by Kirsty Ferry
Lorelei saw the figure on the shore waving to her as she settled on the rocks and felt a little burst of anger that her fun had been thus intruded upon. Then, as she watched him come closer to the shoreline, she realised that he was quite a stranger, and therefore very possibly the artist from the Dower House. From his confident stride and the way he held himself, this was no old man – no elderly gentleman who she could chat to. This was someone altogether much younger and much more vibrant.
She sat up straight on the rock and began to wring her hair out, twisting it and squeezing it between her long, artistic fingers. ‘Do you have permission to be on this beach?’ she shouted. ‘It is private, and I’m afraid that you are trespassing. If that is the case, you may have to be shot.’
The man laughed and she could see he was wading out towards her, heedless of his trousers soaking up the sea water.
‘I do have permission,’ he shouted back. ‘I’m renting the Dower House from the Scarsdales. I might ask you the same question. Do you have permission to be here?’
‘Then I assume you are Mr Cooper,’ stated Lorelei, ignoring his query.
‘I am indeed Mr Cooper,’ replied the man. He bowed elegantly, if a little mockingly, and she noticed with appreciation the fact that his hair fell over his face in a very Bohemian fashion.
‘Then you are an artist, Sir.’
‘I am an artist. But my medium is photography.’ He took a few more strides towards her so the water was up to the middle of his thighs and he smiled. The deep brown of his eyes was very pleasing and Lorelei smiled back. ‘Yet I do not know who you are,’ he continued. ‘Are you perhaps a mermaid or a siren, waiting for a sailor to clamber onto your rock and lapse unto certain death?’
‘You are Scottish, Mr Cooper,’ commented Lorelei, deliberately evading his questions. It would be rather fun to keep him guessing, she had decided. God knew she had little enough fun with Walter and she could never talk to him like this.
‘I am indeed Scottish. And that is now three things you know about me, Madam Siren.’ He held up his hand and began counting them off his fingers. ‘I am Mr Cooper. I take photographs. And I hail from Scotland. Oh! No, my apologies. You know four things. You also know that I have permission to be on this beach, which is more than I know about you. I may have to report you to the Scarsdales after all.’
‘Report away.’ Lorelei slipped off the rock and began to swim diagonally across the expanse of water, cutting quite closely by him on an arrow-straight route towards the bathing machine.
‘Incredible woman!’ Julian called after her. ‘I will discover your identity, have no fear.’
‘Oh, I don’t fear that!’ she shouted back over her shoulder. ‘And I am sure we shall meet again, sometime soon, Mr Cooper. Adieu!’
Lorelei emerged from the water and ran to the bathing machine, ducking down and picking up her towel from the steps. Once inside, she shut the door and dragged the chair across it. She wouldn’t put it past the man to try and follow her in.
She stifled a giggle. If she was truthful, she wasn’t actually sure if the chair was to stop him coming in, or her going out.
Julian wasn’t going to move from that beach until she emerged – no power on earth would budge him. He sat down behind the bathing machine and crossed his legs. She had to come out at some point, and then he would pursue her to her destination. It wasn’t very often one came across a beautiful, dark-haired mermaid in Yorkshire.
His waiting was rewarded about twenty minutes later when there was a scraping sound from behind the door and a creak as it was pushed open. The vision of loveliness descended the steps, looked left and right and began to walk back across the beach, towards the winding path which led to the Hall. Julian waited a little longer, watching her move elegantly and sensually across the sand. She had discarded the blue bathing dress and was clad in an oyster-coloured gown, which had lacy flounces instead of sleeves. It had clearly been crumpled up in that little hut. Slung over one arm was a messy froth of white material – her petticoats, he realised – and she was patting her roughly pinned up hair with her free hand.
The woman paused near the dunes and stared around her, looking for something. Then she bent down and picked something up from the ground – a pair of shoes – and she sat down on a tussock of scrubby grass to fasten them onto her feet, laying the petticoats untidily down beside her.
Now was his moment. He ran across the sand and caught up with her.
