Summer in a Cornish Cove by Kate Ryder (20)

Apart from the hall light, the house is in darkness. Oliver turns the key quietly in the lock. The distant sound of a television carries along the hallway. Dropping his bag at the base of the stairs, he tosses his keys into the bowl on the hallway table and makes his way towards the TV room. Deanna is curled up on the couch, her eyes closed. Oliver hesitates. He studies her for a moment, then walks across the room and kisses her gently on the forehead.

‘Hello, sleepyhead.’

Deanna opens her eyes and sits up. ‘I must have dropped off. What time is it?’

‘Midnight. You needn’t have waited up.’

‘I thought you’d be home earlier. Was the traffic bad?’

‘Easter Monday and one long queue out of Cornwall.’

‘Poor you. Do you want a drink?’

Would that help? He has spent a second night tossing and turning, thinking of Cara.

‘Perhaps a whisky.’

Deanna rises from the couch and kisses her husband lightly on the lips. ‘It’s good to have you back, Ollie.’

‘It’s good to be back,’ he says automatically.

He watches her leave the room before sinking onto the couch. He’s home, so why does he feel so detached? He takes a long look around, observing the room as if for the first time. It’s stylish and perfectly colour co-ordinated. Everything matches; from the curtains to the cushions, to the subtle coloured paintwork a few shades lighter than the carpet. Even the numerous photo frames adorning the mantelpiece are in perfect harmony. A set designer’s dream of an affluent, middle-class home; in sharp contrast to The Lookout’s simple, white-panelled living room. With sudden shocking insight, Oliver realises this is definitely Deanna’s territory. Although there are signs of the children, very little of his character is evident.

Deanna returns with a tumbler of whisky, the ice cubes clinking against the side of the glass as she places it on a side table. Picking up the remote control, she switches off the television and sits in the chair opposite her husband.

‘So how was the performance this afternoon?’ she asks.

‘Good. A full audience.’

‘And the cast? Have you worked with any of them before?’

‘No. They’re a mixed bunch but we seem to get along OK,’ Oliver says.

‘Tas always likes to shake things up,’ she says, stifling a yawn. ‘Well, I’m off to bed. Don’t be long, Ollie. You look tired.’

Exhausted, more like!

‘I just want to check a couple of things,’ Oliver responds. ‘I’ll try not to disturb you.’

As Deanna walks to the door, she says over her shoulder, ‘There’s post for you in the study, but I’m sure it can wait until morning.’

Oliver stretches out his legs. Locking his fingers behind his head, he leans back and surveys the room again. The only thing giving away that he lives here is his image in several of the photos. Picking up the glass, he drains the whisky in one and swiftly exits the room. As soon as he enters his study he feels at home. This is his domain; masculine, but not overtly so. Looking critically around the space, he sees the only evidence of his wife is her choice of carpet and window dressing. He remembers how she demanded strong-coloured tartan curtains to pick out the dark blue of the carpet. As it was of little consequence to him what fabric hung at the windows he readily accommodated her wishes, but now he wonders if he rolled over too easily.

Is this how we’ve rubbed along all these years?

He glances up at Cara’s painting above the mantelpiece and feels a strange yearning for something he can’t put his finger on; something unknown. He stares at the canvas for several minutes, absorbing Cara’s brushstrokes, and some of the passion with which she painted The Minack rubs off. But now she isn’t just some random artist. She has a face, a voice and a body… all beautiful. Cara Penhaligon is all woman to him. Oliver shakes his head.

What’s happening to me? Could it be...?

He simply cannot let that happen.

Neatly stacked on his desk are several unopened envelopes and Oliver debates whether to leave them until the morning, as Deanna suggested.

No, why should I unquestioningly follow her lead?

The thought takes him by surprise. Why is he casting Deanna in the role of villainess? She has done nothing wrong. He tries to convince himself that the journey, on top of two sleepless nights, has rendered him exhausted and feeling less than charitable. Oliver picks up the envelopes and rifles through them. Mainly bills… but what’s this? Instantly, he recognises the handwriting. Why didn’t he take Deanna’s advice and leave the post until morning? Now he’s got to open it. There’s no chance of sleep, knowing it’s sitting on his desk.

