Deanna studies her husband asleep beside her. He looks so serene; his features free from the stresses of the day and his demons stilled. A smile lingers on his lips. Even after all these years her heartbeat quickens at the sight of him – her beautiful husband – but little did she know what she was taking on the day she accepted his tentative offer of a first date. He was already well into his acting course when she arrived at the college to study stage management. He was instantly noticeable – the best-looking student. The other girls, and a number of the boys, watched in envy as he singled her out and showered her with his charm. And it worked. Her tough exterior melted under his adoring gaze. She would never consider herself beautiful, although she knows she possesses a certain attractiveness, but the young Deanna was aware enough to understand it was her strength of character and independence that Oliver liked most about her. He would be amazed if he knew how she truly felt about him at that time, but she was careful to maintain a cool persona and set herself the task of perfecting those qualities he liked in order to hold his attention. This strategy worked in her favour because, over the years, she has had to rely heavily on those character traits.
Deanna gazes up at the ceiling. She has slept fitfully and feels exhausted. Still uncomfortable, she turns onto her side and peers at the alarm clock. Should she get up or try for another hour’s sleep?
Her movements disturb Oliver and his fingers find their way under her T-shirt. Gently he caresses her smooth, flat belly. ‘Mmm… you feel good,’ he says, nuzzling the back of her neck. ‘Why are you awake?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘I know what you need,’ he says, gently rolling her onto her back.
As her body yields to him, Deanna momentarily casts aside the precision-like restraint by which she runs her life. Submitting to the sensations coursing through her, fleetingly she loses control and, moments later, with ragged breathing and muscles taut, Oliver finds his own release. Almost immediately Deanna moves restlessly beneath him, already thinking of her day ahead. Like yesterday, it is full of chores and expectations to fulfil.
Propping himself on one elbow, Oliver thoughtfully observes his wife.
‘You always did know how to play me, Ollie,’ Deanna says quietly, her eyes closed.
He smiles and gently runs a finger over her belly from one hip bone to the other.
‘What time is it?’ Deanna asks.
‘Still early.’ Oliver re-straightens her T-shirt and turns onto his back, one arm bent behind his head.
‘Half an hour more, then.’ Deanna turns away.
Oliver looks up at the ceiling, as his wife had only minutes before, as familiar disjointedness takes hold. Why does everything feel so discordant and hollow? Life has dealt him a pretty good hand. What more could he possibly want? It’s as if there are no challenges left. He yearns for something but doesn’t know what – just something more. Maybe it’s his mid-life crisis. Possibly he should accept that film role. God knows, his agent is persistent enough!
Perhaps Deanna is right; a change would be as good as a rest.
But still he’s unsure. Deep down he knows that accepting the role simply to take his mind off his disquiet is not the answer. It might have worked in the past, diverting him from his emotional battles for a short while, but his mind has grown wise to this avoidance technique.
Taking care not to disturb his wife, Oliver slips out of bed and pads silently across the room to the en-suite. Running the shower as hot as he can bear, he stands with water cascading over his head. This bout of melancholia has had him locked in its grip for a while now and he knows he needs to do something different to kick-start his lighter side. Deanna is always stoic regarding his mental disorder but sometimes it would be refreshing if she weren’t so independent and, seemingly, indifferent.
Sometimes it would be nice to think she understood my inner demons and not simply ignored them. He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the thought.
Standing with arms outstretched, palms flat against the cool tiles, Oliver closes his eyes and lets the full force of the water rain down upon the back of his neck.
When he first asked Deanna out it wasn’t just because he found her attractive. It was as much to do with her confidence. She was a warrior of a young woman and his frightened, confused, inner self stilled in her presence. He was fascinated to understand what made her tick and what made her so different. She had none of his insecurities and he found the differences between them exhilarating. As they spent more time in each other’s company they discovered they complemented each other well, and as soon as he graduated they found a flat together. Deanna continued her studies, while he ventured out into the competitive world of show business. Initially, it was his looks that drew attention and he was quickly snapped up for a controversial West End musical that broke new ground. It wasn’t long before he came to the attention of the critics, and they loved him. His sensitive portrayal of the difficult role in which he was cast earned him critical acclaim and his looks were relegated to second place. His name was soon on the lips of people ‘in the know’ and there where whispers – ever-growing – that he was the young actor to watch. It would be a further eighteen months before he gained mass recognition and became a household name, and then life would never be the same again.
