Summer in a Cornish Cove by Kate Ryder (14)

Cara hits the ‘on’ button and waits for the computer to spring to life. Two days have passed since she visited Greg and his wife and she still can’t make sense of Marietta’s probing questions. She’s eager to discover more about the woman.

It’s quiet in the gallery, although there are more people about in Porthleven than there have been for several weeks. Early spring visitors. Cara searches for ‘Marietta Latimer-Jones’ and suddenly the screen is full of information. She clicks on a link which opens with a photograph of Marietta in her early thirties. It’s a wedding photo. Dressed in a white silk outfit with fur-lined cuffs and neckline, she wears a matching fur headband with a diamond-encrusted white lace veil. The beautiful blonde with the highest of cheekbones and baby blue eyes looks adoringly into the eyes of the man at her side.

Wow! You were one attractive man!

Greg is dressed in a sharp, black suit and crisp, white shirt under a silver/grey waistcoat. At his neck is a silver textured tie. His hair is luxuriously thick and dark and he gazes lovingly at his new bride. Cara reads the caption below the photograph.

No wonder she felt she was in the presence of royalty! Cara checks the wedding date and makes a quick calculation. So, Greg and Marietta are in their early fifties. She devours the accompanying article, which informs her that Marietta is a figurative artist who has exhibited all over the world, her trademark being strong, flamboyant brushstrokes full of joie de vivre. Cara also learns that Greg first met Marietta in her native Poland when she was a talented, but undiscovered, artist. Swiftly she became his protégée and he encouraged her to move to America to further her career. At the time Greg was married, though that marriage crumbled fairly quickly, and he and Marietta became the darlings of New York society, fêted wherever they went. Not long after Greg’s divorce, they married. However, although both husband and wife achieved great personal success, they never had children. When quizzed about her childless state, Marietta always responds, ‘Art is my life’s work. My paintings are my children.’

Cara looks up from the computer screen as two middle-aged women enter the gallery.

‘Oh, just look at all these divine paintings,’ says a small, plump brunette. She looks across the gallery and smiles at Cara.

‘If you need any help just ask,’ Cara says before quickly returning to the screen. Learning about Greg and Marietta is fascinating.

So Greg was married before! She’s not surprised. He’s so refined and sophisticated and was so attractive. Still is… in an older man sort of way. He could have – and obviously has had – anyone he’s ever wanted. No wonder he finds her so amusing! She must seem very hick and provincial. Cara glances up at the canvases adorning the gallery walls.

‘Don’t belittle yourself, Gwyneth.’ Christo’s voice fills her head. ‘I always believed in you and look where you are now.’

The two women are discussing her painting of St Michael’s Mount, which she portrayed against a stunning sunset of vermillion and crimson, blending to deep violet and fuchsia pink. Always keen to stretch people’s imaginations, she painted the causeway taking up the width of the canvas before swiftly reducing and leading the eye to the fortress sitting atop the granite outcrop.

‘Oh, this is just fab,’ says the small, plump brunette. ‘Do you think Himself would appreciate it?’

‘Does that matter?’ asks her friend with a laugh.

‘Not a lot!’

The women stand back from the canvas before moving to another, The Crown Mines at Botallack; the former tin mines dramatically perched on the cliffs above St Just. Cara has captured the landscape in the late afternoon sun with a grey, ominous sky hanging over a deep blue sea, the white surf crashing onto the rocks in the foreground. Full of atmosphere, it is an altogether earthier piece.

‘Oh, I just can’t make up my mind!’ the brunette says in exasperation.

‘Well, both paintings have drama but you’d have difficulty not noticing St Michael’s Mount,’ says her friend. ‘If you want Himself to be forever reminded what a heel he’s been choosing work over coming to Cornwall with you this weekend, well, this would definitely do the trick.’

The plump woman regards her friend for a moment before erupting into laughter. ‘St Michael’s Mount it is!’ Looking over at Cara, she asks, ‘You do take cards?’

