‘A burglar alarm I can live with but high fencing, electric gates, CCTV plus a security guard and that frightful dog…’ Deanna shudders. ‘You’ve imprisoned us in a gilded cage!’
Oliver gazes at the ocean, calm and serene; the antithesis of his wife’s current mood. Having pulled into a lay-by to answer his mobile, he now faces Deanna’s wrath. As the sun dips behind St Michael’s Mount, a stunning sunset bathes the bay in a blood-red glow.
If this were a painting it would be hard to accept as real.
Oliver’s mind wanders fondly to Cara but his wife’s sharp tone brings him back to the present.
‘What’s happened to make you do this?’
It’s a fair question, but he can’t give her the true answer. ‘The way the world is.’
‘No, Oliver, that’s not good enough. We’ve lived here perfectly happily for nearly eighteen years. It’s not you that has to live under lock and key. What have you done?’
‘Don’t be so dramatic, Dee.’
‘I am not being dramatic.’ Deanna seethes. ‘You are free to come and go as you please but we have to live here. Your celebrity has made us prisoners in our own home.’
‘My celebrity, Deanna, is what’s given you that home,’ he says evenly.
But Deanna is on a roll. ‘If you’ve done something to jeopardise the safety of my family I will never forgive you.’
‘Our family.’ Oliver’s voice is dangerously low.
‘Our family?’ Deanna screams, her customary coolness escaping her. ‘You’re never here! You’re always swanning around the globe and only coming home when you feel like it.’
Oliver holds the phone away from his ear. That old chestnut. Why does it always come back to her accusing him of not pulling his weight where the family is concerned? It’s below the belt, and she knows it. He can hear her breathing heavily, steadying her fury. Oliver remains silent and watches a fishing boat travelling across the mirror-like sea. A dozen seagulls follow in its wake.
So serene. Like a painting come to life. Again, his mind wanders to Cara.
‘Have you finished?’ he asks.
‘Aargh!’ Deanna shrieks. ‘You are so frustrating!’
‘Look, what’s a guard dog? You won’t have to come into contact with it.’
‘That’s not the point. It’s what it represents. The psychological aspect, as you of all people should know.’
Oliver squeezes his eyes shut. For the first time in several weeks, the ‘grey mist’ engulfs him. Has she pushed him over the edge on purpose? When he speaks again it is little more than a growl. ‘Deanna, get used to it. The world has changed and we have to change with it if we are to remain safe.’
‘Oh, that’s just fine for you to say. You don’t have to live in jail!’
‘You knew what you were getting into when you married me. If you didn’t want the trappings and restrictions celebrity brings then you should have married someone out of the public eye.’
Hearing the underlying message, Deanna softens her voice. ‘But you have no idea what it’s like living this way. How I feel…’ She lets the sentence hang.
Oliver sighs. It’s been a couple of weeks since he was last in Surrey, going over the plans with the security firm. Perhaps he should return soon to assess if Deanna is being unreasonable. Though, with the threat of Sylvie hanging over them, what option does he have but to install extra security?
‘Dee,’ he says more gently. ‘I’ll come back for a couple of days next week and we’ll talk about it then.’
Deanna smiles. She still knows how to push his buttons. ‘The security guard and dog must go.’
‘They remain,’ Oliver says.
‘Oliver, they will go,’ she says defiantly.
‘Deanna, they will not.’
‘But you don’t have to live like this!’ Deanna feels like screaming. ‘Oh, don’t bother coming back. There’s no point you being here anyway. You only get in the way.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to do that,’ he says sarcastically.
Once again, Oliver feels his role within the family is inconsequential. She’s got his children and that’s all Deanna is interested in. Perfectly independent.
‘Anyway, Sammy’s going to Rosie’s parents’ villa for the summer and I’m taking the boys to Ma and Pa’s for a few weeks.’
‘When did you decide this?’ Oliver asks.
