Summer in a Cornish Cove by Kate Ryder (11)

Walking along Harbour Road, Greg turns up his collar against the biting wind blowing in off the sea. Hunching into his jacket and quickening his pace, he heads towards the courtyard.

Carol is carefully dusting shelves, listening to her favourite Moody Blues CD, and doesn’t hear the man enter. She’s miles away, concentrating on Justin Hayward’s mellow voice singing about the sun through the trees and a leaf on the breeze, and there’s a faraway look in her eyes as she breaks into song.

Greg watches, amused. Eventually, he says, ‘Justin might not be here, but I am!’

Carol spins around, rudely transported back to windy, overcast Porthleven. ‘Oh, sorry! I didn’t hear you enter.’

As the strains of ‘Forever Autumn’ fade and the more upbeat ‘The Voice’ fills the gallery, Carol studies the man before her. A smooth, attractive American; not the usual type found in Cornwall during February. She wonders what’s blown him in.

‘How can I help?’

‘It’s been suggested I should view Cara’s paintings,’ Greg says, looking around the gallery. ‘I assume these are they?’

‘Yes.’

As he stands back to examine the paintings adorning the walls, Greg experiences an intense emotion. Carol watches, fascinated. His clothes are stylish and expensive, and there’s an air of money about him. Like her daughter, she wonders what he does for a living.

‘Do you know much about the artist?’ he asks.

Carol laughs. ‘More than most!’

Greg drags his eyes away from the enticing canvases. ‘I take it she is special to you?’

Carol smiles. ‘Very.’

He frowns, his mouth twisting in annoyance, and Carol adds ‘control freak’ to her assessment. As Greg walks round the gallery, moving in closer to examine a painting before viewing it from afar, Carol wonders whether he is an art collector. Maybe Barry is right, Cara should add another thousand pounds to her paintings. The sound of the phone interrupts her musings.

‘Good afternoon, The Art Shack.’ Had she imagined it or did Greg sniff disdainfully?

‘Hi, Mum. How’s it going? Are you bored stiff? Any customers?’

‘Darling! I’ve just finished dusting the ceramics,’ Carol says loudly before turning her back on the man and whispering, ‘and I’m currently being entertained by a rather refined American.’

‘Greg?’

‘I have no idea. We are not on first-name terms!’

‘Richard Gere type, about five feet nine, slim build, salt and pepper hair with steely grey eyes,’ Cara says.

Carol turns. The man is scrutinising the large canvas, which takes up a good proportion of the rear wall. Full of atmosphere, it portrays a wild sea at Portreath, the focal point a wave smashing against the end of the pier and pluming high above the stonework.

‘Yes, I would say so.’

‘He and his wife are in the UK while she recuperates from something,’ Cara explains. ‘Has he bought anything?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, I thought he might have,’ Cara says disappointedly.

‘Not yet anyway,’ Carol says. As Greg glances across at her, she wonders if he knows they’re discussing him. ‘Darling, I’d better go.’

‘OK, Mum, but try and sell him something. I’m sure he’s loaded!’

As Carol replaces the phone, Greg asks, ‘This artist who is so very special to you, is she a family member?’

‘Ah, you’ve found us out.’ Ignoring his patronising tone, Carol forces herself to warm to the man.

‘A sister?’ He seems amused by something, and his steely grey eyes toy with her. ‘Or a daughter, perhaps?’

‘Yes, Cara is my daughter,’ Carol says, choosing not to rise to him.

Greg stares at her long and hard. ‘Does she have an agent?’

‘An agent?’ Carol repeats.

‘Yes, an agent!’ he says, irritation registering in his crisp tone.

‘No, she doesn’t have an agent. Why do you ask?’ Feeling threatened by his interest, Carol experiences an overpowering maternal instinct towards her daughter.

Greg raises his eyebrows. ‘Your daughter has a rare and unique gift, that’s why. I’d like to discuss it further with her.’

He takes a step towards her. Automatically, Carol steps back, thankful the counter is between them. Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, Greg produces a soft leather wallet and withdraws a business card. Neatly and purposefully, he places it on the counter in front of her.

‘I’d like you to pass this to Cara and ask her to phone me.’ It’s an instruction, not a request.

Carol nods, unable to say a word. Her whole being screams at him to take his studied, cosmopolitan attitude back to whichever part of the States he’s come from and leave them alone to get on with their lives.

Looking at her once more to ensure she has understood, Greg abruptly exits the gallery.

Carol glances down at the card. Slowly, she picks it up. Greg Latimer-Jones is Chief Art Director with The New York Times!

This could be a turning point for Cara. Carol knows she should be overjoyed that someone influential has recognised her daughter’s talent, but she cannot ignore the niggling unease lurking in the pit of her stomach.

*

‘Can you drop Sammy at the station, Ollie?’ Deanna asks from the study doorway.

‘When?’ Oliver asks without looking up from the computer.

‘Now. She and Rosie are going to Guildford again.’

Oliver is only half-listening. Tas says he will pick him up on Thursday for the pre-recce tour of Cornwall. It sounds like fun.

