The Very Picture of You (38 page)

‘With me,’ I answered. ‘After twenty-nine years, you count as family.’

So the three of us sat in the second pew on the left-hand side, leaving the front pew for my mother and Roy. The soprano, Katarina, was already sitting there, looking through her music folder. The sun sliced through the stained-glass windows scattering coloured shards across the walls and floor.

Now Nate came and took his place at the front.

‘Well,’ said Polly as she looked at him. ‘You did say he was attractive.’ She glanced at me. ‘You enjoyed painting him, didn’t you?’

‘I did,’ I said neutrally.

‘He looks nervous,’ Lola observed.

‘He does rather,’ Polly murmured.

Nate didn’t look so much nervous as troubled, I reflected.

Across the aisle, a number of women, who, I assumed, were Nate’s sisters, were taking their places with their husbands and children; I could hear them chatting in a mixture of Italian and English.

– Che bella chiesa.

–
I am so jet-lagged.

– Che bei fiori.

– Si, sono magnifici
: I shoulda had lunch.

– Mamma dice che il ritratto é un
disastro.

‘Are those
all
his relations?’ Polly asked me wonderingly.

‘I think they must be.’ I tried to work out
why
Nate’s mother should think the portrait a ‘
disastro
’. It
wasn’t
a disaster – it was a good, vibrant portrait. She and Chloë obviously hadn’t liked the composition. Now here
his mother was, in an emerald-green two-piece with a navy hat and shoes. As she stepped into her pew I smiled at her and she smiled back then fixed her gaze on the altar. I turned and had a quick look behind. The central part of the church was now full.

A friend of Chloë’s, in a beige silk dress, teetered past on six-inch black stilettos: for a moment she looked as though she might fall.

‘She needs stabilisers,’ I murmured to Polly. ‘Or maybe a Zimmer frame.’

Polly nodded. ‘In the seventeenth century the aristocrats used to wear heels so high that they’d have a servant on either side, holding them up as they walked along.’

‘How sensible…’ I opened the book of poems.

Polly glanced at it. ‘Are you nervous?’

‘Very. I haven’t read anything in public since I was at school: by the way, how’s it going with the nice dad?’

‘Fine.’ Polly smiled. ‘He’s coming to lunch tomorrow.’

‘Good. Have you told him what you do for a living yet?’

‘I have, and it’s not a problem. In
fact
—’

Suddenly the organ stopped and the hubbub subsided. The vicar, Reverend Hughes, had stepped out on to the altar. He lifted his hands and we all stood up.

He smiled. ‘May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all…’

‘And also with you,’ we intoned.

I turned and saw, across the sea of hats, Chloë silhouetted against the west doors of the church, with Roy beside her, and behind her Mum, who was making some last-minute adjustment to Chloë’s dress. Then the
‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’ sounded, and Chloë stepped forward.

As Chloë processed slowly up the aisle on Roy’s arm, my mother walked quickly up the left side of the church and slipped into the pew in front of us. Now Chloë was passing us, gloriously beautiful in her forget-me-not scattered tulle, an organza stole shimmering over her slender shoulders, her hair wound into a chignon and dressed with a gardenia. In her hands was a simple spray of white roses. Nate’s niece Claudia, in a pale-blue dress and matching ballet shoes, followed a few feet behind.

I glanced at Nate as Chloë approached the altar. I’d often tortured myself by imagining his delighted pride at this moment, but in his face I could see only tension and anxiety. As Chloë drew level with him he smiled at her, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. If Chloë had noticed this, her features didn’t betray it. As she turned to hand Claudia her bouquet she wore an expression of ineffable serenity. Claudia took the flowers then clambered into the third pew to sit with her parents while Roy came and stood next to Mum.

The Handel drew to a thundering close. The vicar let the last reverberations subside, then he welcomed us all to St Matthew’s to witness the marriage of Chloë and Nathan, to pray for God’s blessing on them and to share their joy. Then he announced the first hymn – ‘Praise My Soul the King of Heaven’. As we sang it, Katarina’s exquisite voice soared above all of ours.

During the last verse I saw Nate lift his eyes to the altar. Chloë looked very solemn. Then the hymn ended and we all sat down.