‘Oh, Sammy was asked months back,’ Deanna says airily.
Oliver frowns. Why hasn’t Deanna discussed it with him? Obviously, his daughter is of an age when she can make up her own mind but it would have been nice to be included in the family’s plans.
‘And I decided to decamp to Norfolk the day the security guard arrived.’ Unflinchingly, Deanna delivers this last piece of news.
Oliver grits his teeth. She certainly knows how to pack a punch. He watches a car pass by on the lonely road.
‘It will be good for the boys to spend time with their grandparents,’ he says, ‘but your reasons for visiting, Deanna, are totally ridiculous.’
‘How would you possibly know? As I’ve said before, you come and go as you please. It’s us who are forced to live with the consequences of your actions and decisions.’ Deanna feels her trademark strength and full mastery return. ‘Frankly, I’m sick of it, Oliver. Don’t come back any time soon until you’ve thought about that.’
‘If that’s what you want.’
There’s an edge to his voice and Deanna hesitates, experiencing a tremor of foreboding. She is on the verge of softening him up again when Oliver disconnects.
*
Sylvie can’t believe her luck. Having taken a couple of days off work to make a long weekend, she is on her way to the farmhouse to check Oliver’s whereabouts when she passes him parked in a lay-by, speaking on his mobile. She stops in a farmer’s gateway nearby and waits. Ten minutes later Oliver drives by. Dipping her head, Sylvie surreptitiously watches as the Mercedes disappears round the bend before pulling out into the road, ensuring enough distance between the two cars not to draw attention. She’s getting good at this.
*
Oliver’s mood is black. Not only does his wife know how to bury the knife up to the hilt but also to twist it… slowly. As he grapples with his old adversary once more, his anger turns inwards. How disappointed he is in himself. He thought he had mastered his depression, but that was just an egotistical illusion. The ‘grey mist’ – conspicuous by its absence for most of the time he’s been in Cornwall – is here again, in all its forceful glory.
Does he want to go to the gig tonight? He could simply return to the farmhouse; no one will be around. Rick and Tania are running the event and Tas will be there enjoying himself. He could ride out the storm without bothering anybody. But Oliver doesn’t want to be on his own this evening. As dusk descends, he drives straight past the turning to the farmhouse. Aware of headlights following, he thinks nothing of it. Cars on the coast road only have a limited number of destinations. Indicating right, he takes the lane leading to the cove.
Oliver parks the Mercedes and gets out. Apart from the sound of breaking waves some distance away and the gentle strum of guitars, all is quiet. Breathing in the sea air, he attempts to lighten his sombre mood. He glances along the track and the light from The Lookout blinks like a beacon. How he’d love to be going there right now, but he doesn’t want Cara to experience his vile mood. And, anyway, he can’t just turn up like that. There has to be a reason. Oliver walks towards Rick’s Beach Hut, the ‘grey mist’ hanging heavily upon him.
Sylvie holds back and stops on the bend. She plunges the car into darkness and waits until Oliver enters the café before switching on the headlights again. Parking as far away from the Mercedes as possible, she considers her options. Excited at being so close, she’s also frustrated she can’t get nearer, but coming across him so unexpectedly must surely be a sign! This is her chance to meet him again, and who knows where that may lead?
Switching on the internal light, Sylvie pulls out a scarf from the glove compartment. Tying it around her head Bohemian-style, she pinches her cheeks to bring some colour to her pale face. It’s a shame her make-up bag is at the B&B, however, she does have a plum-coloured lipstick in her handbag. Applying it carefully, she rolls her lips together and pouts at her image in the mirror.
‘Not bad.’
Sylvie flicks off the light and gets out of the car. All is quiet, apart from the sound of the ocean and muffled laughter coming from the café. It’s dark, except for the lights shining from some of the properties along the cliff. Suddenly, headlights appear on the road behind her and, instinctively, she cowers back into the shadows. A car pulls into the car park and she turns away, pretending to search for something in her bag. Two guys get out and walk to the entrance. As they enter, Sylvie hears a party in full swing. When the door closes again, all is quiet.
