Storms Over Blackpeak

by Holly Ford

  If that were true, Ella sighed to herself, it would have to join an increasingly long list of things she would never forgive herself for. But opinion, it seemed, was undivided.

  ‘Of course you must go,’ Richard had echoed, when she’d called him in the desperate hope that he, at least, might tell her what she wanted to hear.

  ‘But I don’t want to go.’ What she wanted to do was get in her car and drive to Christchurch and stalk Luke until he agreed to talk to her, at least. What she wanted was for her first-class rake of a father to tell her how she could get her boyfriend back.

  ‘Maybe you don’t want to go right now,’ Richard had soothed, ‘but you did, and you will. I’m afraid Luke was right. If you turn down your big chance because of him, you’ll end up hating him for it.’

  ‘You mean you think,’ she’d sobbed, clutching at the offered straw, ‘if I didn’t go, we might get back together?’

  ‘Sweetheart, go to New York. If you and Luke are meant to be, something will work out.’

  ‘Do you think … do you think we are meant to be?’ Ella had sniffed. ‘Mum seems to think it’s a good thing we broke up.’

  ‘Well, Lizzie probably knows what she’s talking about. She usually does. I’m just a sad old git who’s never been able to make a relationship work — you should never take advice from me.’

  Briefly, Ella managed to get over herself. ‘You’re not old,’ she teased.

  ‘Darling,’ Richard’s voice was like honey in her ear, ‘you’re too kind.’

  Lovely Richard. No one knew how to handle heartbreak better than he did.

  ‘There! That’s better.’ Damian nudged her arm triumphantly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You smiled.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You’re doing it again.’ Commandeering two more glasses of champagne from the passing cabin attendant’s tray, he set one on her armrest. ‘Now you look like a girl who’s on her way to the best city in the world. I was starting to think I might have to change seats.’

  Ella did her best to produce another smile. If she didn’t pull herself together soon, she was going to end up blowing her job as well. Damian didn’t like misery. Nobody did.

  ‘Here’s to New York.’ He held up his glass. ‘And the future.’

  Obediently, Ella clinked and drank. Outside the window, the last traces of the New Zealand coast were long gone. The future was coming whether she liked it or not. She’d better get ready to face it.

  Twenty-six hours later, Ella found herself walking out of an industrial elevator into Damian’s apartment. Through the dullness of jetlag and heartache, she felt a gleam of excitement. She was in Damian Priest’s New York loft. Who’d have thought? She looked around reverently. The vast, airy space was all she had imagined and more: distressed timber floor, exposed brickwork, steel beams, huge windows full of the lights of Manhattan and the gleam of the Hudson River beyond. It had everything except … except walls.

  Beneath one of the giant windows, low to the floorboards, lay an equally oversized, stylishly rumpled, extremely masculine bed. God. When Damian had invited her to stay in his apartment while she looked for a flat, she’d never thought to enquire whether he had — well, rooms.

  ‘Guest room’s up on the mezzanine.’ Dropping his bag, Damian flicked a switch, illuminating the slender steel treads of a floating staircase. ‘It should be ready. You want me to show you up?’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly, smothering a sigh of relief. ‘It’s all right. I’m sure I can find my own way.’

  Oh, thank God. The guest room did have walls. Three of them. Well, two and a bit, actually, since there was a huge, floor-to-ceiling gap in the third overlooking the ground floor. Nervously, Ella ran her hand over the edge of the glass balustrade. This was really not the sort of place you should share with your boss.

  Damian glanced up at her from the kitchen. ‘You’ve got your own bathroom up there, too,’ he said, his unraised voice carrying up to her all too clearly.

  ‘Great,’ she said brightly, looking around in vain for some sort of curtain or blind.

  ‘You want a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Ella moved to the far corner. Could he still see her there? ‘I’m pretty tired — if you don’t mind, I think I’ll just turn in.’

  ‘Sure.’ He did, at least, sound a little further away. ‘See you in the morning.’

  If not before … Locating the bathroom door at last, Ella gathered what she needed from her bag and shut herself inside.