Cara nods. She walks across the gallery and carefully removes the canvas from the wall. She painted it the summer before Christo fell ill, when both were blissfully unaware of the cruel twist of fate awaiting them only a few months later. They were happy and joyful, spending long, leisurely days on the beach with their young family, and she can see that joy reflected in her easy brushstrokes.

Unlike the painting of the cove. Will that ever take shape?

Wrapping the canvas in Bubble Wrap, Cara then packages it in brown paper before finally tying it off with string.

‘I hope you don’t mind carrying it like this? I don’t have any bags large enough.’

‘That’s fine, dear,’ says the small, plump brunette.

As Cara props the canvas against the counter, the gallery’s phone rings.

‘The Art Shack,’ she announces. Wedging the phone between her shoulder and chin, she processes the woman’s payment.

‘Cara, hi. Tristan.’

‘Hi, Trist. How’s it going?’ She hands the woman her receipt.

‘Good, thanks. Just a thought – Rob’s free tomorrow and it looks like we’re in for a fine day. We could fix your roof, if you like.’

‘Great! It will be a relief to have the studio finally sorted. What time?’ Cara watches the women exit the gallery.

‘Around ten. Jane said she’d like to come as well.’

‘Oh, good. I like your girlfriend.’

Tristan chuckles. ‘Yeah, me too!’

Cara smiles. ‘I’ll do lunch.’

‘Great stuff, Cara. See you then.’

‘Bye, Trist.’

She punches in her home telephone number. ‘Hi, Mum. Everyone behaving themselves?’

‘Like little lambs. How are things in Porthleven?’

‘I’ve sold a few small items and two paintings, including the large St Michael’s Mount. I’ll bring in more canvases on Monday. By the way, how are you fixed for time tonight?’

‘We’re only going over to Sheila and Barry’s for supper. Why?’

‘Tristan and co are coming over for lunch tomorrow and I’d like to call into the farm shop on the way home.’

‘That’s fine, darling. It’s such a lovely sunny afternoon I thought we’d all go for a walk on the beach.’

‘Good idea. See you around five.’

*

It’s a glorious afternoon and the unexpected appearance of the yellow orb in the sky has brought out not only the inhabitants of the cove but also visitors from further afield. The beach is alive with activity. Oliver sits on the decking to Rick’s Beach Hut enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon sun. During the previous two days, he and Tas have visited several venues booked for the forthcoming tour and the variety of buildings they will be performing in has surprised him, each presenting its own challenges and particular atmosphere. It seems fitting to Oliver that the opening performance will be at Sterts Open Air Theatre on the eastern slopes of Bodmin Moor, with the closing performances in early September at that other open-air theatre in the west of the county, the Minack.

Earlier in the day they visited Blisland Inn on Bodmin Moor. ‘A real pub where real men drink real ale,’ Tas informed him. With seven real ales to choose from they were spoilt for choice but, following the landlord’s suggestion, decided on a pint of King Buddha Special and the dark and malty Blisland Bulldog to go with their rump steaks in baps. The landlord, hale and hearty, regaled them with tales of his days serving the Royal Navy but, all too soon, the brief break in their schedule came to an end. Before heading off to the village hall to meet the caretaker and firm up their booking, Tas promised the landlord they would visit the inn again, only this time with the rest of the cast and crew in tow.

Oliver sips his coffee. Wispy white clouds dot a clear blue sky that merges with the sea, making it difficult to separate the one from the other. Half a dozen sail boats tack across the bay and a couple of canoeists drift leisurely in the shallows. Windbreaks and beach shelters have sprung up along the sand, giving the impression of a pop-up village. From Rick’s decking the view encompasses the full length of the cove, as far as the flat-topped rock jutting out of the water about a hundred yards offshore. As Oliver glances up at the half-dozen assorted properties hugging the cove, the cliffs rising dramatically behind them, he wonders about the people lucky enough to live here with the beach as their playground. Two of the houses appear to be in immaculate condition, but a slight air of dilapidation hangs over the others. It’s a peaceful, tranquil scene and, with the sun beating down, it could be anywhere in the world. Oliver breathes in the salty sea air and stretches his legs. The decked area is sheltered from any breeze by partial glass walls and he is alone but for a young couple sitting in the far corner, holding hands and talking earnestly.

