The Very Picture of You (29 page)

He’d messaged me earlier in the week to say that he’d be returning from Stockholm on Saturday so wouldn’t be able to make this week’s sitting. I consoled myself with the thought that the delay would at least mean that
the portrait process would continue for longer. I was tempted to make deliberately slow progress in order to justify asking him for a few extra sittings.

On Sunday I got up late, showered, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and went out. I intended to power-walk up to Sloane Square and back, but as I crossed the railway bridge I decided to turn down Lots Road and have a look at the auction house.
Previewing Now
announced the sandwich board on the pavement outside. I pushed on the swing doors and went into the huge, hangar-like room. I looked at the Persian carpets hanging on their rails, and the suites of modern furniture and the assortment of silver plate. There was a big leather rhinoceros, a footstool upholstered with a Union Jack, and a rather lovely silver ink well in the shape of a shell. I peered at it in its glass case, tempted to leave a bid for it.

‘That’s George the Third,’ said a familiar voice. As I turned and saw Nate I felt my face flush with pleasure and surprise – and discomfiture. I wished that I’d worn something nicer, or at least put on a little make-up.

‘What are
you
doing here?’ I glanced round, half-expecting to see Chloë amongst the people inspecting the lots.

Nate shrugged. ‘I just came out for a walk. I sometimes come down here on Sunday mornings for the interest of it – occasionally I buy something. Anyway, that inkpot…’ he flipped through the catalogue in his hands, ‘…is London silver, circa 1810, made by Thomas Wallis.

‘Right… and… is… Chloë here?’

Nate shook his head. ‘She’s gone to see your folks.’

‘Really? I haven’t spoken to her for a while.’

‘I only got back from Stockholm last night: so she said that she’d let me off coming with her because she just wants to talk to them about wedding things… Anyway,… I’m at a bit of a loose end.’ I nodded. ‘And… what are you doing now?’

‘Erm… nothing much.’

‘Good – because I was just about to go and find myself some lunch. Will you join me?’

‘Yes.’ I looked at my jeans. ‘As long as it’s not anywhere smart.’

Nate smiled. ‘You look great. So… where shall we go?’

‘Megan’s Deli?’ I suggested. ‘Though that gets busy on Sundays. Or there are a couple of places on the river…

‘Let’s try that,’ Nate decided.

So Nate and I walked down Lots Road in the shadow of the power station, then we turned on to the Thames Path and strolled along the embankment, past the houseboats and barges, towards Albert Bridge. Terns wheeled and dived above the water. The day was warm, so we just walked on, talking about politics, and the weather, the price of groceries and the last film we’d each seen.

‘What about this?’ Nate said as we came to the Cheyne Walk Brasserie.

‘Looks good.’

We managed to get a corner table and sank on to the blue leather banquette.

‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ Nate said as we looked at the menu.

‘Yes – please.’

‘How about a bottle?’

‘No – I couldn’t manage a whole bottle.’

‘To share, I mean. With me.’

‘Oh – a much better idea.’

Nate laughed. ‘It’s funny seeing you outside of the studio,’ he said. ‘You’re so much more relaxed, though I miss having you staring at me in that insane way of yours.’

‘I don’t stare on Sundays. I give my eyeballs the day off.’ Nate placed our order and the waiter quickly returned with the wine and filled our glasses. ‘So…’ I raised my glass. ‘Cheers.’

Nate lifted his. ‘
Salute
.’

Over the smoked salmon starter the conversation turned to Nate’s father – I thought, with a rush of adrenalin, about my own father, who would perhaps even now be landing in London, if he wasn’t already here. I tried to push the thought away.

‘Ella,’ said Nate, ‘can I ask you something?’

‘Sure. What?’

‘It’s a bit personal.’

‘Really? Like – what’s my favourite colour? Well, if you must know, it’s phthalocyanine turquoise, with transparent oxide yellow coming a close second. What’s yours?’

‘Er… green. But that’s not what I was going to ask. I was going to ask you… tell me to get lost, if you want to, but how could your mother…’ Nate gave a bewildered shrug. ‘How could she
not
have told you something so huge?’

‘Chloë’s obviously mentioned what’s happened.’

He nodded. ‘Your father…
did
contact you.’

‘Yes. In fact he’d already done so when I talked to you about him that day.’