‘Oliver?’ Deanna’s voice scythes through his concentration.

‘Yes, Deanna, I’ll take her.’ Oliver logs off. He can visit the pharmacy at the same time and collect his medication.

Deanna turns away, her mind already on the next chore. Immediately, Jamie takes her place.

‘Dad, can I come too?’

‘Sure. Grab a coat.’

The boy turns and runs down the hallway. Oliver follows, scooping a set of car keys out of the wooden bowl on the hall table.

Samantha takes the last three stairs in one bound and lands at his feet. ‘Thanks, Dad!’ She gives him a peck on his cheek.

‘Sammy, is that all you’re wearing? It is only February!’

‘Da-ad!’ She draws out the word and gives him a withering look. ‘Don’t stress. This is cool!’ She opens her hands expressively, showing off her outfit to him.

Oliver looks at his daughter standing there all fawn-like with her long, denim-clad legs, her T-shirt and short cardigan barely covering her midriff. ‘Yes, and you’ll be extremely cool if you don’t wear something warmer.’

Samantha sighs. Walking to the lobby, she selects a thin, fitted, short jacket from the coat rack.

What can he do? Like her mother, she’s her own woman.

Grabbing his jacket, Oliver calls down the hallway, ‘I’m taking the Range Rover and Jamie’s coming with me.’

‘Pick up some milk, Ollie,’ says Deanna, appearing in the kitchen doorway. ‘We’re running low.’

‘Will do.’

As the Range Rover pulls out of the driveway onto the track, Jamie glances right. He notices a dark blue vehicle waiting at the entrance to the car park serving the walking trails through the forest. There’s nothing unusual about this but its number plate displays his initials – JAF. Fifteen minutes later Oliver turns onto the station forecourt. Rosie is already there and the car has barely come to a halt before Samantha jumps out. Enthusiastically, she hugs her best friend.

Such expressive behaviour. You’d think they hadn’t seen each other for months!

Oliver lowers the window. ‘What time will you be home?’

‘Not sure. Rosie’s mum’s dropping me off later.’

‘OK, Sammy.’ He smiles at the two teenagers. ‘Have a good time.’

‘If our plans change I’ll give you a bell,’ says Samantha, grabbing her friend’s hand and walking briskly towards the ticket office.

Oliver glances in the rear-view mirror at his son sitting quietly in the back seat. ‘How about we have a hot chocolate in that little café in Market Street?’

The boy’s face lights up. Enthusiastically, he nods.

Ten minutes later, Oliver reverses the Range Rover into a parking bay in one of the town’s three car parks. A dark blue car passes by. Jamie watches as it turns left beyond the next row of cars and slowly makes its way along the adjacent lane.

‘Here you go.’ Leaning over the seat, Oliver hands his son a few coins. ‘An hour’s ticket should be enough.’

The boy joins the queue for the ticket machine, keeping an eye on the dark blue car, which has pulled into a parking bay opposite the Range Rover, a double row of cars between. As the woman in front of him moves away, Jamie reaches up and inserts the coins into the slot. He listens to the change tumbling down inside the machine before pressing the yellow button. Taking the ticket, he walks directly up the aisle towards the dark blue car… JAF. He can’t see who’s in the driver’s seat because he, or she, is reaching for something in the passenger footwell. Squeezing between the row of cars, Jamie walks towards the Range Rover and hands the ticket to his dad.

As they head towards the alleyway, Jamie lengthens his stride to keep up with Oliver and, soon, they emerge onto the high street. The locals are used to seeing Oliver out and about with his family and generally leave him alone. It’s only strangers who stop and stare, not quite believing they’ve just seen that actor in this Surrey market town. Today, however, father and son make their way unencumbered through the morning shoppers towards The Bean. The café is heaving and there’s only one free table. The friendly waitress has served them before and she welcomes them again. She’s young and chatty and as she engages Jamie in conversation, Oliver watches his quiet, sensitive son grow in stature. Maybe his concerns are unfounded. Perhaps the boy won’t face the same gremlins. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

‘Are you ready to order?’ the waitress asks.

‘Hot chocolate with marshmallows, please,’ says Jamie.

‘Oh, if only all my customers were as easy to please,’ she says, giving him a wink.

‘And a cappuccino for me,’ says Oliver, opening a menu.

‘She’s nice,’ the boy says, as soon as the waitress is out of earshot. Looking round, he spies a school friend at the entrance and waves. He turns back to Oliver. ‘Dad, where are you and Uncle Tas going?’

‘Cornwall,’ Oliver says, looking up from the menu, ‘checking out venues for the play.’

‘Will you be away long?’ Jamie bites his lip.

‘About a week this time. From Easter I’ll be away a bit more often until September.’

The boy looks crestfallen and Oliver feels wretched. His children are used to his absences and none are particularly affected, apart from Jamie.

‘I’ll be home between performances.’ Oliver leans forward and affectionately chucks his son under the chin. ‘Jamie, it’s OK. I’ll be back before you know it.’

The boy looks lost.

