Cara drives into the restaurant car park and sees Tristan standing on the verandah with his wife, Jane. Finding a parking space, she quickly climbs the wooden steps to join them.
‘Hi, Cara. We’re so pleased you could make it,’ Tristan says, giving her a hug.
‘How are the kiddos?’ asks Jane, kissing her on the cheek.
‘Full on! Thank God for parents who enjoy having grandchildren for sleepovers,’ says Cara, catching a swift exchange of looks between the couple.
‘We’re waiting for Morwenna but we might as well go in,’ says Jane, linking arms. ‘The others are already here.’ As they enter the glassroom with its retractable roof, she squeezes Cara’s arm. ‘It’s so good to see you. It seems an absolute age.’
‘Life,’ says Cara. ‘It has a habit of running away.’
‘We will have to remedy that!’
Set back from the beach at Maenporth, the restaurant enjoys uninterrupted views over Falmouth Bay to the Roseland Peninsula but now, at seven o’clock in the evening, the surrounding scenery is in darkness. Only a handful of lights give away the location of properties nestled amongst the cliffs, and in the distance, across an expanse of ink-black water, is the repeating flash from St Anthony’s lighthouse.
For Cara, it’s a rare night out with her and her late husband’s closest friends. She’s known them since schooldays. Already seated at a window table are Martha and Stephen, and Sarah and Rob. Tristan and his sister, Morwenna, yet to arrive, complete this close circle of friends. Jane is the only outsider, having moved to Cornwall from upcountry, but they’ve never considered her a blow-in and her recent marriage to Tristan has sealed her position within the group.
‘Great you could join us,’ Sarah calls out down the table from her seat nearest the window.
Rob springs to his feet and pulls out a chair. ‘Hi, Cara.’ He gives her a quick hug.
‘What’s your tipple?’ asks Stephen. ‘We’ve gone straight to wine.’
‘That’s fine with me.’
‘Steve, pass a menu to Cara,’ instructs Martha, giving her husband a nudge. ‘Sarah and I are having the fixed-price menu but the boys are going for a pick-ʼn’-mix!’
‘I’m having the crab chowder to start with, followed by guinea fowl and finishing off with rhubarb mess,’ says Sarah.
Cara scans the options.
‘Hi, everybody. Sorry I’m late.’ Like a whirlwind, Morwenna rushes in.
‘Nothing new there,’ mumbles Tristan. ‘Seem to remember you were late at your birth!’
As a ripple of laughter reverberates around the table, Morwenna pulls a face at her brother and removes her coat. She pulls out a chair next to Cara. ‘So, guys, what’s news?’
Again, Cara catches a swift look between Tristan and Jane. She regards them curiously. As the conversation rolls around the table, she picks up an open bottle of wine. ‘Are you having white, Morwenna?’
‘Please!’
‘How about you, Jane?’
‘No, thanks,’ Jane says, covering her empty wine glass with her hand. Cara looks at her in surprise. ‘I’m sticking to water tonight.’ Thoughtfully, Cara considers her friend. Suddenly, she breaks into a broad smile.
As the level of conversation increases around the table, Morwenna leans into Cara and whispers, ‘The reason I was late is because Tas phoned.’
‘Tas!’ exclaims Cara. ‘But you haven’t heard from him for months.’
Morwenna laughs happily. ‘Fourteen and a half, to be precise! The last time I spoke to him was the Christmas after Oliver returned to his wife.’
It’s like a kick to the stomach, and Cara quickly composes her face.
‘I can’t believe it,’ continues Morwenna excitedly.
‘Where is he?’
‘On Rick and Tania’s yacht in the Caribbean, lucky sod!’
‘All right for some,’ says Cara, wondering if Oliver is with them.
‘He said being in their company brought back memories of our time together and he had to find out how I was.’
‘And how are you?’ asks Cara.
Morwenna gives her brother a swift glance. He was always overprotective of her where Tas was concerned. But Tristan is engaged in conversation with Rob. She turns back to Cara. ‘I’m not getting my hopes up. I’m playing it cool, as you always said I should, but he’s going to phone me again next week.’ Morwenna can’t stop the smile.
‘Was anyone else on the yacht with them?’ Cara asks, chastising herself for having to pose the question.
