The Girl in the Photograph

by Kirsty Ferry

  ‘A mermaid?’ she tried. ‘Half woman, half fish. All temptress.’

  ‘Temptress. I like it.’ He reached out and put his arms on her shoulders; cool hands on warm skin, sand and salt like fine grit pressing between them. Lissy shivered, despite the heat. She leaned forward, ready to properly tempt him by kissing him, and then she heard the shout.

  ‘Hey! Lissy! Stef!’

  ‘Perfect bloody timing.’ She drew back from Stefano, his arms dropping away from her body. She felt something slip down her arms and looked in surprise to see the thin, red straps of her sundress hanging off her shoulders. ‘What the …?’ She looked at Stefano who looked back, a little smile playing around that perfectly sculpted mouth as he pushed his hands in his pockets. Seriously, did a man in cut-off denims ever look so bloody sexy?

  ‘I tried.’ He shrugged. ‘It would have been fun. On the beach. Behind the rocks. Again.’

  Lissy felt herself blush almost the colour of her dress and tugged the straps back up. ‘You’re terrible!’ she scolded. ‘I’m telling on you. Jon! Jon! Guess what?’ She skipped out of Stefano’s way and began to run over to the man who had called their names. Stefano caught her around the waist and pulled her back, laughing. Shrieking, she didn’t resist.

  Lissy and Stefano half stumbled, half tottered towards Lissy’s brother, who was scrambling over some more rocks to get to them. He was another one who had a camera bumping around his chest area.

  Jon smiled as he spotted them. ‘I thought that was you two. I just got some brilliant shots around the corner. The light’s incredible down here. I’m glad I came. Yeah. Could have been under better circumstances but – hey.’ Lissy disengaged herself from Stefano and linked her brother’s arm. This close, she could see his smile didn’t really reach his eyes; a brave face, then.

  ‘So she’s really gone?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Yeah. Um. We’re going to stay friends, but …’ Jon shrugged. ‘She’s packing. She’s heading back to Sussex tomorrow. I’ll give her time to leave then it’s not so awkward.’ He pushed a wayward bit of hair out of his eyes and the smile slid off his face. He stared out to the sea, seemingly lost in the motion of the waves curling and breaking onto the cliffs.

  Lissy watched his eyes follow the relentless movements of the tide and felt something like a lump of Cornish tin settle inside her stomach. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay. Mustn’t have been meant to be,’ he replied. ‘Fran’s great. I don’t want to start putting blame on anyone …’

  ‘But it’s her fault, darling,’ said Lissy passionately, squeezing Jon’s arm. ‘You’re my brother. She’s pretty damn stupid if she’s willing to give you up.’

  ‘We just want different things. I like Whitby. She likes Sussex. I mean – I like Sussex, of course I do. I love Sussex. But my heart – well. My heart’s in Whitby. I can’t describe it. I need to be in Whitby. I have to be up there.’ He turned to her, his face a bit white and sickly-looking beneath his tan. ‘I’m not sorry I came with her. I thought a holiday somewhere neutral might help. I’m pleased I did it. I’m pleased you decided to spend the summer here. At least I knew I had somewhere to stay if she kicked me out of the hotel.’

  ‘I am sorry, my friend,’ Stefano said. ‘There is nothing so bad as when a woman stops loving you.’ He held out his hand to Jon. ‘Please let it be known that whatever happens, I am your friend.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jon smiled, a proper smile that did indeed, this time, crinkle up the corner of his eyes. He shook hands with Stefano. ‘And the same for you.’

  ‘You are like a brother to me,’ Stefano said expansively. ‘I know I have known you only a few weeks, and I have known Lissy a little longer, but we are kindred spirits, you and I.’

  ‘I’m glad you both took a break from your holidays to come on holiday,’ said Jon, ‘if you know what I mean? I’m not saying it very well, am I?’ He took a deep breath. ‘Let me try again. You guys – in Cornwall. Me – in Whitby. You guys – come to visit me. You guys – come back. Me – I try to make things work with Fran. And come and see you guys.’ He laughed. ‘God, it’s not even funny, is it? It’s too complicated to be funny.’

