Читать книгу The Very Picture of You - Isabel Wolff - Страница 7

‘Sorry about this,’ the radio reporter, Clare, said to me early this evening as she fiddled with her small audio recorder. She tucked a hank of Titian red hair behind one ear. ‘I just need to check that the machine’s recorded everything… there seems to be a gremlin…’

‘Don’t worry…’ I stole an anxious glance at the clock. I’d need to leave soon.

‘I really appreciate your time.’ Clare lifted out the tiny batteries with perfectly manicured fingers. I glanced at my stained ones. ‘But with radio you need to record quite a lot.’

‘Of course.’ How old was she? I’d been unsure to start with, as she was very made up. Thirty-five I now decided – my age. ‘I’m glad to be included,’ I added as she slotted the batteries back in and snapped the machine shut.

‘Well, I’d already heard of you, and then I read that piece about you in The Times last month…’ I felt my stomach clench. ‘And I thought you’d be perfect for my programme – if I can just get this damn thing to work…’ Even through the foundation I could see Clare’s cheeks flush as she stabbed at the buttons. And when did you first realise that you were going to be a painter? ‘Phew…’ She clapped her hand to her chest. ‘It’s still there.’ I knew I wanted to be a painter from eight or nine… She smiled. ‘I was worried that I’d erased it.’ I simply drew and painted all the time … Now, as she pressed ‘fast forward’, my voice became a Minnie Mouse squeak then slowed again to normal. Painting’s always been, in a way, my… solace. ‘Great,’ she said as I scratched a blob of dried Prussian blue off my paint-stiffened apron. ‘We can carry on.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Can you spare another twenty minutes?’

My heart sank. She’d already been here for an hour and a half – most of which had been spent in idle chatter or in sorting out her tape recorder. But being in a Radio 4 documentary might lead to another commission, so I quelled my frustration. ‘That’s fine.’

She picked up her microphone then glanced around the studio. ‘This must be a nice place to work.’

‘It is… That’s why I bought the house, because of this big attic. Plus the light’s perfect – it faces north-east.’

‘And you have a glorious view!’ Clare laughed. Through the two large dormer windows loomed the massive rust-coloured rotunda of Fulham’s Imperial Gas Works. ‘Actually, I like industrial architecture,’ she added quickly, as if worried that she might have offended me.

‘So do I – I think gas containers have a kind of grandeur; and on the other side I’ve got the old Lots Road Power Station. So, no, it’s not exactly green and pleasant, but I like the area and there are lots of artists and designers around here, so I feel at home.’

‘It’s a bit of a no-man’s land, though,’ Clare observed. ‘You have to trail all the way down the King’s Road to get here.’

‘True… but Fulham Broadway’s not far. In any case, I usually cycle everywhere.’

‘That’s brave of you. Anyway…’ She riffled through the sheaf of notes on the low glass table. ‘Where were we?’ I slid the pot of hyacinths aside to give her more room. ‘We started with your background,’ she said. ‘The Saturdays you spent as a teenager in the National Gallery copying old masters, the foundation course you did at the Slade; we talked about the painters you most admire – Rembrandt, Velázquez and Lucian Freud… I adore Lucian Freud.’ She gave a little shiver of appreciation. ‘So lovely and… fleshy.’

‘Very fleshy,’ I agreed.

‘Then we got to your big break with the BP Portrait Award four years ago—’

‘I didn’t win it,’ I interrupted. ‘I was a runner-up. But they used my painting on the poster for the competition, which led to several new commissions, which meant that I could give up teaching and start painting full time. So yes, that was a big step forward.’

‘And now the Duchess of Cornwall has put you right on the map!’

‘I… guess she has. I was thrilled when the National Portrait Gallery asked me to paint her.’

‘And that’s brought you some nice exposure.’ I flinched. ‘So have you had many famous sitters?’

I shook my head. ‘Most are “ordinary” people who simply like the idea of having themselves, or someone they love, painted; the rest are either in public life in one way or another, or have had a distinguished career which the portrait is intended to commemorate.’

‘So we’re talking about the great and the good then.’

I shrugged. ‘You could call them that – professors and politicians, captains of industry, singers, conductors… a few actors.’

