Deanna sits in the orangery nursing a mug of steaming coffee. She watches elongating shadows move across the freshly mown lawns leading down to the lake and the forest beyond. All afternoon the weather has been fair and the gardener has taken the opportunity to create perfectly symmetrical stripes in the grass. This is how she likes her world: orderly, with everything in its place. She glances around at the large exotic plants reaching up to the glazed roof and the citrus trees that thrive in this space. The vision appeals to her critical eye. Late afternoon light enters the room, creating a unique atmosphere unlike any other room in the house and she recalls how fulfilled and absorbed she was while researching and sourcing this particular building. Hunter’s Moon was originally built in the eighteenth century and she wanted something that reflected the symbols of prestige and wealth that stood in the grounds of fashionable and period residences during that time. With its distinguished classical architectural features, the orangery she eventually selected is a carefully designed traditional build that blends perfectly with the main lodge house, its wooden doors and windows finished in a fashionably stylish blue/grey Farrow and Ball paint.
Deanna sips her coffee. Although unable to pursue a career in theatre, which was always her intention, since her marriage to Oliver she has been able to indulge many of her ideas and desires, unhindered. This has gone some way towards appeasing her dissatisfaction at not being the career woman she always thought she would be. She thinks back to the first time Oliver won an award. Of course he was the star, fêted by all and sundry, but she shared the red-carpet experience and was at his side throughout. She clearly remembers his acceptance speech. He thanked her for being his ‘rock’ and for being with him from the tiniest flicker of fame, and she relished the spotlight briefly landing upon her. However, the feeling was quickly extinguished when he posed for photographs with that hideously self-satisfied actress, Heather McMullen, his co-star in the film that propelled their lives into the stratosphere. A Dame now, for goodness sake!
By the time Oliver attended the marketing events associated with the release of the film, they were living in the UK once more and she’d given birth to Samantha. Although her body quickly returned to her pre-baby figure, she was dissatisfied with it and set about studiously attaining a previously unknown level of fitness. They briefly returned to Los Angeles for the Awards’ Ceremony, which was thrillingly exciting, but she was uncomfortable with her choice of dress. It didn’t help when Heather made her appearance, looking every inch the mega-star that she was. The award-winning actress politely enquired how the baby was before pushing Deanna out of the way and, hooking arms with Oliver, posing in front of the cameras. Heather also made sure that any reporter in earshot would hear her say that although Deanna might be Oliver’s ‘rock’ it was she who had recognised his incredible gift as soon as he’d stepped onto the set, and that she was his biggest fan. Smiling sweetly at Deanna, Heather added that, while his wife was preoccupied bringing the first little Foxley into the world, she was the one to nurture and encourage the star’s rising talent. Even now, so many years on, Deanna is sickened by the woman’s public disdain for her. After all, it is she who is Oliver’s wife! Oh, yes, the former Deanna Harrington has lived through a lot to become the Deanna Foxley of today.
‘Mum, what’s for tea?’ Sebastian asks from the entrance to the orangery.
Deanna takes one last look across the immaculate lawns. Putting aside her musings, she turns to her son and smiles. ‘Your favourite.’
*
As the actors take their final bow, Sylvie turns up her collar and pulls her hat firmly over her ears. She watches as Oliver extricates himself from the line-up and approaches two women in the front row. A pretty, older woman immediately springs to her feet and Oliver hugs her. Recognising her as the woman from the beach café, Sylvie narrows her eyes.
‘This is my friend Sheila,’ Carol says, attempting to keep her voice steady.
‘Nice to meet you, Sheila,’ Oliver says, only too aware of the effect he is having on both women.
‘I’ve met you before,’ says Sheila excitedly, ‘last autumn, when you signed autographs outside Cara’s gallery.’
Thinking back to that day, Oliver cannot recall Carol’s smaller, plumper friend. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember.’
‘We can’t forget you!’ exclaims Sheila. ‘But then, it’s not every day of the week an actor of note struts his stuff in little old Porthleven.’ She roars with laughter and Oliver recoils at her full-on energy.
Carol smiles. What her friend lacks in height is more than compensated in character.
‘I hope you enjoyed the play,’ Oliver says.
‘Oh, yes,’ Sheila squeals. ‘I had no idea you had such a wonderful singing voice.’
‘It’s not often I get to use it. It’s a fairly well-hidden secret.’
‘Do you have many of those?’ she asks cheekily.
‘Sheila!’ Carol reprimands, shocked.
