4

      

      Sunday 30th June

      Lucy woke suddenly and lay staring up at the ceiling, her heart thudding with fright. The dream, if there had been a dream, had gone. She groped in the foggy emptiness of her memory and found nothing there. Reaching out for the clock on the bedside table she turned it to face her. It was two forty-five a.m. The room, on the second floor, under the eaves, was hot, the night very still. Outside a car drove down the street, the rattle of tyres, the sound of the engine, dying away into the distance. With a sigh she climbed out of bed and went to the window. The street two storeys below, even here near the centre of the city, was very quiet

      She heard a creak in the room behind her and she turned round, her eyes wide in the darkness. There was nothing there. The floor-boards creaked all the time in this old building and she smiled wryly. In the silence of the night a dog barked far away somewhere towards the Bishop’s Palace Gardens.

      And suddenly she knew she was not alone in the bedroom. She was aware of a movement on the periphery of her vision. She glanced round again, holding her breath as a shadowy, almost transparent figure slowly appeared on the far side of the bed. Her mouth went dry.

      ‘Larry?’ she whispered.

      The room was very still.

      ‘Larry, darling?’

      But it wasn’t Larry. For a moment in the half-light from the landing she glimpsed a thin angular face, the grey-blue uniform of the Royal Air Force, then he was gone.

      She groped frantically for the light switches and, half-blinded as they came on, stared round wildly. ‘Idiot!’ she whispered. ‘You’re imagining things.’ Her hands, she realised, had started to shake.

      Her eyes filled with tears and she found she had started to shiver uncontrollably in spite of the warmth of the night. ‘Larry?’ Her voice broke into a sob.

      Padding down the narrow stairs from the pretty attic bedroom which she and Larry had had so much fun designing and which they had shared with such joy, she went into the first-floor kitchen at the back of the flat and turned on the lights. She stood still, confronting the studio door which was closed. The figure had been part of her dream, of course he had. She had been becoming obsessed with the identity of the young man in the portrait and had gone to sleep thinking about him, of course she had dreamed about him.

      Heading determinedly for the door before she could change her mind she pushed it open, reached up and groped for the light switches. Evie was staring at her from the easel with an expression of quizzical amusement. The young man behind her was interested only in the woman sitting on the gate so close in front of him. He had no time for anyone outside the picture.

      Lucy glanced round, almost afraid that the shadowy figure from her bedroom would be there, but the studio was empty. Her eyes drifted back to the young man with the bright blue eyes and she swallowed hard, trying to gather her wits. This boy was fair-haired, his face square, his figure stocky. The man she had seen standing in her bedroom had darker hair and eyes and he was tall and slim. She had only had time to see him for a fraction of a second, but it had been enough to see that he was not the young man in the picture. Nor was it Larry.

      She felt a sudden tremor of fear. The figure must have been part of her dream but he had seemed so real for a moment. She backed out of the studio into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water. As she drank it she turned and looked back through the door into the studio. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves and, putting down the glass she cautiously retraced her steps. The studio was still empty. Evie was still looking back at her from the canvas, her eyes once more enigmatic. And hostile? Maybe. And the young man behind her? It was almost as though Evie didn’t know he was there.

      So, who was the dark-haired young man, the other man, the man in her bedroom?

      Acutely aware once more of how empty the flat was without Larry there at her side Lucy found herself suddenly overwhelmed with panic. The phone was in her hand before she could stop herself.

      ‘Robin, I’m frightened. Can you come over?’

      ‘Luce? What’s wrong?’ His voice was muffled. Sleepy.

      ‘Please.’ She was behaving irrationally. She knew it with some part of her mind, but the terror was in control.

      As soon as she had put down the phone she regretted ringing him. She had forgotten what the time was. She was being a selfish cow.

      Robin let himself in ten minutes later. ‘What is it, Luce?’ He ran up the stairs from the gallery followed by his partner, Phil.

      She was standing in the middle of the kitchen, still shivering. ‘I am such a fool. I shouldn’t have rung you.’

      ‘You said you were frightened. What happened?’ Robin put his arms round her. ‘Come on. Uncle Robin is here now.’

      ‘I had a nightmare. A stupid nightmare,’ she stammered. ‘I woke up suddenly and I thought I saw a man standing in my room. He disappeared and I thought he must have been a ghost.’ She buried her face in his shoulder for a moment. It was comforting to be near another human being; reassuring and for a moment she wanted to stay like that. It felt safe. She pulled herself together with an effort and stood back, aware that they were both staring at her.

      ‘Lol’s ghost?’ Robin whispered.

      She shook her head. She had confided in him once, on one of her bad days, how much she longed to see Larry again, how she was sure he would come back to her, how he would tell her what had happened and how much he still loved her. But he hadn’t.

      She saw Robin and Phil glance at each other.

      ‘I’m mad. I know I’m mad. It was a dream. It must have been. I didn’t realise what the time was. I shouldn’t have rung you, I’m sorry.’

      ‘I’m glad you did. What else are friends for?’ Robin said gently.

      ‘What did he look like, this figure?’ Phil pulled out a chair and sat down at the table near her. He leaned forward on his elbows studying her face. He was a broad-shouldered man, reassuringly well built with wavy golden hair. Sensible. Down to earth. ‘Can you remember?’ Neither he nor Robin was laughing at her.

      She explained again what had happened as Robin went over to the kettle. He switched it on and collected three mugs from the cupboard. Turning back towards them he glanced towards the studio. The door was shut.

      ‘OK,’ he said as he passed her a mug of tea. ‘Why don’t Phil and