The Girl in the Painting Page 3
The painting of Ophelia at the Tate never changed; yet Cori found herself drawn back to her. It was so easy just to pop in to the gallery, use the cafe, mooch around the gift shop and look at beautiful paintings. She could get quite used to it, actually. No matter how many times she went into the PRB galleries, she always found something new to study. And if she happened to catch sight of that rather nice guide she had bumped into in the corridor – as she had done on several occasions – so much the better.
On one particular sunny, cheerful day, when much of the work in her house was completed, Cori decided to buy her granny a postcard of Ophelia. Her granny knew, of course, what the painting looked like; but Cori thought it might be quite nice to send her the postcard, just so she knew Cori was thinking about her.
She turned the card over in her hand and read the details on the back. The postcard could never do Ophelia justice, of course, but her granny would understand. The card, however, had the edge bent over –and it was silly as it could easily get damaged in the post but Cori didn’t want to send damaged goods to her granny. She looked around, wondering if anyone would spot her swapping it for one at the back of the display; but all she saw was the tall, fair-haired guide she had bumped into walking past the door. He was on a mobile phone and was frowning, but for a brief moment their eyes met and she felt her heart jump.
Ophelia was forgotten as the man faltered and looked as if he was coming into the gift shop. Cori felt her jaw slacken a little – but then he stopped, ran his fingers through his hair and turned away, hurrying back in the direction he had come from, his body language implying he was having a rather heated discussion with whoever it was on the phone.
Cori swore under her breath and cursed the person he was talking to. She had felt almost sure he was going to come into the shop and speak to her.
Ah, well. Once again, she could dream.
‘Sylvie you can’t call me at work,’ Simon said, trying to control his temper. ‘Yes, you know I’m on my break. I’m always on my break at this time. It’s not news.’ He was prowling along the corridors, full of fury. ‘I don’t care. We’ve had this conversation before and the answer is still the same. I’ve got nothing of yours at all. No. No, you can’t have the new address and come over to check. Sorry. Whatever was yours, I just left at Chelsea. Yes, that includes your oil paint set. No, I’m not bloody using it! I’ve got my own!’
He shook his head. The woman was unbelievable. Hell would freeze over before he would let her into his flat. Because then one thing would lead to another and it was easier just to have a clean break.
She, however, had taken to calling every so often with random excuses. She had never once apologised or even referred to the fact she had been sleeping with another man, quite brazenly, in their bed. She was remorseless; in fact, Simon wondered whether she had enjoyed the thrill of it all and being discovered was the ultimate prize. She’d left the front door unlocked and the bedroom door open, for goodness sake. What message did that send out?
He’d avoided blocking her number thus far for some reason best known to his subconscious, but now he was certain that was the first thing he was going to do when he hung up. In fact—
He looked up and saw he was outside the gift shop. He also saw the girl with the red hair turning a postcard over in her hands. Today she was wearing a pair of frayed denim shorts and a white broderie anglaise top. Her hair was plaited, the tail of the plait curling back on itself, just above her waist.
The girl looked up just as he spotted her. He hesitated and began to walk towards her, not quite knowing what he was doing. How on earth could he even speak to her, when he was dealing with a psychopathic ex on the phone?
He forced himself to turn away from the gift shop, heedless of the relentless quacking sound in his ear as Sylvie further tried to justify why she should visit Simon.
He ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. This was it; this really was it.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, cutting Sylvie off, mid-justification. ‘Goodbye, Sylvie. I’ve got nothing left to say to you. Now, or in the future. Goodbye.’
Simon pressed the end call button and immediately went into the contact settings. Block caller. There. It was done.
Simon exhaled and stared at the phone. He then looked towards the gift shop. Maybe he still had time? He hurried to the shop, but all he saw was the back of her, walking out of the exit and into the street, her plait swinging jauntily from side to side.
‘Damn!’ He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and raising his face to the ceiling. ‘Damn and blast it!’
