The Girl in the Photograph

by Kirsty Ferry

  Even as she said it and challenged him with those bejewelled eyes, he laughed. ‘I know. But I have no gun and no reason to hurt you. Hey, could you not have gone to the studio? I am sure you must possess a key?’

  ‘I … I do.’ Lissy’s eyes slid away from him then back, as if she was quickly coming up with a reason for not going to the studio. ‘But it’s a mess. Grace’s toys are all over the place and it’s very much Becky’s office in there as well so I don’t like disturbing anything. So, no. I wouldn’t have gone. Plus, you were on the phone to me and I panicked.’ She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘So I came here.’

  ‘I see.’ He felt the urge to smile but suppressed it. He knew she would deny everything. ‘Well, I shall move the car and as I said to you, please go in and make yourself at home for the evening. There are two bedrooms so please understand I will not take advantage of you. The second room has my workstation in. We’ll have to move things for you to access the bed, but it will be fine.’ He pointed towards the door of the building. ‘Go. It’s cold and you’re freezing I think.’

  Lissy looked down at his feet and shook her head. ‘You tell me that when you’re not even wearing shoes? I don’t know how I put up with your bare feet all summer – it’s like you had an aversion to footwear.’

  He stood still and there was a beat. ‘Maybe,’ he said quietly, ‘it was because you loved me.’

  Lissy was silent for a moment. She ducked her head and turned towards the house. ‘Maybe,’ she said equally quietly. ‘Maybe I did love you, once upon a time. Before I saw you with her.’

  Stef watched her disappear into the house and sighed. He jangled the car keys against his hip, thinking. He wondered how tonight would go.

  Stef parked the car, rather skilfully, he thought, and bounded up the stairs to his apartment. When he reached the door, he hurried in and saw Lissy sitting on the sofa. Her hands were clasped on her lap and her legs crossed at the ankles. She looked all folded up, as if she didn’t really want to take up much space.

  ‘Did you see your room?’ Stef nodded across the lounge to the bedroom which contained his makeshift studio equipment. A faint glow and the steady whirr of a computer fan came through the open door, dance music still thumping bass notes in the background.

  ‘I haven’t been in it yet. It looked as if you were working. I didn’t want to disturb anything.’

  ‘Oh, you won’t disturb anything. Go, go.’ He indicated the door. ‘Take a look at your room while I heat the milk for your chocolate.’

  ‘If you microwave it, it only takes seconds,’ Lissy pointed out.

  ‘Ahhhh, I do not microwave the milk.’ He pulled a face, as if the very thought disgusted him, because it did. That would be sacrilege. ‘It’s much nicer heated in the pan. That’s the way I always made it for you, and I never had any complaints.’

  Lissy stayed where she was and didn’t answer, and he didn’t pursue it. Instead, he bustled around in the tiny galley kitchen and found what he needed in the orderly little cupboards. ‘I think this may still be your favourite, yes?’ he asked, holding up a tin. ‘Fortnum and Mason, Rose and Violet hot chocolate. To me, it tastes like a bouquet of flowers. To you,’ he gave a little bow, ‘it tastes divine.’

  Lissy whipped her head around, her eyes and mouth making three astonished little ‘o’ shapes in her perfect face. ‘Rose and Violet? You remembered?’

  ‘I did.’

  Then her face and her voice hardened. ‘Why the hell did you come pre-packed with my favourite drinking chocolate?’

  ‘It slipped into my suitcase unnoticed. And why the hell not?’ he answered. ‘Now. You want some, yes?’ He flipped the lid off and turned to the kitchen bench, busying himself with making the drink. ‘Go, Lissy. Go and see your room whilst I work. You put me off.’

  The vibes coming from the woman were palpable, but she remained seated. ‘What are you working on? I don’t want to walk in there and see thumbnails of hundreds of naked blonde women on the computer screen. It’s embarrassing for us both.’

  Stef sighed. ‘Why are you still like this, Lissy? Seven years have passed. Seven years!’

  ‘You hurt me. I didn’t like being hurt.’

