The Very Picture of You

‘You’re still pretty,’ I told her. ‘And it’s never too late – I paint people who are in their seventies and eighties.’ I sipped my champagne. ‘So are you thinking of bidding for it?’

She sucked on her lower lip. ‘I’m not sure. How long does the process take?’ I explained. ‘Two hours is a long time to be sitting still.’ She frowned.

‘We have a break for coffee and a leg stretch. It’s not too arduous.’

‘Do you flatter people?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I hope you do, because look –’ She pinched the wedge of flesh beneath her chin, holding it daintily, like a tidbit. ‘Would you be able to do something about this?’

‘My portraits are truthful,’ I answered carefully. ‘But at the same time I want my sitters to be happy; so I’d paint you from the most flattering angle – and I’d do some sketches first to make sure you liked the composition.’

‘Well…’ She cocked her head to one side as she appraised Polly’s portrait again. ‘I’m going to have a think about it – but thanks.’

As she walked away, another woman in her mid-forties came up to me. She gave me an earnest smile. ‘I’m definitely going to bid for this. I love your style – realistic but with an edge.’

‘Thank you.’ I allowed myself to bask in the compliment for a moment. ‘And who would you want me to paint? Would it be you?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘It would be my father. You see, we never had his portrait painted.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And now we regret it.’ My spirits sank as I realised what was coming. ‘He died last year,’ the woman went on. ‘But we’ve got lots of photos, so you could do it from those.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t do posthumous portraits.’

‘Oh.’ The woman looked affronted. ‘Why not?’

‘Because, to me, a portrait is all about capturing the essence and spirit of a living person.’

‘Oh,’ she said again, crestfallen. ‘I see.’ She hesitated. ‘Would you perhaps make an exception?’

‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t. I’m sorry,’ I added impotently.

‘Well…’ She shrugged. ‘Then I guess that’s that.’

As the woman walked away I saw my mother go up the flight of steps at the side of the stage. She waited for the string trio to finish the Mozart sonata they were playing, then she went up to the podium and tapped the mike. The hubbub subsided as she smiled at the crowd then in her soft, low voice, thanked everyone for coming and exhorted us to be generous. As she reminded us all that our bids would save children’s lives, the irritation that I’d been feeling towards her was replaced by a sudden rush of pride. Next she expressed her gratitude to the donors and to her fellow committee members before introducing Tim Spiers, who took her place as she gracefully exited stage left.

He leaned an arm on the podium, peering at us benignly over his half-moon glasses. ‘We have some wonderful lots on offer tonight – and remember there’s no buyer’s premium to pay, which makes everything very affordable. So, without further ado, let’s start with the week at the fabulous Palazzo Barbarigo in Venice…’

An appreciative murmur arose as a photo of the palazzo was projected on to the two huge screens that had been placed on either side of the stage. ‘The palazzo overlooks the Grand Canal,’ Spiers explained as the slideshow image changed to an interior. ‘It’s one of Venice’s most splendid palazzos and has a stunning piano nobile, as you can see …It sleeps eight, is fully staffed, and in high season a week’s stay there costs ten thousand pounds. I’m now going to open the bidding at an incredibly low three thousand.’ He affected astonishment. ‘For a mere three thousand pounds, ladies and gentlemen, you could spend a week at one of Venice’s most glorious private palaces – the experience of a lifetime. So do I hear three thousand…?’ His eyes raked the room. ‘Three thousand pounds – anyone? Ah, thank you, sir. And three thousand five hundred… and four thousand… thank you – at the back there… five thousand…’

As the bidding proceeded a girl in her early twenties approached me and looked at the portrait of Polly. ‘She’s very pretty,’ she whispered.

I gazed at Polly’s heart-shaped face, framed by a helmet of rose-gold hair. ‘She is.’

‘Do I hear six thousand?’ we heard.

‘What if you have to paint someone who’s plain?’ the girl asked. ‘Or ugly, even? Is that difficult?’

‘It’s actually easier than painting someone who’s conventionally attractive,’ I answered softly, ‘because the features are more clearly defined.’

‘Seven thousand now – do I hear seven thousand pounds? Come on, everyone!’

The girl sipped her champagne. ‘And what happens if you don’t like the person you’re painting – could you still paint them then?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘Though I don’t suppose I’d enjoy the sittings very much.’ Suddenly I noticed the doors swing open and there was Chloë, in her vintage red trench coat, and behind her, Nate. ‘Luckily I’ve never had a sitter I disliked.’

