The Girl in the Photograph Read online

  Stef took a couple of longer strides to catch up with her and tried some more general conversation. ‘Jon mentioned you found a location?’

  Lissy nodded without looking at him. ‘I did. It’s perfect for what Jon wants.’

  ‘Would it be perfect for what I want?’ he asked.

  ‘It depends on what you want,’ she replied. ‘It’s very secluded. You could do your photo shoots there and not be disturbed. There’s a beach hut so people can get changed in it. It’s rather fabulous.’

  ‘Ah, yes, they mentioned the penning in of the child at the beach hut. Grazia does not strike me as a child who would be penned. She is a free spirit, I think. Rather like her Zia Elisabetta.’

  ‘I’m a very good Aunt Elisabetta. I tried to cover all eventualities and make it inclusive for her. Of course, I might have just stayed away from the whole thing, had I known you were coming to England.’

  ‘Why?’ He stopped suddenly and reached out, pulling her towards him. ‘Do you still hate me so much? You said all feelings for me were dead. You told me in Cornwall you would never feel anything for me again. Is that still the case, because to me, right now, that does not seem to be the case.’

  ‘I don’t hate you. Not anymore. The only thing I feel for you right now is contempt. Disprezzo. I still can’t get over what you did.’

  Stef had always been delighted that Italian was Lissy’s second language, thanks to her father. He missed their vibrant, fast conversations in his native tongue. It was good to hear her use it again.

  ‘Please. Let us talk about it,’ said Stef. ‘This is a good time to do it, and a good place. You know that here, in the Abbey grounds, I will be nothing but truthful. You never gave me a chance …’

  ‘And like I said, you’ve had seven years to think of an excuse,’ she interrupted him. ‘Lasci perdere, Stef. Forget it. I don’t want anything from you. I just want this project to be over and done with, so my brother gets the recognition he deserves. He’s a good photographer and with that wall space in Simon’s exhibition – well. It could open up all sorts of doors for him.

  ‘That’s the only reason I waited for you up here,’ she continued, ‘to tell you that. I won’t be awkward or silly or spoilt about you being here and I’ll try my best to be all grown-up and professional. It’s all for Jon and I’m going to have to put aside what happened with us, or I’ll have to leave everybody and go back to London, and I don’t really want to do that just yet.’ She glanced at the grave and her mouth turned downwards and he wondered if she was a little more attached to Grace than she cared to admit.

  ‘But you did wait for me up here. I have to hold onto that, Lissy. It’s the only thing I have right now and it means a lot. You could have left a note. Or banned me from coming; told me to do my shots on the Whitby beach.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, yes. That would have been fun, with the children and their ice-creams and the terrified people from the Experience of Dracula crying as they run to the beach past the zucchera filato stalls …’

  ‘The candy floss stalls.’ Lissy half-smiled. ‘We had some good times in Cornwall. The best candy floss ever. I don’t want to forget any of that. I just wish … I just wish things could have turned out differently.’

  ‘I too wish it hadn’t happened,’ said Stef quietly. ‘We …’

  ‘No!’ Lissy shook her head. ‘Stop it. I can’t do this. I have to go.’ She twisted away from him and began to run across the grass.

  ‘Lissy!’

  ‘No, Stef!’

  ‘But—’

  It was impossible. She’d gone. He had to let her go. He’d do more harm than good if he went after her today. But she’d waited for him and they’d had a reasonable conversation, so that was good. That was very good.

  ‘I won’t give up, Lissy,’ Stef promised quietly as he watched her disappear. He was going to do his utmost to win her back.

  Oh, yes, Stefano Ricci had a kernel of a plan, and he was damn well going to carry it out.

  Chapter Ten

  The Dower House, 1905

  Julian had spent a largely sleepless, frustrated night staring out at the cove. He had thrown off and discarded his suit, then thought better of it as he had a meeting with a gallery owner that week and a crumpled suit would not be a very good advertisement for him.