Clare nodded at a small unframed painting hanging by the door. ‘I love that one of David Walliams – the way his face looms out of the darkness.’

‘That’s not the finished portrait,’ I explained. ‘He has that, of course. This is just the model I did to make sure that the close-up composition was going to work.’

‘It reminds me of Caravaggio,’ she mused. I wished she’d get on with it. ‘He looks a bit like Young Bacchus…’

‘I’m sorry, Clare,’ I interjected. ‘But can we…?’ I nodded at the tape recorder.

‘Oh – I keep chatting, don’t I! Let’s crack on.’ She lifted her headphones on to her coppery bob then held the microphone towards me. ‘So…’ She started the machine. ‘Why do you paint portraits, Ella, rather than, say, landscapes?’

‘Well… landscape painting’s very solitary,’ I replied. ‘It’s just you and the view. But with portraits you’re with another human being and that’s what’s always fascinated me.’ Clare nodded and smiled for me to expand. ‘I feel excited when I look at a person for the very first time. When they sit in front of me I drink in everything I can about them. I study the colour and shape of their eyes, the line of their nose, the shade and texture of the skin, the outline of the mouth. I’m also registering how they are, physically.’

‘You mean their body language?’

‘Yes. I’m looking at the way they tilt their head, and the way they smile; whether they look me in the eye, or keep glancing away; I’m looking at the way they fold their arms or cross their legs, or if they don’t sit on the chair properly but perch forward on it or slouch down into it – because all that will tell me what I need to know about that person to be able to paint them truthfully.’

‘But—’ a motorbike was roaring down the street. Clare waited for the noise to fade. ‘What does “truthfully” mean – that the portrait looks like the person?’

‘It ought to look like them.’ I rubbed a smear of chrome green off the palm of my hand. ‘But a good portrait should also reveal aspects of the sitter’s character. It should capture both an outer and an inner likeness.’

‘You mean body and soul?’

‘Yes… It should show the person, body and soul.’

Clare glanced at her notes again. ‘Do you work from photographs?’

‘No. I need to have the living person in front of me. I want to be able to look at them from every angle and to see the relationship between each part of their face. Above all, I need to see the way the light bounces off their features, because that’s what will give me the form and the proportions. Painting is all about seeing the light. So I work only from life, and I ask for six two-hour sittings.’

Clare’s green eyes widened. ‘That’s a big commitment – for you both.’

‘It is. But then a portrait is a significant undertaking, in which the painter and sitter are working together – there’s a complicity.’

She held the microphone a little closer. ‘And do your sitters open up to you?’ I didn’t reply. ‘I mean, there you are, on your own with them, for hours at a time. Do they confide in you?’

‘Well…’ I didn’t like to say that my sitters confide the most extraordinary things. ‘They do sometimes talk about their marriages or their relationships,’ I answered carefully. ‘They’ll even tell me about their tragedies, and their regrets. But I regard what happens during the sittings as not just confidential, but almost sacrosanct.’

‘It’s a bit like a confessional then?’ Clare suggested teasingly.

‘In a way it is. A portrait sitting is a very special space. It has an… intimacy: painting another human being is an act of intimacy.’

‘So… have you ever fallen in love with any of your sitters?’

I smiled. ‘Well, I did once fall in love with a dachshund that someone wanted in the picture, but I’ve never fallen for a human sitter, no.’ I didn’t add that as most of my male subjects were married they were, in any case, off-limits. I thought of the mess that Chloë had got herself into…

‘Is there any kind of person you particularly enjoy painting?’ Clare asked.

I was silent for a moment while I considered the question. ‘I suppose I’m drawn to people who are a little bit dark – who haven’t had happy-ever-after sort of lives. I like painting people who I feel are… complex.’

‘Why do you think that is?’

‘I… find it more interesting – to see that fight going on in the face between the conflicting parts of someone’s personality.’ I glanced at the clock. It was half past six. I had to go. ‘But… do you have enough material now?’

Clare nodded. ‘Yes, plenty.’ She lifted off her headphones, then smoothed down her hair. ‘But could I have a quick look at your work?’

