The Girl in the Painting

by Kirsty Ferry

  She leaned over very carefully to close the diary and saw her mobile phone lying on the floor next to it. She hadn’t switched the phone off last night and the light at the top was blinking. She reached over to pick it up and groaned as she felt a weight like a ton of rock shift around in her head. Never again.

  Through half-squinted eyes she looked at the screen and saw a text message. Her tummy did a little flip when she realised it was from Simon. Thanks for a great day. Hope to see you soon? She couldn’t help smiling a little. But why on earth was he questioning her at the end of it? Did he think she might say no? Absolutely not. She really wanted to see him again.

  Although, if they were ever able to recreate that moment on the rooftop, it would be a bloody miracle.

  It hurt her eyes to concentrate on the tiny buttons, but she eventually managed to type a response. Had a great day too. Her fingers hesitated before she typed the next bit, but then she took a deep breath. Would love to see you soon. She re-read it. Then, squeezing her eyes shut and telling herself it wasn’t really coming on too strong with him, she pressed send.

  It was only when she saw the ‘sent’ screen staring back at her that she realised she was still holding her breath. She blew a soft breath out through pursed lips and laid her phone down. It was done. She hoped it was enough for the minute.

  Simon had found a taxi, just as he had hoped and had sat in the back of it, fingering his phone, wondering what to do.

  Once or twice, he took the screen lock off and clicked on the ‘call’ icon. He got as far as calling Cori’s number up on the screen, but that was it. He was grateful that she’d given him the business card the first time they met and had put her number into his phone as soon as he got the chance. But he never actually pressed ‘call’ that night in the taxi.

  Once he had been delivered to the featureless block of flats he really didn’t like that much, he sat in his bijou lounge for ages, thinking long and hard about what to put in a text message. He finally settled on something fairly nondescript and neutral, which didn’t cover at all how he felt – but he wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. All sorts of powerful feelings had hit him out on that roof garden and although Sylvie’s mocking smile floated in front of his mind’s eye, he blinked it away.

  His eyes drifted to the small corridor that ran down the middle of his flat, and beyond that he looked at the door to his second bedroom, knowing what was in there.

  He had to do it; so before he could second-guess himself or talk himself out of it, he quickly typed the words and pressed send.

  Thanks for a great day. Hope to see you soon?

  ‘That should cover it,’ Simon said to Bryony. His little tabby stared at him with glittering black eyes as if she knew exactly what he was thinking about; as if she knew he had phrased the second part of the text as a question, thus giving Cori the chance to opt out if she wanted to. And would he see her soon? He bloody well hoped so. This time, it was her face that drifted into his mind. Those teal eyes smiling up at him and that glorious copper-coloured hair framing her perfect face.

  God willing, he would have another chance like he’d had last night. And this time, he hoped he would at least be able to kiss her.

  When the message came back the next morning, Simon couldn’t help but smile.

  Had a great day too. Would love to see you soon.

  And as luck would have it, he had the perfect reason to send her another message at lunchtime.

  New Rossetti delivered today – needed to hold back the screaming hordes, even though it’s still under wraps. Won’t be revealed to anyone before exhibition though – sorry about that. Would have loved for you to see it. Shame you couldn’t have been here though and screamed along with the hordes.

  She answered, almost immediately.

  New Rossetti? Can’t wait to see that one. Have heard it’s amazing. Can’t wait for exhibition. Keep the hordes away so I have a clear path to it please! #friendsinhighplaces.

  Simon couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face. Cori and he were on the brink of something wonderful and, on another level, the painting he was working on was flowing as if someone, a much better artist than him, perhaps, had taken the brush and moved Simon carefully out of the way so they could create their own masterpiece. He felt as if he had no control over the process whatsoever and he was, he realised, enjoying it.

  His sleep pattern, on the other hand, was well and truly disrupted. He was probably functioning on adrenalin alone, but he didn’t care. He felt more alive than he had done in the last six months.

  And every time his conscious mind came back to focus on the painting, he was amazed and stunned in equal measures to see what he was creating.

