by Kirsty Ferry
It wasn’t so bad now she was used to it, but in the beginning, when she realised her hearing was definitely getting worse, she had hated visiting London. She had hated the crowds and she had hated all the conversations going on around her, and most of all she had hated being privy to them all, even if it was accidental.
The ability to lip-read wasn’t just something she could switch on and off; it was just something she had grown used to over the years. And it could be bloody annoying at times. But – she had given Cori that diary, hadn’t she? So – and she did feel a little churn in her stomach at that point – she was kind of responsible in a way, wasn’t she?
Lissy hadn’t been specific, but Becky had a sudden creeping, uncomfortable feeling about it all. She remembered the ghostly image of the girl leaning over the diary when Cori had been in the flat. Becky had tried to put it all out of her mind and think it was just a trick of the light, but there was something about it that she couldn’t just dismiss. And Jon and Lissy were probably the only two people in the world who she could express those feelings to. Similarly, if Lissy had any inkling of any issues in that vein, who was she going to turn to?
Becky’s mind drifted back to that October weekend two years ago, when her intention had been only to visit Whitby for Goth Weekend and write a couple of articles. She’d just split up with Seb and sworn off men for one reason and another, and then she’d bumped into Jon again. He’d been dragged into everything that had happened, but not once had he left her to deal with any of it alone. She knew she had been lucky. She honestly didn’t know how she could have coped with Ella Carrick’s ghost otherwise. What if Cori had attracted the attention of someone otherworldly as well?
Becky closed her eyes and tried, consciously, to bring the image of the ghostly girl back to her mind. She had been tall. She had a waterfall of loose, wavy red-gold hair and she’d been very, very slim. She’d been wearing something pale, almost silvery. It was a dress – high necked, long sleeved, fitted to the waist and then the skirt had flowed to the ground, fading into the shadows …
Becky opened her eyes. She felt sick, which was, for once, nothing to do with too many biscuits or being pregnant. She felt sick because she remembered another dress – Ella’s wedding dress – the one Jon had a replica of in the studio, and the one she had worn to have her photograph taken as she sat by the antique writing slope. The one she wore in the photograph downstairs, on the wall.
If Jon and Lissy hadn’t been there for her, where would she be now?
‘I have no choice,’ said Becky to the laptop screen. She pressed print and watched the paper slide out of the printer. She got up and retrieved it, then headed downstairs.
Jon was smiling at a pair of young women who had clearly just finished their transaction. He handed over a package to one of the girls who was blushing and giggling, twirling her long, fair hair around her fingers.
Becky leaned against the banister at the bottom of the stairs watching them. She pushed her own hair behind her left ear and almost immediately cursed herself. She was trying to break that damn habit. It didn’t really make much of a difference to hearing what was going on and it probably never had done anyway, if she was honest. She heard nothing through that ear at all – she hadn’t done so for years.
The blonde girl had finished flirting now, and Jon was quirking that amazing smile at the blonde, the same smile that had won her, Becky, over in the beginning.
Maybe we’ll see you around Whitby? The blonde was saying.
Maybe, Jon replied.
Damn, she was bloody good at lip-reading, though; and pah! They’d be lucky. Becky tried not to laugh and waited a moment longer until the girls left the shop. Jon turned to put something away and caught sight of her standing there. He quirked an even more brilliant smile at her and came over.
‘Hey, Gorgeous,’ he said, taking her in his arms. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure? Coffee time, perhaps?’
Becky punched him lightly on the arm, then responded by wrapping her arms around his body. He felt good. ‘No, not yet. We’ve had an urgent summons to London,’ she said. ‘I thought you might want to see it. Oh, and she has all the excuses resolved before we even have a chance to excuse ourselves, funnily enough.’ She unwrapped an arm and presented him with the printout. ‘We don’t have much choice. Not given the circumstances.’
Jon released her and took the paper. His eyes scanned the document quickly, then he rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘We have no choice. None at all,’ he said. ‘Oh, well. Fancy a trip to the capital, my love? We’ll get to stay in Lissy’s new four million pound penthouse. That’s quite a nice feeling.’
‘I prefer our little penthouse here,’ said Becky, ‘but,’ she pulled a face, ‘I guess we should start packing.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
KENSINGTON
Cori woke up with that horrible, hungover feeling again. In her half-asleep state, she probed the corners of her mind to see whether she had actually foolishly overindulged again last night, or whether there was another explanation.
She eventually realised, as she came fully awake, that she hadn’t drunk a bottle of wine again but she had taken a God almighty flip out in Gower Street instead. She cringed as she recalled it and as for poor Simon …
I’ll show you how I felt.
Ugh. She tried to blank out the memory of that voice. Now, in daylight, it just seemed a silly sort of incident that could easily be explained away. She could put it down to overworking or overexcitement or simple over-imagination. She was thinking too much about that Ophelia painting mystery and just needed to step away from it all.
Cori picked up her phone and saw that Simon had sent her a message early this morning, wishing her a speedy recovery and telling her once again that norovirus was rife and he was saving that latte for another time when they could both enjoy it properly.