  ‘Let her go.’ Lissy squeezed his arm again then removed her hands, frightened in case he was going to take some sort of random hysterical turn in Lamorna Cove. ‘Stay with us as long as you like.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jon stared out to sea again. ‘Have you ever read that Rossetti poem?’ he asked, directing his comment to nobody in particular. ‘Sea-Spell. Talks about a man being battered on the rocks for love.’ He threw his arms out to the side dramatically. ‘I am that man.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ scoffed Lissy. ‘That’s like something out of a film.’ She scrambled back to Stefano. ‘Wine. I prescribe wine. And lots of it.’

  Stefano lay stretched out on the lawn beneath the big apple tree in the garden of the cottage Lissy had rented for the summer. It felt like home now, and he spent more time there than he did in his own rented place; a small, white-painted terraced house tucked away between larger terraced houses within a fishing village on the south coast – just where it looked as if a giant had bitten a chunk out of the land mass.

  Stefano’s holiday home was beyond small. It was tiny. No, it was microscopic. Lissy had claimed she felt claustrophobic in the narrow lounge, and had demonstrated that she couldn’t even lie flat across the width of the room. Stefano had bent down and scooped her up and shown her how easy it was for her to lie on the double bed in the miniature bedroom instead; and they’d subsequently spent a pleasant couple of hours in that cool, echoing little room with the tang of salt in their noses and golden light playing across the whitewashed walls and the seagulls screaming in the bay across the road.

  Oh, happy accident that he had met her on his first day in Cornwall; seen her sitting on the beach dressed all in white. He remembered walking up to her and standing beside her, beginning a conversation about the Newlyn artists and then listening entranced as she talked right back at him about art.

  She had talked not only about the Newlyn artists, but about the Impressionists and the Pre-Raphaelites and how much she adored them. She was going to work in the art world, she told him; she had enough time and enough independence, thanks to a generous trust fund set up by her Italian father, to discover what she really wanted to do with her life, and in the meantime, she was going to enjoy every minute of her journey.

  Her brother, Jon, was also a photographer. He lived in Whitby and was trying to set himself up in a studio. But she’d been doing some research and realised she could help him out, if he let her. He just needed to decide what he was going to do about his relationship first.

  Before Stefano knew it; in fact, before they both knew it really, they had fallen for each other. Properly. Indisputably. And frighteningly. And then she had dragged him up to Whitby one day, announcing, with a flash of that spontaneity and passion they both possessed, that she had seen the perfect premises for Jon. She needed to visit the place and was going to take Jon with her to make sure it was suitable; and Stefano had to come with her and that way he could properly meet her brother. So he did.

  With Jon, it had been one of those instant, easy relationships; and when the man needed to have a heart to heart with Fran, there was no question of where he should take her. And it all had to be settled before Lissy signed the papers for the studio. Because, after all, what was the use of a studio and a flat in Whitby if Jon was going to make his life with Fran in Sussex?

  Stefano looked at Jon now; saw him sitting on a bench in the shade, staring into a glass of wine with a cigarette dangling from his hand. A few small, probably biting, insects were flitting in and out of the glow the lit end of the cigarette gave off, but Jon was oblivious to their fiendish little presences.

  ‘I did love her,’ Jon announced. The wine was clearly taking effect, judging by the slight slur in his words.

  ‘I know.’ That was Lissy, stretched ou
t on a picnic rug with her hat over her eyes.

  ‘But I don’t think Whitby was for her,’ continued Jon. ‘I don’t think she loved me enough to give it a go.’ He sighed and flicked some ash onto the path. The ash flared with orange sparks a little then died. ‘I’m drunk. Good God.’

  ‘There’ll be someone else for you, darling brother of mine.’ Lissy sounded drowsy now; soothing, yet drowsy. It was that sort of evening and still very, very warm. Stefano edged over to her and lay down beside her. He leaned across and flicked her hat off, then laughed at her indignant expression as those amazing eyes sprang open.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you.’ He leaned in closer and moved her hair away from the side of her face. He brought his lips close to her ear and whispered: ‘I wish I could take you right here, right now. But it would be too impolite and too heartless, no?’

  Lissy gave a throaty giggle and rolled towards him. She lifted his hair away from his face and smoothed it back. Stefano could feel the pressure of her fingertips pressing down on the springy curls. He caught her fingers and, bringing them to his mouth, very carefully kissed them.