‘Don’t think so. He didn’t mention anyone else,’ Morwenna says, realising her insensitivity too late. ‘Oh, Cara, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk about Oliver like that.’
Again, she feels the kick. She has to move on! She has to…
Cara shrugs her shoulders. ‘It’s OK, Mo. It’s just a shock to hear his name.’
Under the table, Morwenna squeezes Cara’s knee. ‘He’d be here if he could. I’m sure he would.’
Cara gives her friend a thin smile. As the conversation and laughter gather pace, she is soon distracted from her thoughts and the evening passes in a whirl.
Tristan finishes his dessert. Half rising to his feet, he taps his wine glass with a spoon and says, ‘Hey, guys, Jane and I have something to announce.’ A hush descends around the table, as six expectant faces turn towards the newly married couple who are grinning from ear to ear. ‘We’re having a ba-by!’
As congratulations abound, Jane looks across the table at Cara and smiles.
‘I knew it, Jane. I just knew it!’ cries Cara, rising from her chair. Running around the table, she embraces the couple. ‘That’s just wonderful. I’m so happy for the two of you.’
Leaning back in her chair, Morwenna looks stunned. ‘Well, brother, you’ve truly excelled yourself!’ Tristan smiles sheepishly. ‘Do the folks know?’
‘No. We didn’t want to mention it until Jane was at least three months.’
‘So, am I going to be aunty to a boy or a girl?’
‘We’ve got an appointment next week,’ says Tristan. ‘We will know then.’
‘Oh my God,’ exclaims Morwenna. ‘This is the best of all days. Not only have I heard from…’ She manages to stop herself before mentioning his name. As Tristan gives his sister an inquisitive look, to distract him she turns to the rest of the table. ‘Did you hear that, everybody? I’m going to be an aunty!’
It’s past eleven by the time they leave the restaurant. A clear, cold night. As Cara drives out of the car park, she waves to her friends and heads west towards the Lizard, aware of a stunning night sky full of stars. Unusually, her thoughts have taken her to a dark place. Passing the Royal Naval Air Station just outside Helston, she turns onto the A3083 and a few minutes later turns right onto the coast road. On either side, gnarled and wizened trees top the Cornish hedges. She normally sees the road as something from a fairy tale, leading to the cove where she feels safe and protected from the outside world, but tonight she feels adrift and the scenery offers no comfort. After a couple more miles she reaches the beach café. As the car turns onto the track, its headlights sweep across the building and highlight Janine’s new sign proudly displayed above the door, in preparation for the forthcoming tourist season. Things are changing. The thought makes Cara feel even more adrift.
Most of the houses along the track are in darkness, but the light from The Lookout’s porch winks at her from the far end. Usually it’s a reassuring beacon, but not tonight. Coming to a halt in front of the bungalow, Cara switches off the engine and sits for a while listening to the silence. Eventually she gets out. Walking to the edge of the cliff, she looks out over a cove cloaked in darkness and peers in the direction of the ocean. The sound of breakers in the distance tell her the tide is out. The beach is forty feet below. If she were of a different character it would be so easy to take that step. She glances up at the night sky and marvels at the density of stars and planets adorning the canopy above. The Plough is plain to see and the Pole Star, too, is bright in the heavens.
Cara wraps her jacket around her. It’s cold, but she’s reluctant to go inside just yet. She smiles as she recalls Sky’s excitement when Christo’s father gave him a book on stargazing for his recent birthday. In an authoritative voice, her son told her how the Pole Star, or Polaris, was the main star of the constellation Ursa Minor, or Little Bear, which arched off from Polaris and was shaped like a smaller, fainter version of the Plough. She now traces its form. There is still so much wonder in the world, and she berates herself that it should take an eight-year-old to remind her of this. Quickly she steps away from the edge.
As Cara enters the bungalow, an impenetrable quiet crushes her. No children clamouring for her attention, and no Barnaby – on sleepover duties at the grandparents’ – to welcome her home. Removing her jacket, she hangs it on a hook, locks the porch door and switches on the light. As she walks through to the kitchen she notices Basil, the family’s black and white cat, asleep on the sofa in the living room. It’s his favourite spot in the colder months, only swapping allegiances to the kitchen window ledge once the sun has warmed its tiles.