Oliver opens the top drawer and extracts a letter opener. Sliding the blade beneath the flap, he opens the envelope in one clean sweep. With mounting apprehension, he removes a sheet of blue notepaper. Her manic characters leap off the page, effectively shattering the calm of his study.

Oliver’s mouth turns dry. He picks up the envelope again. No stamp. So she did hand deliver it!

‘Fuck!’

Running a hand through his hair, once again he wonders how secure the house is. Changing the number of the landline has achieved nothing. She knows where he lives! How? Did she find out on Holy Isle? Oliver walks from room to room, checking the windows and making sure all external doors are locked. She’s gone to the next level now. There’s no denying it, she’s deranged and who knows what she’s capable of? With everything else going on he has not given Sylvie any thought since her phone call. How easily she has slipped his mind.

I should have phoned. If she speaks to Deanna, God only knows where that will lead!

Oliver glances at his watch. It’s way past midnight. Too late to phone her now, although she’s probably awake plotting her next move. The thought makes him break into a cold sweat.

What the hell am I going to do?

He can’t involve the police. What would that do to his reputation? And if the press ever got a whiff of what went on at the retreat, well… it didn’t bear thinking about. They would crucify him and drag his family through the mud. No, he is just going to have to handle this himself. He will phone her tomorrow and play her at her own game.

Satisfied the house is secure, Oliver picks up his bag and silently makes his way upstairs. He walks past the children’s closed doors to the master bedroom at the far end but, before entering, turns and looks down the hall. Again, he is struck by how little of him is here. Has he been absent that long? As Oliver opens the bedroom door, a feeling of disconnectedness threatens to overwhelm him. He places his bag on the floor and makes his way to the en-suite. Switching on the bathroom light, he closes the door quietly behind him and walks to the basins. Averting his gaze from the mirror, unwilling to see what his reflection might reveal, he quickly washes and cleans his teeth. Then, discarding his clothes in the laundry basket, he walks from the room and climbs into bed.

For a long while Oliver stares up at the ceiling, unseeing. He’s far away in a simply furnished bungalow perched high on a cliff, and Cara’s light fills his soul. Though desperate for sleep, he knows a third sleepless night beckons.

Turning onto his side, he reaches for his wife. ‘Dee,’ he whispers, hoping that by making love to her he will reconnect.

‘Not now, Ollie,’ Deanna mumbles, as she surfaces from deep sleep and feels her husband’s growing need.

Oliver freezes. He feels so far removed from this life. He turns away and, after what seems like hours, falls into a fitful sleep where he is visited by Cara’s golden light, Deanna’s cool strength and Sylvie’s dark energy.

*

It’s mid-morning when Oliver eventually comes to. The bed beside him is empty; the sheets cold. He feels exhausted and a raging headache instantly takes hold. Light floods in through a gap in the curtains but he just wants to block out the day. As the ‘grey mist’ claims its victim once again, Oliver acknowledges his old adversary.

‘So where have you been these past few days?’ he growls.

Suddenly his eyes fly open, recalling the previous evening’s unwanted discovery.

Shit! Sylvie!

He’s got to deal with her… and the sooner, the better.

He will call her, but before he does he will go for a run. He can’t afford to be anything less than ‘on the ball’ and, maybe, fresh air will clear his headache. Oliver throws back the covers and quickly gets dressed.

Pausing at the top of the stairs he listens for a moment, the sounds of family giving him some sense of belonging. He descends the stairs and stops at the open door to the TV room. His youngest sons are engrossed in the latest Xbox game. Fiercely competitive, Sebastian sits forward, completely absorbed.

‘Hello, boys,’ says Oliver.

Jamie looks up and smiles.

‘Hi, Dad,’ says Sebastian, allowing Oliver’s presence to draw him away from the action for a nanosecond.

‘How long are you here?’ asks Jamie.

‘Three days.’

‘Will you come cycling with me?’

‘Sure,’ agrees Oliver.

‘Oh, come on, Jamie, concentrate!’ Sebastian’s irritated voice cuts into their conversation. Pulling a wry face, Jamie returns to the battle.

‘Hi, Dad. Good to see you.’ His eldest son stands in the kitchen doorway, a half-eaten slice of toast in his hand.

‘Hi, Charlie. What are you up to today?’

‘Off to Nathan’s and I’m late. Said I’d meet him at ten thirty.’

