Oliver replaces the phone and leans back in his captain’s chair. He smiles. On the half-term visit to Cornwall with Sebastian and Jamie he had a successful meeting with the architects. They understood his sympathetic plans for the derelict cottages and enthused over his ideas of knocking them into one and enlarging the footprint. They even suggested a few clever solutions he hadn’t considered. The architect’s phone call just now informed him that, off the record, there was favourable pre-application support and planning consent would be granted.
Locking his fingers behind his head, Oliver swivels in the chair to face the view through the open French doors. Surrey; warm but wet. The soft rain of early summer. The weather has been dry up until now and the grass almost sighs with relief. His gaze travels across the manicured lawns down to the lake and the forest beyond. The call ducks and moorhens seem more animated today, as they enjoy the unexpected shower and splash amongst the reeds at the edge of the lake. A couple of ducks noisily chase each other across the water. He’s enjoyed this gentle view for many years but soon he will have another; altogether wilder and more exhilarating.
Bubbling excitement builds deep in his belly. Cornwall always does this to him or, more accurately, Cara. Although he wishes their unexpected meeting in London were more positive, he knows that even if she continues to refuse to have anything to do with him he will always keep a watchful eye out for her. It is second nature to him. The cross he has to bear is denying it in order to keep his marriage together. Oliver snorts. Some marriage! Besides, the cold version that Cara presented him with is so unlike anything he ever imagined her psyche capable of conjuring up; he owes it to her to find out what’s going on. As soon as the younger boys break up from school they will relocate to Cornwall for the whole of the summer holidays; Charlie already has his holidays mapped out. When he first put this idea to Deanna she argued the boys should spend part of their holidays with her in London but Jamie point blank refused, much to her surprise. Oliver felt so proud of his son for standing up for what he believed in.
Hearing the front door open, Oliver gets up from his chair and walks to the study door. The distant sounds of an action film drift along the hallway from the cinema room where Sebastian and Jamie are happily ensconced on this wet morning. Glancing to his right, Oliver quickly steps back out of sight and smiles to himself. In the entrance hall, his eldest son and a girl are in the throes of a passionate kiss.
‘The family home,’ he hears his son say.
Oliver steps into the doorway again. ‘Hello, Charlie. How’s it going?’
Shock registers on the lad’s face. ‘Oh, hi, Dad. I thought no one was home this weekend.’
‘Change of plans,’ Oliver says, smiling at the pretty girl with long auburn hair reaching down to her waist. ‘Would you like to introduce us?’
Charlie flushes. ‘Oh, yeah, this is Kayleigh.’
‘Hello, Mr Foxley,’ the girl says politely, her voice pure Home Counties.
‘Hello, Kayleigh. Please call me Oliver. Mr Foxley is way too formal!’
The girl flashes a bright smile.
‘I’ve been giving Kayleigh the lowdown on our new holiday home,’ Charlie says in a rush. ‘Her family also has one in Cornwall.’
‘Oh, whereabouts?’ Oliver asks.
‘Porthtowan,’ says Kayleigh. ‘On the cliffs. We’ve owned it for years. Charlie’s coming down this summer.’
Charlie smiles at Kayleigh and then turns to his dad with a sheepish grin. ‘Thought we’d come over and visit you while we were down there.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ Oliver says. ‘You can take the canoe out if you like and explore the Helford and the beaches.’
‘That would be cool!’ says Kayleigh.
‘Thanks,’ says Charlie with a lopsided grin. ‘We’re just off to the pool.’
‘You kids have fun.’ Oliver turns back into the study. Sitting at his desk once again, he picks up the letter he’d been reading before the architect’s phone call came through.
Dear Mr Foxley,
Thank you for providing us with the opportunity to quote for the creation of a coastal garden at your home on the Lizard Peninsula.
Coastal gardens present specific challenges when it comes to the selection of plants that thrive and tolerate the salt-laden air. There are some exceptionally tough plants that will cope with full exposure, and many more which will happily grow once some shelter from direct wind has been created. One of the benefits of gardening on the coast is the lack of frost, which creates exciting opportunities for growing more exotic species that would die further inland. With the right selection of plants, coastal gardens can be some of the most beautiful.