  ‘Very impolite,’ Lissy whispered back. Stefano felt a little shudder run all through her body and smiled.

  ‘I think I’m really drunk, actually,’ said Jon. ‘Look, guys.’ A clink as he put his glass down unsteadily on the grass and caught a pebble with it. ‘I think I’d better go in.’ He stood up and dropped his cigarette on the path; ground it into the cement with the ball of his foot. He stared at the dog-end for a moment. ‘Crushed,’ he muttered. ‘Beyond crushed.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Lissy sat up. ‘Jon, go to bed. Right now. You’ll have a stinking hangover tomorrow, but on the positive side, you know where you stand. You have to move on.’

  Stefano laughed and sat up as well. ‘Oh, Lissy, your sympathies do not last for long, do they? The poor man is broken and, as he says, crushed. Let him be.’

  ‘Battered on the rocks,’ muttered Jon. ‘Totally battered. I’ll be fine. I will be. ‘Night, Sis.’ He leaned down and kissed her on the top of her head. ‘Yeah. I’m not kissing you,’ he said, pointing to Stefano.

  ‘That’s cool.’ Stefano nodded. ‘I don’t want your kisses anyway.’

  ‘Cool. ’Night, then,’ repeated Jon. He turned and walked into the house, holding onto the door frame for support as he teetered indoors.

  ‘God love him.’ Lissy watched him go. ‘He can’t take alcohol that well. Never could. He’ll be ill tomorrow. He’ll be asleep in five, though, just watch.’ Stefano dutifully watched the light of Jon’s bedroom flick on for a moment, then flick off. ‘That’s it. He’s in bed.’ Lissy turned to Stefano and a sexy little smile played around her lips. Her odd, beautiful eyes twinkled in the dusk. ‘Now what? What shall we do? It’s not really very late, is it?’

  ‘Not late at all.’ Stefano pulled her close and nuzzled her neck, inhaling the scent of sun-tan lotion and the ocean. He thought he would never forget that smell as long as he lived. He felt the muscles in her cheek contract against the side of his face as she smiled.

  ‘Excellent.’ Her voice was suddenly husky. ‘Let’s make the most of it, then.’

  And so they did.

  Chapter Three

  Whitby, Present Day

  How could Jon have invited Stefano Ricci to Whitby? Lissy just couldn’t believe it.

  He knew how she felt about Stefano; how over the last seven years she had carefully constructed a barrier to keep him out of her life. He was well aware of what had gone on, both during her relationship with Stefano and even what had happened before that.

  It was quite clear to her now that Jon had planned this, from the very first moment he decided to do that stupid project. He’d said he knew the right man to contact, the right man to help him out. But not for one moment had Lissy thought her brother would contact Stefano, of all people.

  And to make matters worse, while they were all still in that studio, Jon had suddenly had one of his so-called brilliant ideas. ‘Who’s up for a wander down to the beach?’ he asked. The evening was warm and sunny, and even with the sea breeze blowing gently in from the coast, the town was golden and inviting. ‘We’ll dig holes and build sandcastles.’ This, obviously, to the child.

  ‘Me me me!’ Grace shrieked.

  Lissy closed her eyes. ‘Good God,’ she muttered.

  ‘That sounds lovely.’ There was a note of amusement in Becky’s voice. Lissy opened her eyes and glared at her best friend; her childhood friend, no less, who had eventually married her brother.

  Becky smiled innocently at her. ‘Doesn’t it sound lovely, Lissy?’

  ‘No,’ replied Lissy. ‘Why would I want to go down there amongst all those horrible seagulls and nasty sand? It’ll get in my sandals.’

  ‘Sand and sandals, the perfect match,’ said Stefano. He had taken up residence by the open door, dragging a chair across the studio and sitting there all lean and long-legged; clearly intending to block her way and, as a bonus, letting the summer air circulate around his bare feet. Those bloody bare feet. The last time she’d seen them, it had been a different summer evening and a different coastal town: Newlyn, in Cornwall.

  The pebbly beach hadn’t bothered Stefano. He’d stood there and watched her walk away – well, hobble and slip away as she teetered across the little stones, cursing at him loudly over her shoulder. He hadn’t come after her; and she didn’t know if that was what rankled the most.

