The Girl in the Painting Page 9

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ said Simon. He thrust his hands in his pockets and shrugged. ‘These things happen. And anyway, it’s getting late. I should probably go.’ Cori knew the unspoken part of that sentence was something like ‘before things get out of hand.’ Because she knew, and she guessed he knew as well, that whatever magic spell had been woven around them on that rooftop was just getting ready to overtake them completely. A few moments more, and she would have been lost. They both would have been.

  ‘Enjoy reading the diary,’ he said as she fought back the urge to stamp her feet and throw a full on tantrum. ‘I’d almost forgotten about it.’ He smiled, his eyes clear and slightly apologetic. ‘That’s what today was about after all, wasn’t it? We can catch up another time.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ she replied.

  But I wanted you today! She wanted to scream at him. You can’t leave me!

  And then she blinked. Of course he could leave. She had no reason to keep him there and he had no reason to stay. They could meet up again. It wasn’t the end of things at all. Just the beginning – she hoped.

  Simon stood outside Cori’s house, wondering which was the best way to go and get a taxi.

  Or maybe he would just walk; but it was about three miles and he guessed it would take him an hour or so to cover the distance – and he really didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts for that length of time.

  He decided he would just head north and see where he came out. He could flag a taxi down as he went.

  She’d been looking at him with those teal coloured eyes and one of her curls had escaped from its fastenings, and it hung temptingly just down the side of her face. How easy it would have been for him to take it and smooth it back for her and say something or do something. And he had been just on the verge of that.

  Then that door had slammed.

  And that had been the end of it.

  He puffed his cheeks out and exhaled. On that rooftop he had glimpsed the future. A future where Sylvie was just a bad dream and Cori was everything else. He wondered whether they would ever connect like that again or whether it was the culmination of a long day and the magic of a May evening, looking out over the lights of London. In his heart, though, he knew that they would, that she was the woman he had been searching for all his life – but he had to take it slowly. Cori was vulnerable and he didn’t want to do anything that might scare her away.

  He looked back over his shoulder as he pulled his coat collar up and prepared to walk out of the courtyard. He could feel cobbles under the soles of his shoes, slippery after the rain as he headed out of the courtyard towards the main street. Her whole house was lit up from his tour and he knew the light would still be spilling out onto the roof terrace.

  And immediately before he turned right at the end of the cobbles, he couldn’t help but look back at her house again, tucked in the corner of the courtyard; just as the lights snapped off on the second floor, plunging the whole storey into darkness.

  Simon paused for a moment, then headed out towards the hustle and bustle of London.

  Chapter Sixteen

  That was the light off, anyway. Now she didn’t have to see the stupid door out onto the stupid roof terrace where she had been so thwarted. Ugh! Cori slammed all the doors behind her, not caring if the neighbours would hear or not. She doubted they would, and if they did, they would be far too polite to mention it next time they saw her anyway.

  She stomped off downstairs, past the lounge where she could still see Simon’s empty cup on the coffee table and she felt shamefully hot tears of rage spring to her eyes. She blinked them away and stomped some more, just to make herself feel better. It was the first time she’d ever felt a proper connection to anyone since she’d split up with Evan. And it was definitely the first time she had felt comfortable enough to consider taking the relationship to the next level. But then the stupid door had slammed, just as if something was trying to stop them.

  Cori stomped all the way into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of wine out of the chiller. She unscrewed the cap, poured a generous glassful, swigged back the first three centimetres or so of it and refilled the glass even higher. The alcohol hit her between the eyes and she blinked.

  She wasn’t very good with alcohol and usually got very drunk, very quickly, when she did bother with it. But tonight was an exception. She’d had a lovely day with lovely people and come all the way back here with the loveliest one of all … and now he’d gone. Well, what the hell had she expected? That something magical would happen out there? Well, actually, yes. And it very nearly had.

  Cori picked up the bottle and read the label, not really taking it in. It was a white and good to drink on its own, apparently. She knew the first bit, obviously, and was willing to prove the second bit.

  In fact, she was going to take the bottle and the glass and collect Daisy’s diary and go to bed. Then she might be able to forget about the horrible end to the day. It was just after eleven. She might get a good go at the diary if she set her mind to it, or at least something of an overview.

  Setting the bottle and the glass down, Cori bent over her bag and pulled the journal out. Despite the clear conspiracy to stop her going further with Simon, she felt a flutter of excitement in her stomach. At least Daisy Ashford would give her something else to think about, rather than spending the evening fixating on Simon Daniels and his inexcusably beautiful eyes. And you never knew – Corisande might appear somewhere.

  The effects of the wine were already starting to make themselves felt, however, and she fumbled as she tried to open the book.

  The diary fell to the floor, opening at an entry dated May 1847.

  Henry told me my artwork left something to be desired. He tried to tell me nicely but I am sure he did not mean it that way. I am beyond furious. I have tried and tried to improve myself with ALL of these different techniques, yet NOTHING WORKS. He has assured me that he will help me as oil painting is something he has dabbled in himself. But I am BEYOND HORRENDOUS at this technique. I really am annoyed and do not want to study any more under Henry as I feel entirely inadequate. I think I shall give all the art classes up and then that will show them. I want to study under a proper artist and model for that artist as well. I do not need to hear how bad I am. I do not need to be reminded of my so-called inadequacies. I despise painting and I give up!