Please find enclosed our quote, together with a list of suggested salt-tolerant trees and plants, plus a proposed sketch for the creation of your clifftop garden.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely
Ted Andrews
Coastal Landscaping (UK) Ltd
Oliver studies the outline sketch with interest. It’s imaginative; hugging the clifftop and extending in a series of terraces to the beach below. He considers the quote. It’s expensive, but it’s important to get it right. The newly created garden will be there for many generations to come.
‘Mr Foxley… Oliver,’ Kayleigh says from the study door.
Oliver looks up.
‘I’ve just bought the latest copy of Cornwall Today. Would you like to look at it?’ She walks towards him with a magazine in her hand.
‘That’s thoughtful of you,’ he says, taking it from her. ‘Thank you. I’ll have a look while you’re in the pool.’
‘There’s no rush. I’m here for the weekend.’ She smiles, hazel eyes shining, and turns for the door.
Oliver hitches an eyebrow. So, Charlie’s invited Kayleigh to stay! That’s a first… to his knowledge. He glances down at the cover of the magazine. Jagged rocks jut out into an azure sea and waves break onto pristine golden sands under a cloudless blue sky. On the beach is a remarkable, large-scale mandala beach art with seaweed, shellfish and dry sand showcasing the flower at its centre. Celebrating Cornwall’s Art Scene, shouts the headline, and in the bottom right-hand corner, The role of St Ives in the story of Modern Art. Oliver flicks through the county magazine and reads an article on the refurbishment and transformation of Tate St Ives. He turns a couple more pages and, distracted by Charlie poking his head around the door, almost misses the piece.
‘Kayleigh’s great, isn’t she, Dad?’ his son says enthusiastically.
‘Very pretty,’ Oliver says.
‘You don’t mind if she stays over, do you?’
Oliver suppresses a smile. ‘It’s your home, Charlie, as much as mine.’
‘Thanks, Dad. By the way, I haven’t said anything to Mum. I knew she was staying in London all weekend.’ Charlie frowns. ‘Unless that’s changed too.’
‘It hasn’t, and she doesn’t need to know,’ Oliver says. He can just imagine the unnecessary histrionics when she learns their eldest son is fast becoming a man.
Charlie grins and turns away from the door.
Slowly, Oliver’s gaze returns to the open magazine. Goosebumps! The hairs on his arms stand erect. Cara’s beauty shines from the the glossy page. Around her, several inset frames show a selection of her paintings.
Cornwall’s Golden Girl Making Waves across the Pond
Oliver stares at the headline, then at the stunning face, remembering the first time he set eyes on her and reliving the powerful emotions she invoked. Only then did he truly understand what it meant to go weak at the knees. Still shining her unique golden light, this is Cara, but it’s the London exhibition version of his beautiful girl; the one cloaked in a veneer of sophistication. A champagne-coloured silk dress clings to her body, showing off her beautiful curves, and a strap falls seductively off one shoulder. Her blonde hair is piled high on her head, though a few wayward strands escape. Still the free spirit at heart! Oliver’s fingers hover over the face gazing into the photographer’s lens. There are hidden emotions in that gaze and as Oliver studies her face, a frown creases his brow. If she were an actress he’d say she had nailed the part to perfection, but in reality she is far, far away; somewhere entirely different.
His eye is drawn to a line of text at the bottom of the page.
From rags to riches – has our very own Cinderella finally found her Prince Charming?
What the hell does that mean? Quickly, Oliver turns the page and his heart slams to a stop. The double-page spread shows a wide-angled shot of a large and very stylish house, in front of which stand Cara and Greg posing on an immaculate lawn. Behind them is the blue of a swimming pool.
One of the most prestigious homes in the Hamptons.
The journalist points this out, in case the significance is lost on the reader.
