Summer in a Cornish Cove by Kate Ryder (9)

Since returning from Holy Isle, Oliver is in the grip of debilitating depression. Despite daily meditation, he’s unable to master the improving state of mind achieved before Sylvie’s shocking visit. Why the hell did he allow her into his room and let things get so out of hand?

As a result of the critical examination of his life while staying at the retreat, a long-forgotten incident during his early career has resurfaced and now plays on his mind. One of his leading ladies – older than him and in her prime – not only encouraged the good-looking, vigorous, young actor to enjoy her company but positively demanded it. Subsequently, he found himself in a compromising position. But it’s an unspoken rule on set that what occurs during filming stays amongst the cast and crew, and his marriage was not jeopardised. The actress in question – since recognised in the Queen’s Honours List and now a Dame – was busy conquering the world and simply notching up yet another Hollywood ‘rising star’ to her list. However, in real life, when an obsessed fan meets his or her idol, how fine a line do those boundaries become? Oliver can only assume this is what happened to Sylvie. Meeting him so unexpectedly and finding him accessible must have tipped her over into fantasy land.

It’s over a week since her visit to his room but Oliver still feels contaminated, and there’s a lingering whiff of something terribly offensive. Thankfully, he didn’t see her again until Captain Burrows arrived on the island two days later. A couple of the monks and several of his fellow attendees gathered to wave him off. As the helicopter effortlessly lifted from the helipad, he looked back to wave at the small gathering and saw her skulking around the side of the farmhouse watching him, her face as radiant as any lover’s. His hand had frozen mid-wave and a deep sense of unease and nausea enveloped him as the unhinged element of her misplaced emotions rocketed through the air like a heat-seeking missile, hitting him deep in the solar plexus. Shaken, he was unable to forget the madness in her eyes all the way back to Surrey.

Oliver glances at the bedside clock – late morning. Deanna’s perfume wafts from her pillow and fills his nostrils. They were finally intimate last night, the first time since his return, but the act seemed hollow and it took him a while to find his rhythm. Perhaps he was expecting too much, desperate to exorcise the memory of Sylvie. Disconcertingly, it was only when a vision of Sylvie straddling him, her small breasts jiggling, that his anger and disgust enabled him to satisfy his wife.

‘Dad. Phone!’ Samantha’s shout carries along the hallway.

Oliver groans. Climbing out of bed, he pulls on jeans and a sweatshirt and is almost at the top of the stairs when his daughter turns the corner. The vision halts him in his tracks. Samantha wears low-rise skinny jeans and a skimpy T-shirt, and a good deal of bare flesh is on show. When he left for Holy Isle she was seventeen and a teenager. Now, less than a month later, she has transformed into a sexy, attractive, young woman; the splitting image of Deanna at that age.

What? she mouths, momentarily distracted by the look on his face. He shakes his head and smiles. ‘It’s Tas,’ she says.

Taking the phone from her, Oliver kisses his daughter on the forehead and follows her downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs Samantha turns and sticks out her tongue, then smiles.

May look like a woman, but still a teenager at heart.

‘Tas! How you doing?’

‘Hello you old Fox. Long time no speak. What’s up?’

‘Family growing up too fast,’ Oliver says, sitting on the stairs.

‘Kids!’ exclaims Tas. ‘As if it’s not bad enough having a back catalogue of films to remind you of the passing years.’ Oliver laughs. ‘How’s that gorgeous god-daughter of mine? Sounds all grown-up.’

‘I swear she’s turned into a woman overnight.’

‘They have a habit of doing that, so I’ve been told!’ Tas says.

‘Looks just like Deanna at that age.’

Tas lets out a long, low whistle. ‘Think you might have your work cut out there, Mr Fox. Any spotty boyfriends hanging around?’

‘Don’t think so, at least not that I’ve been told.’ Recalling his surprise at learning Charlie has been dating for over a year, Oliver now considers his daughter. ‘Deanna might know differently but you know what these women are like, thick as thieves. I’d be the last to know!’

He and Tas go way back to drama school days. Simon Buckley – nicknamed ‘Tas’ because he originates from Tasmania – enrolled on the directors’ course at the same time as Oliver studied acting. They met on the first day and struck up an immediate friendship. When Deanna joined the college the following year, the three of them hung out together and it was only natural that Tas was best man at their wedding.

‘I tried you last week and spoke to Charlie,’ says Tas. ‘He said you were somewhere off the west coast of Scotland.’

‘Yes, at the retreat.’ Oliver blinks away an unwanted vision of a naked Sylvie bending over to pick up her clothes.

‘How are things? Still got that damned albatross hanging round your neck?’ Being a good friend, Tas is one of a handful of people who know about Oliver’s mental imbalance.