Oliver’s eyes follow his son as he walks down the hallway. The lad is almost as tall as he is and each day he matures that little bit more. Suddenly, a vision of life at home without Samantha and Charlie hits Oliver squarely between the eyes, leaving him feeling even more adrift. He enters the kitchen.

‘Hi, Sammy.’ He kisses his daughter affectionately on the cheek.

‘Hi, Dad.’ Her lips brush his cheek in return but, immediately, she returns to her magazine.

‘I’ve put a wash on for you, Ollie,’ says Deanna, appearing at the utility-room door. ‘Do you want a cooked breakfast?’

‘No, just toast. Thought I’d go for a run.’ He pops two slices of bread into the toaster.

‘Dad, will you persuade Mum for me?’ asks Samantha.

‘Persuade Mum of what?’ Oliver glances at his daughter. She is so like a young Deanna and his heart swells with love and pride.

‘Oh, Sammy is being ridiculous,’ says Deanna in a no-nonsense voice. ‘She thinks she wants a tattoo!’

‘I don’t think I want one, I know I want one!’ Samantha says indignantly. ‘All the girls at school are having them. What do you think, Dad?’

‘There’s no point asking him,’ says Deanna dismissively. ‘You know he lets you do whatever you want.’

Samantha smiles sweetly at Oliver.

‘Not anything, Deanna,’ Oliver says, bristling. ‘There has to be a valid reason for Sammy’s actions.’ He turns his attention to his daughter. ‘Where do you want one? Not your tummy, I hope. Think how it will stretch when you’re pregnant.’

‘Da-ad!’ Samantha exclaims, embarrassed.

‘I don’t know why you’re even humouring her. It’s simply not going to happen,’ Deanna says with finality.

Samantha groans.

Oliver stares at his wife. Whatever happened to open discussion? Ignoring Deanna, he asks again, ‘Where, Sammy?’

Samantha studies Oliver thoughtfully. ‘Well, Rosie’s got one at the top of her back, which looks really cool.’

‘Not cool when you’re wearing a low-backed evening dress,’ comments Deanna.

‘And when am I ever likely to wear one of those?’ snaps Samantha.

‘Maybe not often now,’ Oliver says gently, ‘but in a year or two I’m sure you will have every reason to. Then, you might curse the day you had it done. Why not consider somewhere less obvious?’

‘Oliver, don’t encourage her.’ Deanna’s reprimanding voice rings out strong and clear.

Startled, Samantha looks at her parents. Closing the magazine, she gets up from the table and says, ‘I think I’ll give it a bit more thought.’ Quickly she makes her exit.

Oliver and Deanna stare at each other, neither saying a word. The air crackles with tension and both jump as the toaster pops.

‘Don’t encourage her,’ Deanna says, turning away to stack the dishwasher.

Oliver is rankled. It’s as if he’s viewing everything through different eyes today. ‘You can’t tell a seventeen-year-old not to do something and simply expect her to comply,’ he says, extracting butter from the fridge.

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’

‘Well, obviously not, judging by your handling of the situation.’

Deanna straightens up. ‘Oliver, I have been handling the situation for years for all your children while you’ve been away playing at life.’

Oliver puts down the butter knife and stares at his wife’s back. ‘Is that what you think I do, Deanna?’ he says, his voice dangerously low. ‘Play at life?’

Hearing his tone, Deanna turns towards him and her heart stalls. ‘Well, not exactly play…’

‘Please enlighten me. What exactly do you think it is I do for you and this family?’

‘Oh, Ollie, I know what you do for our family,’ she says. ‘It’s just… at times I feel it’s only me bringing up the children.’

Controlling his anger, Oliver considers his wife’s words. She is so independent. Most of the time she treats him as merely an extension of those children he has given her, so, yes, she probably doesn’t see him as sharing the responsibility. And then he thinks of Cara bringing up her children single-handedly not through choice, and his anger spills over. How dare Deanna complain about bringing up a family on her own? His commitment to his children is total. He has supported them all – including her – from the start.

‘Deanna, have you any idea how many times I’ve not wanted to be away from you all?’ Oliver seethes with anger but keeps his voice steady. ‘However, in order to keep this family going to your exacting standards I have had to earn a certain level of money, which has entailed, as you well know, work that takes me away.’

Deanna blinks rapidly. Her exacting standards?

‘Well, do you?’ Oliver demands.

