Cara is still dissatisfied with her painting of the cove. To anyone else it would be considered brilliant but she thinks it doesn’t possess her usual magic. Basil snoozes on the window ledge, having found a spot warmed by the rays of a weak February sun. Glancing out at the flat, grey sea, she wonders where her flair has gone. The tide, on its way out, has left great swathes of wet sand and the gulls have moved in, checking for any stranded small fish, crab or marine worm. There’s no hint of a wind in the cove today – a still life in monotint.
‘Argh!’
The cat flicks an ear.
In the background a radio presenter is having a lively discussion with his guest, an up-and-coming young actor who will be presenting one of the awards at the forthcoming Film and Television Awards Ceremony. Although Cara enjoys film and theatre, and likes to support Cornwall’s performing arts, she feels so far removed from the glitz and glamour of award ceremonies that it’s like listening to a discourse from another planet. Christo was always more of a music man. She smiles, recalling his obsession with Coldplay and Chris Martin and how, over the years, she gained the nickname Gwyneth. But that was then. The smile fades from her face. Placing her paintbrush on the palette, Cara descends the wooden stairs and enters the living room. Barnaby looks up expectantly from his dog bed.
‘Don’t get excited, I’m just making coffee.’ She checks the water level in the kettle and switches it on, then immediately switches it off. ‘OK, Barns, change of plan.’
The Labrador is up and out of his basket in an instant. Cara smiles. He has so much energy, he reminds her of Ben. Her smile fades again. What is she going to do about him?
Dumping her painting shirt on a chair, she grabs a fleece from the hallway and Barnaby’s lead from its hook by the porch door, just in case. As soon as she opens the door, the Labrador rushes towards the steps leading down to the deserted beach. Cara follows. As she sets off at a steady jog towards Rick’s Beach Hut with Barnaby racing around her in large circles, she feels something shift within; something stodgy that has been holding her back. Breathing evenly, Cara increases her pace, challenging herself not to stop until she’s reached the café. She arrives at its steps red-faced, despite the cold, and doubles over to catch her breath.
‘That was one serious run.’ Rick’s Australian accent is unmistakable. ‘Been watching you all along the bay.’
She looks up and nods, unable to speak.
Scattering a flock of gulls at the water’s edge, Barnaby races across the sand towards them.
‘You deserve a cappuccino after that marathon,’ Rick says.
‘Good idea,’ Cara says breathlessly and follows him inside.
The Labrador shoots through the open door and laps noisily at a water bowl placed conveniently in the entrance. Suddenly, from the rear of the café a springer spaniel appears. Barnaby turns to face it. Sniffing each other, tails wagging, with a couple of barks they tear away, play-chasing through the tables.
‘Milo, here.’
Cara turns towards the voice. It’s the man on the beach. An American!
‘Hope my dog’s not being a nuisance?’ she says.
‘Doesn’t seem to be,’ he responds with amusement in his tone.
‘Cara, this is Greg,’ Rick says from behind the counter. ‘He and his wife are staying at the Marsdens’ place for a few weeks.’
‘Bet there are great views from up there,’ Cara comments.
‘That’s for sure,’ Greg agrees smoothly.
‘Here you go.’ Rick places a large cappuccino on the bar in front of her. A couple of Amaretti biscuits nestle on the saucer.
‘Rick, you spoil me!’ she says, hopping up onto a stool. ‘At this rate I’ll have no alternative but to run on my return journey!’
Rick smiles warmly. ‘Hey, Greg, you’re into art. You should check out Cara’s paintings. She has a rare gift.’
Cara sips her coffee. It’s hot and frothy, and just what she needs after her run.
‘What’s your style?’ Greg asks.
She swivels in the direction of the man. Yes, her first impressions of him were correct: attractive, sophisticated and smooth.
‘Mainly landscapes and seascapes.’ She has the feeling he’s filing away the information. ‘The one I’m working on at the moment refuses to take shape, hence my exertions on the beach. I hope it may shake things up a bit.’
‘Yes, that can work,’ he says authoritatively.
Intrigued, Cara asks, ‘Are you an artist?’
‘Of sorts,’ he says cryptically, and smiles.
Randomly, Cara wonders what his wife’s like. Believing they are at the end of their discourse, she turns away.
‘Do you have a website?’ he asks.
She turns to him again. ‘Yes, I have one for the gallery.’
‘The gallery?’
She nods. ‘I have a gallery in Porthleven. Perhaps you and your wife would like to visit while you’re here?’
‘I’d like that very much, though I doubt my wife will be up to it.’ He doesn’t elaborate. ‘What’s the name of this gallery?’
‘The Art Shack. It’s in the courtyard off Harbour Road.’ Yes, he’s definitely filing away the information. ‘At this time of year we’re open Tuesday to Saturday between eleven and three.’
The man nods. Conversation now over, Cara returns to her coffee.
Greg rises from his seat, the chair legs scraping noisily over the tiled floor and disturbing the dogs lying at his feet.
‘Great English breakfast, Rick,’ he says, walking towards the counter. He produces a soft leather wallet from his jacket pocket and hands Rick a twenty-pound note. ‘Nice meeting you, Cara. I hope our paths cross again.’
‘Me too,’ she says, accepting the smooth, manicured handshake.
His grey eyes dance with amusement and something else, and Cara shifts awkwardly, caught out by a look that suggests ‘a different time and place…’
Greg squeezes her hand. Pocketing his change, he turns towards the door. ‘Milo, come.’
Cara places a restraining hand on Barnaby’s neck as the spaniel peels away and considers that look. She didn’t see it coming. She’s so out of practice!
‘Enjoy your walk,’ Rick calls out after the American.
‘Thanks. This cove is kinda special,’ Greg says. He stands back from the door, allowing a middle-aged couple to enter.
As Rick fusses over the new customers, Cara finishes her coffee.
‘What’s wrong with Greg’s wife?’ she asks on his return.
Rick shakes his head. ‘He said they’re house-sitting for a couple of months while the Marsdens are in New Zealand, but I think it’s more to do with his wife’s recuperation. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.’
Of course, Milo belongs to the Marsdens.
She watches as Rick loads a tray with two cups of coffee, a plate of carrot cake and a hefty slice of Black Forest gateau.
‘Well, this isn’t getting anything done and you’re tempting me with those scrummy cakes! I’d best be off. What do I owe you?’
‘Nothing, my lovely. It’s on the house.’
‘Aw, Rick. Are you sure?’
He nods.
‘Well, you’re a mate, no doubt about that!’ Cara hops off the bar stool and walks to the door, Barnaby at her heels. She turns and waves.
Rick smiles in return, his eyes following her as she walks along the boardwalk with her dog. It’s not right that someone so lovely has been dealt such a raw deal. Life sure can suck! Sighing heavily, he picks up the tray and heads towards his customers.
Cara heads across the car park deep in thought. The cove attracts an interesting mix of people and Greg has intrigued her. He’s certainly attractive, in that smooth, moneyed way American businessmen can have. She wonders what he does for a living. She doesn’t have him down as an artist. And what’s wrong with his wife? And that look! Maybe she has still got it. Feeling a few spots of rain, she breaks into a jog. Beside her, Barnaby matches her pace. As they near The Lookout she spies Greg and the spaniel way below on the beach, and the Labrador stops at the edge of the track to watch them.
‘Barns, here,’ she calls.
Hesitating for only the briefest of moments, the dog turns to follow his mistress.