‘Well, you don’t often get the chance to ask such a direct question, do you?’ Sheila says, ignoring Carol’s tone.
Oliver pales, grappling with an uninvited image of Sylvie riding him hard and shouting out his name. Even now, he feels so dirty. Inwardly he groans. He’d managed to put her out of his mind fairly effectively until this plump little woman came along.
‘Not many,’ he says politely.
Carol can see he’s visibly shaken. Trust Sheila…
Tas approaches and Oliver happily relinquishes the responsibility of conversation to his friend. Glancing around, he watches an elderly couple navigate their way along a row of seats but it’s the person hovering at the back of the hall that grabs his attention. He can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman, but the intensity coming from the figure is nauseatingly familiar.
Don’t be so dramatic! How could she possibly be here in Nancegollan, of all places?
He turns away, but has to look again… just to be sure. The figure is no longer there and he wonders if he simply imagined it. However, a sense of disquiet lingers.
‘Oh, yes,’ Sheila twitters on. ‘We’ve planned a night out with more of the girls for the next performance, haven’t we, Carol?’
Carol nods, embarrassed. She steals a glance at Oliver. He appears distracted, scanning the back of the hall.
‘Are you enjoying your time in Cornwall, Oliver?’ she asks.
‘I’m loving it,’ he says, dragging his attention back to the two women. ‘You are all so lucky to live here.’
‘Yes, we are,’ she says with feeling.
‘Were you born here?’
Carol laughs. ‘Goodness no! London born and bred, me. I came to Cornwall for a party and stayed.’
I came to Cornwall for Cara and stayed.
Catching Carol’s eye a fraction longer than necessary, Oliver quickly asks, ‘What did you do in London?’
‘It was the Swinging Sixties and I was a model,’ she says, flattered that he should ask.
‘That’s easy to understand,’ he says.
Carol blushes. ‘I was fairly successful at it, too,’ she adds proudly. ‘It was at the time of Twiggy and Jean Shrimpton. In fact, I worked on a number of assignments in which they featured as the top models.’
Oliver looks at Carol with interest. He remembers Cara telling him how her mother used to hang out with the Moody Blues and had a ‘thing’ for Justin Hayward.
There’s more to this woman than meets the eye.
‘Do you miss any of that?’ he asks, knowing the answer already.
‘No-o-o!’ Carol says, expressively. ‘I can’t deny it, I partied like the rest. It was a time when you could do anything, go anywhere, be anybody you wanted to be, but we got our fingers burned along the way. It was only when I met Ken that I discovered what real life was all about.’
‘Well, I envy you.’
Carol smiles politely.
‘Guess we’d better hit the road, Mr Fox,’ Tas says, wrapping up his conversation with the effervescent Sheila and glancing meaningfully at Oliver. ‘Bye, ladies.’
‘Hope we see you again soon,’ says Oliver, smiling at the two women. He turns to follow his friend.
‘Oh my God, Carol,’ Sheila says excitedly, ‘he’s so dreamy!’
‘Yes, Oliver is very disarming,’ Carol says, wondering what she could possibly have that he would envy.
*
As the men leave the building, Oliver quickly scans the area.
‘You OK?’ Tas asks.
‘Thought I recognised someone earlier but I must have been mistaken.’
‘What, a stalker?’ Tas laughs.
‘Yes.’
Tas’s laugh stalls in his throat. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘Christ, Ollie. How long has this been going on?’
‘Since the beginning of the year.’
Tas considers the actor for a moment. ‘Male or female?’
‘Female.’
‘What’s she been doing?’
Damn! He hadn’t meant to say anything.
‘Pretty harmless stuff. Leaving notes on the car and I thought I saw her a couple of times. She has phoned home, though.’ He recalls she didn’t want Tas to visit her; that would make his friend laugh.
‘Have you reported it to the police?’ Tas asks, climbing into the Jeep.
‘No. I can handle it.’
‘Does Deanna know?’
‘God, no! I don’t want her spooked.’
‘But if this woman’s got your home phone number she more than likely knows where you live!’ Oliver nods slowly. ‘You’ve got to go to the police, Ollie. Where’s your head at?’
‘Tas, I can handle it. She’s harmless.’ But there’s no denying his disquiet. Extracting the mobile from his jacket pocket, Oliver phones home. ‘Hello, darling. How’s everything?’ He makes sure his voice sounds casual.