  Chapter Eighteen

  TATE BRITAIN

  Cori had told Simon she was working on some smaller commissions she needed to get finished before the work for the V&A started.

  ‘I’m hoping to clear some stuff so I’ll be ready for Elodie Bingham-Scott,’ she’d said on the telephone a few days later. ‘Then my mind won’t be so full of engineering companies and football clubs that I can’t do the costume exhibition justice. I’ll probably be too busy to pop in to the gallery for a few days, just in case you’re looking for me.’

  ‘That’s fine. We’ll just meet after work one afternoon if you want?’ he’d suggested. ‘Our Costa is open quite late.’

  ‘Our Costa,’ she’d repeated. Then, with a smile in her voice: ‘Sounds good to me. Our Costa it is then.’

  And today was the day they were finally meeting. Simon was taking the opportunity of a quiet moment to study the Ophelia painting, noticing again the flowers and the drooping willows framing the perfect countenance of Lizzie Siddal. Or Daisy Ashford, perhaps. But try as he might, he couldn’t see anyone but Lizzie Siddal in the portrait.

  It was as he was pondering this, that he heard Lissy’s voice echoing through the gallery. ‘There you are, Simon, I’ve been searching for you.’ He turned and saw her walking purposefully towards him. She nodded at the painting behind him. ‘Do you know, my sister-in-law admits she hasn’t seen Ophelia for ages? I told her to come down and take a look. I’m always inviting her and Jon down to spend a few days with me, and all I keep getting is excuse after excuse after excuse.’ She frowned. ‘I really can’t see the problem. I go up to Whitby whenever I get the opportunity.’

  ‘Well, maybe they can’t just pick up and go whenever they feel like it?’ suggested Simon. ‘Jon has a business to run, hasn’t he? And I’m sure Becky’s pretty busy as well.’

  ‘She goes off on her journalistic jaunts, as Jon calls them,’ grumbled Lissy. ‘She could jaunt down here.’ She looked up and switched on a smile, moving gracefully to one side as an elderly man nodded at her and tottered up to the portrait. He leaned in so close to it, that Simon thought the old boy’s nose might connect messily with Ophelia’s belly button.

  ‘It’s an opportunity too good to miss, now that they’ve finally met you,’ continued Lissy, watching the old man with a faint moue of disbelief as he produced a tissue and proceeded to blow his nose loudly, centimetres from the priceless painting. ‘You could tell them all about the symbolism. Don’t you think the likeness between Cori and Lizzie is pretty astonishing close up?’

  Simon smiled, looking at Ophelia but thinking about Cori. ‘Yes. That’s exactly why I think Cori is so entranced by it all,’ he said, ‘as well as having that flagrant aunt of hers involved with Rossetti, of course. But having said that, I do only see Lizzie here and I don’t see any indication of Daisy Ashford at all. This Ophelia looks pretty much like the photographs and the other portraits of Lizzie.’ He turned back to Lissy. ‘So maybe it’s all just a story anyway? I’ve never come across any suggestion of Daisy Ashford in my studies.’

  ‘Or perhaps Millais just painted in Daisy’s body or her hair or something into this picture. You know, like a Victorian body double,’ replied Lissy. ‘Rossetti did it – he sort of airbrushed stuff. He painted over the
face of one of his mistresses, didn’t he?’

  ‘Very good,’ said Simon. ‘Now name the portrait.’

  ‘Lady Lilith,’ shot back Lissy. ‘Model number one, Fanny Cornforth. Model number two, Alexa Wilding.’ Her eyes followed the old man. He shuffled on to another painting and she visibly relaxed. ‘And he also painted over a couple of actual photographs of Lizzie too, in order to make paintings. Baboom! Are you impressed?’

  ‘Very impressed,’ said Simon. ‘Though Rossetti felt very guilty about that and decided he needed to apologise for it. Never mind. If Millais did a similar thing with Lizzie and Daisy, he did a good job. You know, talking about body doubles, I’ve been seriously thinking about recreating some of the PRB work as new paintings – updating them a little bit. It’s been a plan of mine for ages, but I shelved it after breaking up with Sylvie.’