  From the terrace, he could see the rock which Lorelei – if that was indeed her name – had been sitting on, and despite everything, he thought it could not have made more of a perfect setting for a photograph of her; the woman sitting on the rock, her long black hair cascading down her back, naked to the waist … oh well. Maybe that was going a little too far, but the overall idea of her as a true Siren of the sea was an encouraging one.

  ‘Knock, knock.’ The voice was soft and came from below him, to the left. Julian looked down, surprised at the interruption, and felt his face harden as Lady Scarsdale was revealed in all her glory.

  Today, she was wearing a coffee-coloured gown with geometric peach-coloured trimmings around the skirt and a huge, peach satin rose, pinned just under her right breast. A band of tiny cream flowers on a green ribbon the colour of her eyes wound their way along the neckline and a peach satin ribbon was tied around her waist. Her black hair had been pinned up neatly away from her face and her pretty green eyes were troubled.

  ‘I brought a gift,’ she said. Dragging his gaze away from her overall personage, Julian saw that she was raising a small wicker basket up to him. The contents were covered in a blue and white chequered cloth and looked strangely knobbly beneath it. ‘Apples,’ she continued, ‘and some strawberries from the kitchen garden. My favourites. Oh, and a pot of cream from our Jersey cows. You can’t have strawberries without cream. Or champagne, really. So I brought some of that as well, since you missed out on it last night.’ She lifted the basket a little higher and tweaked the cover back. Julian saw the bottle sticking out of the corner, the fruit packed around it and a couple of books in there as well. His necktie from last night was tied in a bow around the handle. A nice touch, he thought sarcastically.

  ‘So now you are Lady Bountiful, not only Lady Scarsdale. And you have come to pay your respects to the starving artist who is renting the Dower House. I thank you for your concern, Lady Scarsdale, but I’m not starving and I don’t need your charity.’

  ‘It’s not charity. And don’t call me Lady Scarsdale. I hate it. It’s too formal. Call me Lorelei or call me nothing at all. I don’t really care.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ asked Julian, turning and facing her properly.

  She looked up at him for a moment, then walked around the side of the terrace and up the steps onto it so she was next to him. ‘I don’t like being talked down to.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Julian.

  They stared at each other in silence, then she spoke again. ‘Let me show you this. Just give me five minutes of your time and I shall leave. But I insist on talking to you in those five minutes.’

  Julian nodded and leaned back against the balustrade, folding his arms. Truth be told, paradoxically, he wanted to spend those five minutes in her company even though he had decided that he wanted nothing more to do with her.

  She placed the basket down on a small table and peeled back the cover fully. She lifted the bottle out and stood it carefully next to the basket, along with the pot of cream. Then she took the handful of books out and opened the first one. It fell open easily at a page with a lot of writing on it and a title in beautiful cursive script.

  Beneath the title, Julian saw the word “Monet”. Unable to help himself, he leaned forward and read the cursive script. It was the name of one of Monet’s famous paintings – a crowd scene depicting something like a party at an outdoor garden in Paris and the information pertaining to it at a Paris exhibition.

  Lorelei left the book open at that page and placed it on the table, then she did the same with the next book; and the next. And the next. Soon, she had a line of books open and Julian saw that they were all programmes for art exhibitions
by famous artists – the French Impressionists, the Slade School and some of the later Pre-Raphaelites.

  The woman eventually opened the last one and stood straight.

  She turned her attention away from the books and looked directly at him. ‘These are all programmes for various art exhibitions. The most recent one is this one, which was down in Cornwall.’ She tapped one of the books with her slender fingertip. ‘The common denominator is that I was painted into all of these pictures. I met my husband at this last exhibition. I think he was excited to find a woman that others admired, but sadly that novelty soon wore off when he realised I was a human being with feelings and needs, rather than the sweet, silent girl depicted in these paintings.

  ‘I was very young in most of the pictures, to be honest. Young and naïve. But I love art. I love the atmosphere of a working studio or being around artists in the open air. I love the process of being painted. To be so close to Staithes was a dream come true anyway – even though I haven’t really managed to find out much about it – and when I discovered that an artist was moving into the Dower House over the summer, I was beyond excited.