I was on the point of releasing it when that crazy woman made sure it was still firmly in place…

‘Yeah, ’fraid so.’ Oliver turns as his family appears in the hallway. ‘It’s Tas,’ he says to his wife.

Deanna takes the phone from her husband. ‘Hi, darling, how are you?’

‘All the better for hearing your voice.’

She smiles. ‘Any sign of a Mrs Tas on the horizon?’

‘You know me, Deanna. Just waiting for the day you finally realise that old Fox ain’t no good for you!’ Deanna laughs at the in-joke. ‘No one compares to you,’ Tas continues, ‘although Ollie tells me Samantha is the splitting image of you at her age.’

Not recognising the compliment her husband has paid her, Deanna ignores Tas’s comment about her daughter. ‘At forty-four, Tas, you should be thinking of settling down,’ she scolds, but there’s a smile on her face.

‘Forty-three, Mrs Fox! Give me a break!’ he exclaims. She laughs again, and Oliver hears the lightness in it. ‘Anyway, there are so many lovelies coming through the ranks why would I want to be tied down?’

Deanna shakes her head. ‘You are shocking, Tas, but it’s lovely to hear from you. Don’t be a stranger. Come over for supper one evening. Now I must dash. I’m taxi driver to the kids today.’

‘Will do, Deanna.’

‘Bye, darling,’ she says, making a kissing noise into the mouthpiece. She hands the phone back to Oliver and gives him an odd look. ‘I’ll be back, don’t know when. I’m here, there and everywhere this morning. Tim’s mum is dropping Jamie home from swimming later so help yourselves to lunch. There’s plenty in the fridge.’

Oliver watches his family make their way out of the house towards the Range Rover parked on the driveway, Sebastian high-fiving him as he passes by.

‘So what’s new with you, Tas?’ Oliver asks, contemplating the odd look Deanna has just given him.

‘Been busy with the company. That’s what I want to discuss with you. How’s your schedule?’

‘I’ve been sent a script, a box office hit for sure, but I just don’t know… Can’t muster up much enthusiasm.’ Oliver drags a hand through his hair. ‘Basically I’m procrastinating but my agent’s on my back.’

‘Well, listen up. I’m taking the company on tour to Cornwall this summer, visiting rural communities and performing in any building that will have us. Sports halls, chapels, village halls, pubs, that kind of thing. Then finishing off with a week-long stint at the Minack in September. It’s a brilliant play by a talented, new writer.’

‘Sounds good so far,’ says Oliver. Having studied the painting of the Minack on his study wall many times, wondering what it would be like to perform on its stage, his interest is piqued.

‘This is where you come in, Mr Fox. It will mean singing but I know that doesn’t bother you. It needs someone with sensitivity, depth and a complex range of emotions and, well, as soon as I read the play I knew there was only one person I wanted as the lead. If I email you the script will you read it and let me know by Monday?’

‘When does the tour kick off?’

‘Easter. It’s not strenuous, three shows a week at most. You could return home between performances. But think about it, Ollie, summer in Cornwall. All those cream teas and pasties! And if you fancy something a little more sophisticated, Rick Stein, Jamie Oliver, Nathan Outlaw... need I say more?’

Oliver laughs. This could be his reason to decline the movie.

‘Email it over, Tas. I’ll take a look and let you know by the end of the weekend.’

‘I’ll do it now. Hope you agree to do the play. It would be just like old times and a great break in a fabulous part of dear old Blighty!’

Replacing the phone in its cradle, Oliver walks to his study. While waiting for the computer to power up, he glances up at the canvas displayed above the mantelpiece, which is crammed with various awards, including one for the film that first put him in the A-list category. As he gazes at the painting, Oliver wonders about the artist who has so magically brought the Minack to life and created an atmosphere that fills his soul. It’s as if he’s actually there, looking out over the stage under a star-lit sky towards the Logan Rock. He studies the dark shapes of the cormorants perched on the rocky promontory jutting out into the calm, inky blue sea below the stage. A yellow glow from one of the beaches below Porthcurno suggests someone has discreetly set up camp for the night, and in the distance a bright white light shines from a tanker making its way across the horizon. The night sky is tinged with a streak of aquamarine, but the artist has mainly used dark colours: midnight blue, petrol blue, indigo, navy and grey, deepening to black. A colour palette that should be sombre, but the painting is peaceful and serene with the Milky Way hanging in all its glory in a vast sky above the spectacularly set amphitheatre.

The computer screen flickers into life and Oliver logs into his account. True to his word, Tas has emailed him.

Oliver opens the attachment. Sorrows in the Sand by Emily Miller.

Hmmm… Pretty gloomy title.