He had to get back to work. His break was over and there was no way he could rush out into the street to try and find her.
But as his emotions began to settle, he felt an odd sort of stillness coming over him. He opened his eyes and stared straight ahead. Then, really concentrating, he focussed on the paintings that lined the corridors. He knew there was more of the same in the building – he was surrounded by so many beautiful works of art and yet they had been wasted on him these past six months.
It had all been about Sylvie and about what he’d lost. He’d had no thought about the future or the present and all that had to change.
He looked down at his hands, not really seeing them but picturing images in his mind of a red-headed girl with hair like molten lava. He saw her smiling; he saw her standing in front of the pictures that echoed her image; and he saw her captured on canvas – painted in oils, by him. His fingers itched to paint her, to paint every individual strand of that hair and capture all the highlights and tones within it.
And he swore that the next time he saw her, he was going to speak to her.
Cori wrote the card out for her granny while she was sitting on a bench by the Thames.
The river was slate grey, despite the blue sky and she could see bridges and hear traffic all around her. Red buses crawled over the bridges and people scurried about like ants. The smell coming off the river wasn’t that pleasant though, but she was willing to ignore it.
Her heart lifted and she stretched her legs out in front of her, just looking at the view. It wouldn’t be long now before the mews house was finished. In fact, her pleasant task for that evening was to make the bed up in her actual bedroom.
She had asked the workmen – Paulo and Solomon, if you please – to move the frame in there and put the mattress on for her if they didn’t mind. They had smiled and agreed and she had paid them in chocolate biscuits. A win-win situation. She had new sheets and duvet all ready to put on the mattress and new cushions piled up ready to scatter around.
First, though, she would post the card to Northumberland. And in order to do that, she would need to buy some stamps. There was a newsagent on the corner and she stood up and sauntered towards the shop. She might buy herself a family bar of chocolate as well to celebrate with and maybe a bottle of wine. She wasn’t a big drinker, but she would raise a glass tonight, she thought, in her nice new bed. Yes, life was looking brighter.
It would be pretty much perfect if she’d managed to get the attention of that guide at the Tate though, she thought with a frown. Never mind. She had lots of time yet.
Cori pushed open the door into the shop and smiled at the man behind the counter. She collected her chocolate and wine and went over to get her stamps and pay. There was a rack of magazines and newspapers set up next to the till and she scanned the front covers as she waited for a lady who was buying each of her twin boys a pocket money toy car.
Cori’s attention was caught by a strapline on one of the newspapers.
The Millais Mystery. Was Ophelia really Lizzie?
For a moment the excited chatter of the little boys faded away and Cori was unaware of anyone else in the shop. Even the face of the tall, fair-haired guide at the Tate took a back seat for a moment.
‘Can I help? Miss? Miss?’
She blinked as the man behind the counter smiled at her, his teeth white in his dark face.<
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‘Oh. Sorry. Yes. A book of first class stamps, please,’ she said. ‘And these.’ She placed the bottle and the chocolate down with a clumsy clatter. ‘And this. Thank you. Yes. I’ll take this as well.’ She placed a copy of the newspaper down next to her shopping and smiled back at the man. ‘Yes. Great. Thank you.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ said the man. He nodded at the wine and chocolate. ‘A good night, yes?’
Cori, though, was looking at the newspaper. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, re-reading the strapline and feeling a delicious sense of anticipation. ‘I think it will be a very good night indeed.’
Chapter Six
KENSINGTON
After the best night’s sleep she’d had for ages in her newly decorated bedroom, Cori was enjoying her first cup of tea of the morning, staring at yesterday’s newspaper on her coffee table with that thought provoking strapline: The Millais Mystery. Was Ophelia really Lizzie?
Cori turned to the inside page again and read the article but even when she had finished she still didn’t know the truth of it. Was the girl in the famous Ophelia portrait that she loved so much really Lizzie Siddal or not?