How lucky they are to have their whole lives ahead of them.

The thought depresses him and he tries to shake off the feeling. The ‘grey mist’ has been absent until now, though he knows it is forever waiting to pounce in an unguarded moment. Oliver considers upping his medication.

A movement at the far end of the beach distracts him. A red Frisbee arcs through the air towards the sea, closely followed by a yellow streak that leaps, halts its flight, then disappears beneath the waves. Resurfacing a few yards further out, the dog paddles back to shore with its head held high, the red disc in its mouth. A blond lad, dressed in shorts and a striped T-shirt, stands at the water’s edge. Oliver watches as the Labrador emerges from the sea, shakes itself and deposits the Frisbee at the boy’s feet. Then, taking a few steps back, it waits expectantly. Again, the Frisbee is thrown into the air and the yellow dog streaks up the beach, never once taking its eyes off the target. Suddenly it leaps into the air, expertly catching the red disc in its mouth.

Such freedom. Lucky lad.

‘Hey, Ollie, Rick’s invited a few people over for supper tonight.’ Tas pulls out a chair and sits down opposite him, a glass of beer in his hand. ‘Tan wants to try out some new dish on us all. Apparently, cooking’s her latest hobby.’

‘Well, if the meal the other night is anything to go by we’re in for a treat,’ Oliver says generously.

Tas grunts. ‘Yeah, Tania knows her way to a man’s heart... one way or another!’

Oliver raises an eyebrow. ‘Voice of experience?’

‘You could say that!’ The Tasmanian smiles wickedly.

Looking along the beach again, Oliver notices a woman and a young blonde girl have now joined the boy. As they walk in the direction of the café, the boy continues his game with the dog, which never misses a catch.

At least those two will sleep well tonight.

Silently, Oliver laughs at himself. Always the father!

There’s something fascinating about this little group. The boy’s natural exuberance speaks to Oliver’s greyer, more cautious nature and the girl reminds him of a young Samantha. Come to think of it, the woman seems familiar.

‘Could get used to this life,’ says Tas, leaning back in his chair and turning his face to the sun.

‘Yes. Great not to have a care in the world.’

Tas squints at his friend. ‘Hasn’t got any better over time, then?’

Taken by surprise, Oliver realises he’s spoken the thought out loud. ‘Not a lot. I know how to handle it better, but it’s never far away.’

Tas shakes his head. ‘The world has no idea.’

‘And I wouldn’t want it to,’ says Oliver.

‘No. But everyone thinks you lead such a charmed existence, Mr Fox.’

‘I’m not an actor for nothing,’ Oliver says drily.

Tas observes his friend a while longer. Rising from his chair, he asks, ‘Do you want something to eat, Ollie?’

‘No, thanks. I’ll save myself for Tania’s delights.’

‘Ah yes, Tania’s delights! Once sampled, never forgotten.’ Tas laughs and walks inside the café.

Oliver sips his coffee. Suddenly the girl in the corner lets out a shriek. Glancing up, he sees the red Frisbee flying towards him. As it lands, skimming across the wooden boards, he puts out a foot and halts its progress just as the Labrador arrives at the edge of the decking. It looks at him inquisitively, then back at the young boy charging across the beach.

‘Sorry, the wind caught it,’ pants Sky.

Oliver looks into a face full of character, cheeky and charming, and something stirs within his soul. He bends to pick up the Frisbee.

‘Did it hit you?’ asks Sky.

‘No.’ He smiles at the lad. ‘I’ve been watching you two on the beach. Your dog has very good eye to mouth co-ordination.’

‘It’s his favourite game,’ says Sky, affectionately rubbing the Labrador’s head. ‘Barnaby and me, we can do this for hours.’

Rising to his feet, Oliver walks to the edge of the decking and hands the Frisbee back to the boy.