  ‘I had two major ambitions in my life. One was to be recognised as an artist in my own right and one ridiculous one was that I could claim to have been a sitter for Julia Margaret Cameron, who of course is long dead now, God rest her soul. But I can still try to achieve the first ambition. And I’m sorry if I misled you. I was naughty and I do apologise.’ Lorelei frowned and looked back at the programmes. ‘I’ll leave these here for you to look at and you can leave them behind when you go home. You may find something of interest in them to pass the time. I shan’t bother you again, Mr Cooper.’

  The woman turned away, lifting her skirts deftly and nodding her head in a farewell.

  She had barely made it to the top of the steps when Julian called her name. ‘Lorelei!’

  She turned and stared at him in surprise. ‘Not Lady Scarsdale, Mr Cooper?’ There was a bite to her words and he felt himself colour.

  ‘No. Lorelei – if you will allow it. I think perhaps it is I who should apologise. I misjudged you and you clearly had your reasons to be “naughty” as you say. I didn’t realise you were so au fait with the art world. I actually saw this picture,’ he tapped the same one Lorelei had done, ‘during the exhibition in Cornwall. I’m sorry we didn’t meet then.’

  Lorelei paused and blushed slightly. ‘Things may have been quite different if we had indeed met then,’ she answered. ‘I was at the opening night. I had to be, really. Walter was there as well. The rest,’ she shrugged, seemingly in resignation, ‘is, as they say, history. I can’t change it now.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ Julian moved towards her. ‘I went on the fourth night. How close we must have been. Tell me, do you still want to know more about the Staithes movement?’

  ‘I would love to know more about the Staithes movement, but I’ve yet to find anyone who will humour me.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘My husband isn’t at all interested and it’s not seemly for Lady Scarsdale to wander around the town questioning people.’

  ‘Would it be seemly for the Scarsdales’ guest to escort his hostess into the town, then?’ asked Julian. ‘Perhaps do a little preparation work first? Perhaps get to know his hostess a little better, now they have found a common ground in Monet?’ He was as surprised as she apparently was that such an invitation had come out of his mouth.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, those sea-green eyes widening. ‘I’d like to think so. But I couldn’t get away today. Florrie is here for the rest of it and we are having a tea party for her at four, before they leave for the evening sleeper train. The poor girl is still in bed. The punch really didn’t agree with her last night.’ She suddenly smiled, her beautiful, perfect face taking on a mischievous look that had Julian staring at her in awe. ‘You should come to the tea party. I do believe Archie’s family are coming, but Walter informs me that he, Walter, will not be attending anyway, so I will have nobody to talk to. Be at the Hall for four, sharp.’

  Julian found himself nodding assent, speechless as Lorelei blew him a little kiss and practically danced down the steps onto the beach. He watched as she picked up her skirts and ran up the winding pathway back to the Hall.

  Four o’clock then. Oh, yes. He would definitely be there at four.

  The Cove, Present Day

  Lissy thought she had done very well with the house near Staithes. She sat on the terrace, mistress of all she surveyed – at least for a few weeks. It did seem absolutely perfect for their purposes – or so Jon had said.

  ‘I like it,’ he told her, walking along the shoreline. ‘It’s a really good place to work. I think we can do a lot here.’ They hadn’t spent very long with her that night; Grace needed to get home, apparently, and get ready for bed. Lissy couldn’t quite understand what the urgency was for taking her home, but it was clearly important to Grace.

  ‘Routine,’ Becky told her, cuddling the fretful, tearful little girl. ‘She needs to be home. She needs her bed.’

  ‘But she’s three!’ Lissy protested. ‘How does she know what she wants at the age of three?’

  ‘She knows,’ said Becky, quite darkly. ‘She knows exactly what she wants.’ Lissy looked at Grace; saw the red face and the tear stains and the runny nose and decided not to argue. She patted the little girl, quite uselessly, on the back. ‘There, there, you’ll soon be home.’ She loved Grace, but children were a bit of a mystery to her. Still, she was learning, she hoped.