It’s a look Oliver used to wear, although he never had the benefit of a parent’s reassurance. It’s hard enough when you’re an adult but at nine years old, the same age as Jamie, he didn’t realise what was happening to him. He was always over-thinking things, worrying about what others thought and if he’d hurt their feelings. He felt so tired, low and helpless most of the time, and was often on the verge of a panic attack. Sometimes he felt too scared to even go outside and his feelings of anxiety and suffocation could quickly get out of control, especially in crowded places. That’s why, whenever he and Deanna have to be present at star-studded events, they make sure Jamie is kept well away from the spotlight.

‘Here you go,’ says the waitress, arriving at their table and presenting a welcome distraction. ‘One cappuccino and a mug of hot chocolate.’ She beams at Jamie.

Picking up a spoon, Jamie shovels cream and marshmallows into his mouth. To a casual onlooker he would seem like any other boy of his age simply enjoying time out with his dad.

Oliver stares at the chocolate-dusting stencilled leaf on the surface of his cappuccino, struggling with feelings of guilt sitting uncomfortably alongside the ‘grey mist’. As soon as they’ve finished their drinks he will pick up his medication. He takes a mouthful.

With a cream moustache adorning his upper lip, Jamie looks in the direction of his friend now sitting at a table by the window. He notices a small, skinny woman enter the café and scan the room, her intense gaze settling on Oliver for a long while before shifting to him. There’s a wild look in the eyes that hold his a fraction longer than is comfortable, and Jamie breathes in sharply.

Oliver glances up. Seeing the look of apprehension on his son’s face, he turns in the direction of his gaze.

Shit! That looks like Sylvie.

He places his cup in its saucer and looks again, but the doorway is empty. The thought of her makes his stomach churn. As his heart starts to hammer, the café walls close in and he struggles to breathe.

Dear God! Not a panic attack.

‘Jamie, I’m just stepping outside for a moment.’

The boy nods but says nothing.

Oliver quickly exits onto the street. The cold air offers some relief and his palpitations diminish with each deep intake of breath. Why is she still haunting him? It’s been three weeks since he returned from the retreat. Exercise and daily meditation have helped but she still lurks in the dark, shadowy recesses of his mind. Oliver glances along the street one way and then the other.

She couldn’t possibly be here, could she? Where did she say she lived? Was it somewhere in London?

He scans the high street again but there’s no sign of Sylvie. He must have imagined it. Re-entering the café, Oliver settles up at the till and walks back to the table.

‘Come on, Jamie, let’s go.’

The boy smiles shyly at the waitress clearing away their empty cups and zips up his jacket before following his dad outside.

Oliver scans the high street once more. Paranoia is not something he wants to add to his list of failings. Holding his son’s hand, he walks purposefully up the street towards the pharmacy and new stocks of his medication.

When they return to the car park and approach the Range Rover, a sheet of paper pinned under the windscreen wiper catches Oliver’s eye. He extracts it and, with mounting apprehension, unfolds the note.

A sliver of fear uncoils in the pit of his stomach and his eyes sweep over the car park. He glances down at his son. The quicker they’re out of here, the better.

Jamie is quieter than usual on the homeward journey. Not that Oliver notices, preoccupied, as he is, with all manner of scenarios playing out in his head. As the Range Rover turns into the driveway for Hunter’s Moon, Jamie peers down the track, but there’s no sign of the dark blue car.

Pulling up in front of the house, Oliver’s senses are on high alert. What was Sylvie doing in town and how did she know this was his car? This is a secluded spot, well off the beaten track, and their phone number is ex-directory, but just how easy would it be for her to discover where he lives? He rubs the hairs standing erect on the back of his neck.

Jamie is already through the front door and hanging his jacket in the lobby when Oliver enters the house.

‘Did you get the milk?’ Deanna asks, appearing in the hallway.

Damn! That was the last thing on his mind.

‘Oh, Oliver. I ask only one thing of you!’

Startled by his mother’s harsh tone, Jamie stares at his parents. As Deanna marches towards them, Oliver takes a step back.

‘Why is it always me who has to sort out this family?’ she hisses, grabbing the keys out of his hand.

‘Deanna, let me get the milk,’ Oliver says, quickly following her out to the car.

‘Oliver, you’ve already been to get it once!’ Deanna says, repositioning the driver’s seat. ‘As usual, I’m the one who has to cope with everything around here. Aargh!’ She thumps the steering wheel, takes a deep breath and steadies herself. When she speaks again her voice is calm. ‘Just go to Cornwall.’

Oliver stares at her. ‘OK, Deanna, I’ll do just that,’ he says, his voice equally calm.

Briefly, Deanna hesitates. The next minute she slams her foot down hard on the accelerator, sending the back wheels into a spin. As a shower of gravel flies towards him, Oliver jumps out of the way. Frowning, he watches the Range Rover skid out of the drive. How can two people share the same life and yet be so separate? He so wants to share his fears and concerns with her.

Oliver stamps the gravel back into place as an iron fist squeezes his heart and depression takes hold.