True to their word, Tristan and Rob fix the leaking studio roof, making good until Cara can afford a more permanent repair. Jane accompanies them and Cara delights in her company. The feeling is mutual, and the companionable, easy day quickly slips into evening. When she eventually gets to her bedroom, Cara sits on the edge of the bed and picks up the photo frame on her bedside table. It’s her favourite picture of Christo, taken on the day she told him she was pregnant with Sky. His eyes are warm and full of love for his best friend who just so happens to be his wife. Their little family will soon be complete and life is good. They are not financially well off, nevertheless they want for nothing.
‘Oh, Christo. Why?’
It’s a heart-rending plea and Cara’s eyes mist over. The hurt is as keen as ever. Time has not lessened the pain, merely masked it. Ominous, dark clouds obliterate her usually sunny outlook. Holding his photo tightly to her chest, she curls up into a ball as a hot, wet tear slides down the side of her face.
‘Why?’ The word is on her lips as she falls asleep.
Cara wakes several hours later in the same position, her face puffy and blotchy. Replacing the photo frame on the bedside table, she glances at the clock – 4.30 a.m. As she makes her way down the hallway and checks on her children, Barnaby appears at the living-room door.
‘It’s OK, Barns,’ she whispers. The dog cocks its head to one side; it’s unusual for a human to be up at this time.
Returning to her bedroom with Barnaby at her heels, Cara swiftly undresses and hops under the duvet. She closes her eyes against her reality, the enormity of which is overwhelming at this early hour, and when the dog jumps onto the bed she doesn’t have the strength to send him away. As Barnaby lies down beside her, Cara draws his body to her for comfort. Eventually she falls into a fitful sleep.
A blond, teenage boy with mischief in his eyes coaxes her to climb the cliffs. They know they shouldn’t. They’ve been warned against the crumbling cliff face many times, but they are young and invincible and defying their parents. The young Christo reaches down to her with outstretched hand and she extends her arm, yearning for his touch. But, just as his hand closes upon hers, the scene alters and here is Christo in his early twenties, happy and carefree. Lying on a towel on the sand, her body hot from a summer’s sun, Cara watches him ride the waves; at one with the ocean. This is when the joyful, young man is at his happiest. Hearing his laughter, she senses his exhilaration. Suddenly he’s running up the beach. Standing over her, he blocks out the warmth of the sun and shakes his head, showering her with cold droplets. Cara yelps. Once again, he holds out his hand, this time persuading her to come into the sea with him. Eagerly she reaches for him but as soon as she feels his tender, loving touch, he is gone…
Cara wakes, exhausted, and engages with the day a ghost of her normal self. Janine arrives to collect Bethany and Sky for the school run and her larger than life presence and booming voice make Cara wilt under the assault. Once the children depart, she slumps onto the sofa with head in hands.
Come on, Gwyneth, this won’t do. Christo’s voice fills her head.
She looks up, startled. There’s no one there, of course, and she glances up at the surfboard dominating the living room wall with his characterful face smiling down at her.
‘It’s all very well you saying that,’ she moans. ‘You don’t know how you teased me last night.’ She can hear his joyful laugh. ‘Christo, why are you doing this to me?’
Silence. She lies back and closes her eyes. Then, taking a deep breath, she steels herself and rises from the sofa.
Good girl, Gwynnie.
Is this what it’s like to go mad, hearing voices? No, that’s talking to yourself – she hasn’t got there yet…
She makes a coffee and decides to tackle the painting of the cove again. As she climbs the stairs to her studio, Barnaby’s nails tap-tap on the wooden treads behind her. Padding over to the corner of the room, the dog flops down against the radiator. Basil is already settled on the window sill. Cara switches on the radio and places the canvas on the easel. She stands for a while critically examining the painting, then picks up the paintbrush. Two hours later she lets out an exasperated sigh. The painting still evades her. She is unhappy with its composition and her brushstrokes feel all wrong. She glances out at the beach – a subtle mix of grey with heavy mizzle diffusing the light. How fitting! In an attempt to shake herself out of the sombre mood threatening to derail her, she puts the painting aside and starts on something completely different. Suddenly Barnaby is on his feet.
‘What’s up, Barns?’
The dog cocks its head and then trots to the top of the stairs. Barking once, he tap-taps his way down the wooden treads as Cara hears a knock.