What if it’s a private party?
Desperation drives her on. As she nears the café, she sees a notice pinned to the door.
Celtic Folk Rock
with
The Corringtons
7p.m. until Late
Come on in!
It’s an open invitation. Seeing this as yet another sign, Sylvie slips in unnoticed and stands at the back of the café. It’s crowded and there’s a buzz of excitement in the air. She scans the room. No sign of Oliver. She heads towards the bar and instantly recognises the tall blonde serving at the far end. It’s the bitch who so openly flaunted herself with her lover. Sylvie’s eyes narrow to slits.
‘What would you like?’ A man’s voice shakes her out of her dark thoughts.
‘Cider.’ She says the first thing that comes into her head.
‘Which one? We’ve got Bulmers, Strongbow and Cornish Rattler.’
‘Cornish Rattler,’ she says, liking the sound of the name.
‘Good choice. Guaranteed to tickle your taste buds.’ The barman smiles at her and then turns away.
Sylvie glances around again. Oliver is still nowhere to be seen.
‘Here you go.’ Placing a glass on the counter in front of her, the man yells along the bar, ‘Hey, Tan, we’re almost out of the Rattler Pear!’
Paying for her drink, Sylvie turns away. Oliver must be in another part of the café. Pushing her way through the crowd, she spots him standing at the side of the decking talking to the driver of the big black Jeep. She hangs back.
‘You all right, Ollie? You seem distracted,’ Tas asks.
Oliver takes a swig of beer. ‘It’s Deanna. She’s not happy.’
‘What, you being so far away?’
‘No, that doesn’t upset her,’ Oliver says with a hollow laugh. ‘She’s unhappy about the new security measures.’
‘She’d be a lot unhappier if some rabid fan got in and ran amok around the place,’ Tas says.
‘Yeah, well, I didn’t go into specifics. Just said it was precautionary. Anyway, she’s well pissed off and is decamping the family to her parents’ for the summer.’
‘Possibly a good move?’ suggests Tas.
‘Maybe…’
Changing the subject, Tas says, ‘Think we’re in for a treat tonight.’ He nods towards the three musicians standing under the sailcloth at the far end of the decking.
Tristan stops strumming his guitar. Unhappy with the sound, he tightens a couple of strings and, cocking his head, strums again. He nods. ‘Welcome to this intimate little gathering,’ he says into the microphone and an expectant hush descends. ‘Let’s get the evening started and make some sweet music.’
Looking towards his sister, he counts them in, and then they’re away into the first song of the set.
Morwenna lightly grasps the microphone and closes her eyes, acutely aware of Tas standing only a few rows away. She’s seen him a few times since the beach party but, deep down, she knows he’ll be moving on once the play comes to a close. And that’s OK, she tells herself. His character is overpowering and it’s difficult not to be intimidated by his knowledge and worldliness. Taking a deep breath, she starts to sing. Her voice is rich and full-bodied; her nerves have not let her down. Daring to open her eyes, she sees Tas smiling broadly at her.
‘See what I mean?’ Tas says, turning to Oliver. ‘They’ve definitely got something. That Morwenna has a fabulous voice, every bit as clear and pure as Andrea Corr’s.’
Oliver agrees. The Corringtons make a good sound. He tries to let the music soothe his troubled soul but Deanna has deeply rattled him and his mood is hard to shift. He glances around. Will Cara come to support her friends?
Standing on the far side of the decking, Sylvie has not taken her eyes off Oliver since first spotting him in the crowd. As his eyes graze over her, she waits for his acknowledgement but her presence doesn’t register. Oliver continues to scan the crowd. Sylvie’s jaw drops.
She’s not here!
Bitter disappointment consumes him and Oliver is left in no doubt. How much longer can he curb his feelings? Raising the beer bottle to his lips, he turns his attention back to the musicians.