  ‘Not too far away from the way I feel about my digital art techniques, then,’ said Cori to the empty room.

  Then she scooped up the diary, tucked it under her arm and carried the bottle and the glass up the stairs, through the lounge, into the hallway and into her bedroom.

  Once she was in bed and had managed to feel a bit more settled, Cori opened the diary with the intention of reading it properly from the beginning, rather than dipping in at random.

  The first few pages were nothing out of the ordinary. Accounts of shopping trips and rides out in the carriage with Henry; information regarding new furnishings for a house and the excitement of moving to London, away from her home in the country; and a description of the work needed to bring the place up to her standards.

  Everything is brighter today. I am to be mistress of the family home in Kensington! read one entry. Imagine that. My father does not want to move to the city and I do not want to stay with him in the country. The countryside is dull but London is vibrant and alive and I feel a connection here.

  The house has been sadly neglected for some months, so my first task is to ensure the servants realise I am to live here permanently now and they must therefore keep the house as I wish it to be kept. The garden needs quite a lot of work, and it is rather overgrown in places, but as I have full responsibility for the house and its environs, it is something I look forward to dealing with.

  Dear Henry will be looking after me as well, so I am grateful that he is to be part of my new life. I do actually feel an extraordinary sense of freedom. Only good things can happen to me now I am here. Who knows, I may meet some wonderful n
ew friends and cause a sensation in London Society! Henry might even take the art world by storm. I might even take the art world by storm. The art world, in fact, will be at my feet. An artist may fall for me and I shall love and be loved by him and it will ALL be perfect. I suspect what I am saying is that anything is possible and I truly look forward to it!

  Cori smiled, slightly drunkenly. Daisy seemed like every other young woman who had moved to London to make a new start. It was a world full of excitement and promise; and good grief, if the Ophelia story was true, Daisy had definitely set the London art world alight. Cori couldn’t wait to study Daisy’s diary properly.

  And by properly, she reasoned that it would probably make more sense without the aid of alcohol.

  She skimmed through the diary a little more, hoping to find at least a mention of the PRB and the start of the really exciting part of the story. Eventually, the first words relating to the PRB jumped out at her and her eyes widened.

  Today I met Mr Rossetti in a millinery shop in Cranbourne Alley, London. Mr Deverell, Mr Rossetti’s friend and fellow artist, told me that I was to be his next model …

  ‘Well, now,’ Cori murmured to nobody in particular. ‘I can see how Becky’s exposé happened, Daisy!’

  In that instant, Simon was not exactly forgotten, but consciously pushed firmly to the back of her mind. Cori scanned down the page and realised her heart was beating way too fast. It was incredible, absolutely incredible, she realised, to be holding this leather bound journal in her hands and to be reading something a girl just like herself had recorded so long ago. She flipped the pages back to the flyleaf. Written in ink so old it had faded to brownish-grey in places was the inscription: The Journal of Daisy Annabel Ashford, aged 17, committed to paper in the year of our Lord, 1847. This, then, was the year Daisy had been shipped out to London on her own. Seventeen was a reasonable age in those days, considered Cori. Girls were marriageable then, so it made sense.

  Cori looked at the entry about the millinery shop again. That was dated 1849, two years after the diary started. So Daisy would have been nineteen. The same age Lizzie Siddal was when she was discovered in a millinery shop. And, in actual fact, she realised, from her previous studies, it had all been in the same year.

  ‘So you’re saying you really were discovered, Daisy?’ Cori asked out loud. ‘It seems very similar to the Lizzie story, I have to say.’

  There was a loud clatter from the corner of her bedroom and Cori jumped. She held her breath, and looked over at the area. She exhaled slowly as she saw a pile of PRB reference books had slid from their carefully stacked tower onto the floor. They were not so carefully stacked, then, as she had thought. She shook her head and went back to the diary.

  Cori thumbed through a few pages. It was nothing like she had anticipated. Some of the entries puzzled her; she could see that Daisy had been very friendly with the PRB artists – in fact, it seemed as if she had been part of their group. Yet why then had she never appeared in any of the documentation about them? Unless Cori had been looking in the wrong places, of course. But one would think with all the research she had already done, Daisy’s name might have cropped up somewhere. Whatever the story was, though, it looked as if things were going to get exciting in Daisy-world.

  In an entry for 1851, for example, Cori read: I visited John at his studio today. He has a wonderful studio in his family home …

  And in January 1852: I hear Lizzie is indisposed. I offered to help poor John out. He is at a most difficult part of the portrait, in which he represents Ophelia … This, then, Cori thought, was the time Daisy had apparently posed for the portrait. To have this in her hands was the most incredible feeling. She read the rest of the entry avidly, certain phrases jumping out at her.

