Oliver leans over and switches on a side lamp, the glow from the fire no longer casting sufficient light to read the script lying open on his lap. He has been in his study for most of the day – in fact, the previous three days – but has yet to decide if the film is for him. His agent is right; it is a lucrative deal and the role is substantial. But, it will mean months away from the family on location. Can he face that again?
Despite Deanna and the kids being at home, it’s quiet in the house and he knows they are giving him the space he needs. It’s a well-honed strategy, perfected over twenty-plus years of marriage, and his children have never known anything different. It doesn’t make it any easier to survive the ‘grey mist’, as they call it, but it does allow him time to assimilate and finally accept, to some degree, the despair and confusion that have plagued him since childhood.
Oliver sighs. Laying the script on the floor, he rises and places another log on the fire. It spits and sends sparks flying up the chimney. The study is his inner sanctum and this is where he spends a great deal of time. He wanders over to the French doors. There is still enough light to look out across the extensive, manicured lawns down to the lake at the edge of the woods that stretch as far as the eye can see. Most of it does not belong to him; the forestry is in the ownership of the National Trust. All is still, with no sign of the threatened snow the weather forecasters have predicted, and he watches as a wintry sun sets behind the North Downs rising beyond the tree line. It’s a great house, Hunter’s Moon, and one that has comfortably provided the space in which to raise a family away from prying eyes. Located down a long track leading only to a public car park in the woods, it is secluded and away from other properties yet close enough to be part of the wider community, should they so desire.
Oliver breathes in deeply.
His first major film role – the one that set him apart from other actors of his age and firmly established him as a player of note in the British film industry – presented itself only a year after leaving drama school. At the time, his parents worried he wouldn’t be able to handle the fame and success so early in his career but Deanna was there for him. He smiles fondly as he remembers her arrival in the second year of his acting degree. She instantly stood out from the huddle of new students, the most attractive to him by far, not least because of her all-pervading, no-nonsense strength that filled the room, even then. She was not there to study acting but had enrolled on the stage management course. Nothing shallow about Deanna; she is his rock. Soon after the film’s release they married in a small, private ceremony with only close friends and family present. However, almost immediately following their honeymoon, Hollywood came knocking. Relocating to Los Angeles for a couple of years, he worked the circuit and established himself as a leading man on both sides of the Atlantic. His chiselled looks, expressive eyes and ability to tackle characters with a sympathy and depth beyond his years stood him in good stead and only Deanna was aware of the pain that lurked behind the handsome mask.
With his Hollywood breakthrough came the money. Receiving sound advice from his accountant, he invested in a substantial house with accompanying land, set on the edge of an affluent village in the Surrey Hills, safe in the knowledge that wherever his career took him Hunter’s Moon would be a lifetime home for his family. Close enough to London and the airports to enable him to continue his international career with ease, the property would also give the children, Deanna and he planned to have, the opportunity of experiencing as normal a life as possible; not one distorted by the excesses surrounding Oliver’s chosen career, but a life grounded in the countryside. Over the following years they witnessed many of their friends’ burnout and knew their decision during the early days of their marriage had been a good one.
Deanna loved the house as soon as she saw the sales particulars. Oliver recalls his wife’s mounting excitement as they sat together one morning on the balcony of their LA rental apartment, the intense heat beating down and the relentless smog lingering on the horizon. He watched her devour the estate agent’s particulars, amazed at his ‘rock’s’ display of emotion. At the time, she was four months pregnant and prone to severe bouts of morning sickness. Ever stoic, she said nothing, but he knew she was desperate to return to the UK. The general emptiness of the people surrounding them in Los Angeles did not sit comfortably with his young wife and, being pregnant and unemployed, Deanna had plenty of time to think. As soon as filming wrapped they returned to the UK in time for Samantha to be born on British soil.
Oliver sighs deeply. He knows this memory process is cathartic. His therapist explained it was this act of counting his blessings that allowed him to emerge once more from the gloom and into the sun. But it’s taking a long time, this time…
Gentle knocking at the door, and light pools into the room. ‘Ollie, why are you standing in the dark?’ Deanna flicks a switch by the door and four uplighters immediately throw some light upon the scene. ‘How’s the script?’ she asks, not moving from the threshold.
‘OK. Not sure I want it, though,’ Oliver says, walking back to his chair.
‘Why not?’ she asks.
‘It’s a good role but I’d have to commit to several months away in the States and the Far East. Not sure I want to do that.’
Deanna moves slowly towards him. Perching on the arm of his chair, she places her hand lightly on his shoulder and asks, ‘Darling, wouldn’t a change be as good as a rest?’
Oliver glances at her. Not for the first time he wonders how she is always so sure of herself. In all that she undertakes Deanna is never at a loss, even when dealing with the children. If only he were half as confident then perhaps he could put his demons to rest once and for all. The only time he feels truly whole is in front of the cameras, deep in characterisation, but he knows it’s these personal gremlins that make him so good at his craft. He is a first-rate actor.
Oliver shakes his head. ‘I need to read more of the script before making a final decision.’
Squeezing her husband’s shoulder, Deanna changes the subject. ‘Are you ready to join us for supper tonight?’
Oliver would love to have supper in his study again, but can he really get away with it three nights in a row? His conscience tells him to pull himself together and embrace the world once more. Without realising, he sighs.
