The Girl in the Painting Read online

  ‘If I knew that I wouldn’t be lost,’ she said, with a touch of her usual asperity. ‘It’s Gower Street. I don’t know where Gower Street is. I mean I’ve heard of it, with the PRB, and all that.’ She stifled a sob. ‘I’m outside number seven. But I don’t know where it is in London and I don’t know how I got here and I don’t feel very well. I’m sorry. I’d get a cab but I’m worried I might throw up in it. Sorry – not that I want to throw up in your car.’

  ‘It’s okay. I know,’ he said. ‘You’re in Bloomsbury. I guess you couldn’t wait for my tour. Just sit tight and I’ll come for you. My car’s just around the corner from me.’

  ‘I can’t even find a tube station.’ She started sniffing and her voice wavered. Definitely not like her. ‘And I still want you to show me the PRB places.’

  ‘I’ll still take you, it’s okay. But yeah, tube stations aren’t easy to find around there. However, I can tell you that Gower Street is right in the middle of two of them. Goodge Street or Tottenham Court Road. Or then there’s Russell Square station, but that’s a bit of a walk away. Only recommended if you fancied keeping fit.’ Simon knew he was simply talking at her to stop her from panicking, and he kept the phone pressed to his ear as he unlocked the car. ‘Don’t worry, it’s easy enough for me to get to you. I’ll be there before you know it. I think you’ve just found a road and kept walking,’ he told her. ‘I’ll be there in about ten minutes. Don’t move, okay? Now, can you tell me whereabouts you are on the street? Are you still by number seven or did you wander off?’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I just don’t know my way around and I got all confused. I did wander away but I’m back now. I’m at number seven and I’m next to somewhere called Gower Mews,’ she said. Her voice was still shaky, but at least she seemed to have stopped crying. He could hear her breathing heavily as she walked around to try and position herself. ‘And if I stand with my left side next to this house, I can see a big white building on a corner of a crossroads. You know how far along I am, don’t you? It’s a long road and there are buses everywhere. Sorry.’

  ‘Sounds like the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine,’ said Simon.

  ‘Ha. Bloody hell, and it’s got Ross carved up on the wall, right up high on it.’ She tried to laugh. ‘Should have been Rossetti.’

  ‘That would have been good, wouldn’t it?’ said Simon. ‘But you’re completely in the wrong direction for your place. And even for my place.’ Simon put the phone on speakerphone and started the engine. ‘I’m sure, when I get there, we can find a coffee shop or something. I’m pretty certain there’s a few just down from that crossroads, where the Tropical Medicine place is. And failing that, there’s bound to be a pizza place. There are always pizza places.’ He was driving now, mentally judging how far he was away from her.

  The car was crawling along Oxford Street. Just a sharp right onto Tottenham Court Road, Simon knew, right onto Store Street and right again. He kept her chatting, until he eventually turned onto Gower Street, and suddenly there she was. Standing outside number seven, turning around, looking up and down the street as if she was searching for something. His car, of course, Simon reasoned.

  He pulled messily into the kerb a few houses away and stepped out onto the street, picking up his phone and still talking into it. ‘So, yes, it’s not far and I should be there around about … now.’ At ‘now’, he tapped her on the shoulder and she spun around. She was a horrible sickly colour, yet behind the pallor, her face was all red and blotchy. ‘Surely it wasn’t that bad getting lost here?’ he asked her.

  ‘Oh, Simon, you have no idea how horrible it was!’ she cried, throwing herself at him. Luckily, he opened his arms in time to catch her. ‘It was horrible. Just horrible.’

  ‘But this is a nice area,’ said Simon, wrapping her in his arms. ‘Remember the Bloomsbury Group? What could possibly be bad about Bloomsbury? And if it wasn’t for Millais’ home on Gower Street, we wouldn’t have the PRB as we know and love it.’

  It had been the wrong thing to say.

  ‘Damn the PRB!’ Cori said.

  ‘Okay, I can see that maybe wasn’t what you wanted to hear,’ said Simon, frowning. ‘Look, there’ll be a Costa or a Starbucks on Tottenham Court Road if you want to get away from here. Let’s go there. I’ll treat you to a big latte or something, it’ll make you feel better.’

