“How do you know?” Her chin is as haughty as ever, but her voice has a giveaway tremble. “What are you talking about?”
“I know because he wrote letters to her from France.” I speak across Ed to Sadie. “And because he put himself in the necklace. And because he never painted another portrait, his whole life. People begged him to, but he would always say, ‘J’ai peint celui que j’ai voulu peinare.’ ‘I have painted the one I wanted to paint.’ And when you see the painting, you realize why. Because why would he ever want to paint anyone else after Sadie?” My throat is suddenly thick. “She was the most beautiful thing you ever saw. She was radiant. And she was wearing this necklace… When you see the necklace in the painting, it all makes sense. He loved her. Even if she lived her whole life without knowing it. Even if she lived to one hundred and five without ever getting an answer.” I brush away a tear from my cheek.
Ed looks lost for words. Which is hardly a surprise. One minute we’re snogging. The next I’m downloading some random torrent of family history on him.
“Where did you see the painting? Where is it?” Sadie takes a step toward me, quivering all over, her face pale. “It was lost. It was burned.”
“So, did you know your great-aunt well?” Ed is saying simultaneously.
“I didn’t know her when she was alive. But after she died I went down to Archbury, where she used to live. He’s famous.” I turn again to Sadie. “Stephen’s famous.”
“Famous?” Sadie looks bewildered.
“There’s a whole museum dedicated to him. He’s called Cecil Malory. He was discovered long after his death. And the portrait is famous too. And it was saved and it’s in a gallery and everyone loves it… and you have to see it. You have to see it.”
“Now.” Sadie’s voice is so quiet, I can barely hear her. “Please. Now.”
“Sounds awesome,” says Ed politely. “We’ll have to go see it someday. We could take in some galleries, do lunch-”
“No. Now.” I take his hand. “Right now.” I glance at Sadie. “Come on.”
We sit on the leather bench, the three of us, in a silent row. Sadie next to me. Me next to Ed. Sadie hasn’t spoken since she came into the gallery. When she first saw the portrait, I thought she might faint. She flickered silently and just stared, and then at last exhaled as though she’d been holding her breath for an hour.
“Amazing eyes,” says Ed at length. He keeps shooting me wary looks, as though he’s not sure how to deal with this situation.
“Amazing.” I nod, but I can’t concentrate on him. “Are you OK?” I give Sadie a worried glance. “I know this has been a real shock for you.”
“I’m good.” Ed sounds puzzled. “Thanks for asking.”
“I’m all right.” Sadie gives me a wan smile. Then she resumes gazing at the painting. She’s already been up close to it, to see the portrait of Stephen hidden in her necklace, and her face was briefly so contorted with love and sorrow that I had to turn away and give her a moment of privacy.
“They’ve done some research at the gallery,” I say to Ed. “She’s the most popular painting here. They’re going to launch a range of products with her picture on them. Like posters and coffee mugs. She’s going to be famous!”
“Coffee mugs.” Sadie tosses her head. “How terribly vulgar.” But I can see a sudden glimmer of pride in her eyes. “What else will I be on?”
“And tea towels, jigsaw puzzles…” I say as though informing Ed. “You name it. If she was ever worried about not making any mark on this world…” I leave my words trailing in the air.
“Quite the famous relative you have.” Ed raises his eyebrows. “Your family must be very proud.”
“Not really,” I say after a pause. “But they will be.”
“Mabel.” Ed is consulting the guidebook which he insisted on buying at the entrance. “It says here: The sitter is thought to be called Mabel .
“That’s what they thought.” I nod. “Because the painting says My Mabel on the back.”
“Mabel?” Sadie swivels around, looking so horrified I can’t help snorting with laughter.
“I told them it was a joke between her and Cecil Malory,” I hastily explain. “It was her nickname, but everyone thought it was real.”
“Do I look like a Mabel?”
A movement attracts my attention and I look up. To my surprise, Malcolm Gledhill is entering the gallery. As he sees me, he gives a sheepish smile and shifts his briefcase from one hand to another.
“Oh, Miss Lington. Hello. After our conversation today, I just thought I’d come and have another look at her.”
“Me too.” I nod. “I’d like to introduce…” Abruptly I realize I’m about to introduce Sadie to him. “Ed.” I quickly switch my hand to the other direction. “This is Ed Harrison. Malcolm Gledhill. He’s in charge of the collection.”
Malcolm joins the three of us on the bench, and for a moment we all just look at the painting.
“So you’ve had the painting in the gallery since 1982,” says Ed, still reading the guidebook. “Why did the family get rid of it? Strange move.”
“Good question,” says Sadie, suddenly waking up. “It belonged to me. Nobody should have been allowed to sell it.”
“Good question,” I echo firmly. “It belonged to Sadie. Nobody should have been allowed to sell it.”