It struck Elodie now that it was unlikely, given her mother’s fame – and Caroline’s, too – that a photograph as striking as this one had never been published, particularly if, as Pippa said, Caroline considered it one of her favourites. She said as much to Pippa.
‘I asked Caroline about that. She told me she developed the roll a few days after taking it and that she loved the image of your mum immediately. Even while it was still in the solution tray she could see that it was one of those rare magical captures where the subjects, the composition, the light – everything was in harmony. Later that same night, though, she turned on the TV and saw coverage of your mum’s funeral. She hadn’t made the connection until then, but they put a photo of your mum on the screen and Caroline said she felt a chill of recognition, especially when she realised that he’d been in the car, too. That she’d seen the two of them right before –’ She gave Elodie a faint, sorry smile.
‘She didn’t publish it because of the accident?’
‘She said it didn’t feel right in the circumstances. Also, because of you.’
‘Me?’
‘The news coverage included footage of you. Caroline said that she saw you, holding your dad’s hand, walking into the church, and she just knew she couldn’t publish the photo.’
Elodie looked again at the two young people in the ivy-covered grove. The way her mother’s knee was brushing against his. The intimacy of the scene, the comfort of their postures. Elodie wondered if Caroline, too, had perceived the true nature of their relationship. Whether that explained, in part, her decision to keep the image to herself.
‘She thought of you on and off over the years, she said, and wondered what had become of you. She felt connected to you because of what had happened – as if by taking the photograph on that day, preserving that particular moment between them, she had become part of their story. When she realised that you and I were friends, when you came to see my final-year art show, she told me that the urge to meet you was irresistible.’
‘That’s why she came for supper with us that night?’
‘I didn’t realise at the time.’
It had been a surprise when Pippa mentioned that Caroline was going to join them; at first, Elodie had been intimidated by her presence, this accomplished artist of whom Pippa had spoken so highly, so often. But Caroline’s manner had set her at ease; more than that, her warmth had been alluring. She’d asked questions about James Stratton and archive-keeping, the sort of questions that made it seem that she was really listening. And she’d laughed – a spirited, musical laugh that had made Elodie feel cleverer than she was and more amusing. ‘She wanted to know me because of my mother?’
‘Well, yes, but not like that. Caroline likes young people; she’s interested in them and inspired by them – that’s why she teaches. But with you it was more. She felt bonded to you, because of what she saw that day and everything that happened afterwards. She’d been wanting to tell you about the photo since the first moment you met.’
‘Why didn’t she?’
‘She was worried it might be overwhelming. That it might upset you. But when I mentioned you this morning – your wedding, the concert recordings, your mum – she asked me what I thought.’
Elodie studied the image again. Pippa said that Caroline developed the photo only days after she took it, and that by then her mother’s funeral had made the news. Yet here she was, sharing lunch with the American violinist. They had performed in Bath on the 15th of July and died the following day. It seemed likely that this photograph had been taken on their way back to London; that they had stopped for a lunch break somewhere en route. It explained why they had been driving on the country roads instead of the motorway.
‘I told Caroline that I thought you’d be glad to have it.’
Elodie was glad. Her mother had been much photographed, but this, she realised, was the last picture ever taken. She liked that it wasn’t a posed image from a photo shoot. Her mother looked very young – younger than Elodie was now. Caroline’s camera had caught her in a private moment, when she wasn’t being Lauren Adler; there wasn’t a cello in sight. ‘I am,’ she said now to Pippa. ‘Thank Caroline for me.’
‘’Course.’
‘And thank you.’
Pippa smiled.
‘For the book, too – not to mention, bringing them all the way here. I know it’s a trek.’
‘Yeah, well, turns out I’m going to miss this place. Even if it is halfway to Cornwall. How did your landlady take the news?’
Elodie lifted the pinot bottle. ‘Top-up?’
‘Oh, dear. You haven’t told her.’
‘I couldn’t. I didn’t want to upset her before the wedding. She’s put so much thought into selecting the reading.’
‘You realise she’s going to figure it out when the honeymoon’s over and you don’t come back?’
‘I know. I feel wretched.’
‘How much longer do you have on the lease?’
‘Two months.’
‘So, you’re thinking … ?’
‘Ride it out in complete denial and hope something comes to me in the meantime?’
‘A solid plan.’
‘Alternatively, I simply take out another lease and turn up twice weekly to collect my mail. I could come upstairs sometimes and sit right here. I could even leave my furniture in situ, my tatty old chair, my odd assortment of teacups.’
Pippa smiled sympathetically. ‘Maybe Alastair will change his mind?’
‘Maybe.’ Elodie topped up her friend’s glass. She didn’t feel like another conversation about Alastair; they invariably turned into inquisitions that led to Elodie feeling like a pushover. Pippa didn’t understand compromise. ‘You know what? I’m hungry. Want to stay for a bite to eat?’
‘Sure,’ said Pippa, a tacit agreement to let the subject drop. ‘Now you mention it, I’ve got a hankering for fish and chips.’
CHAPTER NINE
Elodie had planned to spend Sunday listening to more recordings so that she could deliver the promised shortlist to Penelope, but sometime the night before, somewhere between the first and second bottles of red wine, she’d made a decision. She wasn’t going to walk down the aisle to a video of Lauren Adler playing the cello. No matter how much Penelope (and Alastair, too?) loved the idea, it made Elodie feel uncomfortable to picture herself in a wedding dress, heading towards a large screen of her mother in performance. It was a bit weird, wasn’t it?
‘Yes!’ Pippa had said as they lounged by the river, finishing their fish and chips and watching the last of the day slip behind the horizon. ‘I didn’t think you liked classical music, anyway.’ Which was true. Elodie preferred jazz.
And so, as the first pealing church bells of Sunday morning drifted through the open windows, Elodie packed the videotapes back into her father’s suitcase and sat on the velvet chair. The new photograph of her mother was propped on the shelf of treasures between Mrs Berry’s watercolour of Montepulciano and Tip’s charm box, and Elodie’s thoughts had started to clarify into a list of things she wanted to ask her great-uncle – about her mother, and the house in the sketch, and the violinist, too. In the meantime she was going to dive into Caroline’s book and learn as much as she could about the woman in the photograph. As she opened it on her lap, she felt an immensely satisfying sensation of coming home, as if this, right now, was the very thing that she was supposed to be doing.