As she descends the stairs into the hallway, Cara sees Greg standing at the porch door, huddled into his jacket with collar turned up and his hat set at a jaunty angle, offering some protection from the rain. Even in a bedraggled state he looks refined. He smiles at her through the glass.
‘Hello, Greg. Come in,’ she says, opening the door and wondering what she must look like. She hopes the bungalow is not too untidy, and then remembers the mountain of washing-up in the sink.
‘Cara,’ Greg says, planting a kiss on her lips.
Once again, Cara is taken aback. Why does he think he can do that? Not that she particularly minds. It just seems odd.
‘You surely haven’t walked here?’
‘Only from the car park,’ Greg says, turning to shake the rain from his jacket out of the door.
‘Would you like coffee? I was just about to make one.’
‘Please.’ Greg hangs his jacket on the coat rack and places his hat on the shelf above.
As Cara walks into the living room, she critically glances around. It’s passable but she definitely doesn’t want him to see the state of the kitchen. ‘Have a seat. How do you like your coffee?’
‘Black, no sugar.’ Greg sits on the sofa and looks round the room, taking it all in. His eyes settle on the art on the walls.
Quickly, Cara prepares the drinks.
‘How was London?’ she asks, entering the room. She hands him a mug of coffee and sits in the opposite chair.
‘Very good.’ Greg takes a sip and then places the mug on the floor.
The room fills with silence and Cara squirms.
‘While I was there I met up with friends and colleagues who are this year’s selectors for the Threadneedle Prize.’ Greg pauses. ‘You do know of the Threadneedle Prize?’ Arrogantly, he arches an eyebrow.
Cara flushes, instantly transported back to her schooldays when she would panic before an exam. ‘I do know of it,’ she says, making sure to keep any emotion out of her voice.
‘Well, as you know, the Threadneedle Prize is one of the most valuable art prizes in Europe and registration is now open. Up to six works may be submitted, which must not have been entered or selected for any other prize or competition in the UK or Europe. Do we qualify?’
Cara almost chokes. When did they become we?
‘Yes. I have several works that haven’t been entered for competitions.’
‘You are aware of the enormity of this prize?’ Greg continues. ‘If you win, besides being awarded twenty thousand pounds in prize money you will be granted a solo exhibition. It would put you on the map.’
Twenty thousand pounds! She could have the studio roof properly repaired, take Beth and Sky on holiday and replace the car.
‘Yes, I am aware.’
Greg laughs. ‘Cara, you astound me. You are so cool.’
She smiles, but then frowns. If he thinks she’s cool, then why does he seem to find her so amusing?
‘Anyway, back to business. The exhibition runs from the thirty first of January to the seventeenth of February next year at the Mall Galleries, in central London. We need to register and submit your works online for pre-selection. Only if your works are pre-selected will they go forward to the final selection process.’
‘What does that involve?’ Cara asks.
‘You will be invited to hand in your pre-selected works for a distinguished panel of selectors to decide whether or not to select them for the exhibition.’
‘And if my paintings are selected, what then?’
‘You will be asked to provide some biographical information for the exhibition catalogue together with a portrait photograph.’ Greg smiles at Cara. ‘All shortlisted artists are expected to attend a special awards dinner when the winner of the Threadneedle Prize is announced.’
Cara looks out of the window at the rain-lashed beach. Until now, her life has been Cornwall and she is happy with that. She has never questioned it. Although aware of the larger art world, she is content to remain on its periphery.
But life changed forever two years ago…
Perhaps that’s what last night’s dream meant. The past no longer exists. Perhaps Christo was guiding her to be open to new opportunities. Cara turns back to find Greg studying her.
‘So, Cara, what do you say?’
She doesn’t know what to say. She’s still grappling with the finality of Christo.
But Greg doesn’t wait for Cara to answer. ‘If I go through your catalogue of works I can select six paintings that I think will be acceptable to the judges.’
She gazes up at the face on the surfboard. You no longer exist…
‘Are all your paintings displayed on the gallery website, Cara?’
‘Most of them,’ she says, dragging her attention back to the present. ‘There are a few in the studio that haven’t been included.’
‘Well, shall we take a look?’
Cara finds herself leading Greg into her inner sanctum and, over the next hour, they discuss her paintings. Having made his selection, Greg instructs Cara to photograph and email them to him.
‘And now I must depart,’ he says, glancing at his watch.
Following her downstairs, he retrieves his jacket from the coat rack and turns to Cara. She looks exhausted.