‘Sure.’ I suppressed a sigh. ‘I’ll get my portfolio.’

As I fetched the heavy black folder from the other side of the studio, Clare walked over to my big studio easel and studied the canvas standing on it. ‘Who’s this?’

‘That’s my mother.’ I heaved the portfolio on to the table then came and stood next to her. ‘She popped by this morning so I did a bit more. It’s for her sixtieth birthday later this year.’

‘She’s beautiful.’

I looked at my mother’s round blue eyes with their large, exposed lids beneath perfectly arching eyebrows, at her sculpted cheekbones and her aquiline nose, and at her left hand resting elegantly against her breastbone. Her skin was lined, but time had otherwise been kind. ‘It’s almost finished.’

Clare cocked her head to one side. ‘She has… poise.’

‘She was a ballet dancer.’

‘Ah.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I remember now, it said so in that article about you.’ She looked at me. ‘And was she successful?’

‘Yes – she was with the English National Ballet, then with the Northern Ballet Theatre in Manchester – this was in the seventies. That’s her, actually, on the wall, over there…’

Clare followed my gaze to a framed poster of a ballerina in a full-length white tutu and bridal veil. ‘Giselle,’ Clare murmured. ‘How lovely… It’s such a touching story, isn’t it – innocence betrayed…’

‘It was my mother’s favourite role – that was in ’79. Sadly, she had to retire just a few months later.’

‘Why?’ Clare asked. ‘Because of having children?’

‘No – I was nearly five by then. It was because she was injured.’

‘In rehearsal?’

I shook my head. ‘At home. She fell, breaking her ankle.’

Clare’s brow pleated in sympathy. ‘How terrible.’ She looked at the portrait again, as if seeking signs of that disappointment in my mother’s face.

‘It was hard…’ I had a sudden memory of my mother sitting at the kitchen table in our old flat, her head in her hands. She used to stay like that for a long time.

‘What did she do then?’ I heard Clare ask.

‘She decided that we’d move to London; once she’d recovered enough she began a new career as a ballet mistress.’ Clare looked at me enquiringly. ‘It’s something that older or injured dancers often do. They work with a company, refreshing the choreography or rehearsing particular roles: my mother did this with the Festival Ballet for some years, then with Ballet Rambert.’

‘Does she still do that?’

‘No – she’s more or less retired. She teaches one day a week at the English National Ballet school, otherwise she mostly does charity work; in fact she’s organised a big gala auction tonight for Save the Children, which is why I’m pushed for time as I have to be there but in here—’ I went over to the table and opened the folder – ‘are the photos of all my portraits. There are about fifty.’

‘So it’s your Facebook,’ Clare said with a smile. She sat on the sofa again and began to browse the images. ‘Fisherman…’ she murmured. ‘That one’s on your website, isn’t it? Ursula Sleeping… Emma, Polly’s Face…’ Clare gave me a puzzled look. ‘Why did you call this one Polly’s Face – given that it’s a portrait?’

‘Oh, because Polly’s my best friend – we’ve known each other since we were six; she’s a hand and foot model and was jokingly complaining that no one ever showed any interest in her face, so I said I’d paint it.’

‘Ah…’

I pointed to the next image. ‘That’s Baroness Hale – the first woman Law Lord; this is Sir Philip Watts, a former Chairman of Shell.’

Clare turned the page again. ‘And there’s the Duchess of Cornwall. She looks rather humorous.’

‘She is, and that’s the quality I most wanted people to see.’

‘And did the Prince like it?’

I gave a shrug. ‘He seemed to. He said nice things about it when he came to the unveiling at the National Portrait Gallery last month.’

Clare turned to the next photo. ‘And who’s this girl with the cropped hair?’

‘That’s my sister, Chloë. She works for an ethical PR agency called PRoud, so they handle anything to do with fair trade, green technology, organic food and farming – that kind of thing.’

Clare nodded thoughtfully. ‘She’s very like your mother.’

‘She is – she has her fair complexion and ballerina physique.’ Whereas I am dark and sturdy, I reflected balefully – more Paula Rego than Degas.

Clare peered at the painting. ‘But she looks so… sad – distressed, almost.’

