Standing back from her easel, Cara critically assesses the canvas. The commission is almost finished, but not quite. She’s still not satisfied with the turreted mansion perched on dramatic cliffs looking out over the ocean, but she doesn’t want to overdo it. At this stage in the process it’s important not to overpaint, but she can’t leave the house in its current state. The commission is for one of Greg’s American contacts and she knows he will be highly critical if she doesn’t create something stunning. She understands. It’s important that each artwork is individual and memorable, but why doesn’t Greg realise she already takes great pride in her work? She’s self-critical enough as it is without having the additional pressure of him breathing down her neck!
Without having visited the location, and using only a photograph as reference, Cara paints the commission – a property on the west coast of Ireland overlooking Galway Bay towards the Aran Islands. Greg’s contact merely asked for her interpretation of his ancestor’s pile. Flustered at not really knowing what she’s dealing with, Cara has emailed photographs of the work in progress to Greg. ‘The composition isn’t right; the sea needs more drama; the cliffs need more height; the colours don’t convey the atmosphere of the location.’ His damning observations have further curtailed her usually unbridled imagination.
Cara sighs and walks to the windows overlooking the cove. It’s a beautiful, clear day and the recently washed sand shimmers in the sunshine. Spring is on its way. A couple of dog walkers stroll along the beach, their canines racing ahead, and a large flock of greedy gulls inspect the sand at the water’s edge. Cara glances up at cotton-wool clouds scudding across an ice-blue sky. Slowly, she rotates her shoulder blades and tries to release some of the pent-up tension. Greg has organised a train ticket to London at the end of the month and booked a hotel room for her. Where business is concerned he takes care of her every need. Even if she wanted to, she cannot get out of the meetings he’s arranged. It’s an honour to be offered the chance to exhibit her work at the opening of a new gallery in Soho, so why does she feel ungrateful? At once Cara feels guilty. She must find enthusiasm for his plans for her, and yet, at the same time, curtail it. Greg demands it. At all times, she must maintain a smooth exterior and never show excitement; otherwise she will be perceived as an unsophisticated woman. How did he put it? ‘It’s important to be seen as someone with worldly knowledge, Cara. You have to be upbeat, yet cool.’ But it’s so hard. She feels as if her whole persona is shifting and being moulded into something uncomfortable and alien.
Turning away from the window, Cara walks back to the easel and picks up the paintbrush once more. Ten minutes later she throws it down in exasperation. She takes off her painting shirt and descends the wooden stairs to the hallway. Barnaby lies on the floor of the living room with his nose on his paws, his eyebrows twitching as he observes the baby playing in the playpen. He looks up and wags his tail as Cara appears in the doorway.
‘Good boy, Barns, watching over Toby.’ She pats him on his head.
Toby gurgles and holds out his arms to her.
‘OK, young man, I’m just going to warm some milk for you,’ Cara says, disappearing into the kitchen.
The little boy’s face crumples and his mouth quivers as he bursts into heart-wrenching sobs. Barnaby instantly scrambles to his feet with a worried look on his face. Crawling to the edge of the playpen, Toby pokes his podgy hands through the bars and grabs a handful of fur at the dog’s neck.
‘Hey, don’t fret so,’ says Cara, rushing back into the room. Leaning over the side of the playpen, she lifts Toby into her arms and, immediately, the little boy stops crying. As Cara lovingly wipes away a large wet tear sliding down the side of his face, a pair of beautiful blue eyes gaze at her.
‘You’re too gorgeous to be sad,’ she says, kissing him on the cheek. ‘Are you hungry? Is that what it is?’
As Cara walks to the kitchen with Toby in her arms, Barnaby shadows her, keeping a close eye on the infant. Balancing her son on her hip, Cara prepares his bottle. She glances up at the wall clock. Another four hours and Beth and Sky will be home from school. She must crack on with the commission to meet the deadline, but something is holding her back. Her brushstrokes refuse to flow today. Would a run on the beach free her up? Picking up the mobile phone from the work surface, she walks back into the living room and sits on the sofa with Toby in her lap. She offers the toddler his bottle. As he begins to suck, his gaze remains unwaveringly on his mother’s face. On the opposite side of the room Barnaby climbs into his bed. Circling once, he lies down with his nose on his paws, and solemnly watches.
Cara punches in the number. ‘Hi, Mum. Sorry to ask but are you busy this afternoon?’
‘Nothing that can’t be changed. Why?’
‘I feel stuck and I’ve got a deadline looming with that Irish commission. I wondered if you’d come over and keep an eye on Toby while I go for a run on the beach. I think it might free me up.’