‘Cara, I realise this is a lot to take in but your talent deserves to be seen on a wider stage. Your brushstrokes possess a brilliance and depth of emotion similar to the Old Masters. It’s unfair of you to hide your light under a stone.’
Unfair?
‘Trust me; I know what I’m talking about. You do trust me, don’t you?’
She nods, unsure whether he’s talking about his experience in the art world or something else.
‘I will take you to places you haven’t even dreamed of, and, Cara…’ his eyes hold her gaze for a long moment ‘…I promise to never let you down.’
All at once the hallway feels too small. As Greg takes a step towards her Cara thinks he’s going to kiss her again but, as if reading her mind, he simply reaches above her to retrieve his hat off the shelf. She looks out at the bay and tries to draw some comfort from the familiar scene. Things are moving too fast.
‘I’ll phone you once I’ve studied the gallery website and then we can discuss my final selection,’ Greg says. Seeing the look on her face, he swiftly adds, ‘To see if it fits in with your ideas too, you understand. Goodbye, Cara.’
‘Bye, Greg.’ She watches as he, once again, places the hat on his head at a jaunty angle. Opening the porch door, without further ado, he walks briskly away through the heavy mizzle.
Greg confuses, yet excites, with his constant teasing of the world he inhabits. She knows he understands and appreciates her art in a way no one else does, but he also makes her feel inadequate and out of her depth, only to then retrieve the situation by offering support and guidance. It’s just too much to analyse. She’s exhausted by him.
Cara shuts the door on the world according to Greg.
*
Oliver rolls over. The digital alarm clock displays 04:05. Why the hell is the phone ringing at this early hour? It must be some emergency! Brutally wide awake, he throws off the bed covers.
Deanna stirs. ‘What is it?’ she asks, peering at the clock.
‘The phone. All the kids are in, aren’t they?’
‘Yes.’
Dear God, not the parents!
Oliver switches on the bedside light and gets out of bed. Grabbing a dressing gown from the back of the door, he quickly makes his way downstairs, aware of the flicker of fear in the pit of his stomach. His father lives alone in the north of England and Deanna’s parents are in deepest, darkest Norfolk. Switching on the hall light, he answers the phone, noting the caller has withheld their number, and braces himself for the worst. Silence. He speaks again. The silence is oppressive but he can sense someone listening. What the hell are they playing at?
‘Speak now or hang up and give us all some peace,’ Oliver says angrily. He waits. ‘OK, this is how we’re going to do this. If you have something to say, say it now or I will end the call. What’s it to be?’ Oliver’s stomach is in knots. ‘You’ve had your chance.’
He waits for a response. Nothing. Firmly, he presses the ‘off’ button. How did they obtain this number? Maybe it’s just some drunken crank with nothing better to do at four in the morning than phone random numbers and annoy total strangers. Oliver waits a while longer then turns towards the stairs, the warmth of his bed calling. He’s reached the half-landing when the phone rings again. Bounding down the stairs, two at a time, he snatches the phone from its cradle. Frenzied breathing, followed by silence. Creepy. His scalp crawls as he remembers the last time he experienced such powerful, tumultuous disquiet directed at him. After what seems an eternity, Oliver replaces the phone.
‘Who was it?’ Deanna asks, leaning over the banister.
‘Don’t worry. There’s no emergency.’
‘But who was it, Ollie?’
‘Don’t know. Probably just some crank.’ Rattled, he adds, ‘Why you refuse to have a phone in the bedroom is beyond me.’
Deanna frowns, but chooses not to respond. ‘Should we call the police?’
Shit! No! If his suspicions are correct that would open a can of worms.
‘I think that’s being a bit overdramatic, Dee,’ Oliver says, glancing up at his wife and hoping he sounds calmer than he feels.
‘Come back to bed,’ Deanna says.
‘In a moment. I just want to check something.’
‘Well, don’t be long.’ Deanna regards her husband a while longer before turning away.
It’s quiet and peaceful in the hallway, but Oliver is no longer at peace. This solid and substantial eighteenth century lodge house has always represented a place of sanctuary, away from the eyes of a prying world, but now it doesn’t feel quite so secure. The maelstrom on the other end of the telephone makes Oliver appraise his surroundings with fresh eyes. If the caller is who he thinks it is, just how secure is the house? How safe is his family? And how did she get his number? He walks from room to room, switching on lights, checking windows and external doors, making sure they are locked. Maybe they should get a dog. Even though Deanna has always baulked at the suggestion of pets, believing they contribute little to their lives, perhaps a guard dog would be a good idea. Having checked the ground floor, Oliver enters his study and sits at his desk just as the phone rings again. He snatches it up.