‘Thank you,’ says Morwenna, as the audience applaud their opening number.
Tristan carefully places his guitar on its stand and walks to a set of keyboards, as the backing vocalist, and multi-instrumentalist, selects a bodhran from the collection of instruments at his feet. Fingering a tin whistle, Morwenna counts them into the next song – a haunting acoustic.
Oliver looks around again and his heart leaps straight into his mouth. Cara stands in the archway leading from the café out to the decking. As she turns in his direction her eyes light up and she breaks into a smile. She says something to her female companion before making her way through the crowd towards him.
‘Hi, Oliver,’ Cara says, as she reaches him. ‘Enjoying the music?’
‘Greatly.’
Tas looks over his shoulder and nods at Cara before turning back to watch Morwenna.
‘This is Tristan’s girlfriend, Jane.’ Cara makes the introduction.
‘Hi. You were at the beach party,’ Oliver says with a smile.
‘Hello again,’ Jane says, flattered he should remember.
‘I didn’t know you’d be here,’ Cara says softly as she turns to face the stage. ‘I’m glad you are.’ She smiles up at him; a beautiful golden smile.
With hammering heart, Oliver senses the ‘grey mist’ retreating fast. In amazement, he realises that Cara can do what no therapist has ever achieved. No longer does he feel alone or adrift. He feels found.
As Cara listens to the music, she remembers how she and Christo encouraged The Corringtons from their earliest days, when they were just friends jamming together on a wet Sunday afternoon at The Lookout, with Christo accompanying on guitar. She thought she’d be filled with melancholy hearing them again tonight and considered not coming. The memories of the last time she saw them performing at the café and the following, hateful, life-changing day are still too raw. But Cara doesn’t feel melancholic. In fact, she feels as if life is just about to take a turn for the better and, deep down, she knows it has everything to do with the man standing closely beside her. She senses Christo watching over her and is sure he gives his blessing.
Sylvie stares at Oliver and Cara, her mind turning to ever more malicious thoughts as she sees the way he is with her. Who is this girl? He should be with her – he promised! As Cara turns to speak to Oliver, Sylvie watches him lean in closely to hear her more clearly above the music. She sees their eyes lock. No! She can’t stand it. He promised he would phone, but he hasn’t. It’s just lies. And what of that bitch behind the bar? She was all over him the last time she saw them together. So, he thinks he can have all these other women but not keep his promise to her. This won’t do! He belongs to her.
Sylvie walks to the bar and orders another Cornish Rattler, this time from Tania. As Tania walks to the cooler cabinet Sylvie’s eyes travel up and down her body, finding fault. She’s not so attractive close up. Although she has legs that go on forever, this woman is not someone her Oliver would fall for. She flaunts herself too much and flirts with every man she comes into contact with. Is that why Oliver is paying so much attention to that other blonde?
When Tania returns to the skinny woman at the bar, she’s surprised to find her breasts being ogled. Pouring cider into a glass, she places it on the counter.
‘Seen anything you like?’
Slowly Sylvie raises her eyes. ‘Not a lot.’
Tania reels, shocked at the vindictive look on the woman’s face. ‘Hey! Who the fuck do you think you are?’
There’s a touch of madness to Sylvie’s laugh and Tania shivers.
Placing her money on the counter, Sylvie picks up the glass and moves away, but then turns back. ‘You will never have him, slut,’ she hisses. ‘He belongs to me. And if you insist on trying to get him I can’t be held responsible for my actions. Hands off. He’s forbidden territory.’ She glares at Tania. ‘And as for that ridiculous dance…’
She puts her glass down and takes a couple of steps back. Raising her hands high above her head, Sylvie starts to erotically sway, dipping and rising, not once breaking eye contact. ‘Just let it happen…’ she says, mimicking the Australian’s husky whisper.