  Cori nodded. ‘Yes, please. A coffee would be lovely, I—’

  ‘Coffee? No, tincture of opium would make things better. It makes everything better.’

  ‘What was that?’ Simon stood back and looked at Cori. ‘Did you say something? Something about tinctures?’

  ‘Oh God!’ Cori began to drag Simon away from number seven. ‘No, I didn’t say anything about tinctures!’

  ‘Because I could have sworn someone said tincture of opium,’ Simon said, looking around him.

  ‘Tincture of opium?’ Cori asked. ‘What on earth is that?’ She was still dragging him along, head down, trying not to look at anything around her.

  Simon laughed. ‘Tincture of opium is better known as laudanum. You’ll know all about laudanum from Lizzie Siddal. Remember how everyone knew she’d overdosed herself with the stuff? I doubt they ever proved it was suicide though. Laudanum is the cure-all Victorian medicine – but it’s highly dangerous, and liable to kill you.’

  One of Daisy’s diary entries came back into Cori’s mind as her thoughts raced ahead of her.

  I feel wonderful when I drink it and can see how beneficial it might be to one. However, the nausea and tiredness after the effects have worn off are most unpleasant.

  And then those words came back to her.

  I can even show you how I felt when I took my medicine. It was the same medicine Lizzie took. She gave me some of hers, you know. She was so kind to me!

  ‘Laudanum?’ Cori’s steps faltered. ‘Another name for laudanum? So she would have used that as a medicine? Oh God.’

  ‘I told you I could show you how I felt.’ The voice was breathy; triumphant; and just in her ear.

  She had dropped Simon’s hand, sworn very loudly, and started to run as fast as she could.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  KENSINGTON

  They hadn’t gone for coffee anywhere after all. Cori had been in no fit state.

  She remembered, embarrassed, the fact that the stomach cramps had continued and she had been forced to stop, bending double in the middle of the street, whilst she retched uselessly. Wave after wave of misery and depression consumed her and again she wanted to curl up into a ball and just die, quietly, so that nobody would bother her ever again.

  ‘I think I just need to go home,’ she had said to Simon, sitting as far away as possible from him in the passenger seat when he had eventually bundled her into his Mazda. ‘I’m so sorry. I was really looking forward to seeing you. I just don’t know what’s come over me.’ Big fat tears had started to roll down her cheeks and she hadn’t even bothered wiping them away.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Simon had said. ‘It’s probably a bug. You know, that norovirus thing. It just hits you out of nowhere. One minute you’re fine, the next – bam! You’re not.’ He’d looked over at her, his navy blue eyes kind and that had made her feel worse. ‘We don’t want to risk infecting a whole coffee shop. Best wait until you feel better.’

  He’d taken her right to her front door, asked her if she wanted anything before he went and she hadn’t even invited him in. Ironically, Simon was the only thing she wanted, but there was something else she needed to do and she needed to be on her own to do it. If only her brain would stop mushing up and she could think straight. And, dear Lord, she had never been so tired in her whole life.

  ‘I’ll see you later. Tomorrow, maybe? Whenever,’ Cori said. ‘Thanks again.’

  Then she forced open her front door, and went straight upstairs. She was pulling Daisy’s diary out of the bookcase, just as she heard the car engine start again and drive off. Norovirus bug be damned – Bloom
sbury? Gower Street? Daisy’s voice and her tinctures and the sense she was being followed – no, directed – to somewhere she had only read about.

  I’ll show you how I felt.

  She dragged herself to the bedroom and threw the diary on the floor to read later. Before that, she needed to sleep. She crawled between the covers fully clothed and was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

  Cori awoke hours later and, opening her eyes against the darkness of the room, she realised she felt human again; she felt like herself. And she also felt ready to tackle the diary. This time, she was going to read it properly – without the wine.

  She studied the book until her eyes itched and the words blurred in front of her. The entries were fractured. They were in chronological order, but the book seemed to span several years. It was most certainly not a daily journal from a young lady. It was, in fact, mainly an obsessional account of Daisy Ashford’s friendship with the PRB.

  Once she’d settled into her life in London and written about a few day trips and a handful of little domestic issues, the PRB was all she talked about. As if every time she had a meeting with one of them, she wrote it down. Whatever had happened in between didn’t seem to exist or was glossed over meaninglessly.