‘Going once,’ we heard the auctioneer say. ‘At eight thousand pounds. Going twice…’ His eyes swept across us, then, with a flick of his wrist he tapped the podium. ‘Sold to the lady in the black dress there.’ I glanced over at Mum. She looked reasonably happy with the result. ‘On to lot two now,’ said Spiers. ‘An evening gown by Maria Grachvogel, who designs dresses for some of the world’s most glamorous women – Cate Blanchett, for example, and Angelina Jolie. Whoever wins this lot will receive a personal consultation and fitting with Maria Grachvogel herself. So I’m going to start the bidding at a very modest five hundred pounds. Thank you, madam – the lady in pale blue there – and seven hundred and fifty?’ He scrutinised us all. ‘Seven hundred and fifty pounds is still a snip – thank you, sir. So do I hear one thousand now?’ He pointed to a woman in lime green who’d raised her hand. ‘It’s with you, madam. At one thousand two hundred and fifty? Yes – and one thousand five hundred …thank you. Will anyone give me two thousand?’

I glanced to my right. Chloë was making her way around the room, leading Nate by the hand.

I know you’re going to love him, Ella…

She’d been wrong about that. I loathed the man. I watched her as she spotted Roy and waved.

‘Is that two thousand pounds there?’ The auctioneer was pointing at Chloë. ‘The young woman at the back in the scarlet raincoat?’

Chloë froze; then with a stricken expression she shook her head, mouthed sorry at Spiers, then looked at Nate with horrified amusement.

‘So still at one thousand five hundred then – but do I hear two thousand? There was a pause then I saw my mother raise her hand. ‘Thank you, Sue,’ the auctioneer said. ‘The bid’s with our organiser, Sue Graham, now at two thousand pounds.’ Mum’s face was taut with tension. ‘Will anyone give me two thousand two hundred? Thank you – the lady in the pink dress.’ Mum’s features relaxed as she was outbid. ‘So at two thousand two hundred pounds… going once… twice and…’ The gavel landed with a ‘crack’. ‘Sold to the lady in pink here – well done, everyone,’ he added jovially. ‘On we go to lot three.’

As the bidding for the weekend at the Ritz got underway I saw Chloë greet Mum and Roy. Mum smiled warmly at Nate, then as Chloë leaned closer to say something to her, Mum clapped her hands in delight then turned and whispered in Roy’s ear. I wondered what they were talking about.

‘So for three thousand pounds now…’ Tim Spiers was saying. ‘A weekend at the Ritz in one of their deluxe suites – what a treat. Thank you, sir – it’s with the man with the yellow tie there. Going once… twice… and…’ He rapped the podium. ‘Sold! You have got yourself a bargain,’ Spiers said to the man amiably. ‘If you’d like to go the registration desk to arrange payment, thank you. Now to the dinner party for eight, cooked by Gordon Ramsay himself – well worth all the shouting and swearing. Let’s start with a very modest eight hundred pounds – to include wine, incidentally…’

The sound of the auction faded as I silently observed Chloë and Nate. Chloë seemed to do most of the talking while Nate just nodded now and again, absorbing her conversation, rather than responding to it. I saw him look at his phone and wondered if the woman he’d promised to meet that night was still in his life.

‘Now for the portrait,’ I heard the auctioneer say, and as my picture of Polly was projected on to the screens he indicated me with a sweep of his hand. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Gabriella Graham is an outstanding young artist.’ I felt a warmth suffuse my face. ‘You’ve probably seen media coverage of the lovely painting she did of the Duchess of Cornwall which was commissioned by the National Portrait Gallery for its permanent collection. Now you too have the chance to be immortalised by Ella. So I’m going to open the bidding at all pitifully low – two thousand pounds. Do I hear two thousand?’ Spiers looked at us over his spectacles. ‘No? Well, let me tell you that Ella’s portraits usually command between six and twelve thousand pounds, depending on the size and composition. So who’ll give me a trifling two thousand? Thank you, madam!’ He beamed at the woman in the turquoise dress who’d spoken to me earlier. ‘And two thousand five hundred?’ I heard Spiers say. ‘Just two and a half thousand – anyone?’ He smiled indulgently. ‘Come on, folks. Let’s see some bidding now! Thank you, Sue.’ My mother’s hand had gone up. ‘So it’s with Sue Graham now at two thousand five hundred pounds… and three thousand – the lady in turquoise again. Who’ll offer me four thousand?’ I was startled. That was a big jump. ‘Four thousand pounds?’ There was silence. ‘No takers?’ he said with mock incredulity. I felt a pang of disappointment tinged with embarrassment that no one thought it worth that much. Suddenly Spiers’ face lit up. ‘Thank you, young lady!’ He grinned. ‘I hope you mean it this time!’