Deanna falters, witnessing a side to her husband she has rarely seen, and then only on screen.

‘Ollie, of course I do. It’s just sometimes I feel the weight of responsibility.’

‘And you think I don’t?’ He’s not going to let it go that easily.

‘Well, you can escape into acting,’ she says, flinching at the emotion that passes across his face. Digging deep, she finds the iron will that always carries her through and has never failed her yet. In a strong, clear voice she says, ‘I don’t have the luxury of dipping in and out of family life.’

Oliver glares at his wife, the silence weighing heavily between them. In a couple of sentences she has diminished his career to some escapist dream, suggested his responsibility as a parent is lacking and his time away from the family something over which he has a choice.

‘Is this what you’ve always thought or is this something that has just occurred to you?’ His voice is as cold as ice.

Deanna catches her breath as a frisson of fear courses through her body. Turning away, she looks out over the lawns and down to the lake. There’s that flash again. What is it?

‘Deanna, do not turn away from me.’ Oliver’s angry voice makes her turn back and the look on his face shocks her to the core. ‘This is something we need to talk about.’

This is an Oliver she does not know. How should she handle this man?

‘Ollie, I just find it overwhelming at times,’ she says, hitting just the right vulnerable tone.

Despite his anger, Oliver’s resolve weakens. It must be hard at times and what she says is true. Because of his career, he has been absent on many occasions during their marriage.

Deanna watches the hard set of her husband’s jaw soften and lets out a silent breath. That was tricky. Now all she has to do is cement the slight advantage she has. Conscious that she refused his advances last night, she takes a step towards Oliver and kisses him deeply.

‘You don’t have to go running just yet, do you?’ she says, looking up at him with big doe-eyes.

Coolly, Oliver considers his attractive wife. He still has an urgent need to exorcise the intense emotions swirling around his body ever since first setting eyes on Cara, and it wouldn’t hurt to remind Deanna just how good her situation is.

‘No, Deanna, I don’t.’

*

One hour later, Oliver swings his legs out of bed for the second time that morning. He’s still smarting from Deanna’s accusations; nevertheless, the sex has gone some way to exonerate the deep hurt her words have inflicted. And that torturous itch has been scratched.

Deanna props herself on her elbows and watches her husband walk naked to the en-suite. He looks mighty fine and she cannot believe the lovemaking that has just taken place. It hasn’t been this good for a while. In fact, it stirred memories of the incredible excitement they experienced when first together. She feels dazed and stunningly replete, and a satisfied smile settles on her lips. She knows her words angered him but maybe, in some perverse way, those very words aroused in him the drama that Oliver finds so lacking in his day-to-day existence. Rolling onto her back, Deanna stretches contentedly and presses her thighs together. She can still feel him there. Uncharacteristically, she does not immediately focus on her rigorous daily schedule but, instead, thinks back over their years together.

Her husband is a complex man. She doesn’t fully understand him, but she has lived with him long enough to recognise his demons. At first, during the early days of their relationship, when Oliver could no longer hide his black moods from her, she was bewildered and believed it to be something she had caused. It took her a while to recognise the role she would have to play but once she understood what was needed, as with all things she undertakes, Deanna became a master at it. Concentrating hard on perfecting her strength and independence, she conveniently and neatly packaged his days locked away with only his dark thoughts for company as the ‘grey mist’. When the children came along, as soon as they were old enough to understand, she explained their father’s depression was an additional and necessary element to his character that enabled him to be a successful actor, and not something for them to be unduly concerned about. And it was true. From the very start of his chosen profession Oliver was an exceptional actor, capable of plumbing depths of emotion that few actors could even contemplate. Deanna knows this is due, in no small part, to his subtle understanding of the human psyche. They ingrained into the children that the ‘grey mist’ was a family secret; one to be kept hidden from their friends and the wider world.

Where the press were concerned, his mental instability proved tricky when they started clamouring for more information about Oliver Foxley, the rising star. She remembers an occasion when he appeared in that controversial West End musical and first came to the critics’ attention. The press soon discovered where they lived and they were hounded by photographers outside their flat for days on end. She had to pretend that Oliver wasn’t there while he remained hidden in the spare room. Getting him to and from the theatre was a feat of precision engineering! Eventually, the paparazzi gave up and lost interest in that particular story.

