.
‘Sorry,’ Cara says, her eyes streaming. How could she ever begin to explain? He would never understand what it is about him that’s tickled her.
‘Let’s see what’s on the menu. I believe each drink is entirely unique to the Beaufort Bar,’ Greg says, reaching for the pop-up book on the table.
Running a finger beneath her eyes to wipe away any smudges of mascara, Cara glances at Johnny. He grins broadly, which almost sets her off again. How uncool is she? Not at all stylish! Greg won’t be at all pleased.
Johnny opens a menu. ‘Wow! The cocktails don’t come cheap; there’s one here at two hundred and fifty smackers.’ He reads further down the list and lets out a low whistle. ‘And another for twelve thousand pounds!’
Unable to hold back the laughter any longer, Cara explodes. Tears stream down her face. Aware of Johnny’s delighted grin, she quickly glances at Greg. His face is a picture, stern and remote, as he tries to distance himself from these two young people.
‘I’m so sorry, Greg,’ she says, placing a hand on his arm. ‘I don’t know what’s got into me.’
‘No, I don’t either,’ he replies stiffly. ‘When you’ve quite recovered perhaps we could order.’
‘Good idea,’ says Johnny. ‘I like the sound of the “Cocktail of the Moment”, inspired by the world’s most well-loved books.’ He reads aloud the description from the menu, and then looks up. ‘Being a Hobbit fan, I’ll have the “Arkenstone”. That’ll do me.’
‘Ooh yes,’ says Cara, ‘that does sound intriguing.’ She studies her pop-up menu. ‘I think I’ll go with Harry Potter’s “The Chosen One”.’ She turns to Greg and smiles. ‘What about you, Greg?’
Contemplating the choice of cocktails, Greg eventually settles on “The Elementary”, which celebrates Baker Street’s most famous inhabitant, Sherlock Holmes.
The evening passes without any further faux pas and, several cocktails later, they call it a night and head for the lift. Johnny is the first to exit.
‘See you at breakfast,’ he says, as the doors open on his floor.
‘Around eight?’ says Cara.
‘OK.’
‘Goodnight,’ says Greg as the door slides to. As the lift starts to move again, he turns to Cara. ‘Have you had a good evening?’
‘Yes,’ she says, with a smile. ‘The Beaufort Bar is incredible. I’ve never been in such a lavishly romantic setting before.’
Greg smiles indulgently, on safe ground again now that the young American is out of the way. ‘I hope to treat you to many more such settings in the future.’
Cara’s smile stalls.
As the lift door opens on their floor, Greg takes her hand. ‘I have a gift for you, Cara. I hope you will like it.’
She frowns. Why do his words make her so anxious? It’s a gift! She should be excited.
Leading her past her room, Greg inserts the key card into the lock and opens the door to his suite.
‘Would you like a drink?’ he asks as they enter.
‘No, thanks. I want to be at my best for tomorrow.’ Perching on the edge of a couch, Cara watches Greg walk to the ornate leather-topped desk and open a drawer.
He turns and joins her on the couch. ‘For you,’ he says, holding out an envelope.
Feeling sick, and with a thumping heart, Cara takes the unsealed envelope from him. Putting off the moment of truth, slowly she untucks the flap and extracts the contents. Airline tickets. As she scans the printouts her mind races, and she can’t seem to draw enough air into her lungs.
‘Well, what do you think?’ Greg asks.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ she says, unable to look at him.
He turns her face towards him. ‘Cara, what do you say?’
Unwillingly she brings her gaze to meet his. Although he sounds smoothly confident, she can see uncertainty lurking in his eyes. ‘Greg, it’s so generous of you. In fact, it’s far too generous, but I cannot take the children out of school in two weeks’ time.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not something we do in this country, take children on holiday during term-time. It interferes with their schooling.’
Greg laughs. ‘But, Cara, that won’t matter. It’s a different schooling system in America. Soon, your little ducklings won’t need to worry about their current school.’
Cara feels faint and her heart races alarmingly.
‘I’ve spent a considerable amount of money on these tickets.’
‘I know, and I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘No, Cara, that’s not what I mean. Don’t you see? I am prepared to spend money on you and your family, but I need to have a firm commitment from you that this is going to happen. Allow them this holiday.’
‘It’s impossible,’ Cara interrupts, but Greg holds up his hand to silence her.
‘I won’t have you say that. Bring them out in two weeks’ time,’ he repeats. ‘See how they like it.’
‘But I can’t leave the gallery and The Lookout just like that!’ Getting up from the couch, Cara paces the room. This is getting totally out of hand. She knows he means well and only wants the best for them all, but there’s so much to plan in such a short time. He’s putting the pressure on again – in that smooth, sophisticated way of his – and she feels like screaming.
Greg quells rising frustration. Why can’t she just give him what he wants? This needs to be settled… but he must not blow it. He has to play it very carefully.
‘Let’s not discuss it now,’ Greg says, his voice taking on an extra velvety tone. ‘It’s late and you have a big day tomorrow. We must concentrate on that.’
‘Yes, I should get some sleep.’ Cara starts towards the door.
Greg rises from the couch. ‘I’ll walk you to your room.’
On the point of bolting, Cara takes a deep breath and allows him to accompany her along the corridor.
‘Cara,’ Greg says, as she places her key card in the door lock, ‘as you know, I want you in my life. I will do everything in my power to make you see that it will be good for you. You have to trust me on this. Your children will love America, as you will too. There are so many opportunities for them there.’ He gathers her to him in a hug. ‘I have only your best interests at heart.’
Cara wells up. His words should be soothing, but the terror in her heart makes her want to escape to the cove.
‘Get some sleep now,’ Greg whispers in her ear. ‘I’ll call for you tomorrow at seven forty-five.’