I hesitated. ‘She was breaking up with someone – it was a difficult time; but she’s fine now,’ I went on firmly. Even if her new boyfriend’s vile, I didn’t add.

My phone was ringing. I answered it.

‘Where are you?’ Mum demanded softly. ‘It’s ten to seven – nearly everyone’s here.’

‘Oh, sorry, but I’m not quite finished.’ I glanced at Clare, who was still flicking through the portfolio.

‘You said you’d come early.’

‘I know – I’ll be there in twenty minutes, promise.’ I hung up. I looked at Clare. ‘I’m afraid I have to go now…’ I went to my work table and dipped some dirty brushes in the jar of turps.

‘Of course…’ she said, without looking up. ‘That’s the singer Cecilia Bartoli.’ She turned to the final image. ‘And who’s this friendly looking man with the bow tie?’

I pulled the brushes through a sheet of newspaper to squeeze out the paint. ‘That’s my father.’

‘Your father?’

‘Yes.’ I did my best to ignore the surprise in her voice. ‘Roy Graham. He’s an orthopaedic surgeon – semi-retired.’ I went to the sink, aware of Clare’s curious gaze on my back.

‘But in The Times—’

‘He plays a lot of golf…’ I rubbed washing-up liquid into the bristles. ‘At the Royal Mid-Surrey – it’s not far from where they live, in Richmond.’

‘In The Times it said that—’

‘He also plays bridge.’ I turned on the tap. ‘I’ve never played, but people say it’s fun once you get into it.’ I rinsed and dried the brushes, then laid them on my work table, ready for the next day. ‘Right…’ I looked at Clare, willing her to leave.

She put the tape recorder and notes into her bag then stood up. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking you this,’ she said. ‘But as it was in the newspaper, I assume you talk about it.’

My fingers trembled as I screwed the top back on a tube of titanium white. ‘Talk about what?’

‘Well… the article said that you were adopted when you were eight…’ Heat spilled into my face. ‘And that your name was changed—’

‘I don’t know where they got that.’ I untied my apron. ‘Now I really must—’

‘It said that your real father left when you were five.’

By now my heart was battering against my ribcage. ‘My real father is Roy Graham,’ I said quietly. ‘And that’s all there is to it.’ I hung my apron on its hook. ‘But thank you for coming.’ I opened the studio door. ‘If you could let yourself out…’

Clare gave me a puzzled smile. ‘Of course.’

As soon as she’d gone, I furiously rubbed at my paint-stained fingers with a turps-soaked rag then quickly washed my face and tidied my hair. I put on some black trousers and my green velvet coat and was about to go and unlock my bike when I remembered that the front light was broken. I groaned. I’d have to get the bus, or a cab – whichever turned up first. At least Chelsea Old Town Hall wasn’t far.

I ran up to the King’s Road and got to the stop just as a number 11 was pulling up, its windows blocks of yellow in the gathering dusk.

As we trundled over the bridge I reflected bitterly on Clare’s intrusiveness, yet she’d only repeated what she’d read in The Times. I felt a burst of renewed fury that something so intensely private was now online…

‘Would you please take that paragraph out,’ I’d asked the reporter, Hamish Watt, when I’d tracked him down an hour or so after I’d first seen the article. As I’d gripped the phone my knuckles were white. ‘I was horrified when I saw it – please remove it.’

‘No,’ he’d replied. ‘It’s part of the story.’

‘But you didn’t ask me about it,’ I’d protested. ‘When you interviewed me at the National Portrait Gallery last week you talked only about my work.’

‘Yes – but I already had some background about you – that your mother had been a dancer, for example. I also happened to know a bit about your family circumstances.’

‘How?’

There was a momentary hesitation. ‘I’m a journalist,’ he answered, as though that were sufficient explanation.

‘Please cut that bit out,’ I’d implored him again.

‘I can’t,’ he’d insisted. ‘And you were perfectly happy to be interviewed, weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed weakly. ‘But if I’d known what you were going to write I’d have refused. You said that the article would be about my painting, but a good third of it was very personal and I’m uncomfortable about that.’