Over the intervening years they faced a number of obstacles that could have been their undoing but, working together, they pulled it off, discovering successful strategies by which to present their lives in an acceptable way to Oliver’s adoring fans. She smiles smugly, knowing they managed to fool the press, too. Not one reporter is aware of Oliver’s mental health struggles. However, the toll on her husband is extreme. Exhausted from the energy necessary to maintain a happy and professional façade in public, he continues to retreat from the world for days at a time. Deanna prides herself on her inner strength, knowing that if she were made of lesser stuff she would not have been able to cope.

Emerging from the en-suite, Oliver is surprised to find Deanna still lying on the bed. Post-sex, her hair is dishevelled and there’s a wanton look on her face. He hasn’t seen her looking this relaxed for a long time, in fact, not since the very first heady days of their relationship. Meeting her gaze, he smiles slowly, his eyes trailing over her body, taking in the small but perfectly formed breasts, her flat stomach and long, elegant legs. He walks to the bed and kisses his wife hard on the mouth. Immediately she responds.

‘Deanna, I am going for that run,’ Oliver says, resisting.

‘Maybe later, then?’ she suggests, her eyes full of promise.

He laughs softly. ‘Yes, later.’ Tenderly, he cups her face in his hand. ‘You know, wife, you are one attractive woman.’

‘And you, husband,’ she says, without missing a beat, ‘are one fine specimen of a man.’

He dresses quickly and walks to the door. Glancing back, Oliver briefly considers abandoning his run to spend more time with this unusually accommodating version of his wife. Then he remembers Sylvie.

‘Hold that thought,’ he says, exiting the room.

As he passes Samantha’s closed door he hears his daughter chatting on her mobile. When he reaches the TV room Sebastian and Jamie are still in combat, but this time both boys are so engrossed in the game that neither looks up as he walks by. Oliver enters his study. Pulling open the top drawer of the desk, he extracts his mobile phone and National Trust card, and then slips out of the French doors onto the stone terrace. He breathes in deeply. It’s different air here. Suddenly he longs to smell the sea. Oliver squints up at the sky. Thick cloud cover, but a weak sun is trying to break through. He glances across the manicured lawns down to the woods. It doesn’t feel the same, knowing Sylvie has been here. She could be lurking anywhere. Other than getting a guard dog, which Deanna won’t entertain, what else can he do to make his family less vulnerable? He could employ a security guard but Deanna would think that totally unnecessary and, anyway, it would only make her question why he was going to such lengths. No, he will just have to deal with Sylvie himself. Keep her sweet. Fingering the phone in his pocket, Oliver steps down onto the lawn. He will go to the tower. There’s good reception there.

Sylvie focuses her binoculars on Oliver. He’s wearing a tracksuit and she wonders if he’s going to the building located behind the house. She has already checked it out – a large oak-framed affair housing a gym, sauna and swimming pool. But Oliver strides across the lawn directly towards her. Even though camouflaged behind a large rhododendron, Sylvie shrinks further into its foliage. He’s getting so close and she’s about to turn away when Oliver suddenly changes direction and heads towards a gate in the far corner of the garden. Quickly scanning the house to see if anyone else is about to join him, Sylvie makes her way as silently as possible through the trees, keeping Oliver in sight. There’s something very relaxed about him as he athletically covers the ground and Sylvie clicks her tongue in annoyance. Why should he be so content and at ease with the world when she is so desperate for him? Coming to an uneven section of ground, she has to concentrate on several roots that threaten to trip her and when she looks up again, Oliver is nowhere to be seen. Sylvie lets out a small angry sound. Cutting through the woods, she heads up an incline and is about to emerge from the cover of the trees when she spots him not far ahead, stepping up onto the track. Again, Sylvie shrinks back.

Oliver can’t shake off the feeling he’s being watched. A run will do him good. He peers in both directions but there’s not a soul about. He looks deeper into the forest bordering both sides of the track. The trees grow tightly packed, daylight barely penetrating the canopy, and an eerie stillness pervades the air. So many places to hide. The hairs on Oliver’s neck stand erect. All at once there’s movement and the sound of snapping branches. With his senses already on high alert, Oliver attempts to still his racing heart.