Water cascades over his shoulders and down his back. It should be soothing yet his mind gives him no rest. He has read through the whole script and it’s a very good film with a strong, action-packed storyline providing an adrenalin rush for both actors and audience alike, but deep down he knows he doesn’t want to be involved. He needs to do something, but what? Perhaps he should revisit Holy Isle. Rubbing shampoo into his hair, Oliver deliberates whether this is the answer and the more he thinks about it, the more the idea appeals. He could leave the world far behind for a while and indulge in his own spiritual needs. Then, maybe, this disquiet will be put to rest. Reaching for the bottle of shower gel, he squeezes a small amount onto the palm of his hand and rhythmically works it into his chest and stomach. As soon as he finishes showering he will check the website and make enquiries about the next course.
He’s miles away and jumps when Deanna enters the bathroom. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and jeans, she gathers her hair into a ponytail as she walks across the room to the double basins.
‘Do you want breakfast, Ollie?’ she asks, turning on the cold tap.
‘Please,’ Oliver says, rubbing gel into his thigh and feeling the firm muscles beneath his fingertips.
‘Scrambled egg and toast?’ Deanna reaches for her toothbrush.
‘Sounds good to me.’ He will definitely find out about a course. His soul yearns for nourishment, to be lifted from the mundane.
As Deanna leans over the basin to brush her teeth, Oliver appraises her slender figure. He smiles at her wiggling bottom. He’s always been fascinated how her slim body has stretched and expanded during four pregnancies, yet always returned to such firmness. At forty, she is toned and in very good shape. Whenever anyone comments on her physique Deanna always puts it down to having inherited good genes, but Oliver knows his wife exacts the same discipline and control over what she puts into her body as she does the running of the household.
Deanna spits into the basin, replaces the toothbrush in its holder and straightens up. In the mirror she catches Oliver’s appreciative eye and smiles. ‘I’m taking Sammy to the station this morning. She’s going to Guildford with Rosie.’ She turns to face her husband. ‘Then I’m dropping Seb and Jamie at football practice. Is there anything you want while I’m in town?’
Peace of mind would be good.
‘Nothing I can think of.’ Oliver turns off the water. ‘You have it all under control.’
Opening the shower door, he pulls a plump, Egyptian cotton bath towel from the heated rail and vigorously dries himself, as Deanna walks from the room. With a game plan in mind he feels stronger and the ‘grey mist’, temporarily suspended, flutters on the edge of his consciousness.
Securing the towel around his waist, Oliver walks to the basins and catches sight of himself in the mirror. His reflection always takes him by surprise. It’s so different from how he sees himself. He, too, is in good shape – muscular and trim. At his age it’s imperative not to lose his edge and allow younger actors the chance to knock him off the top spot before his time, and this means daily workouts. But he also knows this is not the only reason he puts himself under such pressure. It’s as much to do with matching Deanna, like-for-like. He cannot fall behind. Looking at the handsome face staring back at him, once again Oliver is struck by the irony of his situation. No one would ever suspect the troubles he endures, the pain in his soul and the constant battle with himself.
Seeing what the world sees reflected back at him, Oliver looks himself in the eye and growls, ‘Skin deep, Ollie. Skin deep.’
*
Cara is in her studio working on the latest painting. On the easel is a sweeping view of the cove with her bungalow, The Lookout, in the far distance. It is not going well. She is about to give up when her iPhone springs into life. Laying the paintbrush aside, she moves to the window and picks up the mobile propped on the sill.
‘Cara, how’s it going?’
Silently, she groans. ‘Hi, Ben. I’ve got painter’s block.’
‘What you need is a change of scene. What are you doing Sunday evening?’
‘Why?’ she asks cautiously. As much as she likes Ben as a friend, she knows he wants more and it’s getting increasingly difficult to keep him at arm’s length.
‘There’s live music at Gylly Beach. Do you want to come?’ Ben asks hopefully.
She’s about to say there’s no way she can get a babysitter in time, but hesitates. Maybe a night out is what she needs. It might give her the inspiration to crack on with this painting.
‘The gang will be there,’ Ben continues. ‘Chilli and a pint for seven quid and the music’s free. It’ll be cool. Please, Cara.’
She looks out at the ocean; dark grey today under a bleak, colourless, January sky. Desolate, like her soul. She shivers. ‘I’ll just make a phone call and get right back.’
‘Great. I’ll be waiting.’
He sounds so hopeful. What is she going to do about him?
The wind whistles eerily and from deep within the bowels of the bungalow she can hear the children’s voices above the sound of the television. Her mother answers on the third ring.
‘Hi, Mum. How’s it going?’
‘Cara, darling, your father is driving me to distraction!’
Cara laughs. ‘What’s he done now?’