‘I’m Oliver,’ he says, wondering why he feels it’s important to introduce himself.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Sky says in as adult a voice as he can muster, which makes Oliver smile. ‘I’m Sky and that’s my sister, Beth.’ He points behind him.

The approaching girl has an angelic face, different from her brother’s and not quite so open, but still full of light and promise.

‘Hello, Beth,’ Oliver says.

Bethany stops and smiles shyly, then frowns. Turning away, she looks anxiously in the direction of her grandma, who is still some way behind chatting to Janine and the twins.

Oliver follows her gaze. He never forgets a face and instantly recognises the woman from the gallery in Porthleven. As Carol approaches, he watches the healthy glow to her cheeks increase and remembers how flustered she was that day he’d bought the painting.

‘Well, hello again,’ he says in a friendly manner.

‘Hello,’ says Carol, her mind in a spin. Fighting to gain control of her emotions, she draws her granddaughter to her for protection. Sky studies his grandma with interest.

‘Do these delightful children belong to you?’ asks Oliver.

‘Yes, my grandchildren.’

Aware that Sky laps up their interplay, Oliver glances down at the boy, now casually leaning against the glass and grinning from ear to ear.

He’s certainly going to break some hearts.

‘Surely not? Surely they’re your children!’

From anyone else, thinks Carol – like that smooth American – the comment would sound really crass, but from him, well... What a compliment!

‘You are too kind, Oliver.’ Speaking his name, as if he’s an old friend, helps Carol assert a modicum of control over the situation and regain some composure.

‘I’m sorry but I don’t think I ever knew your name,’ says Oliver, ‘though I’d never forget your face.’

‘Carol,’ she says, flushing again.

‘How do you know Grandma?’ asks Sky.

Oliver smiles at the boy. ‘I bought a painting from your grandma last year. A wonderful painting that I enjoy every day.’

Sky nods. ‘The Minack.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Oliver says in surprise.

‘Mum loved painting that,’ Bethany says in a quiet, serious voice. ‘The cormorants flap their wings when no one is looking.’

Sky gives his sister a withering look.

‘Did you know the waves move too?’ Oliver says in as serious a voice as the girl’s.

Carol laughs. How charming!

Wide-eyed, Bethany looks up at Oliver. He winks. Quickly she dips her head but not before he’s caught her shy smile.

‘It may seem unbelievable, but I have studied that painting at length and I swear your daughter has given it life,’ Oliver says to Carol.

Carol smiles and weakens her grip on her granddaughter’s shoulder.

Walking from the interior of the café, Tas sees that Oliver has attracted a bit of a crowd – a pretty, older woman, typically flustered, and a cute, young blonde girl, gazing spellbound. However, the boy leaning against the glass with the Labrador at his feet seems to be taking it all in his stride. Tas approaches the little group.

‘Tas, this is Carol, mother of the artist Cara Penhaligon,’ Oliver says, standing aside to include his friend. ‘This, here, is young Sky and his dog, Barnaby, and, last but not least, this is the delightful Beth.’ He smiles warmly at the young girl.

‘Hello, one and all,’ says Tas, sweeping into a deep, theatrical bow to which Sky laughs, Bethany giggles and Carol smiles. ‘I hope you will come and see our production when we’re in the county next month.’

‘What are you performing?’ asks Carol.

‘A drama. The Tasmanian Devil Theatre Company’s production of Sorrows in the Sand and Oliver is the leading man,’ Tas says, knowing this will pull in the ladies and put bums on seats.

‘The Tasmanian Devil Theatre Company,’ repeats Sky quietly, trying out the words.

‘I’ll certainly come along and bring some friends,’ promises Carol.

‘That would be a great start!’ says Tas with a chuckle. ‘I look forward to seeing you there.’

‘So,’ says Oliver, ‘I’ve met the family Penhaligon and yet I have still to meet the artist herself.’

‘If you’re in the cove you’re bound to meet Mum,’ says Sky.

‘Oh, why’s that, then?’ asks Oliver playfully. ‘Does she also hang out at Rick’s Beach Hut?’

‘Sometimes, but we live over there.’ Sky points to the cliffs at the far end of the beach.