  ‘You hurt me too. That cut on my foot did not heal for days,’ he replied.

  She was silent for a moment, maybe remembering their time together. ‘I suppose I should apologise for that,’ she said finally. ‘I wouldn’t normally want to draw blood.’

  ‘I still have the scar. I will show you. It is a constant reminder of my Elisabetta and our summer in Cornwall.’

  ‘I don’t want to see it, but thanks for offering.’ He heard the sofa creak as she stood up; felt the warmth of her body as she came up just behind him in the kitchen. ‘What do you think that man was doing on my beach? It was horrid. I swear he had a gun.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He stirred the chocolate into the warm milk. The sweet, floral scent drifted out of the mug and tickled his nose. He passed the mug to Lissy and she wrapped both hands around it, hunching her shoulders in that way he remembered, inhaling the scent before drinking the stuff.

  ‘I do think you need to speak to the police. Maybe they will have evidence?’

  ‘Whatever evidence he left will have washed away with the tide.’ She shivered. ‘I’ll just have to see what happens tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, if you want me to spend some time with you and watch the shoreline, I shall do so.’ He put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘No strings attached, I promise. Now, is the chocolate good?’

  ‘Very good,’ she answered.

  ‘Excellent. So – forget the man on your beach and think about your room. Believe me, there are no naked women on the laptop screen. Come. Let me show you what I have been working on. You will like it. You will see why your brother contacted me to come to England. This is, as you said, an important opportunity for him.’ Stef shrugged. ‘How many photographers would be able to get wall space in a Mayfair gallery?’

  ‘Not many. He’s done well.’

  ‘He has done very well.’

  ‘Are you going to include some of your prints in the exhibition?’ asked Lissy.

  ‘Why would I do that?’ He was surprised at the question. ‘I don’t need to build my name. The work you will see here is for my own private amusement. Your brother asked me to come because he thought I might enjoy the process. Dio! I have enough success of my own without trying to steal his. I am on holiday and relaxing.’

  ‘Good. It matters a lot to him – and to me – that this exhibition works. He deserves so much more recognition. All right then. Let me see the computer – in my bedroom.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Stef bowed again and indicated that she should leave the room first.

  Lissy had kicked off her espadrilles by the sofa and her feet slapped across the polished oak floorboards into the bedroom. That room, she was pleased to note, had carpet down. She liked the look and feel of wooden floors in living areas, but preferred a soft carpet on the bedroom floor.

  Her apartment in London had the most gorgeous, deep carpet in the bedrooms. She imagined for a moment how Stef would enjoy stretching his bare toes out of her bed and feeling the soft pile beneath his skin; then she quickly chased the thought away. She had to try and remember why she had binned him in the first place. That naked woman in the cove had been the reason. She tried to harden her heart – she was alarmed to find it had been melting a little with the hot chocolate fix – and realised she was failing at the hard-hearted thing quite miserably.

  She was also horribly aware of Stef behind her; knew exactly at what angle she would have to tilt her head up in order to meet his dark, almost-black eyes; knew how his hair would feel if she took one of his curls and crushed it between her fingertips; knew exactly how his lips would feel pressed against hers …

  ‘This room is a mess,’ she said. ‘How is anyone supposed to have a night’s sleep here?’ Her voice had a too-posh, ringing tone to it; clipped, sharp and altogether n
ot very nice, but it was deliberate. God forbid Stef should think she’d been thinking of naughty things with him at the centre of them. Those barriers were too precarious as it was.

  ‘It will soon tidy up. I need space to work. Look, you can squeeze through the gap here and sit on the bed. I will sit next to you and turn the machine around and you can see some pictures.’

  ‘I’m not sitting on the bed with you.’ Lissy knew that was one step away from him reaching one of those long, sensitive fingers out and stroking the back of her hand, and her responding by reaching up and touching his face. She could almost hear her latest brick fall down. If she sat too close to him it would be a landslide and she’d be lost. ‘You can show me them as I stand here.’

