The Very Picture of You

‘Yes. But it was so that Chloë and I would be the same – and Roy had adopted me by then, so I can understand why they did it.’

I had a sudden memory of Mum cutting the old name tapes out of my school uniform and sewing in new ones, pulling up the thread with a vehement tug.

You’re not Ella Sharp any more…

Now I remembered Ginny Parks, who sat behind me, endlessly asking me why my name had been changed and where my real father was. When I tearfully told Mum this she said that Ginny was a nosy little girl and that I didn’t have to answer her questions.

You’re Ella Graham now, darling.

But—

And that’s all there is to it…

‘What if he got in touch?’ Polly tried again. ‘What would you do?’

I looked at her. ‘I’d do… nothing. I wouldn’t even respond.’

Polly narrowed her eyes. ‘Not even out of… curiosity?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m not curious about him. I was – until Mum told me what he’d done; after that I stopped thinking about him. I have no idea whether he’s even alive. He’d be sixty-six now, so perhaps he isn’t alive any more, perhaps he’s… not…’ A shiver convulsed me. I looked out of the window again, scrutinising the people below as though I somehow imagined I might spot him amongst them.

‘I think it’s sad,’ I heard Polly say.

‘I suppose it is. But if your father had behaved like mine, you’d probably feel the same.’

‘I don’t know how I’d feel,’ she said quietly.

‘Plus I wouldn’t want to upset Mum.’

‘Would it still upset her – after so long?’

‘I know it would, because she never mentions him – he broke her heart. But I’m sure that’s why she had it in for Max, because his affair reminded her of my father’s betrayal. She and Chloë had huge rows about it – I told you.’

Polly nodded. ‘I guess your mum just wanted to protect Chloë from getting hurt.’

‘She did. She kept telling her that Max would never leave his wife – and she was right; so Chloë finally took Mum’s advice and ended it.’ I shrugged. ‘And now she’s with Nate. I hope he’s not going to cause her any grief, but I’ve got the awful feeling he is.’

Polly put her slippers on again then stood up. ‘So when did they decide to tie the knot?’

‘Yesterday, over lunch. They went to Quaglino’s to celebrate her promotion and came out engaged. They told Mum and Roy at the auction. Mum’s so thrilled, she’s offered to plan it all for them.’

‘She hasn’t got long then. Only – what? Three and a half months?’

‘True, but she has a tremendous talent for arranging things – it’s probably all the choreography she’s done.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Yikes! I must go.’ I shot to my feet. ‘I’ve got to get to Barnes for a sitting.’

‘Anyone of note?’ Polly asked as we went on to the landing.

‘Not really – she’s a French woman married to a Brit. Her husband’s commissioned me to paint her for her fortieth. He sounds quite a bit older – but he kept telling me how beautiful she is: I could hardly get him off the phone.’

Polly heaved a sigh of deep longing. ‘I’d love to have someone appreciate me like that.’

‘Any progress in that area?’ I asked as we went downstairs.

‘I liked the photographer at the Toilet Duck shoot last week. He took my card – not that he’s phoned,’ she added balefully as I opened the cupboard and got out my parka. ‘What about you?’

I thrust my arms into the sleeves. ‘Zilch – apart from a bit of flirting at the framer’s.’ I looked at the bare patch of wall where Polly’s portrait usually goes. ‘Shall I hang you up again before I go?’

She nodded. ‘Please – I daren’t do anything practical until the shoot’s over; the tiniest scratch and I’ll lose the job; there’s two grand at stake and I’m short of cash.’

I pulled the bubble wrap off the painting. ‘Me, too.’

Polly leaned against the wall. ‘But you seem to be busy.’

I lifted the portrait on to its hook. ‘Not busy enough – and my mortgage is huge.’ I straightened the bottom of the frame. ‘Perhaps I could offer to paint the chairman of the Halifax in return for a year off the payments.’

‘Maybe one of Camilla Parker Bowles’s friends will commission you.’

I picked up my bag. ‘That would be great. I’ve just joined the Royal Society of Portrait Painters, so I’m on their website – and I’ve got a Facebook page now…’

‘That’s good. Then there’s that piece in The Times. I know you didn’t like it,’ Polly added hastily, ‘but it’s great publicity and it’s online. So…’ She opened the door. ‘Who knows what might come out of it?’

I felt my gut flutter. ‘Who knows…?’