‘Well, I’m sorry you’re unhappy,’ he’d said unctuously. ‘But as publicity is undoubtedly helpful to artists, I suggest you learn to take the rough with the smooth.’ With that, he’d hung up…

It would be on the Internet for ever, I now thought dismally – for anyone to see. Anyone at all… The thought of it made me feel sick. I’d simply have to find a way to deal with it, I reflected as we passed the World’s End pub.

My father is Roy Graham.

My father is Roy Graham and he’s a wonderful father.

I’ve got a father, thank you. His name is Roy Graham…

To distract myself I thought about work. I was starting a new portrait in the morning. Then on Thursday Mike Johns, MP, was coming for his fourth sitting – there’d been quite a gap since the last one as he said he’d been too busy; and yesterday I’d had that enquiry about painting a Mrs Carr – her daughter, Sophia, had contacted me through my website. Then there’d be the new commission from tonight – not that it was going to make me any money, I reflected regretfully as we passed Heal’s. I stood up and pressed the bell.

I got off the bus, crossed the road and followed a knot of smartly dressed people up the steps of the town hall. I walked down the black-and-white tiled corridor, showed my invitation, then pushed on the doors of the main hall, next to which was a large sign: Save The Children – Gala Auction.

The ornate blue-and-ochre room was already full, the stertorous chatter almost drowning out the string trio that was valiantly playing away on one side of the stage. Aproned waiters circulated with trays of canapés and drinks. The air was almost viscous with scent.

I picked up a programme and skim-read the introduction. Five million children at risk in Malawi… hunger in Kenya… continuing crisis in Zimbabwe… in desperate need of help… Then came the list of lots – twenty of which were in the Silent Auction, while the ten ‘star’ lots were to be auctioned live. These included a week in a Venetian palazzo, a luxury break at the Ritz, tickets for the first night of Swan Lake at Covent Garden with Carlos Acosta, a shopping trip to Harvey Nichols with Gok Wan, a dinner party for eight cooked by Gordon Ramsay and an evening dress designed by Maria Grachvogel. There was an electric guitar signed by Paul McCartney and a Chelsea FC shirt signed by the current squad. The final lot was A portrait commission by Gabriella Graham, kindly donated by the artist. As I looked at the crowd I wondered who I’d end up painting.

Suddenly I spotted Roy, waving. He walked towards me. ‘Ella-Bella!’ He placed a paternal kiss on my cheek.

Damn Clare, I thought. Here was my father.

‘Hello, Roy.’ I nodded at his daffodil-dotted bow tie. ‘Nice neckwear. Haven’t seen that one before, have I?’

‘It’s new – thought I’d christen it tonight in honour of the spring. Now, you need some fizz…’ He glanced around for a waiter.

‘I’d love some. It’s been a long day.’

Roy got me a glass of champagne and handed it to me with an appraising glance. ‘So, how’s our Number One Girl?’

I smiled at the familiar, affectionate appellation. ‘I’m fine, thanks. Sorry I’m late.’

‘Your mum was getting slightly twitchy, but then this is a big event. Ah, here she comes…’

My mother was gliding through the crowd towards us, her slender frame swathed in amethyst chiffon, her ash-blonde hair swept into a perfect French pleat.

She held out her arms to me. ‘El-la.’ Her tone suggested a reproach rather than a greeting. ‘I’d almost given up on you, darling.’ As she kissed me I inhaled the familiar scent of her Fracas. ‘Now, I need you to be on hand to talk to people about the portrait commission. We’ve put the easel over there, look, in the presentation area, and I’ve made you a label so that people will know who you are.’ She opened her mauve satin clutch, took out a laminated name badge and had already pinned it to my lapel before I could protest about the mark it might leave on the velvet. ‘I’m hoping the portrait will fetch a high price. We’re aiming to raise seventy-five thousand pounds tonight.’

‘Well, fingers crossed.’ I adjusted the badge. ‘But you’ve got some great items.’

‘And all donated,’ she said wonderingly. ‘We haven’t had to buy anything. Everyone’s been so generous.’

‘Only because you’re so persuasive,’ said Roy. ‘I often think you could persuade the rain not to fall, Sue, I really do.’

