Plotted in Cornwall by Janie Bolitho

pain, or anyone else’s pain. Far away seagulls floated on the swell, one or other of them taking off and landing again.
    Anna Hicks. Cornish then, or had been married to a Cornishman to possess such a name. A beautician. Rose pictured a slender figure in a crisp white uniform, bare, suntanned legs beneath it. She would have perfect make-up, hair and nails. Someone young, someone beautiful, someone who would not turn Jack away. And bright, too, if she ran a successful business.
    Why do I care? she asked herself not for the first time. Why does this hurt so much? I’ve had my chance. Even up to Thursday I had my chance. Jack wanted more from the relationship than I did. You will not cry, Rose Trevelyan. You will not sodding well cry.
    But she did. Only briefly, but it brought relief.
    Then she flexed her fingers, picked up the brush and began to work, changing the actual gentle swell to angry waves with forceful strokes of the sable.
     
    By the following Thursday there was still no news of Frank and no one had been in touch with Louisa and Wendy regarding his whereabouts. They had decided to forget the matter.
    They were still discussing how they wanted Rose Trevelyan to portray them half an hour before she arrived. ‘Two aristocratic-looking ladies?’ Louisa suggested with a grin. ‘Or two rather intellectual women, struggling against all odds out on the moors?’
    ‘How about two middle-aged women with a streak of vanity?’ Wendy was preparing the coffee tray.
    ‘You have no romance, my dear. That’s far too realistic.’ Louisa opened the window. Her face was hot. Wendy had been baking and the range was fired up. It was a muggy day with a hint of dampness in the air. Christmas was drawing nearer. It had been predicted to be a mild one. ‘She’s here. Iheard the car.’
    Louisa went to let Rose in, surprised at the informality of her clothes. I suppose she needs to feel comfortable to work, she realised, taking in the paint-stained jeans, the baggy sweater and the tiredness in her face. ‘Coffee first?’
    ‘That would be lovely.’ Rose followed her into the cheerful lounge and placed her canvas bag on the thick carpet. When Louisa left the room she went to the tall windows at the back. There was nothing to see but the moors stretching into the distance. No houses, no people, only peace. Barren and wild it might be but Rose could never have lived there, or anywhere where the sea was not in sight.
    The sisters appeared together. Coffee was served and they sat down.
    Rose took a sip. It was as good as the last time. ‘Have you come to any decisions?’
    ‘More or less. Profile, or three-quarter face. Both of us looking in the same direction. Not too formal, not too casual.’ It was Wendy who replied.
    ‘That sounds fine. Do you want a plain background or to be posed in front of something in particular?’
    ‘Plain, don’t you think?’
    Louisa nodded and took a biscuit.
    ‘Shall we get started?’ Rose said a few minutes later.
    For the next couple of hours she worked without speaking, other than to instruct the women how to sit or stand or hold their heads. She photographed them from every angle then sketched them together, facing one way then the other. Wendy, the shorter of the two, was on her sister’s right. The discrepancy in height gave better balance to the portrait Rose had in mind.
    It was almost twelve when she packed up her gear. By the look of her clients they were as exhausted as Rose was. ‘You have a lovely house,’ she said by way of conversation.
    ‘Thank you. We think so, too. Would you like me to show you around?’
    ‘I’d love it, Mrs Jordan.’
    ‘I think first names are called for if we’re to see a lot of each other. Follow me.’
    Rose put down her bag and climbed the beautiful staircase. It was lined with paintings, all tastefully framed and hung with care. Off the landing there were three bedrooms and, she was glad to see, a proper bathroom. Roughing it without