Feeling better today, thanks, she typed. Just woken up. Gonna take it easy, just in case. Got to see the theatre lady later as well.
So you won’t be in Tate today then? he’d responded.
Doubt it, she texted. Sorry. Would have liked to see you.
Don’t be sorry. Just beat that virus! I’ll see you soon, ok?
Ok, she said. Thanks again. Her fingertips hovered over the ‘x’ key, then she added three of them at the end.
Xxx came back to her.
She smiled, then lay back in bed and remembered the phone call to Lissy, which made her cringe again.
Hey ho. They’d all be fed up with her before long. She was just about fed up with herself, actually. There were too many things going around her mind for her to focus on one thing at a time.
Granny would have told her to stop burning the candle at both ends, or something equally wise. But she had lots to think about – like Daisy Ashford, and Simon, and meeting Lissy again, and the whole excitement of working with the V&A, and being so close to the heart of the PRB. Not to mention, she thought, with a little pang of regret, the fact she’d met Becky Nelson and couldn’t help obsessing ever so slightly about the baby she might have been carrying as well, had things turned out differently.
Cori swung her legs out of bed and looked up at the window, knowing there was something bugging her from last night. But there was nothing there this morning.
Yawning and rubbing her eyes, she shuffled into the hallway, intent on heading downstairs and switching the kettle on. Once she’d had some coffee, she could function better. And today she had to be on top form, because she was meeting Elodie Bingham-Scott.
As she passed the lounge door, there was a flumph sort of noise – the sort of noise that you get when a book falls on the floor. She swore under her breath and blamed either an underground train – if any actually went under her house, which she was a little unsure about – or a dodgy floorboard in the old building unbalancing something.
She peeked in and saw a heavy book lying on the rug. It was, she realised, the exhibition catalogue from the Pre-Raphaelite Exhibition t
he Tate had run in the early eighties. She had bought it second-hand, and to this day remained stunned by the beautiful reproductions of the paintings and drawings and all of the interesting pieces of information the book had shared.
It must have slipped off her bookshelf. Everything was stuffed into the shelves any old how at the moment. She shut the door on it and continued down the stairs to the kitchen.
One coffee later, she had poured herself another mug and was traipsing back up the stairs wondering if a Teasmade machine was too indulgent to have in a person’s bedroom nowadays or if it was simply just a rather dated contraption for the twenty-first century, when she decided to retrieve the book and have a leisurely look at it over her coffee. She wanted to revisit some of those paintings so badly, she realised, it was almost a physical need.
Cori pushed open the door to the lounge, looked inside – and literally screamed. Neat squares of paper had been laid out on the lounge floor; dozens of pictures from the book had been removed and placed in identical lines, running from one edge of the rug to another. A sea of redheads and medieval fantasies stretched out across her lounge floor and she began to shake.
As the mug crashed to the floor and shattered, Cori only had one thought in her head.
Daisy Ashford was here.
Elodie Bingham-Scott was exactly as her name suggested; small, bubbly, curvaceous and blonde. Her hair hung almost down to her waist in a long, wavy, golden mane that, Cori thought, looked so artlessly styled it had probably taken her or her hairdresser hours to achieve.
Elodie led Cori through a maze of corridors into the back of the National Theatre and into her comfortable office. Cori had originally thought that her office would have been lined with wardrobes or had costumes everywhere, but she was disappointed to see that it only had a few fabric swatches lying on a desk and some fashion designer sketches next to them.
Elodie must have seen Cori glance at the pictures, because she walked over and picked one up.
‘That’s for our production of Camelot,’ said Elodie. She handed it over to Cori who gazed at the picture of a ridiculously skinny sketched-out figure wearing a flowing medieval style dress. ‘That’s Guinevere. I’m going for green, red and gold for her.’
‘And that’s what the fabric is for?’ asked Cori. She still felt a little shaken by the incident this morning, and the last thing she wanted to see, really, was a medieval picture. At least Elodie hadn’t produced a Pre-Raphaelite painting for her to study, even though that was possibly where she had taken her inspiration from.
‘It is indeed,’ said Elodie. ‘When we’ve finished here, we can go and see the storeroom if you like. It’s full of clothes like that. We did Hamlet not so long ago. It was a short run, so we just recycled some of the older costumes. I wish that Ophelia article had come out before we closed – it would have been a great marketing tool.’ Elodie didn’t have a London accent. Cori tried to place it, and guessed it was Norfolk or Suffolk or somewhere around that region and vaguely wondered how she had ended up in a London theatre. ‘We’ve still got the Hamlet costumes on site,’ Elodie continued, ‘so you’ll get a chance to see them before we take them up to the warehouse, if you want.’
Cori put the sketch back on the desk, her hand trembling, ever so slightly.
She opened her mouth to say no, it really didn’t matter about seeing those particular costumes, thanks, but instead heard herself ask, ‘Do you have Ophelia’s costume?’
Elodie smiled. ‘We do. But the Hamlet we did was contemporary, and Ophelia was a heroin addict, so she wasn’t at all glamorous. Bit of a wasted life, really.’
