3. Before Stella

4. After Stella

Diana lies back on her pillow and follows the cracks in the ceiling, with all their twists and divides, trying not to remember but unable to stop.

Cory only attended that two-a-penny art college to bolster the little heaven that he—they—had managed to make for themselves at Byrne Hall. Oh, the irony. It would make her laugh if she weren’t already crying.

“Mum, we can’t keep selling off the contents of the house,” he’d said. “It isn’t sustainable. Whereas if I were a real artist, with a professional qualification . . .”

Yes, oh yes, she’d followed his reasoning; seen what he saw; thrilled at his excitement. If Cory were an acclaimed artist, then Byrne Hall could live its glory days at last. There would be exhibitions and heady, happy parties, and wonderful new friends, and features in the press, and a vast income.

“All well and good,” she said, as they clutched each other’s hands, “but why bother with college? Qualifications are overrated; talent is the thing, and with my connections . . .”

“I think I would prefer,” he said, “to do it this way.”

“But—”

“You can come and visit me, and I’ll be home for the holidays.”

“But—”

“Mum! Let me go.”

So she let him go.

Diana closes her eyes. She fidgets with the edge of her bedsheet, making as if to tear it into little bits, but the brushed cotton is thick and her fingers have wasted away.

Chapter 4

4

The exhibition was all but ready. Most of the framed paintings were downstairs, stacked against the hall walls; there were just a couple of “late Freyas”—as he called them—left in the studio. Cory had decided to display the pictures in chronological order, from the first sketch on the greasy bakery bag to the unfinished Convalescent. Earlier in the week he’d toyed with the idea of titling the whole thing Freya: A Love Story—“because that’s all it is, in a way”—but happily he’d changed his mind. “Let’s go minimalist. Let’s just call it Freya.”

Two days had passed since my discovery in the attic, and Cory didn’t know I knew. I’d spied him from the window when I got downstairs, standing by the van and chatting to the canopy men. Tonight he was writing catalogue notes on his laptop, while I numbered the paintings and matched them with titles.

“Where are you off to?”

I froze in the doorway, with one foot on the landing.

“The bathroom,” I said.

“You must have been half a dozen times this evening.”

“Well, I want to have a wash and get ready for bed. I’m tired.”