  By the time she came out and crawled cautiously into the bed, the rest of the apartment, too, was dark. She lay still, listening to the distant wails of sirens in the streets. Was there any sound more lonely? A gentle snore rose from below.

  Ella checked her phone. 3am. Where would Luke be now? Home? Alone? It was nine at night in New Zealand — if that’s where he was. She had no idea. Rolling over, she pulled a pillow to her chest and curled around it. It didn’t help. God, how could a person feel this empty and still exist? For all the connection she felt to the world, those might as well be dinosaurs, not garbage trucks, roaming the streets outside. Ugh. If she was going to cry herself to sleep again, she’d better do it quietly this time. At least she couldn’t possibly feel any worse. This was rock bottom. The all-time low. Oh— Catching herself worrying about mascara stains on Damian’s linen pillowcase, Ella discovered she was wrong.

  Perched in the downstairs studio the following Thursday, poring over apartments to rent on her laptop in a break between jobs, Ella glanced back to find Damian, returned from wherever he had disappeared to for the past hour, looking over her shoulder.

  ‘You can relax,’ he said, looking very pleased with himself. ‘I’ve found you an apartment.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I just bumped into a guy I know. He’s being transferred to Paris for six months and he wants someone to look after his place.’ Damian’s grin broadened. ‘I’ve been there, you’ll love it. Upper West Side, two bedrooms, great view of the park.’

  Ella tried not to get too excited. To be honest, at this point she barely cared what it was like, so long as it had four walls and she was the only one in it, but— ‘How much?’

  ‘Feed his cat and his orchids and he’ll pay you.’

  ‘No! Seriously?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me jumping in’ — he raised his silver eyebrows at her — ‘but I said you’d do it.’

  Mind? She could hug him. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed. ‘You’re an absolute star.’

  ‘His name’s Raphael. I gave him your number. He’s going to call you next week when we get back from Prague. Which reminds me — tomorrow’s job cancelled. I don’t need you all day.’

  Damn. Another day she couldn’t invoice him for. That made three. Ironically, now that she had nothing better to do than work every hour God sent, Damian didn’t seem that busy.

  ‘Come to think of it, though,’ Damian went on, perhaps taking pity on her, ‘you could take a run down to Zeiglers for me tomorrow, see if the film stock I ordered is in. And pick up some new gels.’

  ‘Sure.’ That was a couple of billable hours. And besides, Zeiglers was the photographic equivalent of a candy store — Ella didn’t need to be asked twice to go there.

  ‘You won’t need to hurry back,’ he told her, a mischievous look in his eyes. ‘I’ve got a lunch date.’

  The following day, Ella made her way, as slowly as New York foot traffic would allow, through the sweltering streets to Zeiglers’ cavernous old store. It was certainly easy enough to lose some time in there, she realised, looking at her watch two hours later. And she still hadn’t got to the lighting gels. Ah, there they were. Finally completing her round of the aisles, she took the gels up to the counter and enquired after Damian’s film.

  ‘Yeah, I think it finally came in.’ The guy behind the counter, old enough to be Mr Zeigler himself, checked his screen. ‘It’s out back. I’ll go get it for you.’

  Boy,
that was some pretty old-school stock Damian had ordered — no wonder it had taken some time to find. She hadn’t realised anyone still made it. What was he planning to do with it, she wondered? As the man tapped up the account, her eyes wandered over the vintage gear in the glass cabinet behind him.

  ‘Is that a Leica M2?’ God, she’d love to own one of those. Some of her favourite photographs in the world had been taken with that camera.

  ‘You want to see?’ He handed it down to her.

  Ella turned the little camera curiously. For something so small, it weighed a tonne.

  ‘I’ll give you a good price.’

  It was for sale? No … she couldn’t. Could she? ‘How much?’ she found herself asking.

  Scrawling a figure on a notepad, the man slid it across the counter to her. Ella stared down at it. Actually, it was a lot less than she’d expected. The few she had seen back in London had been selling for twice that much. Gnawing the inside of her lip, she argued with her better judgement. But she deserved something to cheer her up, didn’t she? And now she didn’t have to pay the deposit on an apartment, or rent … She was pretty sure she could squeeze that much on her card.

