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‘You’ve not found your niche then?’ I asked.
He stared, and then slowly scratched the stubble on his chin. ‘No, not really. I am getting closer. And you?’
I gave him an abbreviated version of my biography, missing out the tedium of hotel work, focusing instead on the photography and my interest in history. I omitted the time-warping visions. I wasn’t sure how to frame them without the risk of him making a sharp exit. He had a pragmatic line of reasoning, and seemed to care little for spun out stories. However he didn’t glaze over when I keenly digressed into the history of Richmond Castle.
‘A true Norman castle, designed to crush the people of the North. It’s position by the river is rightly intimidating, don’t you think?’ I could easily have imagined cannon shot pinning down besiegers. But I hadn’t. Instead, I had been locked in a pitch-black prison cell, wondering my fate.
A batch of fresh scones appeared from the kitchen, and one was deposited on my plate. I smeared raspberry jam over it.
‘Jam then cream… you’re revealing your true self.’ His smile was infectious, and I responded in kind.
‘Okay, ginger cake man, your turn. What do you see when you’re painting?’
‘See?’ He dabbed at the crumbs on his plate with his fingertip and licked them off with a slither of a pink tongue. It was done daintily without losing the masculine appeal of his face.
I felt a tantalising tingle across my scalp. I glanced away, briefly, then recovered my poise. ‘As in what do you think makes a good composition?’
‘Oh.’ His shoulders slumped a fraction. ‘I don’t tend to go that deep when looking at things. I tell my pupils, young and old, just go for what looks easy to do.’ Another nervous laugh.
At Prudhoe I had seen his work in progress, and he wasn’t an amateur who fell back on the simplest views, and he had already told me he had sold some of his paintings. Plus, he had a reputation and an agent to keep him busy.
‘A good photograph is also due to the choice of composition,’ I said. ‘In my opinion, of course. I’m not a painter.’ I was just as nervous as him. The pair of us fiddled with teaspoons, sipped our drinks, and prodded each other with cautious questions, but as yet, we had exposed nothing that explained why we were working parallel projects.
Joseph sighed. ‘I don’t know what the connection is, Robyn, if that’s what you’re thinking about. I don’t know why I was chosen. I can’t get hold of Camilla, and I don’t know who the paintings are for. Okay. I agree, it’s a mystery, but I’d rather just get on with it. I have rent to pay.’
I retreated into the back of the creaky chair. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to pry into your life. I didn’t mean… it’s that you said we’d thrash this out, and so far, there’s no obvious connection between us.’
He stilled. If I had to put an emotion on his expression, then it was disappointment. It lasted only a second.
‘Perhaps we’re not meant to,’ he said, slowly. ‘You’re taking photos for a man, yeah? Somebody who wants to stay anonymous, which is the same for my client. We’ve both got go-betweens who are elusive, people we trust but don’t really know?’
I nodded in agreement.
‘So.’ He pushed aside the clean plate and leaned on his elbows, narrowing the distance between us to an arm’s length. ‘We’re introverts, in some ways, happy to work alone, unafraid of travel—’ He held up a hand. ‘I know you said this was your first big adventure, but take it from a seasoned one, you’ve got the bug. I would say we’re ideal for the jobs we’ve been given.’
‘True.’
‘But,’ he paused, sharpening his focus on my face, ‘we’re able to see, as you put it, different things when we work. What we create isn’t the same. Somebody wants me to create a gift, an attractive collection of paintings for private exhibiting perhaps? Yeah? But your job is more functional, like illustrations, because they’re precisely defined.’
‘So,’ I shuffled forward on my seat, ‘we’re not working for the same person?’ Or Medici’s scheming was more elaborate than I had thought.
‘What if,’ his voice lifted with excitement, ‘we’re working for people who know each other, and copied the idea off each other.’
‘I don’t understand. Why keep it secret?’ The cream dripped off my half-eaten scone. Joseph, sparking off his ideas, filled me with confidence. What if I told him my secret and that Medici had some inkling of my visions and that he had this ability to know what I was photographing from… ‘He lives abroad. Medici. Where, I don’t know.’
‘Oh.’ The fire in his eyes extinguished. ‘You think it’s too far-fetched? Two people borrowing the same idea for different reasons with the exact same agenda, and… Yes, you’re right, more likely one person.’
My intention to open up to him had ended as swiftly as it had begun. How could I possibly trust him? I barely understood my own motivations.
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘I guess we’ll have to persist with our contacts.’
I had already drafted a mental message to Medici. The next guaranteed opportunity to email him would be in York, which was days ahead. It was the beginning of August and my schedule didn’t have me in a decent hotel until later. My next bed and breakfast was going to be another surprise setup.
The conversation fizzled out. Did he really want to go back to a farm and listen to cows moo, and was I ready to meet my next host? I searched for something to spin us out. I craved company, and I thought he might too.
‘You said you’ve been to Italy? My gran spoke some Italian. We called her Granny Izzy. She was a little batty. She thought she’d been to Italy, but Mum is absolutely sure she hadn’t.’
His face softened. ‘No harm in letting her think that, is there?’