‘Sylvie?’
A sharp intake of breath. Then silence.
‘Sylvie, don’t do this.’ Opening the top drawer of his desk, Oliver removes her note. He should have phoned her. ‘Why are you awake at this hour?’ he asks, his voice as soothing as a lover’s. ‘You must be tired. Why don’t you try and get some sleep? You will feel so much better in the morning.’
‘I will if you promise to come to me,’ Sylvie says, marvelling at her bravery.
It is her! Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes as a piercing headache takes hold. ‘Where are you?’
‘My flat.’
‘And where is that? You only gave me your mobile number.’
‘My address is…’ Sylvie stops. Is he trying to outsmart her? What if he sends someone else like the big, hairy driver of that Jeep? She wouldn’t want him to visit. ‘Oh, very clever, Oliver. I don’t want the other man. I want you!’
Oliver’s eyes fly open. ‘What other man?’ he asks, bemused.
‘The driver,’ she says.
‘What driver?’
‘The driver of that big bollocks black Jeep.’ She giggles at her description.
Good God, she’s talking about Tas!
Oliver’s heart pounds. Taking a deep breath, he keeps his voice steady. ‘How do you know about him?’
‘You’d be surprised what I know,’ she says, breaking into manic laughter.
Oliver glances up at the painting above the mantelpiece and something in its brushstrokes soothes his soul. He remembers the adorable young girl who told him how the cormorants flapped their wings when no one was looking and he studies them now, but their wings are still.
Oh, to be on that beach in Cornwall with those kids.
Surprised at where his thoughts have taken him, Oliver drags himself back to the immediate predicament. ‘Sylvie, the driver’s not here. I’m not going to send him to you.’
‘Will you come to me?’ she purrs.
‘No. What passed between us in Scotland should never have happened.’
‘But it did.’
‘It was wrong,’ he says, his stomach churning at the memory.
‘I love you!’
‘Sylvie, you don’t even know me.’
‘But I want to,’ she shouts.
How’s he going to get rid of her? If he doesn’t get back to bed soon Deanna will come looking for him and if she hears him talking to Sylvie like this… That doesn’t even bear thinking about!
‘I have a hectic work schedule coming up and I won’t be around very much,’ Oliver says. ‘What if I give you a ring from time to time?’
Perhaps this will fob her off.
Oh, how he loves to keep her on the brink! A thrill of excitement courses through Sylvie. If they only talk on the phone, maybe he will grow tired of the distance between them and come to her more quickly of his own free will. Yes, they will talk on the phone. She can wait a little longer. After all, she’s waited all her life.
‘All right,’ she says submissively.
Oliver lets out a long, silent breath. ‘Then goodnight, Sylvie.’
‘Goodnight, Oliver Foxley. I love you.’
He waits until he hears her disconnect before replacing the handset. First thing in the morning he will have the number changed. But, if she’s managed to get that, what else has she discovered? She said, herself, he’d be surprised to learn what she knows. Does that mean she knows where he lives? She must do! Her note was left on his car in town. He thought it was just a dreadful coincidence but after this latest development he’s not so sure. And she knows about Tas.
‘Shit!’
A wave of nausea hits him. She’s obviously mentally unhinged. Just what is she capable of? When the ‘grey mist’ claims him his thoughts become very dark, and if Sylvie’s mental illness is anything like that… Oliver shivers. Perhaps he should contact the woman who accompanied her to Holy Isle. But if he does that what else will come out? Hell! Every which way he turns, he’s caught.
Oliver glances up at the painting of the Minack. Once again, it soothes his troubled mind. Something about it draws him in and it’s not just that he will soon be performing on its stage. His thoughts turn to the cheeky, blond boy with the Labrador and his sister with the angelic face, and their pretty grandma who gets so flustered whenever they meet. Such different lives. It could be a world away. It is a world away. Momentarily Oliver forgets his troubles. He will soon be there – for the whole of the summer – and there it is again, that fluttering, all-consuming excitement building slowly and deeply within. He thinks of Tania and laughs. She’s so obvious and brazen. No fudged areas there!
Oliver destroys the note - it wouldn’t do for Deanna to find it - but not before he’s transferred Sylvie’s number to his mobile. Just in case…