  ‘Could I pay by credit card?’

  ‘You can’t do cash?’

  She shook her head.

  He sighed heavily. ‘Okay. I guess I can take a card.’ He held out his hand.

  Quickly, before she could change her mind, Ella pulled her card out of her wallet.

  ‘Sorry, honey. It’s been declined.’

  Shit! How embarrassing. Obviously she’d been closer to her limit than she thought. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

  The man looked at her kindly. ‘You want to try another card?’

  Ella looked down dubiously at her emergency credit card. She’d never used it before. It had a pretty low limit, and the camera would take up most of it. But that would be okay, wouldn’t it? If she had to walk out of here now empty-handed, she’d die of shame. And besides, her last month’s invoices would be paid into her New Zealand account on Monday. She just had to transfer the money across. How much of an emergency could there be in the next three days? Especially since she’d be in a hotel in Prague on expenses for two of them? She had a hundred bucks in her wallet. Surely that would get her through. With a deep breath, she handed the card over.

  ‘Here you go.’ He pulled the receipt out of the machine. ‘You want me to box it for you?’

  Picking the camera up, she shook her head.

  ‘Enjoy it, honey.’ He reached under the counter. ‘Tell you what. I’ll throw in your first roll.’

  Ella looked at the film carton he gave her. Black and white — of course. Her heart lifted. She was in New York, in a heat wave, with a Leica M2 …

  Hours later, she arrived back at the studio, footsore, shoulders aching from carrying her gear, and happier than she had felt in weeks, her first thirty-six frames on the Leica exposed. Having dropped off Damian’s film and the gels, she headed up to the apartment. It was after seven o’clock. His lunch date had to be over by now. She couldn’t wait to show him what she’d bought.

  Reaching the upper floor, she opened the door of the elevator and slid back the cage. A woman in a short, sleeveless silk dress was walking towards the cage door, Damian two steps behind her. The last of the evening light streaming through the windows was catching her copper hair, and Ella couldn’t help but stare. Not because the woman was stunning — although she was — but because there was something deeply familiar about her. Not her face, but … Ella blinked. Her body. The way she carried herself.

  ‘You must be Ella.’ At the elevator door, the woman paused, a little smile on her regal face. She must be older than Lizzie, Ella realised, stepping out of her way. As they passed, the woman bent her long neck to Ella’s ear. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘I’ll walk you down.’ Ushering her inside the elevator, Damian closed the doors behind them.

  Crikey. Ella put her bag on the kitchen counter, taking in the remains of lunch on the table and trying not to look at Damian’s bed. They’d certainly powered through some wine, she noted.

  ‘Who was that?’ she asked, fascinated, as Damian walked back in.

  ‘You didn’t recognise her?’ Damian looked amused. ‘That was Orla.’

  Ella felt her jaw drop. Orla? The Orla? The famous subject of the nude studies that were still the best-known work Damian had ever done?

  ‘You know the series?’ Damian enquired, looking even more amused. ‘I thought you might be too young.’

  ‘I’m familiar with it,’ she told him wryly. Who wasn’t? True, the coffee-table book had come out several years before she was born, but they’d studied it at art school. People still had the prints on their walls — in fact, she’d seen one for sale the day before yesterday in a vintage collectables store in Soho. Ella shook her head in disbelief. She’d just met Orla.

  Wandering over to the table, Damian picked up the nearest bottle. Finding it empty, he tried the next, with the same result. Ella watched him head for the fridge.

  ‘Have you always kept in touch?’

  ‘We have.’ He disappeared behind the fridge door. ‘You know, it’s funny. A body that famous, but nobody knows her face.’

  That would have its advantages, Ella thought. Although it was a lovely face.

  In the kitchen, a cork popped. He was moving on to champagne? Really? Now?

  ‘Here.’ Damian handed her a glass.

  ‘Are we celebrating something?’ she enquired.