Without warning, ten yards ahead, a roe deer leaps out of the undergrowth and onto the track; an older buck with three-point antlers. It turns and stares at the man standing stock still in the middle of the path. Oliver holds his breath. It’s magnificent! Shafts of sunlight filter through the trees and alight along its back, turning the reddish body to a burnished gold. Ears pricked, the deer assesses with intelligent eyes the level of threat the human poses. For a brief heartbeat, time stands still as man and beast face each other – the hunter and the prey – and an acknowledgement of the strength and magnificence of the other passes between them. Then the moment is gone. With a flick of its ear the buck turns and leaps away into the foliage on the other side of the track. Oliver lets out a long, silent breath.

Footpaths and bridleways crisscross this particular area of the Surrey Hills. Oliver decides to run a ten-mile circular woodland route, hoping that by the time he reaches the tower – approximately the halfway point – his body will be flooded with endorphins, which will help him handle Sylvie more effectively. Setting off at a comfortable jog, he heads in a northerly direction away from the house.

As Oliver disappears round the bend, Sylvie cautiously steps up onto the track. Spooked by the sudden appearance of the deer, she wonders what else is lurking in the woods. Is it safe to continue sleeping in the car? Turning to her present predicament, she considers what she should do. She can’t possibly keep up with him. She turns in the opposite direction and walks back to her car, deep in thought and mulling over her options. She is beyond frustrated at his lack of contact. If he doesn’t phone soon she will take it to the next level. That smug wife of his needs to have that self-satisfied look wiped right off her face.

Sylvie climbs in her car. From the passenger footwell, she picks up a carrier bag and takes out a sandwich and a carton of juice. She will eat her lunch and wait for Oliver to return. Then she will confront him.

Oliver works up a sweat, the blood coursing through his veins and his heart pounding as he steadily increases his pace along the sandy heathland tracks. How lucky they are to have this National-Trust-owned, historic estate of arboretums and rhododendron woods right on the doorstep. Without slowing, Oliver picks up another track and heads west, following a bridle path leading to the high, sandy, open heath of Duke’s Warren. The track takes him through a level landscape of heather, bracken, bilberry, gorse, pine and birch. When reaching steeper parts, he tests his stamina and stretches his muscles to the limit. This is good. Apart from meditation, strenuous exercise is what keeps the ‘grey mist’ in check.

Presently, the trees start to thin. As he approaches the summit of Leith Hill, Oliver puts in a burst of speed, making short work of the final, sharp incline. Ahead of him, crowning the highest point in south-east England and completely dominating the area, stands the sixty-five-feet-high Georgian folly built in the style of a gothic tower from the Middle Ages. Catching his breath, Oliver walks to its base. The sweeping views from the treeless summit never fail to amaze. Across a landscape of outstanding natural beauty, fourteen counties can be seen. The spectacular views made it a popular spot for Victorian picnics, with large numbers of day-trippers ferried by horse and carriage to feast around the tower. Known as Prospect House, and erected in 1765 by the eccentric Richard Hull of Leith Hill Place, whose body rests beneath it, the tower was built to increase the height of Leith Hill to over a thousand feet above sea level.

Two chattering horse riders suddenly appear and circle the tower before heading along a path through the woods. Some distance away to the west, a man and a woman emerge from the pine trees along the Greensand Way, and two accompanying cocker spaniels busily work their way through the foliage. Oliver enters the tower. Showing his National Trust card to the attendant, he climbs the narrow, internal, spiral stairway. Seventy-four steps later, he emerges out onto the top. Good. He is alone. When he makes this call he doesn’t want any distractions.

The clouds have cleared and Oliver absorbs the spectacular, panoramic views. Stalling for time, he looks through the fixed telescope and pans the vista, circling 360 degrees. To the north is Heathrow Airport, the Wembley Arch, the London Eye, St Paul’s Cathedral and Canary Wharf and he smiles tenderly as he remembers Jamie’s excitement at spying the clock face of Big Ben in Westminster for the first time. Panning around to the east, he spies the Reigate masts and, working in a southerly direction, the Sussex Weald, the South Downs and, through the Shoreham Gap, a glimpse of the English Channel. But what holds his attention the most is the fascinating sight of aircraft slowly rising above the skyline far below at nearby Gatwick Airport.

He can’t put it off any longer. Taking out his mobile, Oliver taps the phone against his forehead and takes a deep breath.

When her mobile rings, Sylvie is noisily sucking orange juice through a straw, planning her next move. The sound is so unexpected that she chokes, spluttering juice down her front.