There was a sharp wind blowing as I walked home so I pulled up my hood and shoved my hands into my pockets. As I cut across Eel Brook Common, with its bright stripe of daffodils, my mother phoned.

‘El-la?’ She sounded elated. ‘I’ve just had the final figures from last night. We raised eighty thousand pounds – five thousand more than our target, and a record for the Richmond branch of the charity.’

‘That’s wonderful, Mum – congratulations.’

‘So I just wanted to thank you again for the portrait.’ I resisted the urge to say that had I known who the sitter was to be I wouldn’t have offered it. ‘But how funny that you’re going to paint Nate.’

‘Yes… extremely amusing.’

‘It’ll give you an opportunity to get to know him before the wedding. I’ve just booked the church, by the way.’

‘Mum… they’ve been engaged less than twenty-four hours.’

‘I know – but July third’s not that far off! So I phoned the vicar at St Matthew’s first thing and by some miracle the two p.m. slot for that day had become free – apparently the groom had got cold feet.’

‘Oh dear.’

There was a bewildered silence. ‘No, not “oh dear”, Ella – “oh great”! I didn’t think we’d find any churches in the area free at such short notice, let alone our own one.’

‘And where’s the reception going to be?’

‘At home. We’ll come out of the church then stroll down the lane to the house through a cloud of moon daisies.’

‘There aren’t any moon daisies in the lane, Mum.’

‘No – but there will be, because I’m going to plant some. Now we’ll need a large marquee,’ she went on. ‘Eighty feet by thirty feet, minimum: the garden’s just big enough – I paced it out this morning; I think we should have the “traditional” style, not the “frame” – it’s so much more attractive – and I’ll probably use the caterers from last night, although I’ll get a couple of other quotes…’

‘You’ve got the bit between your teeth then.’

‘I have – but most weddings take at least a year to plan: I’ve got less than four months to organise Chloë’s!’

‘Doesn’t she want to do any of it herself?’

‘No – she’s going to be very busy at work now that she’s been promoted, and it means that she can enjoy the run-up to her big day without all the stress. She’ll make the major decisions, of course, but I’ll have done all the legwork.’

‘Can I do anything?’

‘No – thanks, darling. Although… actually there is one thing. Chloë’s thinking about having a vintage wedding dress. Could you give her a hand on that front? I don’t even know who sells them.’

‘Sure. Steinberg & Tolkien’s gone now, hasn’t it, but there’s Circa, or Dolly Diamond, and I think there’s a good one down in Blackheath – or hang on, what about…?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well…’ I bit my lip. ‘What about yours?’

‘But… Roy and I got married in a register office, Ella. I wore that pale-blue silk trouser suit.’

‘I know – but what about when you got married… before?’ During the silence that followed I tried to imagine what my mother wore when she married my father in the early 1970s. A sweet, pin-tucked dress perhaps, Laura Ashley style, with a white velvet choker – or maybe something flowingly Bohemian by Ossie Clark. ‘It would probably fit Chloë,’ I went on. ‘But… maybe you didn’t keep it,’ I added weakly as the silence continued. Why would she have done, I now reflected, when she hadn’t even kept the wedding photos? I had a sudden vision of the dress billowing out of a dustbin. ‘Sorry,’ I said, as she still didn’t respond. ‘Obviously not a good idea – forget I suggested it.’

‘I have to go,’ Mum said smoothly. ‘There’s a beep in my ear – I think it’s Top Tents. We’ll speak again soon, darling.’

As she ended the call, I marvelled at my mother’s ability to blank things that she didn’t want to talk about. I’ll steer a conversation away from a no-go area, but my mother simply pretends that the conversation isn’t happening.

When I got home, I booked my minicab to Barnes then quickly packed up my paints, palette and my portable box easel. I took three new canvases out of the rack, unhooked my apron and put everything ready by the front door.

While I waited for the car I went to my computer and checked my e-mails. There was one from Mike Johns, MP, confirming his sitting for nine o clock on Thursday morning – his first for two months. I was looking forward to seeing him as he’s always great fun. There was some financial spam, which I deleted, and a weekly update on the number of visits to my official Facebook page. The last message was from Mrs Carr’s daughter, confirming that the first sitting with her mother would be on Monday, at Mrs Carr’s flat in Notting Hill.

Hearing a beep from outside I lifted the slats of the Venetian blind and saw a red Volvo from Fulham Cars pulling up. I gathered my things and went out.

