Chapter 21
It didn’t happen all at once.
There wasn’t a bolt of lightning that sent both Sophie and Luc spiralling into the past so they were back to a point where it was impossible to even be in the same room as each other.
It happened slowly. Like a creeping kind of slime.
At first Sophie was too overwhelmed to notice.
She tried to comfort Tilly and tell her everything would be okay as they hurried through the final touches of packing up after the wedding, so they could all escape, but it was an automatic response.
She had no idea what they might be up against this time and didn’t want to find out until she and Luc were alone together.
They had coped with their shared grief the other night and had come through it with a stronger bond than ever. Surely they could get through whatever Raven Vale was choosing to reveal?
When they finally got back to Sophie’s little house with its sky-blue door they sat on the couches with their phones, the shock finally having worn off enough to be able to read the text of the blog and make sense of it.
They had to do that, they’d decided, so that they knew what they might be up against.
And Sophie could actually feel that slime oozing from the words this journalist was throwing into cyber space.
She’d been wary of the freelance journalist the day of Zara’s wedding.
Even now she could feel a faint touch of the chill she’d felt when he’d pretty much admitted to having cyber-stalked her.
The first paragraph of his blog was enough to give her even more to dislike about his personality.
As you all know, dear followers, I’m a mystic kind of Goth. I play with Tarot cards, I love astrology, dabble in numerology and I simply adore the symbolism and hidden meanings that lie beneath the fabric of an ordinary, or not so ordinary, life.
And this time, my lovelies, I’ve hit the most divine jackpot of tragedy and death, heartbreak and lives destroyed, and maybe even… forbidden love.
Ooh… I’m salivating like a vampire in a blood bank…
How could he make something associated with Sophie’s life sound so…
distasteful? She lifted her gaze to where Luc was sitting on the other couch but he was mesmerised by his own screen.
She couldn’t see any movement in his eyes that might suggest he was reading.
Perhaps he was staring into something his own mind was producing.
Those ghastly, soul-destroying memories that were being brought out of storage for the whole world to gawk at?
Did you know that the symbolic gift for a ten-year wedding anniversary is tin?
You can easily preserve almost anything by encasing it in tin. Like baked beans or soup.
And secrets?
Stay with me here. I promise you it’s worth it.
If you’re into numerology, ten years is significant. The number ten represents new beginnings with the completion of one cycle and the start of another.
Ten years. A decade. Or should that be decayed?
I digress but, in my defence, I’m a little light-headed. Possibly euphoric, which is somewhat disconcerting, I must confess, but don’t worry – I’ll return to my celebration of sadness, longing for what I cannot have and devout existential reflection very soon.
The first image in the blog was of Sophie. The one taken of her with Tilly when Tilly was holding the chain made with forget-me-nots.
Its caption read:
Forget-me-nots in every bouquet of wedding flowers. Who wouldn’t appreciate that special hidden message?
Not so long ago, I was honoured to be invited to cover a very special wedding.
Shout out to Zara Beaumont, the most successful beauty and lifestyle influencer the social media world has ever embraced.
You may have read my article in Vogue Weddings but, if you missed it, you’ll find the link below.
Click on Zara’s link, too. She’s worth following.
‘Oh, God,’ Sophie muttered under her breath. Had he tagged Zara and her millions of followers to share this blog?
It was held in the South of France, in a gorgeous medieval castle with the most delicious little cemetery.
The company who supplied the venue and created a wedding to die for was Marry Me in Provence, owned and managed by Sophie Spencer.
I was intrigued to meet this woman because I had discovered something that not a lot of people know about her – that her fiancé was killed in a tragic accident the very night before they were due to get married.
Not that she was going to talk about it but I’ve finally found out why she looked as shocked as she did when I broached the subject.
She had been shocked, Sophie couldn’t deny that.
Having someone ask about her tragic history, out of nowhere, like that had been a curveball she could never have prepared for.
No wonder the ghosts were dancing around Raven Vale.
No wonder Sophie had been hit with that horrible flashback when she’d seen Zara’s wedding dress hanging on the back of the door and all she could see was her own dress hanging on her bedroom door, when she’d walked back in from leaving the hospital, Tom’s blood still on her clothes and her hands.
As if he’d read her thoughts, a sound of muted distress came from Luc, and Sophie’s head flicked sideways in alarm.
‘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 chateau?
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 and he wasn’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?