“Niamh?” Tommy is holding court in the middle of a tour group as I enter. He looks up and his eyes lock on me. My skirt whispers along the floor, flirting with the cobblestones. His eyes on mine make me feel like the prettiest girl in the world. Well, they do until I realize I still have my neon pink trainers on. I do my best to hide them, making a mental note to pack my ballet pumps for my actual shift.
“Hey,” I reply, suddenly uncertain under his – and now the crowd’s – avid gaze. Did I forget to zip it up or something? “What’s wrong?” I twist my body around, craning my neck to check the back. All looks fine to me.
“Nothing,” he breathes, his eyes narrowed and tight. He approaches me slowly, as though I’m a venomous snake he might have to subdue. “You look . . . different, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” I joke, desperate to break the intensity. “Not quite my usual farm-girl get up, alright.”
He just stares at me.
“I live on a farm, you know, at home? In Ireland?”
He nods, blue eyes not moving from mine. OK, then. This is intense.
“Well, young Niamh.” Oh, thank God. Geoffrey approaches and his booming voice breaks the silence. I turn gratefully towards it. “You look the part, I must say. A superb Jane.”
“Jane?” Tommy echoes.
“Yes,” Geoffrey says, bowing towards a couple of tourists who have broken away from Tommy’s group and are strolling past. They smile at us before carrying on. “Jane was the daughter of the mill owner here. Your dress is modelled on an old portrait that was found down here during the renovations.” He looks at me closely. “I must say, the drama school did a wonderful job. The resemblance is quite uncanny, isn’t it, Tommy?”
Tommy nods mutely – he still hasn’t taken his eyes off me.
“Oh, well that’s good, isn’t it?” My voice sounds uncertain even to me. There is something off here, and I don’t know what.
“It is indeed!” Geoffrey is clearly delighted. “Come, she’s hanging in the dressing room.” He chuckles when he notices the blood drain from my face. “The portrait, my dear, Jane’s portrait. You should see it. It really is quite uncanny.”
I trail after him reluctantly. Tommy doesn’t move and when I turn to check if he’s following, he’s melted back into the shadows, the automatic timers slowly returning the street to dusk.
Geoffrey pauses in front of me, holding a door ajar, and gestures for me to take the lead. I enter a Victorian lady’s dressing room, complete with ornate dressing table, padded chair and an oval looking glass.
Only, I realize, it’s not a looking glass. It’s a portrait. An old portrait of a young, pale-skinned girl of around sixteen. A smattering of freckles dusts her nose and dark, wavy hair tumbles over the lace collar at her throat. The embroidery on her dress seems to shimmer and large sleeves gather around her elbows.
I’m not actually looking in a mirror – but I might as well be.
“You’re so overdramatic!” Meghan laughs at me from the screen. “She hardly looks like you.”
“She does so,” I reply, tracing my nails over the stone wall outside the museum. The air is warm, welcome after the air-conditioning inside. My induction is officially over, and my first full shift will be later this week. I was a bit freaked out about the portrait, so I rang my darling sister, who immediately looked the flaming thing up online and is still mocking me for it.
“Yeah, yeah.” She scrambles back up the bed and into a sitting position. Our room is a tip.
“What have you been doing to the room? I’ve only been gone five minutes!”
Meghan shrugs. “Fashion show. I figured your wardrobe was fair game, what with you being away from home.”
“What?” Another peal of laughter echoes from the tinny speakers. Wind-up merchant.
“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t be seen dead in your gear. You took all the good stuff.” She sits up straighter. “Actually, have you seen my denim jacket?”
“Er, what was that?” I wobble the phone around, so my face appears as a blur in the corner of the screen.
“Niamh. Have you taken it?”
“Megs, you’re breaking up . . . can’t hear . . . frozen . . . love you, bye!” I disconnect the call and make a mental note not to tag any photos where I’m wearing her jacket.
I swing my legs down off the riverside wall and begin the walk back up to the Globe. I’m not in a rush to get back to the new halls and I’m hoping that I can lose myself in a bit of theatre. A rosy-cheeked lady in a red apron exchanges my crumpled five-pound note for a standing ticket and I follow the crowd into the circular yard of the theatre. It’s magnificent.
The set is minimal, but the actors are wonderful – so good that I’m glad there’s no huge set to distract from them. It’sA Midsummer Night’s Dream, a play I’m not familiar with, but the actors are masters of timing and the audience are enraptured. Before I can catch my breath, the company leaves the stage and an interval is called. People begin to stream out of the courtyard to my left and right, which is when I spot a familiar figure in the thinning crowd.
“Tommy?”