‘Yes,’ she says angrily, brushing the liquid off her sweatshirt.

‘Sylvie?’

She catches her breath. There’s no mistaking that voice. ‘You got my note.’

‘I did,’ Oliver replies. ‘Why are you coming to the house? I said I would phone.’

‘But you haven’t.’

‘I’ve been busy but I keep my promises. You can trust me.’

Can she trust him? He’s keeping her on a very long leash and she wants it a lot shorter. ‘I miss you,’ she says.

Silently, Oliver groans. ‘Sylvie, you don’t know me to miss.’

‘Oh, but I do, Oliver. Better than you think.’

There’s something deeply threatening to her words.

‘I told you I was working away,’ he says. ‘You’re lucky I’m here to have received your note.’ Maybe, if she thinks he won’t be around it will dissuade her from visiting the house again. ‘I’m away for many months.’

Silence.

‘Sylvie, are you still there? Did you hear what I said?’

‘Yes.’

‘I promise I will phone from time to time, but I am very busy,’ Oliver says.

‘I want to see you.’

‘That’s not possible, Sylvie.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m not going to be here,’ Oliver says evenly, keeping the exasperation from his voice.

‘Where will you be?’

‘Around. Travelling,’ he says vaguely.

‘No!’ Her mind goes into a tailspin. She can’t lose him now. She has to know where he is. Sylvie starts to rock, banging her head against the steering wheel.

Startled by the intensity of her shout, Oliver removes the phone from his ear. Beads of perspiration prick his forehead. It is very quiet at the top of the tower and in the distance he can hear the roar of a plane’s engines on the runway.

Replacing the mobile to his ear, he says firmly, ‘Yes, Sylvie.’

‘I need to see you.’ Sylvie stops rocking and stares out of the window, her face set in an ugly mask. ‘If I don’t see you I will go to the house.’

Fuck!

‘Sylvie. As I said, there’s no time.’ Oliver fights rising panic. ‘I’m not around.’

‘When will you be around?’

He planned to return to Surrey between performances but, if Sylvie is going to stalk him each time he’s back, maybe it would be better for the family if he stayed away. That way she won’t be hanging round the house, and if she’s not around the house she may forget her threat. ‘Not until the autumn.’

‘What are you doing that’s taking you away for so long?’ Sylvie asks. ‘Are you filming?’

Oliver relaxes a little at the more normal line of questioning. ‘No, it’s a play.’

‘Where?’

‘As I said, around.’

Sylvie frowns. It’s obvious he’s not going to tell her, but the Internet will.

Oliver waits for a response but none is forthcoming. Once again, he focuses on the magnificent view. This is what he wants in life: something spectacular and dramatic. Not the sordid little game of some unhinged female holding him over a barrel. How has Sylvie managed to infiltrate his life? He’s experienced the attention of ardent fans before but never to this extent. If he lets her down gently maybe she will eventually give up, but he knows it’s unlikely.

‘I promise to phone you, but you do understand that meeting up is simply not possible at this time.’

Sylvie starts rocking again. She will just have to follow him. Best go and fill up with petrol.

‘OK.’

Oliver watches as another plane takes off in the distance, powering its way through the clear blue sky. What he’d give to be on board flying out of this situation.

‘I’ll say goodbye, then.’ Oliver ends the call with disquiet. He thinks she has understood, but perhaps he should return to Cornwall today.

No, damn it! Why should she manipulate me? What is it about these women who have me dancing to their merry tunes?

Stunned, Oliver realises he has cast Deanna in the same light as Sylvie; but there’s nothing remotely similar about the two women. In the far recesses of his mind a thought occurs and carefully he examines it. Grimly, he acknowledges that however Deanna dresses it up she does manipulate him. Even their lovemaking this morning was instigated by her. When he needed her last night she simply rebuked him. And then he remembers her cruel words that shattered his sense of self-worth and effectively stripped him of his place within the family. Bile rises as Oliver’s anger takes hold once again.

What do they say about love? That love and hate are intimately linked within the human brain and there really is a fine line.

He shakes his head sadly. Maybe it would be a good idea to cut short his stay in Surrey.

Taking one last look at the stunning view, Oliver makes the decision to go cycling with Jamie that afternoon and head back to Cornwall early the following morning.