‘
Ah
…’

‘But I didn’t tell you because, well… I was worried that you might tell Chloë, who might have told Mum.’

‘I know how to keep a secret, Ella,’ Nate said gently. ‘But
now
I understand why you were so upset that time… I just…
hated
seeing you like that.’

I realised that Nate
had
simply been consoling me when he’d held me in his arms that day. As my mother had correctly identified, he was a compassionate sort of man – and a tactile one, not afraid to give someone a hug if they were feeling low. I banished my dangerous, deluded and futile fantasy that his touch had ever meant anything more.

‘So… do you think you’ll want to see… John?’ Nate asked. ‘And your sister?’

My sister…
? ‘My sister’ had only ever meant Chloë. Now it meant another woman, who I’d met just once, for a few moments, when we were both very young children. ‘I… don’t
know
. I’m still really confused… so… I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s okay.’

‘Of course,’ Nate murmured. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude.’

‘You weren’t intruding.’ I sipped my wine. ‘How could I possibly think you were when I’ve already told you so much about it. But there’s enough going on in the family at the moment, with the wedding, so I just want to… park it all for now.’

Nate nodded. ‘I understand,’ He deftly turned the conversation to other things and the awkwardness of the moment passed. I felt so happy just being with him, in this un expected way, that I had to stop myself from smiling too much.
I’ve had an extra three hours with
him
, I reflected. As the waiter brought the bill. I reached for my bag.

Nate shook his head. ‘Put that away, Ella.’

‘But…’

‘I’m Italian – I don’t go Dutch; anyway, I invited you.’

‘Well, I’m glad you did. It’s been lovely Nate. Thanks.’

As we strolled back along the embankment, Nate’s phone rang.

He reached into his pocket. ‘I’m sorry – I’d better…’

‘It’s okay.’ I hoped the call wasn’t from Chloë. A call from Chloë would break the spell.

‘Hi, Chloë,’ Nate said. ‘Yes… I’m fine.’

Her clear, light voice cut through the ether. ‘…still in Richmond,’ I heard her say. ‘…so where are you, then?’

‘Well…’ Nate had flushed. I wondered whether he’d tell Chloë about our lunch. ‘I’ve just bumped into Ella.’

‘How
funny
– well, give her my love.’

He glanced at me. ‘Sure. So… see you later, Chloë.’

‘Yes,’ she said warmly. ‘I’ll see you later, darling. I can’t
wait
.’

When I got back to the house there was a message from Roy on my answerphone.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch with you about our lunch,’ he said when I called him back. ‘I’ve been covering for a colleague, so life’s been frantic; but now I’ve got a few days off, so would tomorrow be okay?’

‘Yes – where shall we meet?’

‘I thought somewhere close to you. How about that pub on the King’s Road – the Chelsea Potter? I’m sure you know it.’

‘I do.’ It was dangerously close to the Café de la Paix. ‘I’m… not sure about meeting there, Roy.’

‘Well… it would be convenient for us both as I can just walk up to Sloane Square tube afterwards, but it doesn’t matter – we can go somewhere else. What about—’

‘It’s okay,’ I said suddenly. ‘The Chelsea Potter’s fine.’

‘Good. So I’ll see you there at, what… one?’

‘Could we make it half past twelve?’ Then we’d easily be out by two-thirty, which would give me time to leave the danger zone before three o’clock.

‘Half twelve it is then,’ said Roy.

I went up to the King’s Road an hour beforehand as there were some things I needed to do. First I went into Graham and Stone and bought lots of oil paints, some canvas stretchers, and a few brushes. I also looked at frames, and decided that the Dutch Black with the brass scrolling would suit Mike’s portrait. I took a photo of it to e-mail to him. Then I went up to Waterstone’s as there was a new book about Whistler that I wanted to buy. On the way there, I passed the Café de la Paix. I looked through the full-length glass window at the simple interior. How strange to think that in three hours time my father would be seated at one of those tables. I quickened my step, and walked on.

Now I wondered whether I should send him a text to say that I wouldn’t be coming. I hadn’t replied to any of his e-mails, because to do so, if only to say that I didn’t wish to see him, would have been to begin a dialogue with him that I just didn’t want. Even so, I felt guilty at the thought of wasting his time. Then I decided
that there was no need for me to feel guilty about anything vis-à-vis my father. If he chose to spend a few hours in a café on the King’s Road, then that was a matter for him.