Tania’s eyes open wide and her jaw drops.
Dismissively, Sylvie runs her eyes over Tania’s body one more time. ‘I’ve warned you,’ she growls. ‘Hands off!’ Grabbing the glass, she turns away.
Shocked, Tania holds onto the bar to steady herself.
Sylvie pushes her way through the crowd, once again taking up position on the far side of the decking. As she takes a gulp of cider, she looks across the sea of people in Oliver’s direction and chokes.
With one foot propped against the archway, Cara gazes up at Oliver standing in front of her, his right arm outstretched over her shoulder and the palm of his hand flat against the wall for support. Their bodies are almost touching. The look on Oliver’s face is tender as he talks to her. They appear oblivious to the other people in the room, and there is something very private and intimate about the way they are with each other.
As Sylvie’s jealousy spills over, something evil and twisted slithers up from the depths of her stomach, infecting her like a virus. Voices in her head tell her to destroy all that is good and beautiful, and there’s no denying it: the woman with Oliver is stunning. Her beauty transcends her looks, going much deeper in a way that Sylvie has never witnessed before. Suddenly she has a powerful vision of Cara shrouded in a pure golden light, alone on a barren bank, standing beneath a gnarled and twisted tree above a dark and foreboding bog. Her light shines out across the mire, highlighting something thrashing about in the darkness. A twisted, moaning figure crawls its way out of the blackness of the bog. Cloaked in misery and sadness, it clambers up the bank towards the beautiful, golden woman. To Sylvie’s horror, she realises the twisted figure is her. The glass slips from her grasp, its contents spewing out across the decking.
‘Shit!’
With trembling hand, she retrieves the empty glass. What the hell was that? She glances over at Oliver again. He looks so happy, smiling down at Cara, his face relaxed and eyes alight. Even Sylvie cannot deny the look of love.
‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’
A few people turn to look at the strange, skinny woman in the corner. Quickly, they move away.
Beside herself with frustration, Sylvie feels like screaming. She wants to tear Oliver away from that beautiful bitch. He is so near and, still, yet so far. Why is he being so unkind? She knows he likes to play hard to get, but she needs and wants him now! Sylvie considers how best to remind Oliver that he belongs to her.
*
Two hours later, Morwenna speaks into her microphone. ‘Sadly, that was our last song.’ She laughs at the collective groan.
‘More!’ the audience shout. Morwenna confers with her brother.
‘Thanks very much, guys,’ says Tristan, grabbing his microphone, ‘but haven’t you all got homes to go to?’
Further shouts and encouragement and the audience stamp their feet.
‘OK, one more,’ he says. ‘We don’t want to wreck Rick’s deck… and try saying that when you’ve had a few!’ He laughs and then grows sombre. ‘This song is in memory of a truly fantastic and special friend who was not only very supportive of us but also a massive Coldplay fan.’
Tristan looks across at Cara with compassion, and a sea of faces turns in her direction. As if only now becoming aware of their body language, Cara pushes herself away from Oliver and, abruptly, he is brought back to earth from an amazing dream. Cara smiles sadly as she listens to the familiar music. This was Christo’s favourite Coldplay song. She bites down hard on her lip, refusing to give into the emotions the music stirs.
Feeling Cara’s distress, Oliver yearns to soothe away her pain. He hears the lyrics and it’s as if Tristan sings directly to him. He has always felt lost and incomplete but, tonight, he knows the missing piece to the frustrating puzzle of his life has been found.
A big, fat tear slides down Cara’s face and brusquely she brushes it away. In an instant Jane is at her side. Putting her arm around Cara, Jane sways with her to the music, effectively deflecting any inquisitive stares. Just a couple of friends enjoying the song.
Oliver feels useless. It should be him holding Cara, kissing away her tears and making everything OK. It’s what he wants to do more than anything.
Sylvie watches like a hawk. Seeing Cara’s sadness and the pain it causes Oliver, she sneers and her bleak heart rejoices.