  ‘If you wish. Here. This is my own Pre-Raphaelite collection. I am sure that you know Jon will be working like the marvellous Julia Margaret Cameron. He is going to use traditional methods of developing the pictures and recreate the Cameron shots that she recreated in the style of the Pre-Raphaelites. Do you see? One photographer paying, what is it – omaggio – homage to another. Myself, my work is different.’ He wiggled the mouse around and the laptop flashed into life.

  Lissy gasped. There was a picture of little Grace on the screen – Grace, sitting on a seat, with her hands clasped in her lap and her eyes trained on the photographer – Stef, she presumed – but the image appeared as if the real-life Grace had been inserted into the picture. The only thing that looked truly photographic about it was indeed the figure of Grace herself. Everything else was like a traditionally painted background.

  ‘That’s so clever!’ Lissy leaned forward. ‘It’s like you’ve dropped her into a painting.’

  ‘I was unsure as to whether to make the whole thing painted,’ mused Stef, his gaze travelling critically over the screen, ‘or to make her the focal point and paint in the rest. I have been using what is called combination art, as well as digitally painting the background myself. Cameron used the combination technique, but it is much easier to do it digitally. One can paste layers together and make a kind of collage. Look. See this picture?’ He clicked a file and another image appeared on the screen. ‘This is Waterhouse’s painting called The Easy Chair. See how I have based our girl on that picture? It is difficult to explain.’ He moved the picture up the screen so the two images were side by side. ‘I have done a whole series of Waterhouse’s whilst I have been here. This was the first one I attempted.’

  The girl in the real Waterhouse stared out at the painter in the same way as Grace had stared at Stef. Even her hair was similar, although it was quite apparent that the colours in Grace’s eyes had been enhanced somehow, making them sparkle with a sort of mischief.

  Lissy smiled at the picture. ‘It looks fabulous the way it is. It’s so odd how you could put either one of those girls in the other’s time frame and they’d still look like they belonged. That child,’ she pointed at Grace, ‘has been in this world before. I swear it. So, what else have you done?’

  ‘Oh, I have done a few.’ Stef looked across at Lissy and smiled. ‘Are you sure you want to see them? You don’t feel the need to report the gunman at all yet?’

  Lissy shuddered. ‘No. I’m trying to forget about him. Show me the next picture, please, it’s taking my mind off him.’

  ‘Good. It’s making your mind relax, yes? That and the floral chocolate.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lissy felt her shoulders relax a little as well as her mind, and took the chance of sitting next to him. She definitely felt a lot better. It was probably a fishing rod the man had. Yes, that was it – a fishing rod. No matter. She wanted to see more of Stef’s work, anyway, so she pushed the thought away. She was getting good at that. That was the effect he’d always had on her – he had made real life seem, well, insignificant, somehow. All that mattered had been the two of them. A little sigh escaped her lips and Stef shot a glance her way, frowning slightly.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine. Fine and dandy as they say. Come on,’ she nudged him with her elbow and nodded at the screen. It was a mistake; a little tingle zipped up her arm as their bodies connected. She shifted on the bed, moving away from him. They were too close; much too close. ‘Show me another one.’

  ‘Okay.’ He smiled at her. ‘How about this one. Do you recognise the person?’

  Stef clicked an icon and Lissy laughed. ‘That’s Becky. It’s another Waterhouse, isn’t it? The Mermaid. Gosh, I’m pleased she’s clothed in your shot …’ She shut her mouth as she realised what she had said, images of that day in Cornwall popping unbidden into her mind.

  ‘Yes.’ Stef seemed oblivious to the comment as he skimmed the mouse around and brought up the original. ‘See, in the Waterhouse, she sits naked – except for her fishy tail of course – and brushes her hair. She turns to someone out of sight to her left and is distracted by them. In our picture, Becky is also sitting on the beach. She turns to her left, and her left hand is up at the right side of her face, but her right hand is holding out a bucket full of shells – for the child, I presume.’

  ‘That’s so her!’ said Lissy with a smile. ‘She’s always fiddling with that thing in her ear and she can’t hear out of the left one anyway, so it makes sense that she’s looking around at that angle because someone must be talking to her!’