  Lissy looked at Simon in astonishment. ‘What? Updating something like Ophelia? She shouldn’t be updated. It’s like doing Shakespeare in 1970s disco gear. It’s just wrong.’

  ‘I wouldn’t update them too much,’ said Simon. He walked over to Ophelia. ‘Especially with something as unique as Ophelia or even The Lady of Shalott. I’d stay as true as I could to the originals, but I’d try to capture the essence of them as well as moving with modern times.’

  ‘Would you ask Cori to pose for you?’ Lissy’s voice suddenly dripped honey.

  Simon smiled and turned squarely to face her. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Why not? Her Aunt Corisande probably did it for Rossetti. Cori might do the same for me. I’ve already mentioned to her that I was thinking about doing it.’

  ‘I knew it.’ Lissy grinned. ‘If you do decide to do that, though, please don’t leave her in a tin bath with the water getting cold and forget about her. Do you know, in her diary Daisy implies that was the moment she stepped in to help out – in the period when Lizzie was recovering?’

  ‘Yes, that was in Becky’s article,’ replied Simon. ‘I’ll have to ask Cori more about it when I see her. She’s made a start on the diary, but she says she hasn’t discovered her aunt yet.’

  ‘Ohhhh – so you’re seeing her soon, are you?’ asked Lissy. That little goblinesque grin was back and she folded her arms. ‘How wonderful. Oh – and speak of the devil.’ She raised her hand and waved.

  Simon looked along the gallery and indeed there was Cori. Her hair was loose and she was wearing that white and silver maxi-dress again. For a moment, he could have sworn it was Ophelia herself coming towards him.

  As Cori approached she waved back at Lissy and smiled. Simon found himself smiling back.

  ‘Hello,’ Cori said when she was close enough. ‘I didn’t realise you were both going to be here. I finished a bit early, so I thought I’d just pop in and see Ophelia again, and tell Simon I’ll meet him in the foyer later. ’

  ‘That works for me,’ said Simon. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’ And he meant it. So would it be too much to drop a kiss on her, right here, right now?

  He looked up. Lissy was talking to a visitor, smoothly and discreetly giving him and Cori space and simultaneously transitioning from member of the public to volunteer guide. Everyone else in the gallery was predisposed, lost in the beauty of the masterpieces all around them. Cori was looking up at him, waiting for him to continue with the conversation.

  But he didn’t.

  He leaned down and kissed her instead.

  Chapter Nineteen

  BLOOMSBURY, LONDON

  Cori left Simon at the gallery and although it was a terrible cliché, she definitely felt as if she left with a spring in her step. That kiss was worth waiting for.

  She had decided to go for a walk and then head back to the Tate in time for the end of Simon’s shift. She had tried to concentrate on the other paintings but they had all blurred into one beautiful, colourful mess. It seemed that everything was brighter today.

  Daisy had thought that as well, when she moved to London, hadn’t she? She was right –everything was brighter and Cori’s new life in London was suddenly full of promise.

  She smiled to herself.

  An artist has fallen for me, and I have fallen for an artist.

  She thought she might be paraphrasing what Daisy had written in her diary somewhat, but the sentiment was the same. Daisy and she, it seemed, not only looked alike but were also in quite similar situations. Little phrases kept coming back to Cori and she frowned. She needed to start reading the diary properly instead of just dipping into it when she had a spare moment. She couldn’t forget about Daisy Ashford, not when their lives seemed to be following the same star.

  Which all seemed a little dramatic, but also very true.

  She paused, standing stock still in the middle of the pavement. Simon might actually paint her one day – now that would be quite an achievement. She had a vague image of herself lounging in a bath, dressed as Ophelia, wearing the maxi-dress she had on at the moment.

  Simon had said he wanted to update some of the PRB paintings and Ophelia might be as good a place as any to start.

  Henry might take the art world by storm.

