The Very Picture of You (34 page)

‘Well… that’s what happens at this distance.’

‘Can you see yourself in mine?’

I looked into his pupils. ‘Yes – my hair’s a mess.’ I pulled at my fringe. ‘Hey, don’t blink. Right… that’s enough eyeballing.’ I went back to the easel and began to fill in Nate’s irises with a myriad dots of lamp black and viridian green.

‘I wonder how many times you look at the person while you’re painting them,’ I heard Nate ask.

‘Oh –
so
many.’ I wiped a drip of paint off the back of my hand. ‘A portrait consists of many thousands of glances. But you’re a terrific sitter, Nate. I’m going to nominate you for a Golden Behind award.’ I felt my face flush. ‘I mean… a Golden Chair.’

He grinned. ‘So have you worked out who I am yet?’

‘Hm… getting there.’

‘Let me know, won’t you? It’s been driving me crazy.’

‘I hope you’ll see it for yourself, in the portrait. And I hope you’ll be happy with it.’

‘Are
you
?’

‘I
love
it,’ I said unthinkingly.

Nate blinked. ‘You love my portrait?’

‘Yes… I just mean… that I feel a creative satisfaction with it. I think the composition’s worked really well – having you looking straight out of the canvas, eye to eye with the viewer – it’s dramatic and engaging and—’

‘In your face?’ Nate suggested.

I smiled. ‘It’s certainly very direct. I hope Chloë likes it,’ I added with a pang.

‘I’m sure she will.’ At that, Nate’s phone began to ring. He got it out of his pocket and peered at it. ‘In fact, that’s her now. Do you mind, Ella…?’

The skewer turned in my heart again. ‘That’s fine. We’ll have an early break.’

‘Hi, Chloë,’ Nate said as I filled the kettle. ‘No… you’re not interrupting.’ I could detect the enthusiasm and happiness in Chloë’s voice. ‘Er… I do like profiteroles,’ I heard Nate say as I spooned coffee into the pot. ‘No, I don’t mind
what
colour the crockery is… We’ll talk about the hymns – sure… I’ll see you later.’ He put the phone back in his pocket. ‘Sorry – Chloë’s getting all worked up about the wedding.’

‘But she seems very happy.’

He shrugged. ‘I think she is.’

‘And you must be too.’

He gave a bewildered laugh. ‘I guess I am. It’s pretty close now.’

‘Yes – so there’s
no
getting out of it,’ I declared cheerfully as I handed him his coffee. ‘Not that you’d want to,’ I added hastily. Then I asked Nate when his sisters and mother would be arriving, and how long they’d be staying, and whether his friend James was looking forward to being best man.

‘He can’t wait – he says he’s already written the speech.’ Nate went back to the chair and sat down.

I picked up my tiniest sable brush and started to paint the fringe of Nate’s eyelashes. When I’d done that I worked on the hollow at the base of his throat, on the
swell and curve of his Adam’s apple, then on the blue shadow beneath his chin. We were in silence now, except for the rumble of traffic and the somehow incongruous trilling of a blackbird.

I put down my brush. ‘That’s it, I think – for today.’

Nate stood up and stretched, then he took off his jumper. As he did so his shirt rode up, revealing his abdomen with its covering of dark, fine hair. I was almost felled by a wave of desire.

I put the palette back on the table, took off my apron, then we went down the stairs. I opened the front door. ‘So… we’re almost there.’

‘Almost there,’ Nate echoed quietly. ‘
Ciao
, Ella.’ He kissed me on the cheek, and as his skin grazed mine it was all I could do not to put my arms round his neck.

Instead I gave him a bright, impersonal smile. ‘Bye, Nate.’ I opened the door.

‘
Ciao
,’ he murmured. He was still standing there.

‘You’ve already said that.’

‘Have I? Oh…’ He kissed me again. ‘And had I done that?’

Heat spilled into my face. ‘Yes.’

‘Ah.’ He gave me a rueful, crooked smile. ‘I got confused.’

‘Well, please… don’t.’

‘I won’t,’ he responded firmly. ‘I mustn’t.’ Then, to my despair, he kissed me a third time, and left.

‘You’ve got that look on your face again,’ Celine said the following week. It was her final sitting.

I picked up my palette knife. ‘And what look’s that?’

‘A wistful one – as though you’re thinking about someone – a man.’ I didn’t answer. ‘I do wish you’d tell me about him,’ she added. ‘You know so much about me, after all.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’ I put a few red-gold highlights in Celine’s hair.