I followed his gaze and to my surprise saw that this remark had been directed at Chloë, who was nodding enthusiastically. So she was bidding in order to help Mum. ‘Do I hear four thousand five hundred now?’ Spiers demanded. ‘Yes, madam.’ The woman in turquoise had come back in. ‘And who will give me five thousand pounds for the chance to be painted by Ella Graham? You’ll be getting not just a portrait but an heirloom. Thank you! And it’s the young woman in the red raincoat again.’ I stared at Chloë – why was she still bidding? ‘It’s with you at five thousand pounds now.’ I held my breath. ‘And five thousand five hundred? Yes? Now it’s back with the lady in turquoise.’ Chloë was off the hook – thank God. ‘So at five thousand five hundred pounds – to the lady in the turquoise dress there – going once… twice… and… SIX thousand!’ Spiers shouted. He beamed at Chloë then held out his right hand to her. ‘The bid’s back with the lady in the red coat, at six thousand pounds now! Any advance on six K?’ This was crazy. Chloë couldn’t spare six thousand – she probably didn’t have six thousand. Now I felt furious with Mum for asking her to bid. ‘So at six thousand pounds – still with the young woman in red,’ Spiers continued. ‘Going once… twice…’ He looked enquiringly at the woman in the turquoise dress, but to my dismay she shook her head. The gavel landed with a ‘crack’, like a gun firing. ‘Sold!’

I expected Chloë to look appalled; instead she looked thrilled. She made her way through the crowd towards me, leaving Nate with Mum and Roy.

‘So what do you think?’ She was smiling triumphantly.

‘What do I think? I think it’s insane. Why didn’t you stop when you had the chance?’

‘I didn’t want to,’ she protested. ‘I decided I was going to get it – and I did!’

I stared at her. ‘Chloë – how much champagne have you had?’

She laughed. ‘I had some at lunchtime, but I’m not drunk. Why do you assume I am?’

‘Because you’ve just paid six thousand pounds for something you could have had for free. What on earth were you doing?’

‘Well… today I was made a director of PRoud – with a thirty per cent pay rise.’ So that was what Mum had been looking so thrilled about. ‘And I’ve just had a tax rebate – plus I want to support the charity.’

‘That’s very generous of you,’ I told her. ‘But it was at five and a half grand, which was already a good price, plus I’ve done a portrait of you, remember?’

‘Of course I do – don’t be silly, Ella – but the point is—’

I suddenly twigged. ‘You want me to do it again.’ I thought of how distressed Chloë had been at the time. She’d broken up with Max shortly after I’d started painting it. I’d urged her to wait, but she’d refused. She’d insisted that she wanted me to paint her in that state, so that she would never forget how much she’d felt for him. ‘You know, Chloë,’ I said, ‘it probably would be good to do another portrait of you now that—’

‘Ella,’ she interrupted. ‘That’s not why I bid. Because it isn’t me you’re going to paint.’

‘No?’

‘It’s Nate.’

My heart sank. And now here he was. I gave him a thin smile. ‘Erm… apparently it’s you I’m to paint, Nate.’

He looked at Chloë in confusion.

‘Yes, you,’ she confirmed happily.

‘Oh… Well…’ He was clearly as dismayed as I was. ‘I don’t know whether I want Ella to paint me. In fact I don’t want her to – I mean, I don’t want anyone to paint me.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Chloë, it’s not my kinda thing, so I’m going to have to say thanks – it’s very sweet – but no thanks.’

Chloë gave him a teasing smile. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed to refuse, because the portrait’s to be a present from me to you – a very special one.’

‘His birthday present?’ I asked her.

‘No.’ Chloë smiled delightedly. ‘His wedding present.’ She slipped her arm through Nate’s. ‘We’re engaged!’

TWO

‘I will be keeping the sittings to a minimum,’ I said to Polly grimly the following morning as we sat in her bedroom overlooking Parsons Green. I’d taken her portrait, carefully bubble-wrapped, back to her flat. ‘I am not relishing the prospect of spending twelve hours with that creep in order to paint his face – or rather his two faces. I’ll paint him as Janus,’ I added darkly.

Polly’s nail file paused in mid-stroke. ‘So I take it you still don’t like him?’

I shuddered with distaste. ‘I thoroughly dislike him – and I don’t trust him.’ I went and sat on the window seat. ‘I told you how he behaved before her party.’

‘Hmm.’ Polly scrutinised the tip of her left index finger then began filing it again, the rasp of the emery board masking the drone of morning traffic.