  And so might Simon, thought Cori, with a little excited flutter in her tummy. She began walking again, weaving through the streets and not really taking in much of the scenery, too busy imagining herself modelling for Simon and seeing herself captured in oils or watercolours or whatever he did.

  She blushed, thinking she was maybe taking the fantasy too far when she visualised herself posing for a life drawing with very little clothing on. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she said, loudly, to nobody in particular. A woman stared at her and gave her a wide berth as she passed her in the street.

  And then the spectre of the faceless yet probably extremely attractive Sylvie floated into her mind. Cori pulled a face. After Sylvie’s influence on his creativity, would Simon really want her, Cori, to start encouraging him in his art? What if she told him to do something and it was entirely wrong? He wouldn’t be happy with her.

  He might think she was a little mad, a little bit Ophelia-like – trying to move in and pick up where the gorgeous Sylvie had left off and she was clearly very unqualified to do so. She knew a lot about the PRB, but very little about producing good artwork herself.

  Well, she was a lot of things, but she wasn’t mad.

  ‘I wasn’t mad either.’

  Cori’s step faltered and she looked around. A girl’s voice had clearly spoken, but she couldn’t see anyone in the street close enough to her for it to have been them. She hoped she hadn’t spoken out loud again.

  ‘Concentrate, Cori. Or you will look like you’re mad,’ she told herself. She started walking again, and then she stopped short as the same voice echoed in her mind.

  ‘She said I had monomania.’

  This time Cori actually stopped and stared around her. There was definitely nobody there and ‘monomania’ wasn’t a word she would generally use in polite conversation.

  She’d looked it up once out of interest when she’d read about a Victorian murderess who had been incarcerated in Broadmoor. It was an old way of saying you were, basically, mad. The murderess had poisoned some chocolates and it turned out she was completely obsessed by her married lover. She had—

  ‘Married lover?’ The voice snapped at her, somewhere near her ears. ‘No, I would never have upset their marriage. You mustn’t insinuate that! They were separated when I loved him. Then I gave him back to her.’

  Jeez! Whoever was here was engaging with her thoughts now!

  ‘Get out of my head!’ hissed Cori, spinning around. ‘Whoever the hell you are, get out of my head!’

  ‘But Corisande!’ The voice was desperate now; very young and very pleading. And it also sounded scared. ‘Corisande, you know who I am. It’s Daisy. You know how Dante and I loved each other. You read it. I told you through my diary. Please don’t say you didn’t believe me. Look. I’ve proved it. You know I’m real. Look – see where we are. I can even show you how I felt when I took my medicine. It was t
he same medicine Lizzie took. She gave me some of hers, you know. She was so kind to me!’

  Cori’s heart began to beat faster and a wave of nausea swept over her. She reached out to steady herself on something before she ended up crumpling into an ungainly heap on the ground in the middle of London. She really did think she was fainting. Everything was going black and she had the most terrible stomach cramps. She felt dizzy and she couldn’t breathe properly.

  Her hands grasped cold metal railings and she concentrated hard, trying to regulate her breathing, feeling her heart judder and spasm inside her. Finally, she managed to take a proper deep breath. The black mist was fading a little and she stood still, staring at the railings in front of her. The house was on the corner of an alleyway and a road. Briefly, she found herself hoping that if she did disgrace herself and throw up or pass out, she could at least stagger into that alleyway and do it there.

  When she felt she could lift her head, she raised it and found herself staring at a blue front door with a big, shiny, brass number seven on it. Her gaze travelled to a blue plaque that sat squarely in the centre of four dazzlingly white bricks between two beautiful big sash windows. Were they Georgian? They might have been.

  But it was the plaque which arrested her attention.

  In this house the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood was founded in 1848.

  And it was just about at that point, when Cori did indeed manage to stagger into the alleyway, bend over and throw up.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Simon?’ Her voice didn’t sound like her at all. ‘Can you come and get me? Please? I’m lost.’

  Simon was in the foyer of the Tate, waiting for her. Instead, she was on the phone, telling him she was stuck somewhere random in the middle of the city. ‘Of course I can. Where are you?’ he asked, already walking out of the door.