Settling into his leather captain’s chair, Oliver starts reading. It’s only when he hears the front door slam and Jamie call for his parents that he realises two hours have passed. The play is good – really good – original and dealing with tragedy in a sensitive, thought-provoking and intelligent way.

‘Hi, Dad. Where’s everybody?’ His youngest son stands at the study door.

‘Your mum’s dropping them all off somewhere.’ With a sudden shock Oliver realises he has no idea what his family are doing.

How can I be so disconnected from it all?

‘What are you looking at?’ Jamie asks, his hair still damp from swimming.

‘It’s a play Uncle Tas has sent me.’

‘Is it good?’

‘Yes, Jamie. It is.’

The play has excited him. The part Tas wants him to undertake is a complex one and it will be a challenge. At last, something he can get his teeth into. There and then, Oliver decides to decline the film.

‘I’m starving. What’s for lunch?’ Jamie asks.

‘Not sure. Let’s go and find out.’

Jamie turns away. Shutting down the computer, Oliver follows his son from the room but pauses at the door to look back at the painting. Again, he marvels at how the artist has captured the atmosphere of the theatre under the stars. Feeling inextricably drawn to it, he knows he needs to go there and experience performing on its stage.

*

‘Oh, come on, it’s not even six months.’ Oliver looks across the remnants of the evening meal at his wife nursing a glass of red wine. ‘You’re used to much longer stints. Anyway, it’s not a gruelling schedule. I’ll be home between performances.’ He rakes a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t see the problem.’

Silently, Deanna looks back at him across the table, her face set and her eyes ice-cold steel. Not for the first time he wonders at his wife’s self-control. Her strength still shocks him at times, reducing him to the ‘little boy lost’ he once was. But why is she being so stubborn about this?

‘I would have liked to discuss this with you, Deanna. I really want to do this play.’

Deanna’s lips compress as she swirls the ruby liquid around her glass, but still she does not speak.

Anger flares in him.

I don’t need your approval, like one of the kids asking to go on a school trip!

‘As you’re obviously not going to discuss this with me I will tell you now that I am going to do this play, Deanna, whether you like it or not.’

‘How bloody selfish! What sort of marriage is this?’ Deanna explodes, her voice rising with emotion. Oliver flinches. ‘I might as well be a single parent dealing with all the problems while you’re away, God knows where! I support you through your illness and bite my tongue when you decide to take off at a moment’s notice to that retreat of yours.’ Deanna glares at him. She drains her glass. ‘And what was all that about last night? Call that lovemaking?’ Her eyes narrow. ‘What happened in Scotland? And don’t you dare tell me I’m imagining it. You haven’t been the same since you got back.’

‘Depression isn’t a choice, Deanna,’ Oliver says softly, lifting his gaze to hers. ‘I accept you don’t understand it.’

‘You’re right. I don’t.’ She spits out the words. ‘One of us has to be strong for the children and apparently that’s my role.’

Entering the kitchen, Samantha hesitates, immediately aware of tension in the air. She glances at her parents. ‘Err, just getting a drink and then I’m off to bed.’

‘OK, darling,’ says Deanna, a little too brightly.

Avoiding eye contact, Samantha approaches the fridge and pours herself a drink. ‘Night, Mum, Dad,’ she says, walking swiftly from the room.

‘Sleep well,’ Oliver says.

A heavy silence descends.

The next minute Charlie appears in the doorway. ‘You guys OK?’

‘Fine thanks,’ Deanna responds sharply, inviting no further comment.

Oliver raises an eyebrow, thinking that by tackling the problem head-on his fifteen-year-old son is showing more maturity than they are.

‘By the way, I’m at Nathan’s tomorrow so don’t do lunch for me,’ Charlie announces. ‘I’ll be back around seven.’

‘OK, darling,’ Deanna says.

‘Goodnight, then.’

‘Goodnight,’ Deanna and Oliver say in unison.

They hear whispering the other side of the door, but it soon fades away.

‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this,’ Oliver says, rising from his chair. He starts to clear away the empty plates, stacking them in the dishwasher, and doesn’t hear his wife leave the kitchen.

Wandering through to the TV room, Oliver flicks through the channels and watches a bland and meaningless film into the small hours. He is deeply saddened by the brick wall in their marriage. Although it was Deanna’s inner strength and independent spirit that first attracted him, sometimes it feels like a mountain to climb. Eventually, he switches off the TV and makes his way up to their room. Deanna appears to be asleep and Oliver undresses quietly before climbing into bed. Not wanting to sleep with an argument hanging over them, he makes a move towards her.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ she says in a cold, level voice.

Oliver turns away. There’s no point in further discussions when Deanna is in this mood.

With their backs to each other, careful not to touch, eventually husband and wife fall asleep.