  ‘We are.’ Knocking back half his glass, he strode to the open window. ‘Work!’

  Well, he was certainly in an expansive mood. Ella had never seen him quite like this.

  ‘The Orla series,’ he demanded. ‘It was good, right?’

  ‘It was great.’

  ‘I hadn’t wanted to make another image like that for thirty years.’ He turned towards her, a glitter of triumph in his eyes. ‘But I do now.’

  Ella caught her breath. He was planning another Orla book? Was that what he wanted the film stock for? That would be historic! And she’d get to work on it? God, wait until she told the rest of her art class. They’d die.

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ she told him eagerly.

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  ‘The concept — it’s so beautiful,’ Ella went on, tearing up a little just at the thought of it. ‘You and Orla, together again, after all this time.’

  ‘Not Orla.’ Damian stared at her. ‘You.’

  Jesus. What? Ella stared back at him. Her? What did he mean, her?

  ‘Ella, I want you to pose for me.’ He strode back towards her. ‘Really pose, I mean.’

  ‘You mean,’ she stammered, ‘pose nude?’

  Damian shrugged. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘The work will be great. You said so yourself.’

  She didn’t doubt that it would. And it wasn’t that she was a prude. It was art; she’d done enough life drawing herself to understand that. But she wasn’t a model. And being naked in front of Damian? The thought made her squirm.

  ‘Don’t you think,’ she suggested, trying to let him down gently, ‘that would be a bit weird?’

  ‘Why would it be weird?’

  ‘Because I’m your assistant. We work together.’ Ella looked away from him in embarrassment. ‘I can’t just — suddenly take my clothes off. We know each other too well.’

  ‘Maybe the real problem is,’ Damian said slowly, ‘we don’t know each other well enough.’

  What?

  ‘If I were your lover’ — his hand met her arm — ‘could you be naked in front of me then?’

  Ella’s mind froze as he kissed her. Jesus Christ. They didn’t teach you what to do about this in art school.

  ‘You just need practice,’ Damian’s voice whispered into her ear, his lips moving over her throat.

  As he unhooked her bra strap, her brain sprang back to life, delivering a powerful desire to knee
him in the balls. Ella settled for a shove to the chest.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ She struggled to refasten her bra.

  ‘Come on, Ella.’ Damian moved in again. ‘You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about this. I’ve seen that look you get when I’m shooting you.’

  ‘If I get any kind of look,’ Ella spat, taking a rapid step backwards and giving up on her bra, ‘it certainly isn’t meant for you. I can guarantee you I’ve never thought of you for a second as anything other than my boss.’

  ‘Ella …’ He held up his hands.

  ‘For God’s sake, Damian, you’re old enough to be my grandfather.’ She gave an involuntary shudder.

  His face closed down. ‘I’m sorry you see it that way.’ Turning his back on her, he returned to the window.

  Ella watched him nervously. The streets behind him were nearly dark. ‘I — I should go,’ she suggested, after what felt like a year of silence had passed. Indeed. She’d like nothing more than to get the hell away from him. As far as she could. But go where? She didn’t know a soul in New York. She waited for Damian to contradict her.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said coldly. ‘You probably should.’

  With a growing sense of unreality, she picked up her bag.

  Turning at last, Damian poured himself another glass of champagne, downed it, and poured a second. ‘You can leave the keys on the counter.’

  In the elevator, Ella managed, at last, to re-hook her bra. Seconds later, standing outside on the street, she looked around at the shuttered-up warehouses. Suddenly, industrial chic didn’t look so inviting. She rubbed her bare arms. God, she hadn’t even thought to pick up a coat. Or a toothbrush. Could she ask him to buzz her back up? Ella felt a wave of revulsion. Just the thought of hearing his voice made her sick. Walk away, she told herself. Just walk. There was absolutely no need to panic. It was only eight o’clock in the city that never slept. The town was full of hotels. She’d be okay.

  ‘I’m so sorry, miss.’ The girl behind the hotel check-in desk gave Ella a sympathetic look. ‘I’m afraid your second credit card’s been declined also.’