‘Great! I’ve got some girlfriends round for an impromptu party. You know, while the cat’s away…’
Oliver hears laughter in the background. ‘That’s good, Dee. Glad you’re having fun.’ He pauses. ‘Everything OK with the kids?’
‘Yes, everything’s fine, Ollie,’ Deanna says. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Just checking in. You know me.’
‘Yes, I do, and this is not like you.’
What if he just told her everything that happened on Holy Isle, that Sylvie is unhinged and a possible danger to the family? What would she make of that? She wouldn’t understand. She’d blame him.
‘Everything OK with the house?’
‘Well, the roof’s still on, if that’s what you mean?’ Deanna says, exasperatedly.
‘No, I don’t mean that, Deanna,’ Oliver says, his voice strained. ‘Have you noticed anything unusual?’
‘Yes, a herd of zebra wandered through earlier,’ she says sarcastically. ‘Oh, and then a lion appeared out of the forest, its eyes shining brightly…’ She falters as she remembers the flashes coming from the edge of the woods. ‘What’s this all about, Ollie?’
‘Nothing. I don’t like being away from the family. Just keep your eyes open.’
‘Now you’re beginning to freak me out.’
Bloody Sylvie! Not for the first time, Oliver feels the tightrope he walks with his wife.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he says.
Negotiating a left-hand bend, Tas glances at his friend and raises an eyebrow.
‘Enjoy your party.’ Oliver finishes the call and sinks into the passenger seat. ‘That went well!’
‘Don’t you think you should get some security installed?’ Tas suggests. ‘Who knows what nutters are out there?’
‘We’ve got a burglar alarm.’
‘Security, Ollie… like guards!’
Oliver snorts. ‘Deanna would have a fit. She’d hate to live like that.’
‘Deanna will have a fit if anything happens to you or the kids,’ Tas responds.
‘I considered a guard dog but you know how she is about animals.’
Navigating through the granite entrance pillars, Tas parks in front of the farmhouse and switches off the engine. Turning to Oliver, he considers his friend. ‘It doesn’t matter what Deanna feels about animals,’ he says seriously. ‘I agree that place of yours is tucked away and off the beaten track but what if some unhinged, fanatical idiot finds out where you live? You’re a sitting duck. You’ve got to get some security in place.’
Oliver nods. If Sylvie is in Cornwall at least she’s not causing problems in Surrey. But if she’s not in Cornwall, where is she? And what trouble could she be stirring? Perhaps he should phone her.
‘You’re right, Tas. I’ll organise it, whether Deanna likes it or not.’
*
Sitting on the bed in the B&B’s prettily decorated room, Sylvie sucks the end of a felt-tip pen as she stares at the leaflet in her hand. What a stroke of luck she stopped off in Truro on her way to the Lizard. After losing Oliver in the torrential storm, she continued her journey praying he’d be staying at the farmhouse again. If not, trying to track him down would be like finding a needle in a haystack and she’d probably have to abandon her plan and return to London.
Feeling exhausted, her nerves in shreds, she parked in one of the outlying car parks at the head of the Fal River and wandered through the city’s maze of cobbled alleyways, oblivious to the beautiful buildings and elegant Georgian architecture around her. Eventually she found herself in Boscawen Street, hungry and unable to recall when she’d last had a good meal. She was debating where to eat when a poster in the tourist office window caught her eye. Sorrows in the Sand, the headline screamed, and under this was an image of Oliver and a red-headed woman, together with a list of dates and venues for the Tasmanian Devil Theatre Company’s summer tour. Without hesitation she entered the office and picked up half a dozen leaflets.
Sylvie congratulates herself on being so thorough in tracking Oliver. Having already gleaned some information from the Internet, she now has a complete list of his performances. No longer does she have to sleep in the car keeping watch on his whereabouts; she can treat herself to a decent night’s sleep. Sylvie grins. Her boss has asked some difficult questions about the number of sick days she’s been taking and she was beginning to run out of plausible explanations. Now she can return to her job knowing that every Friday night she will leave work and travel to Cornwall, safe in the absolute knowledge that each weekend she will be with her lover.
Removing the felt-tip pen from her mouth, Sylvie carefully draws a heart around Oliver’s face. Then, drawing a box around the redhead at his side, she starts to fill it in. As Sylvie’s emotions consume her, the pen scratches ever more manically across the paper until the red-headed actress is completely obliterated. She throws her head back and laughs, then rocks forwards and backwards on the bed, its springs groaning as her frantic movements grow ever more violent.
‘Now I’ve got you, Oliver Foxley! You can’t escape me that easily.’