‘And now the first reading,’ said Reverend Hughes, ‘which is read by Chloë’s sister, Gabriella.’

My heart pounding, I stepped out of the pew and went up to the eagle-shaped lectern. I placed the book on it.

‘“The Good Morrow”,’ I said. ‘By John Donne.’ I lifted my head. The sea of faces was a blur. ‘I wonder by my troth what thou and I did, till we loved. Were we not wean’d till then?…’ As I read on, I could feel Nate’s gaze upon me, but was aware that Chloë was staring straight ahead. ‘And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love, all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere…’ I paused. ‘My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears…’ At that I saw Chloë turn and look at me. ‘And true, plaine hearts do in the faces rest. Where can we find two better hemispheres Without sharp north, without declining west?…’

I read on to the end, then returned to the pew, my knees shaking.

Polly put her gloved hand on mine. ‘Well done,’ she whispered.

Now the vicar was declaring the gift of marriage to be a way of life made holy by God, and a sign of unity and loyalty which all should honour and uphold. ‘No one,’ he went on, ‘should enter into it lightly or selfishly, but reverently and responsibly in the sight of almighty God.’ He lifted his hands. ‘First, I am required to ask if there is anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now.’ I glanced at my mother. She was smiling serenely but her jaw was tight; then, as no one spoke, she relaxed.

The vicar looked at Chloë and Nate. ‘The vows you are about to take,’ he said intently, ‘are to be made in the presence of God, who is judge of all and knows all the secrets of our hearts; therefore if either of you knows a reason why you may not lawfully marry, declare it now.’

There was a silence, then the vicar joined Nate and Chloë’s hands. ‘Nathan,’ he said, ‘will you take Chloë to be your wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and protect her, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her, as long as you both shall live?’

Nate didn’t respond. I felt a sudden rush of hope, followed by a stab of shame. ‘I…’ he began. ‘I…’ he faltered again. Now he exhaled gently, as though breathing on glass. Then I heard him whisper, ‘I will.’

The vicar turned to Chloë. ‘Chloë, will you take Nathan to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?’

Now Chloë hesitated as well: I decided that this must be because Nate had hesitated and she didn’t want to look too eager, or to show that she had listened to the question carefully and was giving it her fullest consideration, but by now ten seconds must have passed since she’d been asked it, then fifteen, then twenty… The silence in the church had intensified and thickened until it seemed to hum and throb. And by now at least a minute had gone by and the pews were creaking as people shifted in their seats.

‘Will you?’ Reverend Hughes tried again. His face was crimson, but still Chloë didn’t reply. She simply stood there, immobile, head bowed. People craned their necks to see what was happening. Suddenly Chloë’s shoulders
began to shake. She was giggling – the emotion of the occasion had made her hysterical I thought. Then I realised that she wasn’t giggling. She was crying.

The vicar, clearly used to seeing brides weep on their wedding day, ignored her tears. ‘Chloë,
will
you take Nathan to be your husband?’ he pressed on. ‘Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?’

Chloë’s drew in her breath, brokenly. Then there was another pause that seemed to stretch forever. ‘No,’ she whispered.

There was a collective gasp. Mum’s hand flew to her mouth.

‘But… Chloë?’ The vicar’s face was beaded with sweat.

She looked at him imploringly, then her face crumpled. ‘I…
can’t
,’ she sobbed; then she glanced at Nate, who was staring at her, his jaw slack. She let go of his hand. ‘I’m… sorry, Nate.’

Reverend Hughes whispered something to them both, and they nodded. I heard Chloë sniffle. Nate reached into his top pocket and gave her his silk handkerchief, which she pressed to her face. Mr Hughes cleared his throat, loudly, then addressed us. ‘There will now be a slight change to the proceedings,’ he announced. ‘Miss Katarina Sopuchova will sing “Ave Maria” while I go into the sacristy with Chloë and Nate for a brief chat. Thank you for your patience.’

The organist played the opening arpeggios of the Bach-Gounod as Katarina walked up the altar steps.

A-ve Ma-ri-a
… she sang as Chloë and Nate
followed the vicar.
Plenum gratia
… Suddenly Chloë stopped and, to my surprise, turned and beckoned for me to come with her.