‘Of course, darling. I’ll drag your father out as well. It will be good to see Beth and Sky too. Shall I buy a cake?’
‘You’re a star!’ Cara says with a smile. ‘Yes, get a cake and I’ll do tea when the kids are back from school.’
‘See you later,’ says Carol.
Cara leans back against the sofa and closes her eyes, allowing the peace and tranquillity to wash over her. The only noise is Toby sucking noisily on the teat of his bottle. It’s a comforting sound and she starts to drift off. Suddenly her mobile rings, bringing her rudely back to the moment. She glances at the screen. Greg! All at once she’s on high alert.
‘Cara, my dear. Thought I’d find out how Alan’s commission is coming along.’
Her stomach tightens into a sickening knot. ‘Almost there. Just a few finishing touches.’
‘Will it be ready in time for the London trip?’
‘I would think so,’ she says, pulling a face. ‘Did you want me to bring it with me?’
‘No, Cara. It’s too expensive a piece to be dragged around the British transport system!’ She cringes at the amusement in his voice. ‘I’ll arrange a courier. Just let me know when it’s ready for collection.’
‘It’s probably another couple of weeks.’
‘Are you pleased with it?’ Greg asks. ‘Did you take on all that I said?’
Cara’s stomach muscles tighten further. ‘Yes and yes.’
‘Good girl. I’m sure Alan will be thrilled.’
‘How did the funeral go?’ she asks softly, changing the subject.
‘It was more a celebration of Marietta’s life. Many people attended.’ Greg pauses. ‘You know, Cara, she saw a lot of herself in you. She believed you could be a major player and told me to nurture you.’
‘That’s nice,’ Cara says, not knowing what to say but not wanting to offend. With her baby now asleep on her lap, she stares out of the window at the ocean.
‘Nice?’ Greg says with an amused laugh. ‘It’s not “nice”; it’s a huge compliment from someone of Marietta’s talent! Cara, you must work on your responses. Once I’ve got you out of your beloved Cornwall and into the wider world you will have to be more engaging in your speech.’
Dots of colour appear on Cara’s cheeks as she continues to stare out of the window. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she says in a flat voice.
‘Cara, I know you will succeed,’ Greg says more gently. ‘It only needs a little tweaking here and there. You will win everyone over. Marietta always said that although you are raw and unsophisticated, you are simply…’ Greg pauses, gathering himself ‘… lovely!’
It’s the way he says it that snaps Cara out of her trance-like state. Suddenly she feels panicked and adrift. Toby stirs restlessly in her lap and she carefully removes the bottle from his mouth.
Greg reels himself in. He mustn’t startle her into a bolt. Softly, softly, catchy monkey. There’s a lot at stake here. ‘Are you still there, Cara?’
‘Yes.’
‘When I come to London we’ll have fun around town. I’ll introduce you to some interesting and influential people. It will be a wonderful time for you.’
Cara gazes down at her sleeping baby. Does she want to meet interesting and influential people? Does she want to have fun around town?
‘That sounds good,’ she says, without conviction. At the sound of a car pulling up outside, she glances out of the window and breathes a sigh of relief. ‘Sorry, Greg, I have to go. My parents have arrived.’
‘Then, I shall detain you no longer. Don’t forget to email a photo of the finished painting when it’s ready.’
‘Yes. Bye, Greg.’
Trying not to disturb her sleeping son, Cara lays Toby carefully on the sofa. When she opens the door to her parents the remnants of a frown are still on her face.
‘Thanks so much for coming over,’ she says, kissing her mother on the cheek and giving her father a hug. ‘Toby’s just had his bottle. He’s asleep on the sofa. Would you like a coffee before I go for a run?’
‘I’ll make them,’ Carol offers. Her daughter looks strained. ‘You get out there, darling. I bought a chocolate cake for tea. I know how much Sky likes his chocolate!’
‘Is Barnaby here?’ asks Ken, looking around for the Labrador, who would usually greet them at the door by now.
‘He’s watching over Toby, Dad. He takes his guarding duties very seriously these days!’
‘Good dog,’ says Ken, as he follows his wife into the living room.
Cara slips on a pair of trainers and grabs a fleece from the coat rack in the hallway. Opening the porch door, she steps outside and breathes in deeply. The wind is fresh and she can taste the sea on her tongue. Zipping up her fleece, she heads towards the wooden steps leading down to the beach and, once on the sand, sets off at a steady jog towards the café at the far end of the cove. As she settles into a rhythm, Cara’s muddled thoughts ease and she revisits Greg’s phone call. There was something different about him today. Apart from the usual fine-tuning of her thoughts and words, he seemed softer… almost like a lover.
Cara puts on a sudden spurt of speed.