‘He’s only agreed to an exhibition of wildlife photography the very week I want to go to Madrid. He says I don’t communicate with him so how is he supposed to know what plans I’ve made!’
‘Have you already booked flights?’ Cara asks.
‘Well, no…’ Carol’s voice falters and then rises defensively ‘…but that’s not the point! I wanted to go that particular week because of the fiesta. I’ve been talking about it for months, if not years! He’s so damn maddening, your father.’
‘But adorable, Mum,’ Cara says, smiling at her mother’s histrionics. Everyone knows Ken is the calming influence in that relationship.
‘Oh yes, of course! He wouldn’t be your father if he wasn’t. Anyway, enough of me. How’s everything with you, darling?’
Cara wonders what her mother would say if she told her the truth. Forcing a smile into her voice, she says, ‘I’ve been asked out on Sunday night. Are you free to do a spot of babysitting?’
She knows her mother would like to see her settled with someone and senses, rather than hears, the sharp intake of breath.
‘Of course. You know I love spending time with my grandchildren. What time do you want me over?’
As Cara gazes along the empty expanse of sand, she notices a vehicle pull up in the café’s car park at the far end. A man gets out, swiftly followed by a springer spaniel.
Must be mad to be out in this!
She watches the man zip up his jacket and pause to look out to sea before walking down the steps onto the sand, his body bent into the wind. The dog is already on the beach, racing up to the water’s edge and barking at the waves.
‘Six should be fine. I’ll do supper for the kids so you won’t have to bother.’
‘Don’t worry about that, Cara. I’ll rustle up Grandma’s special. I’ll even drag Grandpa out too and we can all spend some quality time together.’
‘Thanks.’ Knowing her mother is itching to discover who she’s going out with, Cara holds her breath waiting for the inevitable question and is surprised when it doesn’t come. ‘Where’s Dad’s exhibition?’ she asks.
‘Eden. He’s giving daily lectures as well so it’s not as if he can just hang the pieces and leave!’
‘But that’s brilliant! There’ll be other fiestas, Mum.’
Carol laughs. ‘Hey, who is the mother here?’
‘Me too, don’t forget! But I don’t like to think you feel you’re missing out.’
‘Never! But I would have liked to go to that fiesta,’ Carol says with some regret. ‘Anyway, Cara, I’m so pleased you’re giving yourself a night off.’
‘Bye, Mum, and thanks again.’
A sudden rain squall thrashes against the window panes, rattling the wooden frames. As the wind picks up, swirling under the eaves of the studio, an eerie sound like wailing women fills the air. Cara shivers. It’s cold, even with the heating on. Glancing up, she notices a stain spreading across the ceiling.
‘Great! A leaking roof. That’s all I need.’
Looking out at the turbulent sea, she sees white horses riding the crest of the waves. She never tires of this view, at any time of year. Every season has its merits. Even in January, when everything appears colourless and drab, the sweep of the bay is magical to her. She smiles at the memory of the first time she saw The Lookout. He was so unsure and worried she wouldn’t like it. But she loved everything about it – from its quirky, unusual layout and dilapidated air, as if yearning for someone to care again, to the wildness of the surrounding cliff garden. Where others only saw its dangers, perilously perched above the beach, she saw the cliffs rising steeply behind as mighty protectors providing shelter from the bitter north-easterlies.
Cara’s eyes follow the man who, undeterred by the weather, walks his dog along the beach. Behind him, the dark grey twist of road glistens in the rain, like a snake slithering through the countryside, making its way silently towards the sand before depositing visitors at the small car park serving the café. Her gaze follows the dirt track skirting the cove that gives access to the handful of properties hugging the cliffs. The Lookout is the last bungalow before the Atlantic and Cara likes the fact that its windows look out across the vast ocean towards Puerto Rico, some four thousand miles away. It is a relatively unknown cove and she likes that too, providing her with the privacy she needs to face her grief head-on and to find the strength to continue… for her little family.
Sighing deeply, she phones Ben. ‘All organised,’ Cara says, trying to muster some enthusiasm for the proposed outing.
‘Hey, Cara, that’s great! I’ll pick you up at seven.’ His excitement emanates through the ether and she removes the iPhone from her ear. ‘See you, babe.’
Babe!
She watches the man approach her end of the beach; one of the more intrepid explorers who occasionally stumble upon the hidden cove. Turning his back to the wind and rain coming in off the sea, he glances up at the window and spies her observing him. He nods and Cara acknowledges him with a smile. He’s older than she expected, but attractive and cloaked in an air of sophistication, as though he knows his worth. And he’s definitely not local – she would have remembered him.
‘Sorry, Ben,’ she says quietly to herself.