‘But there
is
someone…’

‘No. At least, no one that it could ever work out with.’

‘Why not? Is he… otherwise engaged?’

‘Yes. “Engaged” being the operative word.’

‘Ah.’ She sighed. ‘That’s hard.’

‘Yes.’ I put down the palette knife. ‘But there it is. Anyway… I’ve almost finished your portrait.’

‘You have?’

‘Just one more thing to do…’ I picked up a fine brush.

‘I shall miss the sittings,’ Cecile said. ‘I’ve come to enjoy them. I’m only sorry that I made it so tricky for you at the beginning.’

‘That’s okay.’ I dipped the brush in the titanium white. ‘I’m sure it helped the painting to have had that initial… tension,’ I said carefully. Celine smiled. Now I looked at her, then placed a touch of white in each eye. I stood back from the canvas. ‘That’s it.’

‘Let me see.’ Celine came over to the easel and stared at the painting. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said after a few moments. ‘Thank you, Ella.’

I’d worried that Celine would look anxious and un happy in the painting, but she looked calm and composed, though there was an air of determination about her.

She tilted her head. ‘I look as though I’m about to
get up and go somewhere. I think that’s what people will say.’

‘Perhaps some will, but we all see different things – it’s very subjective. Sometimes people see things in my portraits that I haven’t even seen myself.’ I picked a stray bristle off the canvas. ‘It’ll be a few weeks before it can be framed, but at least you’ll be able to display it in the meantime.’

She sucked on her lower lip. ‘I’m still not sure where: definitely not in
here
,’ she added wryly. I thought of her fury with her husband when he’d suggested that it should go above the mantlepiece. ‘Maybe in the study,’ she mused. ‘In fact, if you wouldn’t mind putting it in there now for me…’

‘Sure – that’ll be a good place for it to dry.’ I lifted the portrait off the easel and followed Celine across the hall into the study, then laid it on a corner table.

‘I hope Victor will like it,’ I said, as we returned to the drawing room.

‘I know he will.’

‘But a portrait’s a lovely thing to have and it will last for a long, long time.’ I began to pack up. ‘Barring fire, catastrophic flooding or nuclear attack, your portrait will
still
be being looked at in two or three hundred years, Celine.’

She smiled. ‘Which rather puts forty years into perspective.’

‘It does. So…’ I put the brushes in the box. ‘Are you looking forward to your birthday a bit more?’

‘I
am
,’ she answered carefully. ‘Not least because I’ve reached a compromise with Victor. We
are
going to have the party, because it would be disappointing for our friends if we cancelled it.’

I collapsed the easel. ‘Of course.’

‘But I’ve told him
not
to buy the diamond ring.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s far too extravagant a gift when things between us are so… unsettled. Instead I’ve asked him if he’ll make a donation to a charity.’

‘That’s nice,’ I said as I gathered up the dustsheet. I straightened up. ‘Any particular one?’

‘Yes. I was at a lunch a week ago,’ Celine said. ‘Sitting next to me was a man who runs a clean-water charity, Well-Spring.’

‘Max Viner?’

‘You know him?’

‘I do – a little.’ I wasn’t going to say how. ‘He’s married to the crime writer, Sylvia Shaw.’

‘
Was
married to her,’ Celine corrected me. ‘He told me that they separated three months ago and are divorcing.’

‘Really?’ I wondered if Chloë knew.

‘He talked about it briefly; he seemed sad, but said that it was mutual; it appears she’s involved with her publisher now.’

‘I see.’ The photo of Max standing proudly beside Sylvia at her book launch took on a different complexion.

‘Anyway, I was very impressed with what he told me about the charity, and so, having now talked to Max himself, Victor’s agreed to make a donation that will fund forty new hand-dug wells in Mozambique.’

‘How wonderful. What a fabulous birthday present!’

‘It is. He said that he still wants to give me something for myself – something memorable, he said, which is typically kind of him, but I can’t think of anything.’

I collapsed the easel. ‘I’ve decided that I’m going to do something for
my
birthday, Celine – it’s in mid-September. I want to have an exhibition of my recent portraits. I’ll hire a gallery for a few days and I’d like to borrow your portrait back, if you’ll lend it to me; and I’d love you to come – preferably wearing what I painted you in. Will you do that?’