Cara fills a glass with water and makes her way to Bethany’s bedroom. Pushing open the door, she switches on the light and takes in her daughter’s room. Everything is orderly, the duvet straightened, her clothes folded and the toys neatly stacked. Even the books on the shelf are lined up by author’s name. Cara glances at the walls. There’s hardly an inch to spare amongst the numerous pictures of horses and ponies: her daughter’s growing passion over the past two years. However, jostling for acknowledgement are two posters of the latest boy pin-up pop star. Cara smiles. Always quietly thoughtful, at eleven years old, Bethany has had to grow up fast. Cara pulls the door to and walks down the hallway to her son’s bedroom. She’s not surprised by what she sees, but still shakes her head at the chaotic state of his room. Clothes everywhere, dropped where abandoned and strewn over the floor amongst his toys. And his bed looks as if he’s only just got out of it! She raises her eyes to the full-sized surfboard dominating the far wall.
‘What’s he like, Christo?’ She laughs sadly, gazing at her late husband’s characterful, open face – forever young.
The board is one of the pieces she created for her degree, painting both their faces in Andy Warhol style on an electric-blue background. The surfboard used to dominate the living room wall, but after that summer with Oliver, and then growing larger with Toby, she felt it didn’t belong there any longer. Life was moving on. Although she knew it was ridiculous, it seemed unfair that Christo should watch over the new life she was about to bring into the world, and so she asked Sky if he would like the surfboard in his room. The young boy’s eyes shone.
Cara pulls her son’s door to and continues on to her bedroom. Placing the glass on the bedside table, she strips off, climbs into bed and pulls the duvet up around her ears. It’s unlike her to be melancholy but, tonight, she’s acutely aware of her aloneness. It must have something to do with the way Morwenna mentioned Oliver so casually, as if he were still part of their group. Has she made the right decision in keeping him out of their lives? She thinks so. It wouldn’t have been fair to Toby only seeing his father maybe a couple of times a year, if that. Bethany and Sky loved Oliver, but, having already lost their dad, they, too, would feel his frequent absences keenly.
‘It’s better for us this way,’ she says quietly.
After she sent Oliver the painting of the south coast of Cornwall and alerted him to Toby’s existence, he tried to make contact but she blocked his number on her mobile. Since then, she’s changed her number. It was important Oliver knew he had a son, but she made it blatantly clear she expected nothing from him. She didn’t want him to feel obliged to her and released him from all responsibility. That way, he could continue to be the father he always was to his four children by Deanna. It wasn’t an easy decision for her to reach, but it was necessary. He phoned the gallery a few times after that, but she didn’t answer. She simply let it go to answerphone and then deleted his messages without listening to them. Hearing his voice would have been her undoing. Eventually his phone calls dried up.
Turning over, Cara stares out of the French doors, the curtains still undrawn, and relives the terrible day that Oliver’s stalker jumped – or fell – from the cliffs. Poor Sylvie. They did all they could but there was no saving her; her injuries were too severe. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Cara attempts to block out the memory of how they held each other close that night. Two halves of a whole. As they lay in each other’s arms, gazing at the moon casting its light in the ink-black sky, a meteor shower gifted them with a display of streaking lights. It was the first time Oliver told her how much he loved her. She wondered if his declaration was brought on by the shocks of the day, although in her heart she knew it was true.
Cara sighs. A lifetime ago. So much has happened since, and Oliver has not been a part of it. She knows, however difficult the decision was, it was only right he returned to his family. What illusions they must have been under to think it could be any other way! As if only yesterday, she clearly remembers Oliver’s last performance at the Minack when his young son, ashen-faced and with his arm in plaster, was forced out of the shadows by his mother and onto the stage. The boy looked like his father and it touched her beyond measure the way Oliver crouched down to hold him in his arms with such tenderness. And then Cara recalls the complex look Deanna had given her: subservient, yet laced with an apology. But it also contained a fierce strength that told her, in no uncertain terms, that she, Oliver’s wife, would not allow her life to be stripped from her. Ultimately Deanna’s look turned to one of triumph. However painful it is, for the sake of her family and for her sanity, she has to banish Oliver not only from her thoughts but also from her heart.
Cara gazes at the night sky a little longer and then, climbing out of bed, closes the curtains.