The Very Picture of You (25 page)

‘But… it takes
time
to emigrate,’ I protested. ‘All the bureaucracy – and the interviews.’

‘It takes a
lot
of time,’ Mum agreed. ‘So he would have known for at least eighteen months beforehand, probably more.’

‘But how had he managed to
hide
it from you?’

She rested her face in her hands. ‘I’ve
no
idea – but he did.’

‘He must have kept all the papers at work.’

Mum shrugged. ‘But this is where he was
so
cynical, Ella.’ She looked at me bleakly. ‘He’d been planning it with
her
, all those months, while continuing to talk to me about all the things that
we
were going to do, the three of us: he’d talk about the lovely house we’d buy, and the life that we’d live, the holidays we’d have, when
all
the time…’ Mum’s mouth quivered as she tried not to cry: then she looked at me with an air almost of triumph. ‘
Now
do you understand why I feel as I do?’

‘Yes,’ I said quietly.

‘You were almost five,’ she said. ‘Now you’re
thirty
-five. And your father says that he’d like to make amends – as though he believes that he can wipe the slate clean with a few e-mails. I don’t think he
can
. So…’ Mum looked at me imploringly, then she reached out her hand. ‘Are you going to answer him?’ I didn’t answer. ‘
Are
you, Ella?’ I felt her fingers close around mine.

‘No,’ I said, after a moment. ‘I’m not.’

‘So that’s that,’ I said to Polly, over lunch, a few days later. I’d already told her the bare bones of the story on the phone. Now, sitting in a quiet corner of the Kensington Café Rouge, I’d related it to her in more detail.

She sipped her mint tea. ‘So the memory that you
had was of him swinging
Lydia
through the air; but you’d thought it was you.’

‘Yes. And now I know
why
I’d remembered it – because I was almost five, not three: and because of the emotion of it all, I suppose.’

‘But what a
mess
your father got himself into.’

I nodded bleakly. ‘I keep thinking of myself, aged six, seven and eight, asking my mother when I’d see him, not knowing that he was on the other side of the world with his other family – his other little girl.’ The pain of this was so sharp that it was almost like a physical injury. The fact that Lydia had been born two years after me was an additional stab.

‘It does make your mother’s attitude easier to understand.’ Polly shook her head. ‘Even so, for her to have
kept
all this from you…’

‘And now I feel
confused
; because, on the one hand, I feel angry with her for concealing something so… enormous, but on the other hand, I guess she was right. As a child, I don’t think I
could
have coped with knowing that my father had left me in order to live with his other child, thousands of miles away. It would have felt like the most terrible rejection – it feels like that now.’

‘But he didn’t leave you in order to live with his other child, Ella. He left you in order to live with his girlfriend. It was your
mother
he was rejecting – not you.’

‘No – he was rejecting me too, because if he’d loved me enough then no one could have seduced him away from my mother. Instead he went to Australia, leaving behind utter heartbreak – a complicated fracture,’ I added bitterly.

Polly lowered her cup. ‘You said that Frances was Australian.’

‘She was: “was” being the operative word.’

Polly looked puzzled. ‘What are you saying? That she’s…?’

I nodded. ‘Last night I Googled “Frances Sharp”; the first thing to come up was her obituary.’

‘I see… that must have been a shock.’

‘It was – he’d said nothing about it.’ I reflected that my father had said nothing about himself in any of his e-mails – only that he hoped that we’d meet. ‘It was in the
Western Australian
, from last December; it said that she’d been ill for some time. She was seventy-six – ten years older than my father.’

‘That’s a big gap. So he must have really loved her.’

‘He clearly did. Mind you, Mum said that the fact that she had money would have featured in his… calculations.’

‘Your mother probably would say that, whether or not it was true,’ Polly pointed out. ‘But what did Frances do, that she had an obituary?’

‘She owned a winery near the Margaret River, south of Perth – it’s called Blackwood Hills. I then did a search on it and on the website it said that Frances’s parents had started it up in 1970 when that part of Australia was first being cultivated for wine. It explained that in 1979 she’d gone back to Australia to help them run it and that she inherited it in 1992, on her father’s death. The site briefly mentioned
my
father, but it was clear that the estate was managed primarily by Frances.’

