Bastard .

He probably thought he was a genius. He probably thought he was too good for a normal relationship. Even though he’s long dead, I’m fighting an urge to yell at him. How could he treat Sadie so badly? How could he go off to France and forget about her?

“He was a towering talent.” The woman is following my gaze. “His early death was one of the tragedies of the twentieth century.”

“Yeah, well, maybe he deserved it.” I give her a baleful look. “Maybe he should have been nicer to his girlfriend. Did you think of that?”

The woman looks totally confused. She opens her mouth and closes it again.

I flip on, past pictures of the sea and more cliffs and a line drawing of a hen… and then I suddenly freeze. An eye is looking out of the book at me. It’s a blown-up detail from a painting. Just one eye, with long, long lashes and a teasing glint.

I know that eye.

“Excuse me.” I can barely get the words out. “What’s this?” I’m jabbing at the book. “Who’s this? Where does this come from?”

“Dear…” I can see the woman trying to keep her patience. “You must know that, surely. That’s a detail from one of his most famous paintings. We have a version in the library if you’d like to have a look-”

“Yes.” I’m already moving. “I would. Please. Show me.”

She leads me down a creaking corridor, through to a dim, carpeted room. There are bookshelves on every wall, old leather chairs, and a large painting hanging over the fireplace.

“There we are,” she says fondly. “Our pride and joy.”

I can’t reply. My throat’s too tight. I stand motionless, clutching the book, just staring.

There she is. Gazing out of the ornate gilt frame, looking as though she owns the world, is Sadie.

I’ve never seen her as radiant as she looks in this picture. I’ve never seen her so relaxed. So happy. So beautiful. Her eyes are massive, dark, luminous with love.

She’s reclining on a chaise, naked except for a gauze fabric draped over her shoulder and hips, which only partially obscures the view. Her shingled hair exposes the length of her elegant neck. She’s wearing glittering earrings. And around her neck, falling down between her pale, gauzy breasts, twined around her fingers, tumbling in a shimmering pool of beads, is the dragonfly necklace.

I can suddenly hear her voice again in my ears. I was happy when I wore it… I felt beautiful. Like a goddess .

It all makes sense. This is why she wanted the necklace. This is what it means to her. At that time in her life, she was happy. Never mind what happened before or after. Never mind that her heart got broken. At that precise moment, everything was perfect.

“It’s… amazing.” I wipe a tear from my eye.

“Isn’t she wonderful?” The woman gives me a pleased look. Obviously I’m finally behaving as proper art-lovers are supposed to. “The detail and brushwork are just exquisite. Every bead in the necklace is a tiny masterpiece. It’s painted with such love.” She regards the portrait affectionately. “And all the more special, of course, because it’s the only one.”

“What do you mean?” I say, confused. “Cecil Malory painted lots of pictures, didn’t he?”

“Indeed. But he never painted any other portraits. He refused to, his whole life. He was asked plenty of times in France as his reputation grew locally, but he would always reply, ‘J’ai peint celui que j’ai voulu peindre.’ ” The woman leaves a poetic pause. “I have painted the one I wanted to paint.”

I stare at her, dumbfounded, my head sparking as I take this all in. He only ever painted Sadie? His whole life? He’d painted the one he wanted to paint?

“And in this bead…” The woman moves toward the painting with a knowing smile. “Right in this bead here there’s a little surprise. A little secret, if you like.” She beckons me forward. “Can you see it?”

I try to focus obediently on the bead. It just looks like a bead.

“It’s almost impossible, except under a magnifying glass… here.” She produces a piece of matte paper. Printed on it is the bead from the painting, enlarged massively. As I peer at it, to my astonishment I find I’m looking at a face. A man’s face.

“Is that…” I look up.

“Malory.” She nods in delight. “His own reflection in the necklace. He put himself into the painting. The most miniature hidden portrait. It was discovered only ten years ago. Like a little secret message.”

“May I see?”