She looked up, surprise registering on her face. ‘You waited? I didn’t see you—’ She blushed a little, betraying the fact that he was what she had looked for as she emerged from the bathing machine.
‘Another question! And you have yet to answer mine.’ He shook his head and folded his arms. ‘Because I am going to follow you up to that Hall and demand your identity is revealed to me. I can tell by your clothes that you aren’t a casual visitor to the cove. And you probably shouldn’t be here, swimming around with nobody to hear your screams if you get caught in a riptide. So. Your name, please? And then I can let you leave.’
She sighed and stood up, gathering her petticoats together and folding them over her arms again, smoothing them down nervously. ‘Yes. You are right. I have yet to answer your questions. I suppose I must tell you that you can’t follow me up to the Hall and demand my identity because I am a completely different person up there. I am sure we will meet again, Mr Cooper. I look forward to it.’ She nodded and turned away.
Julian couldn’t help it. He reached out his hand and grabbed her forearm, pulling her back towards him. She flinched at the touch, stiffened, then stared at him, her eyes wide and surprised and the most magnificent shade of green he had ever seen. He noticed a smattering of yellowing bruises around the top of her arm and slackened his hold.
She followed his gaze and laughed in a slightly strained manner. ‘Don’t worry. A wave took me too close to the rocks. You haven’t hurt me. It’s just a bit sore today.’
‘Damn waves. How dare they? Are you staying at the house, then?’ he tried. ‘Because I may be visiting later. I know there is some sort of event on tonight.’ He pulled a face. ‘I wasn’t going to go, but if you’re there—’ He let the words drift in the breeze.
The woman smiled and gently removed herself from his grip. ‘I shall be there, Mr Cooper. Goodbye for now.’ She inclined her head and began to walk up the path again.
Julian stood for a long time watching her graceful movements. She didn’t so much walk as glide. He watched until she had disappeared out of sight. He itched to capture her in a photograph. And if he did nothing else that summer, he swore to himself that he would do that.
‘Well I am glad to see you have decided to return.’
Lorelei closed her eyes and bit back a sarcastic retort. She knew she’d come off all the worse for it. Instead, she cursed under her breath and walked along the corridor, ignoring her husband who was standing in the study doorway looking as arrogant and pinched up as always.
An image of their tenant in the Dower House flitted unbidden into her mind as she put one hand on the banister to climb the stairs. She was embarrassed to feel her skin flush and a tingle spread across her body as she visualised Julian Cooper standing in the water, the sea lapping at his thighs and his hair blowing in the wind.
‘Don’t you dare ignore me!’ The study door slammed shut, and she heard Walter marching along the hallway.
Lorelei’s stomach clenched as he approached. He was obviously ready to continue the disagreement; and she knew what he was capable of when he was in a temper like this. She quickly took stock of her surroundings, judging which would be the fastest exit route from a well-aimed fist. With a sense of horror, she realised she was trapped in the long, narrow corridor and he was far too close; but the waft of whisky on his breath gave her hope that his reactions wouldn’t be as sharp as usual. Alcohol, thank God, had that effect on him. But spending time with Julian had reminded her of the old Lorelei, and she found enough courage buried
deep within that old self to straighten her shoulders and turn slowly towards her husband.
She might regret it later, but she was determined to face him down this time.
‘Can I help?’ she asked. ‘Why the urgency to greet me? Has the ocean cleared of ships and I am the only interesting thing left to look at?’
‘You look a mess,’ he retorted. His eyes flicked up and down her body with distaste. ‘And you appear to be in a state of undress.’ She saw his fist clench and unclench and her heart skipped a beat. The bruises were never anywhere that really showed, and nobody would ever believe her anyway. Nor care – she had no family, no true friends left. She was alone.
‘No, I’m not.’ She held her voice steady with a great effort. ‘I’m still wearing my gown and my corset – otherwise my dress wouldn’t have fastened up.’ She looked down at her hem which was filthy and yes, very much torn where it had caught on a gorse bush and she had tugged it away. The lack of petticoats had made the skirts too long and the vile gown hung at a quirky angle. But she liked the feeling of freedom.