Mum gave him an indulgent smile. ‘I’m just focused and well organised. I know how I want things to be.’

‘You’re formidable,’ Roy said amiably, ‘in both the English and the French meaning of that word.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to you, Sue – and to a successful event.’

I sipped my champagne then nodded at the empty podium. ‘So who’s wielding the gavel?’

Mum adjusted her pashmina. ‘Tim Spiers. He’s ex-Christie’s and brilliant at cajoling people into parting with their cash – having said which, I’ve instructed the waiters to keep topping up the glasses.’

Roy laughed. ‘That’s right – get the punters pissed.’

‘No – just in a good mood,’ Mum corrected him. ‘Then they’re much more, well, biddable,’ she concluded wryly. ‘But if things are a bit slow…’ she lowered her voice ‘…then I’d like us to do a little strategic bidding.’

My heart sank. ‘I’d rather not.’

Mum gave me one of her ‘disappointed’ looks. ‘It’s just to get things going – you wouldn’t have to buy anything, Ella.’

‘But… if no one outbids me, I might. These are expensive lots, Mum, and I’ve a huge mortgage – it’s too risky.’

‘You’re donating a portrait,’ said Roy. ‘That’s more than enough.’ Too right, I thought crossly. ‘I’ll do some bidding, Sue,’ he added. ‘Up to a limit, though.’

Mum laid her palm on his cheek – a typical gesture. ‘Thank you. I’m sure Chloë will bid too.’

I glanced around the crowd. ‘Where is Chloë?’

‘She’s on her way,’ Roy replied. ‘With Nate.’

A groan escaped me.

Mum shook her head. ‘I don’t know why you have to be like that, Ella. Nate’s delightful.’

‘Really?’ I sipped my champagne again. ‘Can’t say I’d noticed.’

‘You hardly know him,’ she retorted quietly.

‘That’s true. I’ve only met him once.’ But that one time had been more than enough. It had been at a drinks party that Chloë had given last November…

‘Any special reason for having it?’ I’d asked her over the phone after I’d opened the elegant invitation.

‘It’s because I haven’t had a party for so long – I’ve neglected my friends. It’s also because I’m feeling a lot more cheerful at the moment, because…’ She drew in her breath. ‘Ella… I’ve met someone.’

Relief flooded through me. ‘That’s great. So… what’s he like?’

‘He’s thirty-six,’ she’d replied. ‘Tall with very short black hair, and lovely green eyes.’

To my surprise I had to suppress a pang of envy. ‘He sounds gorgeous.’

‘He is – and he’s not married.’

‘Well… that’s good.’

‘Oh, and he’s from New York. He’s been in London about a year.’

‘And what does this paragon do?’

‘He’s in private equity.’

‘So he can stand you dinner then.’

‘Yes – but I like to pay for things too.’

‘So are you… an item?’

‘Sort of – we’ve been on five dates. But he said he’s looking forward to the party, so that’s a good sign. I know you’re going to love him,’ she added happily.

So, a fortnight later, I’d cycled over to Putney, through a veil of fog. And I was locking up my bike outside Chloë’s flat at the end of Askill Drive when I heard a taxi pull up just around the corner in Keswick Road. As the door clicked open I could hear the passenger talking on his mobile. Although he spoke softly his voice somehow carried through the mist and darkness.

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t,’ I heard him say. He was American. Realising that this could be Chloë’s new man I found myself tuning in to his conversation. ‘I really can’t,’ he reiterated as the cab door slammed shut. ‘Because I’ve just gotten to Putney for a drinks party, that’s why…’ So it was him. ‘No… I don’t want to go.’ I felt my insides twist. ‘But I’m here now, honey, and so… just some girl,’ he added as the cab drove away. ‘No, no… she’s nothing special,’ he added quietly. By now my face was aflame. ‘I can’t get out of it,’ he protested. ‘Because I promised, that’s why – and she’s been going on and on about it.’ My hands shook as I unclipped my front light. ‘Okay, honey – I’ll come over later. Yes… that is a promise. No… I’ll let myself in… You too, honey…’

I stood there, filled with dismay, expecting the wretch to come round the corner and walk up Chloë’s path; and I was just wondering what to do when I realised that he was going in the opposite direction, his footsteps snapping across the pavement then becoming fainter and fainter…

So it wasn’t him. I exhaled with relief. I went up to Chloë’s front door and rang the bell.