  The domestic entries finally ceased all together and it was just pages and pages, all about the PRB. It was as if Daisy was dipping in and out of their lives and sharing every drama they ever encountered. She seemed so close to the group, that Cori couldn’t believe her name had never come up anywhere before in relation to them.

  ‘This cannot be normal,’ whispered Cori, turning another page and reading Daisy’s account of a meeting between her and Lizzie Siddal in 1861. ‘I mean, what about the rest of her life? Surely, she must have done something with it?’ She wondered whether Daisy had married, whether she had children – whether there were any other records pertaining to her life. Everything was about the PRB; and especially Lizzie. I have always aspired to be like Lizzie, said one line.

  Cori turned again to the back page, and then flicked some pages back until she came to the last date; February 11th, 1862. The date had been circled again and again in heavy black ink, and there were watery smudges on the paper, as if someone had wept over the book.

  Cori’s heart lurched as she re-read the first three words: Lizzie is dead. She slammed the book shut and stared out across the room, suddenly feeling a nasty chill creeping across her shoulders.

  She shivered and looked around her. But how, she tried to tell herself, had she expected the diary to end? The whole thing was clearly based on Daisy likening herself to Lizzie. I have always aspired to be like Lizzie. Once Daisy’s heroine had gone – what point was there in continuing the diary? None. None at all. Then Cori had the most sickening thought, which she hoped was desperately, desperately wrong. What was the point in Daisy continuing?

  Cori looked at the clock. Was it too late to ring someone? she wondered. Simon, perhaps? She took a deep breath and picked up her phone. Her fingers hovered over the buttons, but then she laid the phone down beside her and looked at it instead. No. She couldn’t ring Simon. She didn’t want to impose on him any more today.

  So she picked up the phone and dialled Lissy’s number instead. She stared idly off into the middle distance thinking over the diary entries as she waited for Lissy to pick up. She couldn’t remember hanging one of her dresses up on the curtain rail before she fell asleep, but she must have done, because the shape of it stood out black against the curtained windows. Oh, well. She’d hang it up properly in the morning. And there must be a bit of a draught, actually, because it was moving in the breeze.

  She blinked and looked down at the diary. Another job to do, she thought. Note to self – draught excluder for windowpanes.

  Lissy was lounging in her apartment, flicking through a gossip magazine. Her legs were curled up elegantly beneath her and a large glass of Dom Pérignon was beside her. She didn’t usually go for champagne on her own, not after the ‘Graduation Incident’, as Jon had taken to calling it – but she felt today had been rather successful.

  She loved going to the gallery, but to see Cori and Simon together was so exciting; she giggled to herself, turning one corner of a page over to mark it for later. She wondered if it was too early to buy a wedding hat. Or maybe a fascinator, because they were a bit more in fashion, weren’t they?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of her phone and she tutted. She glanced at the clock – it was just after eleven. Who on earth would be calling her at that time of night? She uncurled herself and walked over to the windowsill where she had left the phone earlier. She’d been peering out at the street, wondering why the traffic was so backed up and Jon had called her. They’d chatted a while, and then she’d got distracted and therefore the phone had been abandoned. She picked up the phone now and saw the name on the display. She raised her eyebrows. Cori.

  ‘Hello, Cori,’ she said, heading back to her comfy sofa and preparing for a long, girly gossip with her old friend. ‘What a nice surprise! Is everything all right?’ She sat down and curled up again, eyeing her champagne hungrily. Perhaps Cori could come over one night and they could have some more of the same?

  ‘Lissy? I’m so sorry. I know I should wait until tomorrow, but I need to ask you something about Daisy.’

  ‘Ask me something?’ replied Lissy. ‘What about Simon? Isn’t he there? Can’t he help?’

  ‘No. No, Simon’s not here.’ The girl’s voice was guarded. Lissy closed her eyes and raised her face heavenwards. Unbelievable. They hadn’t even spent the night together. It should have been so perfect – they were meeting for coffee, one thing should have led to another. Honestly! What else did she have to do for God’s sake?