Elodie’s face started to flicker, just as if Cori was starting to get a migraine. Cori broke out into a sweat, and tried to focus on something else; something more relevant to the task in hand, but all she could imagine was herself wearing Ophelia’s dress in the painting and sinking into a bath of water.
A whirlwind rushed past her, and seemed to race towards the door behind. She pressed her hands into her knees, trying to listen to what Elodie was telling her. Then she became conscious of the fact that Elodie Bingham-Scott had stopped talking and was, instead, looking at her oddly.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You’ve gone white.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Cori, forcing a smile.
Cori jumped as a pile of papers slid off a desk at the end of the room and fluttered to the floor. The door swung open and she thought she saw the sweep of a silvery-white dress disappear around the corner before it slammed shut.
Elodie’s lovely office was beginning to feel claustrophobic and it was definitely on the chilly side.
‘Is this theatre haunted?’ Cori burst out, unable to stop herself asking.
‘It is,’ said Elodie. ‘I see them all the time. They don’t bother me and I don’t bother them.’ She smiled. ‘I’m used to it – I’ve seen them all my life. My house has a ghost. He’s harmless. But her—’ she pointed to the door ‘—she’s new. I haven’t seen her before.’
‘What did she look like?’ asked Cori, not really wanting to know the answer.
‘I didn’t get a good look,’ said Elodie, ‘I just saw her dress, really – and she was dressed to impress. It’s not a dress I recognise.’ Then she smiled dismissing the apparition. ‘I usually just ignore them. If they want me for anything, they can come and find me.’
Cori was worried that Daisy already had.
Chapter Twenty-Four
TATE BRITAIN
Cori was beginning to feel a little bit like a stalker. She was back at the Tate, heading straight up to the Millais Gallery, focussed only on finding Simon.
Monomania. That word came back to her again and she shivered.
She walked into the gallery and stared around. Another guide she didn’t recognise was in there, talking to a middle-aged lady who was wearing hiking boots and carrying a backpack.
‘Damn!’ she said under her breath. She stood in the middle of the parquet flooring looking around for Simon.
‘He’s not here.’ Lissy melted out of a crowd and walked over to her, clutching a clipboard. ‘I take it you’ve come to hunt out the divine Dr Daniels?’
‘Where is he?’ she asked. As her voice echoed through the gallery, she sounded, she thought, a little desperate.
‘I have no idea,’ said Lissy. ‘Possibly painting. Possibly having a coffee. Possibly just enjoying not being at work today. He said he had something he needed to sort out urgently, so he’s taken the day off. That’s why I’m here. He asked if I would cover for him, so I had words with the powers that be and here I am.’ Lissy shrugged. ‘He didn’t say why.’
‘He asked if I was coming in today,’ said Cori, ‘and I said no.’
‘Then that’s probably why he took the day off,’ said Lissy, smiling knowingly. ‘What was the point in being here when he knew you weren’t coming in?’
Cori had no response to that. Instead she shook her head and wandered over to Ophelia, leaving Lissy standing in the middle of the room.
‘Are you Daisy?’ she asked, under her breath as she stared at the perfect features and the flawless complexion. ‘Are you?’ She wasn’t sure if she was talking to the girl in the portrait, or that shadowy figure that was hanging around, just on the edge of her consciousness.
The horrible nauseous feeling started to come over her again, but she was unable to move away from the picture. She heard a voice coming to her as if it was a very long way away, then felt herself just falling, falling, falling into that picture. Into the river; floating off downstream, where she would be lost forever and nobody would find her.
‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.’
‘Cori!’ She jumped, startled as she heard her own name. She blinked as Lissy appeared; right in front her face, staring at her with those odd eyes of hers.
‘Lissy,’ she said. ‘Hello.’
‘Cori, let’s get out of here,’ said Lissy. She frowned. ‘You don’t
look very well. Simon said you’d been ill yesterday. I can’t have you throwing up in my gallery, so I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to leave here and I’m going to take you shopping. Shopping always makes me feel better.’
Cori just looked at her. ‘If you think that’s best,’ she said.
‘I think that’s best,’ said Lissy. ‘And regardless, you’re not staying here. You look fit to drop. No. We’re going to get some fresh air. And the best place for fresh air in London, in my opinion, is Brompton Road. Two seconds, my love, then I’ll be finished and we can go.’
Cori didn’t even bother arguing. She just turned her back on Ophelia, intending to follow Lissy.
‘No!’ said that voice again, angry this time. ‘I haven’t finished yet! I haven’t told you about the daisies. That’s my favourite line! Come back, Corisande. Please; come back.’
Cori put her head down and stuck her fingers in her ears, all the way out of the gallery.
But it didn’t really make any difference.
Chapter Twenty-Five
SOUTH KENSINGTON
Lissy’s penthouse was amazing. There was no other word for it.
It was the top two floors of a Victorian mansion and it overlooked a neat garden square. It had been completely modernised and renovated inside, with the result that the ceilings were high and the rooms spacious – and the second bedroom was probably the same size as the entire Whitby flat, Becky thought ruefully.
And that was all without the extra little mezzanine floor, jutting out halfway between the two floors.