Wearing a stylish, pinstriped grey suit, Greg is as attractive and dapper as ever. With one arm casually draped around Cara’s shoulder he smiles at the camera, looking every inch the person who has just won the main prize. Well, yes, it appears he has. Oliver grits his teeth. But Cara… in the Hamptons! He can’t imagine her there. She loves the simplicity of the cove too much. As he devours the accompanying article, his hands ball into fists of frustration.
The journalist, effusive in her simpering awe of Greg, states how fortunate Cara is to be presented to the world as his latest protégée. Oliver seethes. She is not anyone’s protégée! Cara doesn’t need Greg to put her on the map! He loathes the journalist’s sucking-up style of reporting and her next few sentences have him dragging a hand through his hair in disbelief.
Greg recently lost his beautiful and talented wife, the renowned artist Marietta von Baranski, who sadly passed away following her lengthy battle with the debilitating disease that is the big ʽC’.
Why doesn’t she just say cancer? For fuck’s sake, call it what it is!
Oliver shifts in his seat, beyond irritation.
Cara, too, has known heartbreak, having lost her husband of many years at a devastatingly early age to an aggressive brain tumour. Many of our readers will have known him personally – the talented Cornish surfer, Christo Penhaligon.
In his head, Oliver hears the journalist’s sickly sweet, pseudo-intellectual posh voice.
But all black clouds have a silver lining and there is a fairy-tale happy ending to this story. The age-defying and hugely attractive Greg has won the heart of our own home-grown, beautiful golden girl.
Oliver is gutted. Has Greg won Cara’s heart? Yes, he was all over her and jealously protective during her London show, but Oliver didn’t get the impression they were a couple. He studies the photo again. Reflected in Cara’s eyes is something that hints at not quite the perfect picture the journalist is trying so ebulliently to portray.
As if Cara is her long-lost friend, the gushing journalist continues:
Cara confided in me: ‘When Greg phoned from his Sag Harbor estate to tell me that Marietta had lost her battle, of course I was devastated. I loved that woman, and what she brought to the art world is immeasurable. We have lost a great talent. I doubt that I will ever live up to the memory of Marietta in Greg’s eyes, but he is a great supporter of my work. He has helped me in so many ways and we have found a balance that is mutually agreeable to the both of us. Greg has very generously asked me to join him and relocate my family to America. Although I’ve not previously considered living there, I have to think of my children’s future.’
‘No!’ Oliver brings his fist down hard on the desktop making the garden sketches jump. ‘You don’t have to sacrifice yourself this way!’
Cara doesn’t sound like a woman in love. She sounds more like a woman acting in the best interests of her family. He checks the date on the front cover; July. It’s still June, but he knows monthly magazines are available on the shelves early. Is Cara still in the UK or has she already left for the States? Panic grabs him by the throat. How could he have abandoned her? Family or not, he should have followed his heart. He will never forget her. How can he? She is part of him! He will not lose her a second time.
Oliver rises to his feet. Striding from the study, taking the stairs two at a time, he makes his way to the guest suite. He throws a few clothes and toiletries into a bag and takes a bottle of lithium out of the bathroom cabinet. For a moment he considers whether he will need the drugs but throws them into the bag, just in case. Briskly pulling on his leathers, he grabs the key to the Harley and makes his way to the leisure barn behind the house. When he opens the door he sees Charlie in the deep end, canoodling with his girlfriend. But time is of the essence; he doesn’t have the luxury of being discreet or respectful of his son’s sensibilities.
‘Charlie, I have to go to Cornwall. Please keep an eye on the boys.’
Charlie draws back from kissing Kayleigh. He looks across the pool in surprise, flustered and embarrassed at being caught out by his dad. ‘What? You’re going to Cornwall now!’
‘Yes, something’s come up that needs my urgent attention.’
‘When will you be back?’ Charlie asks.
‘Not sure. Probably Sunday. I’ll let you know if it’s any different.’
Charlie pulls a face. ‘I guess I haven’t much option.’
‘Sorry to disrupt your plans for the weekend,’ Oliver says. He gives Charlie and his pretty girlfriend a brief smile before turning away and striding down the path in the direction of the house.
Through the leisure barn’s large plate-glass windows, Charlie watches his father’s rapidly disappearing figure in disbelief.