‘Talking of which,’ says Carol, ‘I must get you home before she gets back.’ She doesn’t have to but, for some reason, feels the need to halt the course of this conversation. She holds out her hand to Sky.

‘Nice to meet you, Oliver Foxley,’ Sky says, pushing himself off the glass. Calling to Barnaby, he walks towards his grandma.

‘And very nice to meet you too, Sky Penhaligon.’ Oliver smiles in amusement. It’s only then that he wonders how the boy knows his full name.

Carol bids the men farewell.

Oliver and Tas watch the little family as they make their way along the beach. Sky, once again, throws the Frisbee for his dog. About thirty yards away, Bethany looks back and seeing Oliver still watching, breaks into a shy smile and waves. With his heart surprisingly pinching, Oliver returns her wave. Why does this little family group fascinate him so?

‘Even the young, Mr Fox,’ comments Tas. ‘No one leaves untouched…’

*

It’s dark in the lane and Sylvie switches on the small torch. She’s already turned her ankle once. Loud rustling in the hedgerow a few feet away makes her jump. With her heart thumping wildly, she shines the torch in the direction of the sound and flashes the light up and over the hedge. All is still. Turning back to the task in hand she continues up the lane towards the farmhouse, avoiding the deep ruts.

Sylvie has spent the day following the Jeep from village to village. When it finally pulled up at the café on the beach, she waited until Oliver and the driver were inside before parking at the rear of the car park. Not knowing how long they’d be there, she walked along the beach and sat on the warm sand some distance away. For the next hour, or so, she kept her binoculars trained on the café. When she witnessed a woman and two children stop and talk to Oliver she vented her frustration with an angry shout. Why should this woman so easily approach him?

Sylvie trips and twists her ankle. ‘Bloody road!’

Stopping to rub the offending leg, she freezes. Is that a car? Frantically she looks around, but there’s no obvious escape. Ignoring the pain in her ankle, Sylvie scrambles up the bank, switches off her torch and presses herself tightly into a prickly blackthorn in early bloom. Headlights appear in the near distance before sweeping in through the granite entrance pillars. Doors open and close and voices briefly fill the air. Then silence. Gingerly, Sylvie clambers down the bank, rubbing her arms and pulling out several thorns. Should she abandon her plan and go back to the car? No, she’s so close now.

There are five cars parked in front of the farmhouse. From two downstairs windows, light illuminates part way into the garden. Stepping out from behind one of the granite pillars and keeping close to the garden wall on her right, Sylvie makes her way stealthily towards an outhouse a short distance away. As she slips undercover of the lean-to she can see figures moving from one room to another. It’s a clear night and the moon, though on the wane, shines its silvery light as she creeps across the lawn towards the farmhouse. Suddenly a figure appears at a window. She freezes. It’s the driver of the Jeep. Sylvie holds her breath. If he looks out now he is sure to see her.

But Tas doesn’t look out. His attention is elsewhere as he roughly closes the curtains, leaving a narrow gap. Sylvie lets out a long breath. It would be too embarrassing if she was caught wandering about in the garden. What would Oliver think of her then? She starts walking towards the farmhouse again. Peering through the gap in the curtains, she can see a large inglenook fireplace in which a fire has been lit. A man and a woman sit on a couch, their faces rosy from the heat. In front of them, a large coffee table is littered with several open bottles of wine and a number of glasses.

The lawns lead directly up to the farmhouse and Sylvie makes her way across the grass to the next window. Here, the gap in the curtains is wider, allowing a better view, and as she looks through she catches her breath. Sitting in a wingback armchair is Oliver, looking relaxed in an open-necked shirt and denim jeans. He is so damned gorgeous! She watches as he smiles at someone approaching. All at once, a tall, blonde woman walks into view, wearing tight-fitting jeans, a wide leather belt and a silky, loose, strappy top. She bends forward to hand Oliver a glass, at the same time giving him an eyeful of cleavage.