As the music finally comes to an end and the crowd reluctantly starts to leave, Oliver turns to Cara. ‘What are you doing now?’
‘I’ve got to get back. My parents are babysitting.’
‘I’ll walk you home.’
She nods and offers a watery smile. Turning to Jane, Cara says, ‘Thanks, Jane. You’re such a good friend.’
Jane gives her a hug and kisses her on the cheek.
Eventually extricating themselves from their friends, Oliver and Cara exit onto the boardwalk. Sylvie holds back, keeping to the shadows. A thick blanket of silence hangs over the cove, only broken by an occasional shout of farewell as people leave the café. Cara switches on her torch as they walk across the car park onto the track. Oliver glances up at the night sky. The moon is almost full and the sky is awash with stars.
These Cornish skies are amazing! It’s never like this in Surrey.
Deanna enters his consciousness, but it’s a bittersweet thought and he pushes it to one side. Looking across at Cara, Oliver knows he’s in danger of not turning back. In the darkness he finds her hand.
As Sylvie follows, her jealousy eats away at her. Where are they going? The track looks as if it disappears over the edge of the cliff!
They are only yards from The Lookout when Oliver stops and turns Cara to face him. Without speaking, she moves into his loving embrace as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As he covers her mouth with a kiss of such tenderness, Cara feels the deep-rooted sadness leave her body and tentative hope take its place.
Sylvie stops and stares. Filled with hatred for this woman who dares steal her man, she is also transfixed by the glow that surrounds the couple. Despite her venomous thoughts, she feels calm serenity reach out to her.
Oliver’s insides have contracted and the ‘grey mist’ has scuttled to the furthest recesses of his being. Cara is warm and soft and yielding, and he wishes the kiss could go on forever. Gently he pulls away and gazes down at her. Cara’s eyes are closed; her face tilted up to his. When he doesn’t kiss her again she opens her eyes. With a sudden thrill, Oliver sees his feelings reflected back at him.
‘Cara,’ he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, and he watches the deeply etched sadness in her beautiful eyes disappear.
‘Oliver,’ she says breathlessly.
It would be so easy to make love to her here and now. He dare not kiss her again.
‘Let me deliver you to your door,’ he says gallantly, and she laughs. Oh, how he loves hearing her laughter.
Finding each other’s hands once again, Oliver and Cara walk slowly towards the light shining from The Lookout’s porch.
Hanging back in the gloom, Sylvie watches as they enter the last bungalow along the track.
*
Ken glances at his wife. ‘What’s troubling you, Carol?’
Headlights appear in the distance over the brow of the hill and his attention diverts back to the dark road ahead.
‘Our daughter.’
‘What do you mean?’
Carol sighs. ‘Didn’t you see how she looked tonight?’
‘Yes, happy for the first time in many months.’ Ken glances at his wife again. ‘Surely, you can’t deny her that?’
‘Of course not, Ken! I, as much as you, want her to be happy.’
‘Then what?’
Carol sighs again. ‘What do you suppose is making her so happy?’
Ken considers her question. ‘I suspect it has rather a lot to do with that charming actor I met tonight.’
‘I fear it does.’
Indicating right, he turns off the main road. ‘Why fear?’
‘Where have you been these past two decades?’ Carol asks, exasperatedly.
‘With you, my love,’ Ken answers calmly, ‘and a wonderful life it is too.’
Carol smiles, despite her concerns. Then slowly she says, ‘Oliver Foxley is married, and the wife that I met is a formidable woman.’