She didn’t, however, like the fact that Walter’s whisky-soaked breath was coming faster and faster, and his hand continued to clench and unclench relentlessly. Just as his eyes went blank and he raised a fist towards her, she thought quickly and thrust the bundle of petticoats at him: ‘Hold these, would you please, Walter.’ Automatically, he grabbed the undergarments and held them for less than a second, until he realised what they were and threw them on the floor with a bellow. His fist lifted again, but Lorelei was too quick. She ducked out of the way and his punch landed in the plaster of the wall, making him hiss with pain.
‘You common slut!’ growled Walter. His face was mottled and angry and she knew she’d gone too far. ‘Get upstairs now and clean yourself up!’ A maid suddenly appeared around the corner and cowered into the woodwork, probably, Lorelei thought, saving her from another punch. ‘You have sand and seaweed in your hair and it isn’t even pinned properly. Someone must make you respectable. We are hosting a ball tonight and you will not be a vagabond.’
Lorelei laughed, a brittle, unnatural sound that had nothing to do with amusement. ‘I’m so sorry, Walter. I’d never want people to think you’d married a vagabond. I had better go and get ready before the company arrives.’
She turned away and fled up the stairs, leaving the petticoats on the floor. She ran into her bedroom, her heart pounding, and locked the door, then hurried over to the mirror, shedding her clothing as she went.
The same face stared back at her as always; but she didn’t feel the same. Not at all.
Chapter Seven
The Cove, Present Day
Stefano’s ‘love’ was, at that precise moment, doing almost exactly the same thing as him. Only she had a bottle of mellow, red wine open in front of her. She was halfway down the bottle and didn’t really intend to stop until she had emptied it.
Beside the bottle were the pathetic remains of a family size bar of chocolate. It was usually against Lissy’s principles to consume so much chocolate in so little time, but needs must. She picked up the last two squares and popped them in her mouth. She had ceased tasting the sweet flavour about quarter of a bar ago; now it was basically an automated response as her jaws chewed and her mind wandered.
Unfortunately, her mind wandered to Lamorna; with the ever-present spectre of Stefano hovering around her thoughts. No matter how many times she thought about it, no matter how many times she pictured the scene in her head, it never changed. Her memories were horribly truthful.
She had come around the corner of the Cove to surprise him, knowing that he had said he would be working there that day. She’d been quite thoughtful – she had prepared a lovely treat, packed it all into a beautiful little wicker basket and she was going to surprise him. She had a bottle of wine with her, two plastic glasses and a selection of fruit and canapés, purchased from a deli. She had also brought, fresh from the local bakery, two piping hot scones wrapped in a chequered tea-towel, a tub of homemade (well, of course Lissy hadn’t made it, but the lady in the bakery had) strawberry jam and a big pot of Cornish clotted cream. The image of the man in the antiques shop had stayed with her, and had made them both laugh when she’d admitted her thoughts to Stef. So she thought the scones were a nice touch.
Lissy clambered over the rocks towards the rock pools she knew were hidden there, and it was from that point where it all went completely downhill.
Lamorna Cove, Seven Years Ago
‘Just tell me what to do. Tell me exactly what to do.’ Her voice was throaty, sexy; it still made Stef smile, even from this side of the camera.
‘Bella Kerensa.’ Stef was sitting cross-legged on the rocks, the ideal angle for him to capture this alluring creature on film. ‘You know exactly what to do.’
‘You have to remind me,’ said the girl. She was tall, blonde and had the curves and the pout to rival a young Brigitte Bardot. She was also a girl Stef had known for several years, on and off. On – very much on – when he came to Cornwall to work; and off when he was back in Italy, away from temptation. She was the reason he’d come back this time. The perfect woman to model for his latest series of photographs.
Currently, “Bella” Kerensa was stretched out languidly on a rock, lying on her back, stark naked, her fingers trailing in a crystal clear rockpool. ‘I forget the simplest of instructions when you watch me like that.’
‘I watch you as a professional,’ replied Stef, framing the shot. ‘I must watch you pose and stretch and roll over – yes! Yes, that is it. Exactly it.’ He pressed the shutter as Kerensa rolled onto her stomach and raised herself up on her arms.