  But he had this horrible habit of kicking his shoes off whenever he was near water or beaches or even fresh air, it seemed. At first it had been endearing. She loved the idea of walking barefoot with him along a sandy beach under the moonlight. But it had never become a reality – and to this day, she despised bare feet on the beach. And the thought of going to Whitby beach. With him. And his sodding feet.

  No.

  Just no.

  But it seemed like one minute they had been in the studio and she was swearing that she wouldn’t go. And the next —

  ‘You dig in the sand, Antissy.’

  Grace had never been able to get Lissy’s name right. She was usually a remarkably clear little speaker for being three, but “Aunt Lissy” had always, somehow, escaped her. The child thrust the candyfloss pink spade at Lissy and sat down on the beach with a soft flump.

  Lissy took the spade and made a few jabs into the sand while Grace’s fingers crept over to the polystyrene carton of chips that by now had a faint layer of grit over them. She selected one and munched on it, watching her aunt all the time.

  ‘It’s so good when you’re here,’ said Jon. ‘She loves playing with you.’

  ‘Hmph.’ Lissy knew her face was tight and her mouth all buttoned up; it was either that or she’d give in and break down and cry, and she’d sworn that she’d never let Stefano see her cry again.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a pair of bare feet come into view and she frowned even more. She jabbed the spade into the sand severely.

  ‘No pebbles here, bella.’ Stefano paused by her for a moment, and the camera made a soft whirr as he apparently took a picture of the sea. Then the feet turned towards her and he sat down, elegantly folding himself up like a deckchair right beside her. She kept her focus on the hole, digging and digging with more energy than strictly necessary.

  ‘Dig t’Oztraylya,’ muttered Grace, nodding approvingly and apparently satisfied with her aunt’s labours.

  ‘I won’t find Australia, darling. Don’t be silly,’ said Lissy.

  ‘Try. You never know,’ murmured Stefano. God, his warm, Italian voice still had the power to make her toes curl, but she battered the feeling down as ardently as she battered the sand.

  She worked at the sides of the hole, smoothing them down and patting them to firm them up. Grace knelt up and leaned in towards the hole, poking the end of a seagull feather into the sides and making the sand tumble down the walls in little trickles. Lissy put the spade down and sat back on her heels, sighing.
‘Well done, darling,’ she said. ‘Well done for destroying Antissy’s work.’ Grace giggled and threw a shell into the hole. She began to chatter about buried treasure and Lissy watched her without really seeing her. Stefano was sitting there next to her. His presence felt like a big black storm cloud, ready to burst open and shower her with lightning.

  ‘Please. You are still angry with me, after all this time?’ He reached a finger out and lifted her multi-coloured fringe out of the way. He brought his finger down the side of her cheek and she flinched away. Stefano’s gesture was almost tender. In fact, to anybody observing, it would have looked tender; but it did nothing but annoy Lissy.

  ‘That won’t work on me anymore, Stef. Forget it.’

  ‘Aha – yet you still call me “Stef”. You always used to call me “Stef”.’

  ‘I meant Stefano. Mr Ricci. Anyway. Forget it.’ Lissy stood up sharply and brushed the sand off her pedal pushers. ‘It’s time I went. Becky! Jon!’ She raised her voice and strode over to her brother and his wife. They had been ridiculously non-discreet and volunteered to go for ice-creams, leaving the other two adults and the child on the beach. Now they were heading back damnably slowly. Jon was saying something and laughing and Becky was looking up at him nodding in agreement. At Lissy’s shout and her hurried movements, they turned her way, a twin expression of surprise on their faces. It wasn’t often Lissy was riled; or at least it wasn’t often she was riled and let people see it.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ said Lissy. ‘I think I’ve exhausted this place. I hate beaches. You know that.’

  ‘Oh, don’t go,’ said Becky. She hurried up her steps and drew closer. ‘Look, we brought you an ice cream with a flake in it.’ She held out a dripping mess to Lissy.

  Grace suddenly appeared as if by magic between them all. ‘I heard ice cream.’ She smiled. ‘With a flake. Please.’ She held her hand out and Becky shrugged. She went to put it in the child’s sticky little fist.

  ‘Enjoy it, darling,’ said Lissy. ‘Aunt Lissy is going home now anyway.’