This article seemed to suggest that the painting hadn’t been completed using the original model. According to the journalist, a diary had been discovered, and it implied that someone called Daisy Ashford had been substituted to finish the job.
It is important to realise, the journalist had written, that we cannot prove anything from this diary alone. Stranger things have happened and we must keep an open mind. Whatever the truth, Ophelia remains one of the most iconic pictures of the Victorian era and is a triumph for the Pre-Raphaelite movement.
Cori smiled and rolled the newspaper up. She stuffed it in her bag and, turning her back on the bombsite that was her lounge, decided the rest of the unpacking could wait for yet another day.
Heading down the stairs, stepping over several books on art and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood in general, she set out to pay yet another visit to Ophelia. She sometimes wondered how she’d ended up as a web designer instead of working in a gallery; her degree was in art history, after all, and, despite all the time she had spent studying the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, she was fairly certain she had never come across a Daisy Ashford in any of the documents.
Chapter Seven
TATE BRITAIN
In the Millais Gallery there was a huge crowd clustered in front of the Ophelia painting and, from what Cori could hear, most of them were rather annoyed that the canvas was much smaller than they had anticipated.
Since reading the article, even Cori had started to wonder whether the model was Lizzie Siddal or Daisy Ashford. But now she found herself bobbing around the outskirts of the crowd, feeling a particular sense of annoyance that she couldn’t get close enough to have a proper look and try to work out who the girl was.
Finally, a man moved out of the way and her heart jumped as she caught a tiny glimpse of the girl’s face. Lizzie, or Daisy, or whoever it was in the painting, had a perfectly smooth complexion, so pale it was ethereal and the most beautiful red hair flowing like weeds through the water. A tree behind her echoed her pose as her hands curled gently, slightly out of the water – the girl was caught in the moment of madness that foreshadowed her suicide and Cori was, as always, entranced. She pushed further into the crowd and found herself standing more or less eye to eye with Ophelia.
‘It’s pretty stunning close up, isn’t it? Can you see the texture on the foliage?’ A man’s voice spoke quietly next to her. Cori’s stomach flipped. She recognised the voice from that moment in the corridor; the encounter where she had almost mown him down. ‘Millais wrote a famous letter to his patron’s wife when he was working on it,’ the man continued, ‘saying he had been threatened with a notice about trespassing in that field and destroying the hay. We should be grateful he never got arrested over it.’
‘It’s her face that always catches my attention, to be honest,’ replied Cori. ‘She’s so lifelike.’ She turned her head, her heart bouncing around like a jumping bean. And yes. She was gratified to see the owner of the voice was indeed the fair-haired man and her heart bounced around a bit more. The gallery identity badge attached to his shirt pocket read Simon Daniels.
‘She’s generated a lot of interest,’ Simon continued. ‘I think it’s due to that article – the Becky Nelson one. It’s gone viral on the Internet.’
Cori patted her bag. ‘Yes. I’ve read it. I’ve got the newspaper in here. It does make you think, though.’ But to be fair, all she was actually thinking about at that moment was Simon’s eyes.
‘It does,’ replied Simon. ‘It makes a good story. So who would you say was the model? Lizzie or Daisy?’
‘I don’t know.’ Cori shook her head. ‘Lizzie was so famous after sitting for this. If it’s not her, it calls into question a lot about the Pre-Raphaelites, doesn’t it? Lizzie’s whole legend, in fact. And if it was this Daisy Ashford – she wouldn’t have been very happy if Lizzie got all the praise.’ She smiled at the fair-haired man, hoping she hadn’t bored him too much with her theory. Evan had often told her to stop when she was in full PRB flow. ‘But as you say,’ she said, trying to round off her chatter, ‘there’s a story in there somewhere.’
She hefted her bag onto her shoulder and gave one last, reluctant glance at Ophelia. ‘Oh well, I’ll just have to have a proper look when all the excitement’s died down.’