Sylvie’s eyes narrow. What a bitch, openly flaunting herself like that! Watching carefully, she observes the look in the woman’s eyes as she speaks to Oliver. He says something that makes her laugh and she flicks her hair over her shoulders, not once taking her smouldering eyes off him. Sylvie fumes. So near and yet so far. Why is he being so cruel, keeping her waiting? What is she going to do about it? Her mind is in turmoil. There are no clear answers and she must get back to her job… if she wants to keep it.

As she watches Tania perch playfully on the arm of Oliver’s chair and flirt with him, Sylvie’s jealousy grows until she is white with rage. She wants to throw a brick through the window, or, better still, smash the woman’s head against a rock. How she’d love to feel the warm, sticky ooze of blood seeping through her fingers as the bitch’s life drains away.

Sylvie turns away. She cannot watch any longer. Walking towards the corner of the farmhouse, she peers through the windows but all are in darkness, apart from the kitchen. The driver of the Jeep and another man sit at a table, drinking. A television in the background displays the news. It must be past ten. Sylvie carries on round the property, which is larger than it looks from the front. As she turns the corner, a door suddenly opens and an oblong of light pools out across the lawn. A burst of laughter and two figures step out into the garden. It’s Oliver and the bitch. Shrinking into the shadows, Sylvie watches as the woman turns to the actor.

‘So, Oliver, how about it, then? You and me,’ Tania says, confident of her sexual prowess.

‘I’ve told you, I’m a married man.’

‘Bet that’s never stopped you before.’ Oliver laughs. ‘Go on,’ she coaxes, ‘I just know we’d make sweet music together.’

Moving towards him, she puts her arms around his neck and presses her body against his. He can feel her breasts against his chest and the large buckle of her belt digs into his belly. Teasingly she sways against him. Placing his hands firmly on her hips, Oliver holds her still. Flattering as it is, he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t know what, but he has come to Cornwall for something else.

‘Tania, it’s not that I don’t find you attractive,’ he says, not wanting to offend her. ‘You are a stunning woman and I am only human…’

‘So what’s the problem?’ Tania purrs, ignoring Oliver’s firm hold and swaying against him once again.

‘As I said, I’m married.’ Oliver tightens his grip. ‘And you are with Rick.’

‘So?’ Tania challenges. ‘Rick wouldn’t mind. He’s cool.’ She steps away from him, out into the oblong of light so he can see her more clearly.

Knowing she’s in danger of being discovered, Sylvie shrinks further into the shadows.

Tania raises her hands high above her head. Her skimpy top rides up to expose a flat, firm stomach and the cool night air teases her nipples erect under the silky material. She starts to sway, dipping and rising, not once breaking eye contact with Oliver. There’s something deeply primal about her moves – a private, erotic dance just for him. Oliver swallows hard. She sure is one sexy lady.

‘Just let it happen, Oliver,’ Tania says in a husky whisper. Moving closer again, she rocks her body against his and draws him into a kiss.

Briefly, Oliver closes his eyes. She’s sensuous, hot and tastes of whisky.

‘Argh, Tania. Stop!’ he groans, pulling away. ‘You are one very naughty lady.’

Tania gazes up at him, disappointment reflected in her eyes. ‘She must be pretty special, this wife of yours. One helluva pistol-packing woman.’

‘She is.’

‘Oh, well, I won’t hold that against you.’ She laughs hollowly at her small joke and swallows her desire. ‘But you can’t stop me flirting with you, Oliver Foxley.’

Laughing softly, Oliver shakes his head.

‘Come on then, we’d better join the others,’ Tania says. ‘They’ll be wondering where we’ve got to.’ Reluctantly, she turns back into the farmhouse.

Sylvie’s eyes have narrowed to mere slits as she lurks in the darkness. Sick with jealousy, she clenches her fists, her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. She’s so confused. He won’t phone her but he’ll fool around with that Australian harlot. Why? She thought he liked to play hard to get, but, apart from that lame excuse about being married, he wasn’t exactly unavailable to that woman. The bitch! How dare she? He belongs to her! She will have to remind him of that.

Sylvie contemplates her next move and it might just have to involve that pistol-packing wife of his.