In Waterstone’s I looked for the Whistler biography but couldn’t find it. As the assistant went to see if there might be a copy in the stock room, I browsed through the fiction on the tables; I was about to pick up the new Kate Atkinson when I noticed several piles of Sylvia Shaw’s latest novel,
Dead Right
.

I read the back with its gushing hyperbole:
Riveting…Daily Mail; Thrilling… GQ; It’s Shaw good!… Express.
Now I studied the author’s photo. It was more flattering than the one in
Hello!
, but she still looked rather grim-faced, as though she thought it inappropriate for someone who wrote about murder and mayhem to smile. I turned to the dedication page –
For Max –
and marvelled that she’d never known about her husband’s affair.

The bookshop assistant reappeared and told me that they didn’t have the Whistler in stock, so I ordered it then had a quick look at the greetings cards. There was already a selection for Father’s Day so I bought one to give Roy –
I’ve Got the World’s Greatest Dad:
as I left the shop I reflected that I pretty much had. It was Roy who’d taken me to the park and taught me to ride a bike. It was Roy who’d helped me with my homework and who’d turned out to watch me in school hockey matches, concerts and plays. It was Roy who’d coped with my teenage years, and who’d regularly come out at two in the morning to get me safely home from parties and clubs. It was Roy who’d paid my art school fees and who’d lent me half the deposit to buy my house.

I pushed on the door of the Chelsea Potter and there he was, on the other side of the wood-panelled saloon, waving at me.

I went over to his table, greeted him with a kiss, then hung the carrier bag containing my new paints and brushes on the back of my chair. As I sat down he asked me what I’d like to drink then handed me a menu. I glanced at it. ‘I’ll just have some soup.’

‘Have more than that, Ella.’

‘I’m not hungry, thanks; I’m a bit… stressed.’

‘Well, that’s hardly surprising. Right… I’ll go and order.’ Roy went to the bar and returned with a pint of lager for him and my diet Coke.

We sipped our drinks then he lowered his glass. ‘Ella, I just wanted to talk to you,’ he said. ‘Because I felt it was important, firstly, that I should tell you, face to face, that I had
no
idea about, well… what you’ve at long last learned. If I
had
known, I’d have compelled your mother to tell you.’

‘Which is why she concealed it from you too. Mum’s good at keeping secrets, isn’t she?’ I stared at the island of ice in my drink. ‘I keep thinking that she should have been a spy, not a dancer.’

Roy laughed softly. ‘I love your mother, Ella, but she’s handled things with you
so
badly. I’m appalled at the degree to which she’s…
manipulated
things.’

‘Oh, she has.’
I know how I want things to be.
I looked at Roy. ‘But did you ever guess? About Lydia, I mean?’

He shook his head. ‘I did once ask your mother whether she thought that you might have any siblings in Australia. She replied that she didn’t want to think
about whether or not there were – which wasn’t a lie, and wasn’t the truth, as we now know. But the second, more important, thing I wanted to say to you today was that I feel your mother’s putting pressure on you
not
to reply to… to your…’ Roy’s voice had caught.

‘To John,’ I said gently.

‘To John. Yes…’ He cleared his throat, then paused. ‘She’s saying that you shouldn’t have anything to do with him – on
my
account. But I just want you to know that, if you do decide to contact… John, then, I’d be… fine about it. I’d support you, Ella.’

‘Well… that would make you very unpopular with Mum.’

He shrugged. ‘So be it. You must put your own feelings before hers – or mine.’ He paused while the barman brought my minestrone and Roy’s fish pie. ‘Anyway,’ he exhaled painfully. ‘You need to give it careful thought.’

‘Thanks, Roy, but I already have.’ He glanced at me anxiously. ‘And I’ve decided that I’m
not
going to get in touch with him.’

A flicker of relief passed across Roy’s features. ‘Well… it’s not long since you found out. Your feelings may change,’ he added fairly.

‘I don’t think they will. So I’m not going to answer his e-mails, and I’m certainly not going to see him.’

‘See him?’

I broke my bread roll. ‘I wouldn’t see him even if he was in London right now. I wouldn’t see him even if he was in
this
part of London, just a few minutes away from where we’re sitting. I’d walk
right
past him, without giving him so much as a glance.’