  I see he has added some daisies to the foreground! … John suggested I take the place of Lizzie for the time being, just until she regains her health. Of course, I agreed. I would do anything to help my friends. Poor Dante, he is trapped by her, yet I am reluctant to raise the matter with him just yet. She is not the most stable of characters and I fear for both their sanity at times … The background was painted in Tolworth! But Lizzie and I were painted in his new studio in Cheam. Now, fancy that!

  Cori flicked through some more pages, seeing entries here and there that demanded her attention. The girl’s writing was difficult to decipher. Sometimes it was small and tightly formed; at other times, it snaked around the pages creating all sorts of strange patterns. There were badly executed sketches in some of the margins and splodges of ink which she had dragged the nib of the pen through and made into intricate shapes and the presentation only got worse as the diary progressed.

  One of the entries concerned Lizzie’s trip to France; a period, Cori knew, that had been when Lizzie and Rossetti were struggling in their relationship. Daisy had apparently moved in to fill the breach left by her.

  Whilst I was staying with him, he painted me; it is not much more than a sketch at the moment but he humoured me. I asked him to make the portrait special, to make it just for me, and he laughed and did so. I was reluctant to return home, but I could not impose upon him any longer.

  ‘Go Daisy!’ muttered Cori, taking a sip from her glass. She was in Daisy’s world and could almost feel the warm, sensual body of Dante next to her. The man, she knew, had oozed sexuality. She wasn’t surprised the original Corisande had apparently fallen for him. A delicious shiver ran down her spine as she thought of Simon and she smiled.

  I have always aspired to be like Lizzie, to be as wonderful and to be as talented and to be as loved as she is, wrote Daisy at one point. Why can she not see that she is destroying everything I have built for us?

  ‘Oh, poor Daisy,’ said Cori. ‘Bad Lizzie …’

  Something like a giggle filtered out of the darkness and Cori looked up.

  ‘Bad Lizzie indeed.’ It was like a whisper filling her ear, followed by a breath on her cheek. Then, just as soon as it had happened it was over. Cori looked at her wine glass and pulled a face. It was empty, as was the bottle next to it.

  She wasn’t surprised she was hearing things. She felt very drunk and a lot sleepy. But tonight, it felt nice. She snuggled into the bed and flicked to the last entry. A few words floated before her eyes and she squinted, trying to read them. Oh, Lizzie, what have you done?

  ‘What indeed,’ slurred Cori. Her eyes closed and her grasp on the diary slackened. Her arm slipped from the bed and the diary dropped onto the ground with a soft thud; she was asleep before it even reached the floor.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cori woke up with a raging hangover. She groaned as she turned over in bed and found herself staring at an empty wine bottle and a glass with a faint patina of gunk around the bottom. She was a rubbish drinker; always had been, always would be it seemed.

  And what on earth had possessed her to drink all that stuff in the first place? Oh, yes. She blushed and, flipping the pillow over, buried her burning cheeks into the cool underside; it had been Simon, hadn’t it? The fact that she had let him just walk away last night and really, he should have been right here beside her; he should have been waking up with her, loving her. But he wasn’t.

  She lifted her head off the pillow and squinted at the big window. She hadn’t closed the curtains last night and the watery morning sun was filtering through the glass. It hurt her eyes and she burrowed further beneath the duvet, feeling horribly sorry for herself.

  She rolled over, curling into a ball and opening her eyes inside the warm cave of her duvet. Maybe she could just stay here forever and simply die of alcohol poisoning. She wondered if she did indeed die of alcohol poisoning, whether anybody would miss her. And at what point might someone remember there was once a girl called Cori who’d had a passing acquaintance with them and had disappeared from the face of the earth?

  Carried away by her own ridiculous fantasies, she began to panic a little, imagining herself suffocating horribly in the cocoon of bedcovers. She fumbled around un
til she caught the edge of the duvet and lifted it up so a little bit of light came through. She wriggled to the light and lay there, her nose and mouth welcoming the air and gulping it in as if her body was actually starved of oxygen.

  Simon might remember her, she supposed. But what if he was the one who ended up finding her wizened up, decomposing, mummified body? Because he and Lissy were the only people she really knew down here and he was the only person who actually knew where she lived. She hadn’t passed that information on to Lissy yet. Lissy just knew it was Kensington – she didn’t know the finer details.

  Cross with herself, she pulled the rest of her wretched body out of the duvet-gap and ended up sitting on the side of the bed, her head pounding. She fumbled for a glass of water she kept on the bedside table and, lifting it to her lips, she drained it. She pulled a face as the liquid rushed into her body and semi-hydrated her poor aching head. Ugh.

  And how on earth would anyone actually get into her house to find her? They would have to break down the door. She really didn’t like where this train of thought was headed.

  Still wallowing in these depressing thoughts, she spotted Daisy’s diary, lying open at the side of the bed where it had fallen last night.

  This new medicine is extraordinary, the entry said. 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. I find I sometimes forget things and cannot particularly concentrate very well until I have a little more – and then I feel wonderful again. It is truly magical!

  As the nausea began to rise in Cori’s body, she shuddered. She hated hangovers. And she was willing to bet that whatever the medicine was that Daisy was referring to, it had a good percentage of alcohol in it.