‘So who runs it now? Lydia?’

‘Yes. With her husband, Brett – they got married last
year. There was a photo of them standing in a vineyard with the river in the background.’

‘Does she look like you?’

‘She does.’ I paused. ‘It was
weird
, Polly – recognising my own face in the face of a stranger.’ I felt a shiver run down my spine.

‘And… have you told your mother any of this?’

‘No. Because now that I know what my father did, I feel there’s nothing more to say.’

Polly stirred her mint tea. ‘A few weeks ago I said that perhaps there was another side to the story – that it might somehow be better than you thought: but it was worse.’

‘Yes – and the fact that he’s only contacted me now that Frances has died is another mark against him. Perhaps he promised her that he wouldn’t look for me while she was alive,’ I added bitterly.

‘But he didn’t know where you
were
until he saw that piece in
The Times
.’

‘I’m sure he
could
have found me, if he’d wanted to. So if I choose to reject him now, it’s no more than he deserves.’

‘And… would you want to get in touch with Lydia?’

I didn’t answer for a moment. ‘I’m still trying to get my head around the idea that she
exists.
It’s like discovering that I’ve got another arm – I can’t quite cope with it. But I can hardly contact her if I’m refusing to see him, so I guess the answer to your question has to be no.’

Polly sighed. ‘It seems… sad.’

‘It suppose it does, but lots of people have half-siblings that they never get to see. But at least my mother’s finally told me everything.’

‘Well…’ Polly grimaced. ‘Let’s hope she
has
.’ I glanced at her. ‘And presumably she’s told Roy too?’ I nodded. ‘What did he say?’

‘Not very much – he was shocked. But he texted me afterwards to say that he’d like to have lunch with me next week.’

Polly nodded then glanced at her watch. ‘We’d better go, Ella, or we’ll miss our appointment.’ She waved at the waiter.

I opened my bag. ‘So we’re having a pedicure?’

‘We are,’ she said as the waiter brought the bill.

‘But why would you ask me to have a pedicure with you when you’ve never wanted to have one with me before? In fact, I thought you
never
have professional pedicures in case they cut your nails all wrong and put you out of work.’

‘
This
pedicure’s different.’ Polly flashed me an enigmatic smile. ‘You’ll see.’

‘You’re being very mysterious,’ I said as we crossed Kensington Church Street. As we turned into Holland Street I remembered that this was where Iris had lived before she moved to her flat. I was looking forward to our next sitting.

We passed a patisserie and an art gallery then Polly stopped outside the last shop in the terrace. ‘We’re here.’

I read the sign. ‘Aqua Sheko?’ Through the window I could see a row of large clear tanks in each of which was a shoal of tiny dark fish. ‘What
is
this? A sushi bar? We eat fish while we have our feet done?’

‘No,’ she said brightly. ‘The fish eat
us.
My treat, by the way.’

‘Thanks,’ I said uncertainly.

We went in, and the proprietor, a young Chinese
woman, took our shoes, then we sat down while she washed and dried our feet.

‘Okay,’ said Polly. ‘Up we go.’

We climbed on to the green leather bench. Polly dipped her perfect feet into her tank and I shuddered as the fish swarmed towards them in a writhing black mass.

‘Come and
get
it,’ Polly crooned at them.

‘They’re not baby piranha, are they, Pol?’

‘Nope – they’re tiny carp called Gara Rufa. They don’t even have teeth – they just suck.’ She nodded at my tank. ‘Your turn.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘Yes – they’re hungry.’

I peered at the wriggling black shapes then, grimacing, lowered my feet into the lukewarm water. The fish darted towards them and I felt their mouths dock against my skin. I shivered with distaste. ‘Ooh… It tickles. But… it’s
okay
, actually: in fact it’s quite nice.’

‘I thought you’d say that,’ said Polly. ‘In the wild they clean the scales of bigger fish, which is what human feet look like to them. They’ll nibble the dead skin off your soles and heels, then they’ll go between your toes and around your nails.’

‘Yum.’

‘And there’s some hormone in their spit that’s good for stress.’

‘I could certainly do with
that
.’

I was surprised at how quickly I was able to forget about the fish as Polly and I sat there, quietly chatting, sipping green tea. Occasionally a passer-by would stop and gawp at us through the window.