  ‘Ah. And the child? I did not like to ask,’ said Stef, frowning.

  ‘Grace? Oh, she’s fine. No problems there, thank goodness. They took a risk, but they knew that when they decided to have her.’

  ‘Risks are good. Some risks, anyway.’

  ‘That one was.’ Lissy nodded. ‘Grace is wonderful. I don’t think I show it all the time, but I do love her. Have you done lots of these pictures then?’

  ‘A few, as I say. I might show you them another time. There are some I am still working on.’ He turned his attention to the laptop. His black eyelashes brushed his high cheekbones as he looked down at the keyboard and began pressing buttons. Those lashes were unbelievably long and when they framed his eyes as he looked at you …

  Lissy cleared her throat as Stef closed the last picture down and made to switch the machine off. ‘Wait!’ She laid her hand on his forearm. He was like a magnet. She clearly hadn’t shifted far enough away from him. The dark hairs tickled the palm of her hand and his skin was warm.

  ‘What is it?’ He seemed surprised at the physical contact. And by the look of him, now he wasn’t distracted by his photos, he had felt the same jolt she had done when those few square centimetres of their bodies connected.

  ‘What about that picture of me? In the studio?’ She felt her face colour and cursed herself. Cori was the one who blushed all the time – that pretty redhead in London who knew more about Pre-Raphaelite muses than was probably healthy. ‘When you turned up that day. You said something about me being like the Lady of Shalott looking at Lancelot.’

  ‘And so I did.’ Stef grinned and closed the laptop lid, knocking the thing into sleep mode. ‘But I liked that one as it was. You looked too beautiful and I didn’t want to change anything. Not even the Pre-Raphaelites could compare to you that day, Lissy.’

  Lissy felt herself blush again. She’d never been referred to in those terms before. And he’d called her Lissy and it still sounded so sweet and lovely.

  But then – in her mind’s eye, there was the spectre of that naked woman wrapping herself around him to contend with. And the memory of her wasn’t going to go away any time soon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sea Scarr Hall, 1905

  Walter sent a curt telegram from Whitby, advising Lorelei that he was spending the night in the town. She had already fobbed Florrie and her mother off with a story about him being delayed by estate business, so it didn’t matter much in that respect and now they had left, but it was still damned irritating of Walter. She threw the telegram into the fire and walked to the front window, taking a deep breath. Actually, her main emotion on reading it had been one of immense relief. She was spared h
is presence for a while longer. Good.

  From here, she could see that the sea was just starting to creep up across the sand, and she felt a yearning to be out there, swimming across the ocean, all the way to her rock and maybe, one day, beyond – all the way to the horizon.

  Escape. That was the thing. She wanted to escape.

  It made no sense to Lorelei to sit in the Hall and waste the evening. Once the beach was swallowed up, she would lose her chance of feeling the sand between her toes for yet another day – so it was obvious to her what she should do. And if she was quick enough, she’d miss the storm. It was still warm – and really, if it began to rain when she was swimming, she’d be wet anyway, so what would it matter?

  She dared to hope she would have a willing conspirator in the matter and her lips curled upwards into a smile as she thought about that conspirator and what could happen.

  Walter was away, after all. Who could stop her? She left the room, pausing only to pull a fresh bathing dress and a clean towel out of the linen press, then headed outside, down towards the Dower House and the beach.

  She wondered for a brief moment whether she should knock on the door of the Dower House and announce her presence, but then thought that simply the best thing to do was to discard her clothing on the dunes and go straight into the sea. She would swim out as far and as fast as she dared – and if anybody should care to join her, then that was all to the good.

  Julian had developed his most recent photographs and was especially proud of one in particular which showed an artist at work on the beach, his dog by his easel and the imposing cliffs behind him. He desperately needed fresh air after being cooped up in his makeshift darkroom, and stepped out onto the terrace, away from the overpowering smell of chemicals. He was still thinking about the tea party and Lorelei looking up at him, the ribbons on her hat lifted by the breeze.

  So far, he had very little to complain about as far as this job was concerned – he had, after all, met Lorelei Scarsdale through it. Why—