  It would definitely have happened in Lissy-world, she knew that without a doubt. And those two were so well matched. She blamed Simon, she decided. In fact, no, she blamed Slutty. Seriously, the woman had practically destroyed Simon’s faith in himself. She’d have to have words with him when she saw him. She was certain Cori hadn’t been that reticent at uni.

  ‘Well, where is he?’ Lissy asked, rather too sharply. ‘Why is he not there?’

  ‘He’s gone home. Lissy, look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called. I’ll find out myself somehow. It’s all right.’

  ‘No!’ Lissy interrupted. She sighed. ‘No. Wait. Tell me. What is it? It’s fine.’

  ‘It’s just – well – Daisy’s diary ends on the eleventh of February, 1862.’

  ‘Now why is that date significant to me?’ pondered Lissy out loud.

  ‘It’s the date Lizzie died,’ said Cori, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Daisy seems really upset by it.’

  ‘Ah! Of course.’

  ‘Did Becky find anything else out about Daisy after the diary ended?’ asked Cori. There was a peculiar, tight little note to her voice that Lissy couldn’t quite place.

  ‘Well, now, that’s a good question,’ said Lissy, surprised. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t asked her. Becky just saw it as an interesting article, I suppose. I suspect she won’t have progressed it. She’s so busy at the moment that it would have been put on a back burner if she’d thought that way.’

  ‘Can you? Can you ask her? I mean, would you mind?’

  ‘No. No, of course not. But it will have to wait until tomorrow. I can send her an e-mail or text her, but she won’t answer, you know what she’s like. If I e-mail, I get more of a response …’ Lissy’s voice tailed off. The other end of the phone suddenly went very quiet; but she could still hear ragged, irregular breathing, so she knew Cori was still there. ‘Cori?’

  ‘Yes? Yes? Lissy?’ Her voice sounded odd; rather distant and distracted, in fact. ‘Sorry – I forgot. I forgot what I was doing for a moment … there’s something. Someone … What the …? No. It’s fine. It’s just the wind. I thought …’

  Lissy sat up, unfolding her legs. She sat forward clutching the phone to her ear. ‘Cori. Is there anything in particular you wan
t to know about Daisy?’ she asked. She was getting a funny uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach and she didn’t like it very much.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s Daisy. Yes. I need to know.’

  There was a rustle of paper as if she was turning the pages of a book. Lissy knew Cori’s mind was elsewhere. It certainly didn’t seem to be on the conversation.

  ‘Sorry. I’m really tired. I’m so tired. I think I should probably go now.’ There was a breathless little laugh. ‘I’m starting to think I’m seeing things. I thought there was something in my bedroom. Anyway. Yeah. Lissy – how did Daisy die?’

  ‘I … I’m afraid I don’t know,’ she replied. She looked out at the lights of London through her huge bay window, twinkling here and there amongst the massive trees of the garden square she overlooked; but she didn’t really see them. ‘I’ll try to find out. Cori?’ Lissy’s voice softened.

  ‘Yes?’ Cori’s voice seemed strained.

  ‘Take care, won’t you?’

  ‘Take care? Yes. You too. Goodbye.’

  The call disconnected, and Lissy looked down at the phone.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ she said. ‘Bloody, bloody hell.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  WHITBY

  The icon flashed on the screen; one new e-mail. Becky pulled a face. She had barely sat down and switched the PC on and there was something there demanding her attention already.

  Sometimes, it was tempting to switch the Internet off and just get on with her work. But, she realised, the e-mail was from Lissy and Lissy’s e-mails always had that aura of urgency around them – Lissy had discovered that it was much quicker to e-mail than text if it was important. And, of course, it was hopeless to telephone her. So Becky couldn’t really ignore it. Well, she could, but would her life be worth living if she did? And, yes, it had one of those annoying red exclamation marks next to it. Definitely Urgent. She sighed and clicked to open it.

  You have to come down to visit me! Immediately. No arguments this time, no excuses. Okay? I have an emergency with Cori. You can stay with me. Oh – and if my brother complains about losing custom, tell him I’ll pay whatever he thinks he would have made over the couple of days you’ll be here. And I know you can bring your work with you, so … Becky groaned and stopped reading. Typical Lissy, demanding this, that and the other. And another visit to London, of all places.