‘Have you had much work, Pol?’ I asked her.

‘I did a shoot at the British Museum last week. I had to hold this Ming vase. It was worth thirty-two million pounds, so they had security guards there to make sure I didn’t run off with it and a thick mattress underneath, in case I dropped it, but luckily I’ve got very steady hands. Then I’ve got a booking this Friday – I’ve got to run my hands up Pierce Brosnan’s naked back.’

‘Sounds nice.’

‘No,’ Polly protested. ‘It’s
dull.
These jobs always are. I’ve stroked Sean Connery’s chin, Sean Bean’s chest, Jude Law’s legs, David Beckham’s pecs, Clive Owen’s
face,
’ she added in a sing-song. ‘It’s
so
boring – especially when we have to do twenty-five re-takes.’ She stifled a yawn. ‘I’d love to
stop,
or maybe not stop, because the money’s quite good, but I’d like to do something
new
as well – something a bit more
stimulating
– not that I’ve any idea what.’

A woman walked, or rather wobbled past the window – teetering along on five-inch platforms.

‘See that?’ I said to Polly. ‘
Why
do women wear big platforms? They’re not even attractive – they’re just clumpy and ugly – and dangerous.’

Polly sipped her tea. ‘Well, originally they were very practical shoes, designed to lift the wearer out of all the muck and filth on eighteenth-century streets.’

‘I see…’ I peered at ‘my’ fish, which had now encircled my lower shins like feathery anklets. ‘And have you had any luck on the man front?’

Polly cocked her head to one side. ‘There’s a very nice divorced dad at Lola’s school – we’ve chatted at drop-off a few times and I
think
he’s interested. But if he asks me out I’m
not
going to tell him what I do. I want a
man who’s attracted to my face – not my feet,’ she added firmly. ‘What about your love life?’

I thought of Nate. ‘Nothing.’

‘Are you still painting Nate?’ Polly asked, as though she’d read my mind.

‘Yes. We’ve got a couple more sittings – then that’s it.’ Only two more ‘dates with Nate’, I reflected regretfully.

‘Are you happy with his portrait?’

‘It’s… fine. In fact I think it’s going to be
more
than fine.’ The work I’d done to it after the engagement party had been good, despite the fact that I’d been painting by electric light, and had had quite a lot to drink. But now I felt that I could see more of Nate’s soul.

‘That’s great.’ Polly sipped her tea. ‘I’m glad you came to like him, Ella – and it must have made him much easier to paint.’ I didn’t tell Polly that it had made it infinitely harder. I’d never told her what I felt for Nate. There were times when I’d been tempted to, but I felt ashamed to admit it, even to her. I suspected that Polly had guessed, but she’d been too tactful to say anything.

She took her feet out of her tank. ‘So how’s it going with the wedding?’

‘Oh… pretty well, I think. Despite last week’s emotional upset, it all seems to be under control. Chloë’s asked me to do a reading.’

‘That’s nice – what are you going to read?’

‘I don’t know – she’s still choosing.’

Polly dried her toes. ‘It’s very nice of her to invite me and Lola.’

‘Well, she’s known you all her life – and my parents want you to be there too, as do I. It’s going to be a huge do.’

‘So how’s Chloë feeling?’

‘Pretty nervous.’ I thought of her tearful anxiety at the engagement party.

‘That’s normal,’ Polly remarked. ‘Remember how terrified I was before I married Ben?’ I nodded. ‘Though it was with good reason, now I come to think about it. I knew, even as I walked up the aisle that I was making a mistake. It was an awful feeling. How I managed to make my vows I don’t know. But Chloë’s happy?’

I shrugged. ‘She seems to be. She keeps saying how wonderful Nate is – in fact she constantly eulogises him and so… what’s the matter?’

‘Erm… nothing.’

‘You were frowning, Pol – tell me what you’re thinking.’

For a moment Polly looked as though she might, but then I felt my phone vibrate. ‘Just a second,’ I said as I took it out of my pocket. I peered at the screen.

Seeing my father’s name, in light of what I’d recently learned about him, gave me a sick feeling. ‘I’ve had another message from my father.’

‘Really? What does he say?’