‘He was very disparaging about Chloë – plus it was obvious that he was already in a relationship with the woman he was on the phone to. So for those two very good reasons I have taken against him.’

Polly shifted on the bed. ‘Fair enough, although – let’s assume he was in a relationship with this other woman…’

‘He was.’

‘But at that stage he hadn’t known Chloë long – so he was hedging his bets.’ She shrugged. ‘Lots of men do that.’

‘Well… okay. Not that it’s any excuse.’

‘Or it could be that he was only pretending that he wasn’t keen on Chloë in order to protect the other woman’s feelings.’ Polly blew on her fingertips. ‘I’d hardly condemn him for that.’

‘But if he’d wanted to protect the other woman’s feelings then he shouldn’t have told her about Chloë’s party at all. He should have lied.’

Polly looked at me. ‘Now you’re saying you don’t trust him because he didn’t lie?’

‘Yes. No… but… what if that other woman’s still on the scene?’

She began to file her thumbnail. ‘As he and Chloë are engaged, I doubt it.’

‘But it’s not that long ago, so she could be – and he’s clearly duplicitous. I don’t want Chloë having her heart broken again. It was bad enough last time.’

Polly reached for the tub of hand cream on her bedside table. ‘Ella – how old is Chloë now?’

‘She’s… nearly twenty-nine.’

‘Exactly – oh…’ She grimaced as she tried to twist off the lid. ‘Open this for me, would you?’ She leaned forward and handed me the pot. ‘I daren’t snag a nail – I’m working tomorrow.’

‘What’s the job?’ I asked as I unscrewed it.

‘A day’s shoot for a feature film. My hands are going to double for Keira Knightley’s – I have to put them up to her face, like this.’ Polly held her palms to her cheeks. ‘I’ll be kneeling behind her and won’t be able to see, so I hope I don’t stick my fingers up her nose. I did that to Liz Hurley once. It was embarrassing.’

‘I can imagine.’ I handed Polly the opened tub.

She scooped out a blob of cream and dabbed it on her knuckles. ‘Chloë’s got to make her own mistakes.’

‘Of course: the trouble is she makes such bad ones – like getting involved with a married man. The first thing she ever knew about Max was that he was someone else’s husband.’

‘Remind me how she met him?’

‘Chloë and I had gone into Waterstone’s on the King’s Road; we saw that Sylvia Shaw was signing copies of her new book and, as Chloë had liked her first two, we decided to stay. While Chloë was queuing to have her copy signed, she started chatting to this man – I could see she really liked him – who said that he was Sylvia Shaw’s husband. So that’s how it started – right under his wife’s nose!’

‘And his wife never found out?’

‘No. Chloë said that she was too absorbed in her writing to notice. But Chloë was crazy about him. Do you remember the state she got herself in when it finally ended?’ Polly nodded grimly. ‘She went down to seven stone. And what she did to her hair?’

‘It was a bit… severe.’

‘It was savage. She looked as though she’d been in some… war.’

Polly stroked cream on to her other hand. ‘That was a year and a half ago,’ she pointed out calmly. ‘Chloë’s on an even keel again now.’

‘I hope so – but she’s always been fragile. She’s not like Mum, who has this core of steel.’

‘That’s ballerinas for you,’ Polly said simply. ‘They have to learn to dance through the agony, don’t they, whether they’ve got a broken toenail or a broken heart. Damn…’ She peered at her left hand then reached for the magnifying glass on the bedside table and examined it through that. ‘I’ve got a freckle.’ How did that happen?’ she wailed. ‘I use factor 50 on my hands all year round – my rear end gets more UV than they do. Where’s my Fade Out?’

Polly went over to her dressing table and rummaged amongst all the hand creams, nail polishes and jars of cotton-wool puffs. ‘I can’t afford to have any blemishes,’ she muttered. She lifted up a framed photo of her daughter, and my god-daughter, Lola. ‘Here it is…’ She sat down on the bed again then held out the pot for me to open. ‘I know you’ve always looked out for Chloë.’

I loosened the lid and passed the pot back to her. ‘Well, she’s a lot younger than me, so yes… I have.’

‘That’s nice; but now you should just… let go.’ Polly looked at me. ‘As I’ve known you since we were six, I feel I can say that.’ She began to massage the skin lightener on to the offending brown mark. ‘Chloë’s got over Max enough now to be able to marry Nate – just be happy for her.’

‘I’d be thrilled if Nate was someone I liked.’ I groaned. ‘And why does she have to give him a portrait? If she wants to spend that much, then why can’t she give him something normal, like a gold watch or… diamond cufflinks or something?’