Celine smiled. ‘I’d love to.’

I’d come to think of my forthcoming stay in Chichester as a working holiday, but it became clear from further telephone conversations with the Bergers that it was to be far more work than holiday, given that they now wanted the portrait to include their grown-up son and daughter, their three dogs and their two Siamese cats. I wasn’t about to complain – a big group portrait like that would boost the bank balance, but it would be a challenge to do it in a week: it would also need a large canvas; and I was just wondering how I’d transport it down there when Roy phoned to ask me if he could give my number to a colleague who wanted to have his daughter sketched.

‘Of course you can,’ I answered, cheered at the prospect of more work. ‘I’ll chat to him about the different options, so ask him to call me – thanks for that, Roy.’ I told him about my trip to Chichester.

‘That’s a big commission then.’

‘It is – with a correspondingly big canvas; I don’t know how I’ll get it down there.’

‘Surely you could buy the canvas in Chichester?’

‘I could, but I have to prime it with emulsion first, which takes two days to dry, so I want to take one from London, ready prepared. I’ll have to hire a car.’

‘You can borrow mine.’

‘Don’t you need it?’

‘I’m only at the hospital one day next week, and I’m sure your mother will lend me hers, or drop me there – it’s not a problem.’

‘Well, that would be great.’

So I went to collect the car on the Saturday morning. ‘This is really kind,’ I said to Roy as he unlocked the garage.

He pulled back the green painted doors. ‘Glad to help my Number One Girl.’ He went in and backed his silver Audi out on to the drive. He got out then gave me the keys. ‘Are you going to come in for a cup of something, before you go?’

‘Erm…’ I was worried that if I saw my mother, there might be a scene. ‘Is Mum here?’ I asked casually.

‘No.’ I felt a wave of relief. ‘She’s gone to collect her wedding outfit – it was being altered.’

‘Right… well, I’ll have a quick coffee then.’

We went into the house. It was the first time I’d been there since Mum had told me about Lydia. I sat at the same place at the kitchen table and remembered her eyes shimmering with tears, her face a mask of suffering.

I’ve never wanted to tell you the truth, Ella, but now I will.

She
hadn’t
told me the truth – just her own twisted version of it.

What you’re remembering is the day I saw your father with his… with… his…
’

Wife, I thought balefully.

‘Are you all right, Ella?’ Roy asked. ‘You look a bit… troubled.’

‘Oh… I’m fine.’ I was tempted to tell him about my father’s e-mail, but it felt wrong to do so before I’d had a chance to confront Mum about it, and as she was so busy I had no idea when that would be.

Roy filled the kettle. ‘I’ll have to hire a penguin suit,’ he said as he got down two mugs. I wondered what I was going to wear – I saw myself in funereal black.

The French windows were open. I went and stood by them and looked at the huge, luxuriantly green, lawn, fringed by the herbaceous border, with Chloë’s Wendy house, long since turned into a tool shed, at the far end, by the horse chestnut tree. I imagined the massive white tent with its awnings and ropes and gathered drapes. I imagined the guests drifting in and out of it in their formal suits and silk dresses and wide hats, and the cohorts of caterers, musicians and entertainers, all presided over by my mother with her glacial charisma and her ineffable poise.

Roy made the coffee. ‘So how do you think the garden’s looking?’

‘Wonderful.’

‘I’m just doing it bit by bit, with endless mowing and feeding and sprinkling – I’m praying there won’t be a hosepipe ban.’

‘Fingers crossed.’

‘And no freak winds – we don’t want the marquee ending up wrapped round the tree.’

‘That
would
be inconvenient. But it’s going to be a huge event.’

‘It is,’ Roy said wearily. He put our mugs of coffee on the table. ‘One hundred and
eighty
people are coming – and that’s without all the replies in yet.’

‘Good God.’

He sat down and sighed. ‘It’s too
much
. I tried to get your mother to agree to half that number, but she said she wanted a wedding that everyone would remember – and that’s what she’s going to get.’

We’ve got a huge cast list.

‘You’d think it was her
own
wedding that she was organising,’ he added wryly.

I’ve been thinking about confessi—

‘Roy—’ I said suddenly.

‘Yes?’

I went and sat opposite him, my heart thudding. ‘Roy, there’s something I want to tell you, even though I’m not sure that I should.’

He blinked. ‘Tell me what?’ His brow furrowed as he peered at me. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Ella?’