She lay on her front, bent her legs up and crossed them at the ankle, resting her perfect chin in her perfect cupped hands. Her eyelids were heavy with smoky colours and her lashes black and thick, layered with mascara. Her lips were palest pink, her blonde hair caught up in a 1960’s style – a beehive, perhaps, that had half-tumbled from its pins as if after a session of lovemaking. Stef suppressed a smile as he took another picture. He knew what she looked like after such a session.
‘Bella,’ he murmured again. ‘Perfetto.’
Kerensa giggled and shifted so that she was on all fours.
She began to crawl over to him, her plump, shell pink lips slightly open, curving into a sensual smile. ‘Your voice is my drug,’ she breathed. ‘Your accent – when you speak to me like that, I can’t think straight.’
‘Think only of the poses, the pictures,’ replied Stef, clicking as she crawled closer to him. He felt a stirring somewhere he thought he should really reserve for only Elisabetta. But Kerensa slithering towards him made him catch his breath and click the shutter faster and faster as she approached, until she was right in front of him.
She laughed, softly, and took hold of the camera, moving it away from his face. ‘Kiss me,’ she whispered.
‘Ah, Kerensa,’ Stef said, groaning. ‘I cannot, I cannot. She will kill me, I swear!’
‘Who will? Who will kill you? There’s nobody here except us. Just us.’
‘Kerensa, no. I am here to work! Just to work!’ he protested.
‘We’ve always worked well together, Stef. Always. Nobody can see us.’
Stef stared at Kerensa, scanning her eyes, her nose, her lips, her perfect chin. ‘I am here to work.’ He tried to sound firm. Automatically, he lifted a hand and pushed a strand of hair away from her face.
On some level, he was cursing his Italian passion. On another – well – if they did it, it would be farewell, would it not? He had loved this girl, no strings attached, for a long time. He owed her something, surely?
No. No, he didn’t. He tried to strengthen his resolve.
What he felt for Elisabetta – that was real love. That was the feeling you had when you knew you would throw yourself into the flames for her. You wouldn’t hesitate to take a bullet for her; you wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice your life for her. It was Elisabetta he wanted, Elisabe
tta he needed.
‘I have found someone else,’ he told Kerensa. ‘Her name is Elisabetta.’
‘Elisabetta,’ replied Kerensa. ‘Hmm.’ She leaned forward and before he could move away she had placed her slick, pink lips on his, biting the bottom one gently. She pulled away from him, fixing her eyes on his. ‘Where did you meet this Elisabetta? And when?’
His lip throbbed and so did somewhere else but he ignored it. ‘I met her here. I met her some weeks ago—’
‘Some weeks ago? Not long then.’ Kerensa kneeled up and shuffled closer to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pounced, swiftly wrapping her legs around his waist and smiling into his eyes. He put his arms around her body to steady them, terrified they would tumble off the rocks and hurtle into the sea below.
‘Kerensa, stop it!’
‘Some weeks ago,’ Kerensa repeated. ‘But you’ve known me so much longer.’
‘Yes, but I cannot know you like that anymore, bella.’
‘Really?’ she asked, a smile curving her lips. ‘Well, let’s see about that, shall we?’
She pressed herself against him and he closed his eyes. Oh God! Maybe he could stave her off with a kiss? Maybe he should just push her gently away? Maybe he could—
But the thought never had time to crystallise. There was an unholy shriek from the top of the rocks. Stef looked up, mortified. Kerensa followed his gaze.
Then she laughed. ‘The fiery Elisabetta, I presume,’ she said; and went back to the task in hand.
Whitby, Present Day
Lissy hadn’t waited to see any more. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she had screeched from her perch at the top of the rocks. Now, when she thought about it, she realised she must have looked less like an avenging angel and more like a velociraptor swooping in for the kill.
She had sworn particularly nastily at the pair of them, and reached into the basket full of treats. ‘This is you working? This is what you do? A bloody naked woman and my boyfriend wrapped around each other?’