‘Ella!’ she exclaimed as she opened it. She looked lovely in a black crêpe shift that used to be Mum’s, with a short necklace of over-sized pearls. ‘I’m glad you’re the first,’ she said quickly, ‘I’ve just poured the champagne, but if you could give me a hand with the eats that would be…’ I was aware of steps behind me as Chloë’s gaze strayed over my shoulder. Her face lit up like a firework. ‘Nate!’

I turned to see a tall, well-dressed man coming up the path.

‘Hi, Chloë.’ As I recognised his voice my heart sank. ‘I just went completely the wrong way – I was halfway down Keswick Road before I realised. I shoulda used my sat-nav,’ he added with a laugh.

‘Well, it is foggy,’ she responded gaily. I stepped past her into the house so that she wouldn’t see my face. ‘It’s so nice that you’re here, Nate,’ I heard her say.

‘Oh, I’ve been looking forward to it.’ As I glanced at him I tried not to show my contempt.

Chloë drew him inside; then, still holding his hand, she grabbed mine so that the three of us were suddenly linked, awkwardly, as we stood there in the hallway. ‘Ella,’ she said happily, ‘this is Nate.’ She turned to him. ‘Nate, this is my sister, Ella.’

He was just as Chloë had described. He had very short dark hair that receded slightly above a high forehead, and eyes that were a pure mossy green. He had a sensuous mouth with a tiny indentation at each corner, and a long, straight nose that had a slender bridge, as though someone had pinched it.

‘Great to meet you, Ella.’ He was clearly unaware that I’d overheard his conversation. I gave him a cold smile and saw him register the slight. ‘Erm…’ He nodded at my head. ‘That’s a nice helmet you’ve got there.’

‘Oh.’ I’d been too distracted to remove it. I unclipped it while Chloë relieved Nate of his coat.

She folded it over her arm. ‘I’ll just put this on my bed.’ She put her hand on the banister. ‘But have a glass of champagne, Nate – the kitchen’s through there. Ella will show you.’

‘No – I… need to come up too.’ Turning my back on Nate, I followed Chloë upstairs.

We crossed the landing and went into Chloë’s bedroom. She half-closed the door then put her finger to her lips. ‘So what do you think?’ She laid Nate’s charcoal cashmere coat on her bed then turned to me eagerly. ‘Isn’t he attractive?’

I took off my cycling jacket. ‘He is.’

‘And he’s really… decent. I think I’ve landed on my feet.’

I fought the urge to tell Chloë that she’d almost certainly landed flat on her face.

I put my jacket and helmet down, then went over to the large gilded wall mirror. I opened my bag. ‘So how did you meet him?’ My hand shook as I pulled a comb through my fog-dampened hair.

Chloë came and stood next to me. ‘Playing tennis.’ As she checked her own appearance I was momentarily distracted by the physical difference between us – Chloë with the alabaster paleness of my mother, next to me, with my olive skin, brown hair and dark eyes. ‘Do you remember telling me that I should try and go out more – maybe play tennis?’ I nodded. ‘Well, I took your advice, and booked some lessons at the Harbour Club.’ Chloë licked her ring finger then ran it over her left eyebrow. ‘Nate was on the next court; and I had to retrieve my ball from behind his baseline a few times…’

I put the comb back in my bag. ‘Really?’

‘So of course I said sorry. Then I saw him in the café afterwards and I apologised again…’

I snapped my bag shut.

‘Then we had a coffee – and that’s how it started. So I have you to thank,’ she added happily. My heart sank. ‘It’s still early days – but he’s keen.’

I looked at her. ‘How do you know?’

‘Well… because he calls me a lot and because…’ She gave me a puzzled smile. ‘Why do you ask?’

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Chloë that Nate was in fact a disingenuous, two-timing creep. But then, reflected behind us on the wall I saw my portrait of her, her face so thin, and almost rigid with distress; her blue eyes blazing with pain and regret.