Dominus te-cum
…

I stood up, and so did Mum, but Roy whispered to her to sit down again which, with clear reluctance, she did.

Benedicta tu in mulierbus
…

I followed Chloë and Nate to the sacristy, which was down a short passage to the left of the altar.

Et benedictus fructis
…

On the table the thick, leather-bound Marriage Register was open, awaiting Chloë and Nate’s signatures. Chloë sat down, her cheeks gleaming with tears, while Nate sat next to her, staring at her in bewilderment.

…
ventris tui, Iesus
…

I closed the thick oak door and Katarina’s singing faded.

‘Chloë,’ said the vicar, ‘would you please tell me what this is about?’ She didn’t answer. He turned to Nate. ‘Do
you
know?’

Nate gave a slow shake of the head. ‘I have
no
idea.’

‘Is it just wedding nerves?’ Reverend Hughes asked Chloë. She shook her head bleakly. ‘But yesterday, after the rehearsal, you told me that you were looking
forward
to marrying Nate, and so…’ He turned up his palms. ‘I don’t understand.’

Chloë ran the handkerchief under her eyes. ‘I’m
sorry
,’ she croaked. I should have called it off last night – or even this morning – but I didn’t have the guts. I told myself that it was too
late
, and that I’d simply have to go through with it, then decide what to do afterwards.
But now that I’m here, and I have to say those words in front of all our friends and family, not to mention God, I just…
can’t
.’

The vicar blinked. ‘
Why
can’t you?’

‘Because…’ Chloë sniffed. ‘Because… yesterday I
discovered
something.’ She swallowed painfully. ‘I discovered something about my mother that—’

Suddenly we heard footsteps, then the door swung open, its hinges creaking, and Mum appeared, Roy just behind her.

Sancta Maria…
we heard.

‘Chloë!’ Mum’s eyes were blazing.

Sanc-ta Mar-i-a…

Roy shut the door.

‘What
are
you playing at, Chloë?’ Mum demanded hoarsely.

Chloë glared at her. ‘Go away! You’ve done
enough
harm!’

Mum recoiled as though from a slap, then recovered her composure. ‘No,’ she said calmly. ‘I
won’t
go away
–
not when this wedding has cost
forty thousand
pounds—’

‘Don’t, Sue,’ Roy interjected, but Mum ignored him.

‘– and when I’ve
slaved
to make it an unforgettable day.’

‘Well, it certainly will be now,’ Roy said dismally.

‘Whatever are you
thinking
, Chloë?’ Mum persisted.

Chloë clutched the handkerchief in both hands. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m thinking.’ She blinked away a tear. ‘I’m thinking of how you’ve interfered, Mum, and manoeuvred and…
manipulated.
’

Mum pursed her lips. ‘The word you should really
be using here is “helped”; you clearly have
no
idea what—’

‘Please, Mrs Graham,’ the vicar interrupted. He turned back to Chloë. ‘Chloë, can you
please
explain what’s happened since yesterday to make you do this?’

‘Chloë nodded bleakly, then pressed the hanky to her eyes. ‘What’s happened is that late last night I found out something about my mother, something that… well, it
changes
everything.’ At that Roy emitted a low groan.

‘What do you mean, Chloë?’ the vicar asked.

‘I was once very happy with someone,’ Chloë replied. ‘He was called Max, and I
loved
him – and he loved me.’

‘Not enough!’ Mum spat.

Chloë ignored her. ‘But the problem was that he was married.’

‘Don’t
tell
everyone!’ Mum implored her.

Chloë glared at her. ‘And my mother was
so
disapproving – as you’ve just seen. She kept telling me that I had to stop seeing Max because he
wasn’t
going to leave his wife, and what I was doing was
wrong
and in any case I was wasting my time, because it would never, never,
ever
work out.’

‘It didn’t!’ Mum said triumphantly.

‘No it didn’t,’ Chloë agreed miserably. ‘But it
would
have done if you’d just left me
alone
, because now Max and Sylvia have split up.’

But Chloë had known this for weeks: Roy had told me that she’d been fine about it, so why would it bother her now?