*
Oliver stands in the darkness, thankful the others have yet to return to the farmhouse. He has a lot to sort out. Standing at the open French doors, he looks across the lawn to the Cornish stone hedge and the heathland beyond. The moon casts a silvery glow over the surroundings. It could be any century, so unspoiled and unchanged is the landscape. Glancing up at the man in the moon, he wonders if Cara also looks up at him, suspended in the same sky only two miles further along the coast. The thought warms his heart, momentarily affording some peace to his troubled soul. He tries to distinguish the individual stars making up the Milky Way arcing across the night sky. How many other people in the world are looking up at the galaxy at this precise moment in his predicament? He loves Deanna – of course he does – despite the current dysfunctional nature of their relationship. They have built a life together and created a family, and she has been beside him from the very first flicker of his fame. But, there is something about Cara that speaks to him on a level he and his wife have failed to reach. He has never felt anything close to what he feels for Cara.
As he relives their kiss, there is the sweetest taste on his lips. He shouldn’t have done that, but he was powerless and it seemed such a natural thing to do. There was nothing awkward about it. Oliver groans. He has to stop this right now, for all their sakes. He saw the way Cara looked at him. It made his heart stop and his stomach turn inside out, and he wanted her in a way he had never wanted anyone before. But what he feels for her, and what he hopes she feels for him, has nowhere to go. He punches the doorframe, but there’s no avoiding it: Oliver Foxley is in love for the very first time.
‘Why?’ he cries into the night air. ‘Why bring her to me now?’ An eerie screech carries on the wind and Oliver shivers.
A movement to his right makes him turn and he watches as the pale, ghostly shape of an owl glides across the lawn on buoyant wingbeats towards the heathland. A silent predator of the night world. He stands at the open door a while longer until he hears tyres crunching on the gravel. Closing the French doors, he quickly makes his way to his room before the others enter the house.
*
Bethany is sound asleep and Cara quietly closes the bedroom door. Checking on Sky, she finds him awake. Barnaby, curled up at the foot of the bed, looks up inquisitively as she enters the room and thumps his tail on the duvet.
‘Did you have a good evening with Grandma and Grandpa?’ Cara asks, sitting next to Barnaby.
‘Yes.’ Sky breaks into a smile. ‘Grandpa and I had two bowls of ice cream.’
‘Did you, now?’ says Cara, stringing out the last word.
‘Promise not to tell Grandma? I don’t want to get him into trouble.’
‘It’ll be our secret,’ Cara says, smiling at her son. She brushes his fringe out of his eyes. ‘It’s late, Sky. You should be asleep.’
Turning onto his side, the young boy pulls a well-loved teddy into his arms.
‘Goodnight, sweet Sky. Pleasant dreams.’ She kisses him on the forehead and calls to Barnaby. Reluctantly, the dog gets off the bed.
She’s at the door when Sky calls out. ‘Was Oliver with you tonight?’
Unprepared for the question, she breaks into a smile. ‘Yes, he was.’
‘I like him. Can he take me to school one day?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. He’s a busy man.’ And he has a family of his own, she thinks. But, seeing the disappointment on her son’s face, she adds, ‘I tell you what, I’ll ask him to supper one evening. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?’
The boy nods.
‘Goodnight, Sky.’ She blows him a kiss and pulls the door to, leaving it ajar a couple of inches.
As Cara walks to her bedroom, she contemplates all that has happened during the evening. Oliver Foxley kissed her! It seemed so right. There was nothing ungainly about it, no embarrassing smashing of teeth or bruising of lips. It was just lovely. And it stirred feelings she never thought to experience again. Briefly, she wonders if he is simply playing with her, flirting with the idea of a summer fling to pass the time while he is in Cornwall, but instantly she rejects the thought. Oliver is not shallow or flippant and he has never portrayed himself to be anything other than caring and thoughtful, especially where she is concerned. Butterflies in the pit of her stomach take flight. And he has never cowered from exposing his raw, vulnerable side to her. No, Oliver is something real, something worth keeping and someone she would be prepared to love because of his flaws, not in spite of them.
Aware that she is close to falling in love, Cara reaches for the cherished photo displayed on her bedside cabinet. In a voice filled with emotion, she whispers, ‘Christo, there will always be a place in my heart for you.’