‘Well, it’s always nice to see you,’ said Simon. ‘Sorry, that sounds odd. What I mean is, when you work here, you get to recognise people.’ He indicated his name badge. ‘I’ve noticed you in the PRB section a few times.’
‘Oh!’ Cori was secretly thrilled about that comment. ‘But is it not just my hair you’ve recognised?’ she asked, hardly daring to think otherwise. ‘It’s rather difficult to miss.’ She raised her hand and lifted a bunch of curls away from her shoulder. She pulled them around to the side and looked at them askance.
Simon shook his head. ‘No. It’s not just your hair,’ he said. ‘To be honest, you remind me of Lizzie Siddal. I’ve studied the PRB quite a lot and she was the first person I thought of when I saw you. Especially when you were in front of Ophelia.’
Cori looked down at her maxi-dress; it was a flimsy white fabric, shot through with silver threads – perfect for the warm London weather. And quite a good match to the fabric of Ophelia’s dress as well.
‘I suppose I’ve borrowed a bit of her style,’ she agreed. ‘Don’t worry; you’re not the first to say I look like her. I usually take it as a compliment.’
‘It was meant as one,’ said Simon. He smiled, rather shyly. ‘Listen, would you like to get a coffee sometime? I’ve just finished my break or I would try to persuade you to come down to the cafe now.’
Cori stared up at him. ‘Really?’ She noticed how the look in his navy blue eyes hinted at more than sharing just an academic interest in the PRB and marvelling at her likeness to Lizzie Siddal. There was a spark of genuine passion there; the man was keeping something hidden deep down. Cori had the feeling that ‘something’, whatever it was, had been squashed out of him and needed to breathe again. Plus, now she was close enough to appreciate him, she had noticed that his fair hair was definitely a little too long and also curled slightly around the back of his neck, as if it too was trying to falsely restrain itself. She’d always liked that half-messed up look in a man.
‘You know what,’ she said, ‘I think I’d actually quite like that. I just moved down here recently and it would be good to get to know a few people.’
Since she had split up with Evan, she had been more than cautious about who she let into her life, but she had promised herself that she wasn’t going to pass up any opportunities in London, if she could help it. And this was rather too good an opportunity to miss. Hadn’t it been this man, as much as the Tate itself, which had drawn her back so many times?
‘I’m Cori,’ she said. ‘Cori Keeling. It’s short for Corisande.’
‘Hmm. Sometimes I hate it, sometimes I love it. More often than not, I think I sound like an herb. I was named after a fifteenth-century French king’s mistress and a pretty wayward great-great-great-aunt somewhere along the line. It was rumoured she’d had an affair with Rossetti. Again – it’s all about the hair.’ Cori laughed and shook her head. ‘If you’ve studied Rossetti in any great depth you might have dug up my aunt, hidden away as a footnote somewhere in history.’
‘That’s probably it,’ said Simon.
Cori nodded. Her name had been her granny’s choice; Cori’s mother had abandoned her at a few days old and she hadn’t really seen her daughter since.
‘I sometimes think they may as well have called me Parsley,’ Cori said.
‘No, I think Cori suits you,’ said Simon. ‘Look, I’d best go as I think that woman is about to have an argument with that chap with the camera, but you know where I am. Hopefully,’ he said, a smile lighting up his face and making his eyes crinkle a little at the edges, ‘I’ll see you soon. You’ll have to come to see the new Rossetti we’re expecting anyway. I’ll make a point of watching out for you. And we’ll get that coffee, I promise.’
‘That sounds great,’ replied Cori. ‘Oh. And if all else fails …’ She took her bag from her shoulder and began to rummage around. ‘Here. That’s my business card. Just in case we miss each other.’
Simon took the card and tucked it into his shirt pocket. ‘Thanks. But I’ll not miss you,’ he said. The little spark in his eyes flared and died back.