Deanna gets to her feet. ‘Ollie, if you’re not ready I can prepare a tray for you.’
‘What time is it?’ he asks.
‘Approaching six.’
‘I’ll join you at seven,’ he says.
She bends and kisses him lightly. ‘Seven it is, then.’
As she turns to leave, Oliver catches her hand. ‘I don’t deserve you, Dee.’
‘Oh, Ollie, of course you do! You’re great at your job and a wonderful husband and father. You’re the best.’ He doesn’t look convinced and she frowns. Softly she adds, ‘And besides, I fancy you like mad… even now, after all these years.’
He wants to say, ‘I am such a burden to your soaring eagle’ but knows it will sound ridiculous, as though he’s whining, even though it is how he feels. Instead, he pulls her into his lap and returns her kiss.
Briefly, Deanna closes her eyes. ‘In an hour, Ollie,’ she says, rising to her feet. ‘Don’t be late.’
At the door she turns back but her husband gazes into the fire, once more introspective and distant. Had he been looking, Oliver would have seen the briefest moment of assessment before Deanna quietly closes the door behind her. But Oliver Foxley is gripped by a melancholy that refuses to shift.
Why does he always feel so adrift and incomplete these days? He has so much going for him. To the outside world they are a successful, goal-driven, tight-knit family. His children are healthy, good-looking, high achievers with all the opportunities available to them that a comfortable upbringing affords. He has established a successful career for himself, is critically acclaimed and in demand; not simply typecast in all-action hero parts but often considered for roles demanding a more versatile actor. He no longer has to work and can pick and choose those projects that interest him. A number of blockbuster directors have all made themselves known to him, or he can choose to work with less mainstream professionals. Oliver Foxley is one lucky man. Then, why does he always feel as if part of him is missing?
He picks up the script again. It really is a good role but he doesn’t respond to it. The film is certain to be a box office hit, but so what if it is? What difference does it make? Why put himself through it all again?
Oliver groans.
Glancing up, his eyes rest upon the painting displayed above the fireplace. In the flickering firelight the sea beyond the amphitheatre appears to come to life. Is it his imagination or is there a swell? Thinking back to that windswept day in September, when he and Deanna stumbled upon that little art gallery in Porthleven, he smiles at the memory of the pretty, flustered woman who proudly informed him how her talented daughter visualised images in a very different way and that the view she had captured across the Minack caught the atmosphere of the place.
‘One hell of an artist to create moving waves on canvas!’ he mutters.
Another knock at the door and Oliver wonders if the hour has passed already. He hopes not. As the door opens, hesitant blue eyes peer at him from under thick lashes.
‘Hello, Jamie.’
‘Is it OK to come in?’ the boy asks cautiously.
‘Of course!’ Oliver pushes aside his gremlins and smiles at his youngest son. He opens his arms wide.
Running across the room, the boy climbs onto his dad’s lap and snuggles against his chest.
‘Are you having supper with us tonight?’ Jamie asks.
‘Yes.’ Oliver’s heart pinches; he is racked with guilt and full of remorse. He needs to look after his family… especially this son.
At nine years old, Jamie is quiet and prone to introspection. So like him at that age. His depression was already in evidence; although no one knew what it was in those days or even acknowledged it. He is determined his son will not follow in his footsteps. He will do all he can to prevent his youngest from falling prey to the debilitating mental condition that afflicts him. Oliver strokes Jamie’s hair.
The boy looks up expectantly. ‘Will you help us decorate the tree afterwards? Sammy’s got the decs out and she’s going through them now.’
Christmas Eve! How could he forget? Where has he been? If nothing else, this is a time for the kids.
‘Of course! Come on, Jamie, let’s join the others.’
*
It’s late afternoon by the time the Christmas lunch is over. Ken and Barry, still wearing their Christmas cracker crowns, finish their annual washing-up ritual and wander into the living room to a round of applause.
‘Well, that’s given you a bit more practice, Bar,’ says Sheila. ‘Maybe you’ll give it another go during the coming year?’ Her husband laughs.
‘Let’s have a look and see what’s on the box,’ says Ken. He sits in the armchair and thumbs through the Radio Times. ‘Missed the Queen’s speech,’ he mutters, and then more forcibly, ‘You’d think they’d find something of interest to put on at this time of year, wouldn’t you? Why rerun oldies year-on-year? Remind me why we pay our licence fee!’
‘Quite right,’ agrees Barry. Sheila rolls her eyes.
‘Oh, hang on, here’s one just about to start. A murder mystery. Always good subject matter for Christmas, don’t you think, Barry? And, ladies, one for you too.’ Ken grins at the women sitting on the couch. ‘Starring that heart-throb who gets you all in a flutter!’
‘Well, now, who could he possibly mean?’ says Carol in mock indignation.
‘You know,’ Ken says, casting his wife an affectionate look, ‘that actor who bought Cara’s painting.’
Cara smiles. Yes, he’s eminently watchable! She notices her mother and Sheila flush crimson.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Sky concentrates on weaving his remote-controlled Batmobile round the legs of the dining table. It’s a Christmas present from his grandparents and he’s been playing with it all day. He’s getting quite expert at controlling its movements. Without breaking concentration, in a sing-song voice he says, ‘Oliver Foxley.’