‘I’ve driven you before, haven’t I?’ the driver asked as he put my things in the boot.

‘That’s right. I use your firm quite a bit.’

‘Can’t you drive then?’

‘I can. But I don’t have a car.’

As we drove up Waterford Road we passed the Wedding Shop. Seeing the china and cut glass in its windows I wondered how many guests Chloë and Nate would have. I speculated about where they’d go on honeymoon; but that only made me think about the woman that Nate had called ‘honey’. Now I tried to guess where he and Chloë would live. It suddenly struck me that they might move to New York, a prospect that only made me feel more depressed.

‘Shame,’ I heard the driver say as we idled at the lights at Fulham Broadway.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It’s a shame.’ He nodded to our right.

‘Oh. Yes,’ I said feelingly.

The railings at the junction were festooned with flowers. There were perhaps twenty bouquets tied to them, their cellophane icy in the sunlight. Some were fresh but most looked limp and lifeless, their leaves tinged with brown, their ribbons drifting in the breeze.

‘Poor kid,’ he murmured.

Tied to the top part of the railings was a large, laminated photo of a very pretty woman, a little younger than me, with short, blonde hair and a radiant smile. Grace, it said beneath.

‘The flowers keep coming,’ I observed softly.

The driver nodded. ‘There’re always new ones.’ Today there was also a big teddy bear on a bike; it was wearing blue cycling shorts, a silver helmet and a sensible hi-vis sash.

Two months on, the large yellow sign was still there.

Witness Appeal. Fatal accident, 20 Jan., 06.15. Can you help?

‘So they still don’t know what happened?’ I murmured.

‘No,’ replied the driver. ‘It happened very early – in the dark. One of our drivers said he saw a black BMW drive off, fast, but he never got the number and the CCTV wasn’t working properly – typical.’ He shook his head again. ‘It’s a shame.’ The lights changed and we drove away.

The rest of the journey passed quietly, apart from the stilted commands of the sat-nav as it coaxed us over Hammersmith Bridge towards Barnes.

Mrs Burke lived halfway down Castlenau, in one of the imposing Victorian houses that line the road. The cab swung through the lion-topped gateposts then the driver got out and opened the boot.

He handed me the easel. ‘You paint me one day?’

I smiled. ‘Maybe I will.’

I rang the bell and the door was opened by a woman in her late fifties who said she was the housekeeper.

‘Mrs Burke will be down shortly,’ she said, as I stepped inside. The hall was large and square, with a marble-tiled floor and large architectural prints in black and gold frames. On the sideboard was a big stone jug with branches of early cherry blossom.

The housekeeper asked me to wait in the study, to our right. It had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, an antique Chesterfield that gleamed like a conker, and a big mahogany desk on which were ranged several family photos in silver frames. I looked at these. There were two of Mrs Burke on her own, a few of the couple’s son from babyhood to teens, and three of her with a man I assumed to be her husband. He was patrician-looking, with a proud, proprietorial expression, and, as I’d imagined, he was at least a decade older than his wife. She had large grey eyes, a long, perfectly straight nose and a curtain of dark hair that fell in waves from a high forehead. She was beautiful. I began to make imaginary marks on the canvas to define her cheeks and jawline.

The appointment had been for eleven, but by twenty past I was still waiting. I went into the hall to try and find out what was happening. Hearing a creak on the stairs I looked up to see Mrs Burke coming down. She was slim and petite, and wore a pink silk shirtwaister that was cinched in by a very wide, black patent-leather belt. I felt a flash of annoyance that she didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said flatly as she reached the bottom step. ‘I was on the phone. So…’ She gave me a restrained smile. ‘You’re here to paint me.’

‘Yes,’ I said, taken aback by her clear lack of enthusiasm. ‘Your husband said it’s to celebrate your birthday.’

‘It is.’ She heaved an anxious sigh. ‘If hitting the big “Four O” is a cause for “celebration”.’

‘Well, forty’s still young.’

‘Is it?’ she said flatly. ‘I only know that it’s when life is supposed to begin. So…’ She drew her breath through her teeth. ‘We’d better get on with it then.’ You’d have thought she was steeling herself for root-canal treatment.

‘Mrs Burke—’

‘Please.’ She held up a hand. ‘Celine.’

‘Celine, we can’t start until you’ve chosen the size of canvas. I’ve brought along three…’ I nodded at them, propped against the skirting board. ‘If you know where the portrait’s going to hang, that’ll help you decide.’