‘Why do you ask?’ she repeated.

As I looked at Chloë’s happy, hopeful expression I knew I couldn’t tell her. ‘No reason.’ I exhaled. ‘I was just… wondering.’

‘Ella?’ Chloë was peering at me. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m… fine.’ I went to the corner basin and washed my hands. ‘Actually, a van jumped the lights by the bridge and nearly knocked me off. I’m still feeling shaken,’ I lied as I dried them.

‘I knew something was up. I wish you didn’t cycle – and in fog like this it’s crazy. You’ve got to be careful.’

I laid my hand on Chloë’s arm. ‘So have you.’

‘What do you mean?’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t cycle.’

I shook my head. ‘I mean be careful…’ I tapped the left side of my chest. ‘Here.’

‘Oh.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘I see. Don’t worry, Ella. I’m not about to make another… well, mistake, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nate’s free of complications, thank God.’ My stomach lurched. ‘But he’ll be wondering what we’re doing.’ She opened the door. ‘Let’s go and talk to him.’

This was the last thing I wanted to do, not least because I didn’t think I’d be able to hide my hostility; and I was just wondering how I could get out of it when the bell rang, so I said I’d do door duty, then I offered to heat up the canapés, then I went round with a tray of drinks, by which time Chloë’s flat was heaving, and in this way I managed to avoid Nate. As I left, pleading an early start, I glanced at him as he chatted to someone in the sitting room and hoped that his romance with Chloë wouldn’t last. Having overheard what I had done, it didn’t seem likely.

So my heart sank when Chloë phoned me three days later to say that Nate was taking her to Paris for the weekend in early December. Then just before Christmas they gave a dinner party at his flat; Chloë wanted me to be there, but I said I was busy. In January they invited me to the theatre with them but I made some excuse. Then last month Mum asked us all to Sunday lunch, but I told Chloë I’d be away.

‘What a shame,’ she’d said. ‘That’s three times you’ve been unable to meet up with us, Ella. Nate will think you don’t like him,’ she added with a good-natured laugh.

‘Oh, that’s not true,’ I lied…

‘Well, I like Nate,’ I heard Mum say above the pre-auction chatter ‘Nate’s attractive and charming.’ Her voice dropped to a near whisper. ‘And we should all just be thankful that he makes Chloë so happy after…’ Her mouth pursed.

‘Max,’ said Roy helpfully.

I nodded. ‘Max was a bit of a mistake.’

‘Max was a disaster,’ Mum hissed. ‘I told Chloë,’ she went on quietly. ‘I told her that it would never work out, and I was right. These situations bring nothing but heartbreak,’ she added with sudden bitterness, and I knew that she was thinking of her own heartbreak three decades ago.

‘Anyway, Chloë’s fine now,’ said Roy evenly. ‘So let’s change the subject, shall we? We’re at a party.’

‘Of course,’ Mum murmured, collecting herself. ‘And I must circulate. Roy, would you go and see how the Silent Auction’s going? Ella, you need to go and stand next to the easel, but do make the portrait commission sound enticing, won’t you? I want to get the highest possible price for every item.’

‘Sure,’ I responded wearily. I hated having to do a hard sell – even for a good cause. I made my way through the crowd.

The easel was standing between two long tables on which the information about all the star lots was displayed. The Maria Grachvogel gown was draped on to a silver mannequin next to a life-size cut-out of Gordon Ramsay. On a green baize-covered screen were pinned large photos of the Venetian palazzo and the Ritz and next to these was a Royal Opera House poster for Swan Lake, flanked by two pendant pairs of pink ballet shoes. The guitar was mounted on a stand, and next to it the Chelsea FC shirt with its graffiti of famous signatures.

As I stood beside the portrait a dark-haired woman in a turquoise dress approached me. She glanced at my name badge. ‘So you’re the artist.’ I nodded. The woman gazed at the painting. ‘And who’s she?’

‘My friend Polly. She’s lent it to us tonight as an example of my work.’

‘I’ve always wanted to have my portrait done,’ the woman said. ‘But when I was young and pretty I didn’t have the money and now that I do have the money I feel it’s too late.’

‘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!’