  ‘Want to go home,’ Grace had sniffled. ‘Now please.’

  So they’d gone. It was Friday night and Cori and Simon were coming up tomorrow. And she had to admit, part of her was looking forward to Stef being there as well. Only a very little part, mind you – but still a part of her was quite desperately wanting to see him. Lissy stared out at the sea, lost in her thoughts. A mermaid, he had said; she was like a mermaid to him. She wished she could sing. Then he really would be in trouble.

  She saw a dark figure on the beach, walking along the edge of the sea and her heart began to beat a little faster. This was private land – no way should anyone be there. And, more importantly, how had they got there in the first place? They would have had to come along the little road that led past her house, which was also marked private, and she would have heard the car. Or they would have had to park up on the top and find their way down again, past the house – or possibly even walk from the town, and that wasn’t exactly a five-minute stroll. The only other option was a boat. Not that she could see one. But that must have been it.

  There had to be a little fishing boat or dinghy or something, bobbing around in the cove. They must have sailed over, found the beach and come ashore. Well – if the person didn’t move soon it would be high tide and the beach would disappear. Lissy stood up and leaned over the terrace, ready to shout at the offender and tell them it was private land and they had to go. But then she realised she was a woman alone in a remote house. Whoever it was could probably see her silhouetted against the light from the French doors, and they’d know she was basically there in a skimpy pyjama set that didn’t really cover much.

  Lissy shivered and backed away from the edge. And then she had a thought. Perhaps it was Stef? Perhaps he had come around that way to surprise her and was going to climb up the dunes to the house. She wouldn’t put it past him. She shivered again, but with a different sort of feeling that embarrassed her slightly. Her sunburnt face heated up even more from within as she blushed and tutted loudly. Bloody Stef; wandering on her land, stalking her almost, surprising her in such a way.

  The ringing of her mobile made her jump and she swore. ‘Yes?’ she said, rather snappily into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Bella.’ His voice was warm and she could tell he was smiling. ‘I wanted to call just to say how much I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. I would like to thank you for doing this. I know it has been difficult. I am very happy to be working with Jon.’

  ‘Stef! How did
you get my number? And why can’t you just come up from the beach and tell me to my face?’

  ‘What beach?’ He genuinely sounded surprised. ‘I am in my B & B, working on my photographs. Listen.’

  He must have held the phone to the laptop. There were some clicking noises that sounded like random keystrokes and dance music in the background. It had always surprised Lissy that Stef had preferred that sort of modern day music over classic opera – which she had originally thought he would like. Just because I am Italian, does not make me an opera singer, he had said, laughing at the surprise on her face when she found out.

  ‘But you’re on the beach; outside my house. Aren’t you?’ she asked, knowing her voice didn’t sound as sure as it had before.

  ‘No, Elisabetta. I am not.’ Then his voice hardened. ‘Who is it? The land is private, sì? Who is it that walks your land? Will I come and chase them for you?’

  ‘No! No. Of course not. They’re not doing any harm. They’re just …’ Lissy leaned forward, and her lungs constricted. The man was still there. She walked backwards into the house, keeping her eye on the stranger, and fumbled around behind her for the light switch. Her fingers finding it, she snapped the light off and padded back out to the terrace, the stone feeling somehow colder against her bare feet. The man couldn’t see her now – but she could see him a bit better.

  As if on cue, the few wispy clouds in the sky parted and the moon, bright as day, threw the whole scenario into stark, silvery relief.

  ‘Dear Lord!’ She began to shake from her feet up, and had to grab the phone with two hands to steady it. ‘Stef?’ Her voice wavered. ‘Stef? Are you still there?’

  ‘I am. What is it? You sound peculiar.’ His voice managed to be warm, curious and full of concern, all at the same time. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Oh God – Stef.’ Her voice caught on a sob. ‘He’s got a gun. And he’s looking up at my house.’