She stared at them. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’ She turned to me. ‘My husband’s sprung this on me – I would never have thought of having myself painted.’

‘Well… a portrait’s a nice thing to have. And it’ll be treasured for generations. Think of the Mona Lisa,’ I added cheerfully.

Celine gave a Gallic shrug then pointed to the smallest canvas. ‘That one is more than big enough.’

I picked it up. ‘Now we need to choose the background – somewhere where you’ll feel relaxed and comfortable.’

She blew out her cheeks. ‘In the drawing room then, I suppose. This way…’

I followed her across the hall into a large yellow-papered room with a cream carpet and French windows that led on to a long walled garden, at the end of which a huge red camellia was in extravagant flower.

I glanced around the room. ‘This will be fine. The colour’s very appealing, and the light’s lovely.’

On our left was an antique Knole sofa in a dark-green damask. The sides were very high, almost straight, and were secured to the back with thickly twisted gold cord, like a hawser. Celine sat on the left-hand side of it then smoothed her dress over her knees. ‘I shall sit here…’

I studied her for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, but that won’t look right.’

Her face clouded. ‘You said I should feel comfortable – this is.’

‘But the high sides make you look… boxed in.’

‘Oh.’ She turned to look at them. ‘I see. Yes… I am, as you say, boxed in. That is perfectly true.’ She stood up then looked around. ‘So where should I sit?’ she added petulantly.

‘Perhaps here…?’ To the left of the fireplace was a mahogany chair with ornately carved arms and a red velvet seat. Celine sat in it while I moved back a few feet to appraise the composition. ‘If you could just turn this way,’ I asked her. ‘And lift your head a little? Now look at me…’

She shook her head. ‘Who would have thought that sitting could be such hard work?’

‘Well, it’s a joint effort in which we’re both aiming to get the best possible portrait of you.’ Celine shrugged as though this was a matter of sublime indifference to her. I held up my hands, framing her head and shoulders between my thumbs and forefingers. ‘It’s going to be great,’ I said happily. ‘Now we just have to decide what you’re going to wear.’

Her face fell. ‘I’m going to wear this—’ She indicated her outfit.

‘It’s lovely,’ I said as I considered it. ‘But it won’t work.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the belt’s so big and shiny that it will dominate the picture. If you could wear something a little plainer…’

‘Are you saying I have to change?’

‘Well… it would be better if you did, yes.’ She exhaled irritably. ‘Could I help you to choose? That’s what I usually do when I paint people in their homes.’

‘I see,’ she snapped. ‘So you control the whole show.’

I bit my lip. ‘I don’t mean to be controlling,’ I replied quietly. ‘But the choice of outfit is very important because it affects the composition so much – I did explain that to your husband.’

‘Oh.’ Celine was rubbing her fingertips together, impatiently, as if sifting flour. ‘He forgot to tell me – he’s away this week.’ She stood up. ‘All right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘You’d better come.’

I followed her across the room and up the stairs into the master bedroom, the far wall of which was taken up by an enormous fitted wardrobe. Celine slid open the middle section then stood there, staring at the garments. ‘I don’t know what to wear.’

‘Could I look?’

She nodded. As I began to pull out a few things her mobile phone rang. She looked at the screen, answered in French, then left the room, talking rapidly in a confidential manner. It was more than ten minutes until she returned.

Struggling to hide my irritation, I showed her a pale-green linen suit. ‘This would look wonderful.’

Celine chewed on her lower lip. ‘I no longer wear that.’

‘Would you – just for the portrait?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t like myself in it.’

‘O-kay, then… what about this?’ I showed her an oyster satin dress by Christian Dior.

Celine pursed her mouth. ‘It’s not a good fit.’ Now she began pulling things out herself: ‘Not that,’ she muttered. ‘No… not that either… this is horrible …that’s much too small… this is so uncomfortable…’ Why did she keep all these things if she didn’t even like them? She turned to me. ‘Can’t I wear what I’m wearing?’

I began to count to ten in my head. ‘The belt will wreck the composition,’ I reiterated quietly. ‘It will draw all the attention away from your face. And it’s not really flattering,’ I added, then instantly regretted it.

Celine’s face had darkened. ‘Are you saying I look fat?’