Polly squinted at her hand. ‘Why don’t you paint them together?’

‘I suggested that, but Chloë wants a picture of Nate on his own. She’s going to give it to him the day before the wedding.’

‘Which will be when?’

‘July third – which is also her birthday.’

‘Well, she’s always wanted to be married before she was thirty.’

‘Yes – so perhaps that explains the quick engagement – as though anyone could care less what age a woman is when she gets married or whether she gets married at all: I mean, I’m thirty-five and still single, but I really don’t…’ I let the sentence drift.

‘I’m thirty-five,’ said Polly, ‘and I’m divorced.’ She tucked a hank of red-gold hair behind one ear. ‘But it doesn’t bother me. Lola has a good relationship with Ben and that’s the key thing. He’s being tricky about maintenance though,’ she added wearily. ‘Lola’s school fees are fifteen grand now with all the extras, so thank God my digits give me an income.’

I considered Polly’s hands with their long, slim fingers and gleaming nail beds. ‘They are lovely. Your thumbs are fantastic.’

‘Oh, thanks. But it isn’t just about looks – my hands can act. They can be sad or happy.’ She wiggled her fingers. ‘They can be angry…’ She clenched her fists. ‘Or playful.’ She ‘walked’ her fingers through the air. ‘They can be inquisitive…’ She turned up her palms. ‘…Or pleading.’ She clasped them in supplication. ‘The whole gamut, really.’

‘There should be an Oscar category for it.’

‘There should. Anyway…’ She examined them again. ‘They’re done. Now it’s time for my tootsies.’

‘Have they got a part in the film too?’

‘No. But they’ve got a Birkenstock ad next week, so I need to get them tip-top.’

Polly kicked off her oversized sheepskin slippers and examined her slender size six feet with their perfectly straight toes, shell-pink nails, elegantly high arches and smooth, rosy heels. Satisfied that there were no imperfections to attend to, she put them in the waiting foot spa and switched it on.

‘Ooh, that’s nice,’ she crooned as the water bubbled around them. ‘So what does your mum think about Chloë’s engagement?’

‘She’s elated. But then, she couldn’t stand Max.’

‘Well, he was married, so you could hardly expect her to have been crazy about him.’

‘True – though it went deeper than that. Mum only met Max once, but she seemed to loathe him – as though it was personal. I’m sure that was because… well, you know the background.’

Polly nodded. ‘I still remember when you told me. We were eleven.’

The window was misted with condensation. I rubbed a patch clear and sighed. ‘I hadn’t known it myself until then.’

‘That was a long time for your mother to keep it from you,’ Polly observed quietly.

I shrugged. ‘I don’t really hold it against her – she’d been terribly hurt. Having made a new life, I suppose she didn’t want to remember the awful way in which her old one had ended.’

Your father was involved with someone else, Ella. I knew about it and it made me desperately unhappy – not least because I loved him so much. But one day I saw him with this… other woman; I came across them together: it was a terrible shock. I begged him not to leave us, but he abandoned us and went far, far away…

‘Do you think about him?’ I heard Polly say.

‘Hm?’

She turned off the foot spa. ‘Do you think about him much? Your father.’

‘No.’ I registered the surprise in her eyes. ‘Why would I when I haven’t seen him since I was five and can barely remember him?’

One, two three… up in the air she goes.

‘You must have some memories.’

Ready, sweetie? Don’t let go now!

I shook my head. ‘I used to, but they’ve gone.’

Through the smudged window pane I watched the children playing on the green below.

Again, Daddy! Again! Again!

Polly reached for the towel on the end of the bed and patted her feet with it. ‘And where in Australia did he go?’

‘I don’t know – I only know that it was Western Australia. But whether it was Perth or Fremantle or Rockingham or Broome, or Geraldton or Esperance or Bunbury or Kalgoorlie I’ve no idea and I’m not interested.’

Polly was looking at me again. ‘And he made no attempt to stay in touch?’

I felt my lips tighten. ‘It was as though we’d never existed.’

‘But… what if he wanted to find you?’

I heaved a sigh. ‘That would be hard—’

‘Oh, it probably would be,’ Polly interjected. ‘But you know, Ella, I’ve always thought that you should at least try to—’

I shook my head. ‘It would be hard for him to do – given that he doesn’t even know my surname.’

‘Oh.’ She looked deflated. ‘I see. Sorry – I thought you meant…’ She swung her legs off the bed. ‘I remember when your name was changed. I remember Miss Drake telling us all at register one morning that you were Ella Graham now. It was a bit confusing.’