‘He can’t hurt us, Luc.’ Her voice sounded strange. ‘No matter what he says.’
‘You haven’t read it all.’ Luc didn’t sound like himself, either. He sounded… hollow. He got to his feet and walked towards the window but Sophie knew he wasn’t seeing any of that view. She could see the muscles bunched in his jaw. How pale his skin was.
Dear Lord… what else had Raven Vale smeared into his blog?
Imagine the consternation that day when it becomes known that the lead photographer for this destination wedding business cannot be there to cover the event? And then imagine the excitement when it comes to light that a substitute is on his way. None other than the Banksy of dystopian wedding photography, the man credited with starting the trend towards the total destruction of wedding dresses – by drowning them, burning them, burying them in mud or, most recently, literally throwing them into the trash.
This image was the one of Zara and Joseph sitting amongst the rubbish and Sophie gritted her teeth. They’d got through that upset that had threatened to derail her business. Was it all going to go viral again? Get worse, even? Judging by the waves of an emotion she couldn’t identify that were around Luc like an aura, Sophie had the horrible feeling that they were.
This was, amazingly, the first actual wedding this mysterious photographer had ever attended. Have you guessed yet who it is?
Of course you have. The man the world knows as Le Phénix.
And isn’t that some kickass symbolism to get our pointy little eye teeth into? No image needed. We’ve all got that vision of the mythical phoenix rising from the ashes in our brains now, haven’t we?
Ashes to ashes.
Death.
How had Raven caught this image of Luc at the château? Looking dark and sexy and mysterious with the backdrop of that evocative ancient cemetery. He must have followed them after being told that Luc wanted to work alone for this part of the photoshoot and Raven would have to leave, along with the rest of the visual content team. He hadn’t liked that Sophie was allowed to stay andhewasn’t, had he? Was this revenge for not having received the kind of acceptance he’d wanted from Luc?
The man looks like he’d be right into Goth culture with his dark attire and moody persona and I have to confess that it was, personally, a crushing disappointment to discover that it’s no more than a mask. I’m not saying he’s not into the symbolism of the name he chose but more on that later.
More… that’s kind of funny.
Because the real name of Le Phénix is Luc Moreau and he runs Moreish Photography, a studio that specialises in food for, you know, recipe books or catering companies or other perfectly ordinary foodie projects. He just moonlights as a more interesting character who’s making millions – and I do mean millions – of pounds by selling reprints of brides wrecking their beautiful and hideously expensive dresses.
Yeah… Raven had been disappointed, all right. Sophie had felt the strength of the fascination, laced with veiled sexual attraction, in the way he was watching Luc. She’d welcomed it on some level because it had taken the focus away from anything to do with her private life.
This next photo was nothing like the last, however. It was an image lifted from Moreish Photography’s website. This was Luc Moreau, at work. His hair was tied back, he had a camera in his hands and an exquisite plate of food on a pedestal in front of him. Anyone who had employed his company would recognise him instantly. What were his clients about to discover? Sophie wasn’t only afraid for herself now. Her throat tightened around a need to try and protect Luc from whatever threat this negative publicity might kindle. She swallowed hard and began to skim the text with more urgency.
But here’s the real goss.
Ten years ago today – the start (and end) of one of life’s cycles – a man called Tom Baxter lost his life in a tragic accident near Sydenham Hill. He’d just been to his stag night – a posh dinner in a Michelin-starred restaurant, because Tom was an up-and-coming chef.
Who’s Tom Baxter, you ask?
He was the beloved only son of Martin Baxter, the self-made millionaire behind the Auto d’Or luxury car empire. The brother of Hannah Baxter, who was Sophie Spencer’s flatmate, best friend and the matchmaker who introduced the pair. In a sad twist, Hannah was going to be Sophie’s bridesmaid. And the car Tom died in? A high-performance electric blue Audi RS7 sports car – a wedding gift from his father.
More importantly to this story, however, Tom Baxter was Luc Moreau’s closest friend. They went through high school together, went backpacking through Europe together. Luc was engaged to be married to Tom’s sister, Hannah.
And, for some inexplicable reason, he was the one driving Tom’s car that fateful night.
It was getting harder to blink tears away as Sophie saw Tom’s name again. His father’s name.Hannah’sname. Had this man who called himself a journalist been to visit the family to ask questions and stir everything up again? The thought of the Baxters reading this blog was horrific. Especially when it had,deliberately, appeared on an anniversary that would have been hard enough for Tom’s family anyway.
She should have been there, Sophie thought, as the first rush of a new guilt swept through her. She’d let the distance – the awkwardness – between herself and Hannah grow and spread and she was suddenly, deeply ashamed of herself. Ironically, it had been the shared decision to let Luc take the blame for Tom’s death that had kept them in touch for those first years. Had they all buried the guilt that had been inherent in that bitter mindset? Had any of the others ever felt that two wrongs weren’t going to make a right? That destroying Luc because of what had happened to Tom was an unacceptably long step too far?
Sophie pressed her fingers against her mouth to stifle an agonised sob. She was back to that first image she’d spotted on Luc’s phone at the beach. The picture of the wrecked car. A door barely hanging on by one hinge. Wisps of steam still coming from beneath a crumpled bonnet. Emergency services personnel standing to one side, staring at it with the sombre expressions that advertised this to be the scene of a fatality.
The sea of words was still flowing down the screen but Sophie wasn’t at all sure she could bear to read any more. She swiped the screen to try and see now much more therewasbut the action made the decision for her, when she spotted the final image. One that had been on the front page of one of the tabloids the day after Tom’s funeral.
A stark picture of the hearse that had been a sleek black custom conversion of an Audi as it pulled away from the church doors to carry Tom’s coffin to the cemetery. Sophie and Hannah clinging to each other, their faces hidden but every nuance of grief visible in their body language and the faces of onlookers, including Martin Baxter, a broken man, his face buried in his hands.
The sound of Luc’s phone ringing made Sophie jump. He put the phone to his ear, listening in silence for several seconds.
‘Yeah… I’ve seen it.’
He turned away from the window and began walking towards the front door of the house, as if he didn’t want Sophie to overhear his conversation. He didn’t look at her as he went past and that was the moment the realisation hit that perhaps they weren’t going to be facing this together. That the ashes Raven Vale had stirred up might be enough to destroy the fledging future that she and Luc had brought into being.