‘No, no,’ I replied as she studied her reflection in the cheval mirror. ‘You’re very slim. And you’re really attractive,’ I added impotently. ‘Your husband said so and he was right.’

I’d hoped this last remark might mollify her, but to my surprise her expression hardened. ‘I adore this belt. It’s Prada,’ she added, as though I could have cared less whether she’d got it in Primark.

By now I was struggling to maintain my composure. ‘It won’t look… good,’ I tried again. ‘It’ll just be a big block of black.’

‘Well…’ Celine folded her arms. ‘I’m going to wear it and that’s all there is to it.’

I was about to pretend that I needed the loo so that I could take five minutes to calm myself down – or quite possibly cry – when Celine’s mobile phone rang again. She left the room and had another long, intense-sounding conversation which drifted across the landing in snatches.

‘Oui, chéri… je veux te voir aussi… bientôt, chéri.’

By now I’d decided to admit defeat and was just working out how best to minimise the monstrous belt when Celine returned. To my surprise her mood seemed to have lightened. Now she took out a simple linen shift in powder blue, then held it against her.

‘What about this?’

I could have wept with relief. ‘That will look great.’

The next morning, as I waited for Mike Johns to arrive for his sitting I looked at Celine’s portrait – so far no more than a few preliminary marks in yellow ochre. She was the trickiest sitter I’d ever had – obstructive, unreasonable, and entirely lacking in enthusiasm.

Her attitude struck me as bizarre. Most people give themselves up to the sittings, recognising that to be painted is a rather special thing. But for Celine it was clearly something to be endured, not enjoyed. I wondered why this should be.

I once had to paint a successful businessman whose company had commissioned the portrait for their board-room. During the sittings he kept glancing at his watch, as though to let me know that he was an extremely busy and important man whose time was very precious. But when I at last started to paint Celine she told me that she didn’t work, and that now that her son was at boarding school she led a ‘leisured’ sort of life. So her negativity can’t have been because she didn’t have time.

Thank God for Mike Johns, I thought. A big bear of a man, he was always genial, cooperative and expressive – the perfect sitter. As I took out his canvas I was pleased to see that even in the painting’s semi-finished state, his amiability and warmth shone through.

Mike’s portrait had been commissioned by his constituency association to mark his fifteenth anniversary as their MP: he’d been elected very young, at twenty-six. He’d said he wanted to get the painting done well before the run-up to the general election began in earnest: so we’d had two sittings before Christmas, then the third early in the New Year. We’d scheduled another for 22 January but Mike had suddenly cancelled it the night before. In a strangely incoherent e-mail he’d put that he’d be in touch again ‘in due course’, but to my surprise I hadn’t heard from him in the intervening two months, which had surprised me, not least because he lives nearby, just on the other side of Fulham Broadway. Then last week he’d messaged me to ask if we could continue. I was glad, partly because it would mean I’d get the other half of my fee, but also because I liked Mike and enjoyed chatting to him.

We’d arranged for him to come early so that the sitting wouldn’t eat into his working day. At five past eight the bell rang and I ran downstairs.

As I opened the door I had to stifle a gasp. In the nine weeks since I’d last seen him, Mike must have lost nearly three stone.

‘You’re looking trim,’ I said as he stepped inside. ‘Been pounding the treadmill?’ I added, although I already knew, from his noticeably subdued air, that his weight loss must be due to some kind of stress.

‘I have shed a few pounds,’ he replied vaguely. ‘A good thing too,’ he added with a stab at his usual bonhomie, but his strained demeanour gave him away. He was friendly, but there was a sadness about him now – an air of tragedy almost, I realised as I registered the dead look in his eyes. ‘Sorry about the early start,’ he said as we went up to the studio.

‘I don’t mind at all,’ I replied. ‘We can do all the remaining sessions at this time, if you like.’

Mike nodded then took off his jacket and put it on the sofa. He sat in the oak armchair that I use for sittings. ‘Back in the hot seat then,’ he said with forced joviality.

The morning light was sharp so I lowered the blinds on the Velux windows to soften it. As I put Mike’s canvas on the easel I realised that I was going to have to adjust the portrait. His torso was much slimmer, his face and neck thinner, the collar of his shirt visibly gaping. His hands looked less fleshy as he clasped them in his lap. He fiddled with his wedding ring, which was clearly loose.

I scraped a pebble of dried paint off the palette then squeezed some new colour out of the tubes, enjoying, as I always did, the oily scent of the linseed.