Читать книгу The Very Picture of You - Isabel Wolff - Страница 8

‘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.’

‘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.

‘I forgot to wear the blue jumper,’ Mike said. ‘I’m sorry – it slipped my mind.’

‘Don’t worry.’ I mixed the colour with a palette knife, then selected a fine brush. ‘I’ll be working on your face today, but if you could wear it next time, that would be great.’

Now I looked at Mike, and began to paint; I looked at him again, then painted a little more. And so it went on, just looking and painting, looking and painting.

Mike usually chatted away, but today he was virtually silent. He directed his gaze towards me but avoided eye contact. His mouth and jaw were tight. Aware that I must have noticed the change in him, he suddenly confided that he was ‘a bit strung out’ with all the extra work he was doing in preparation for the general election.

I wondered if he was worried that he might lose his seat, but then remembered reading somewhere that he had a huge majority. I shaded a slight hollow into his left cheek. ‘Have you been away?’ I wondered whether that was why he’d been unable to sit for me lately.

He nodded. ‘I went to Bonn last month on a cross-party trip.’

I cleaned the brush in the pot of turps. ‘What was that for?’

‘We were looking at their tram system. I’m on a transport committee.’

I dipped the brush in the cobalt to make the flesh tone around his jaw a bit greyer. ‘Then please will you do what you can to help cyclists – it’s not easy on two wheels in this city.’

Mike nodded, then glanced away. Then I asked him about his wife, a successful publisher in her late thirties.

He shifted on the chair. ‘Sarah’s fine. She’s incredibly busy though – as usual.’

I thinned the paint with a little turps. ‘I saw a photo of her in the business pages the other day – I can’t remember what the story was, but she looked terribly glamorous.’

‘She’s just bought Delphi Press – to add to her empire,’ Mike added with a slightly bitter smile. Now I remembered him confiding that his wife’s career was all-consuming. I wondered again at the change in him; maybe she’d decided that she didn’t want children, and he did: or maybe they couldn’t have them and it was getting to him. Maybe, God forbid, he was ill.

Suddenly he heaved a sigh so deep, it was almost a groan.

I lowered my brush. ‘Mike,’ I said quietly. ‘Are you okay? I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you seem a bit—’

‘I’m… fine,’ he said brusquely. He cleared his throat. ‘As I say, I’m just a bit stressed… with polling day looming… and it’s particularly tense this time round.’

‘Of course. Would you like to have a coffee break now – if you’re tired?’ He shook his head. ‘Well… shall we just listen to the radio then?’ He nodded gratefully. So I found my paint-spattered tranny and switched it on.

Ra-di-o Two… It’s ten to nine. And if you’ve just joined us, you’re listening to me, Ken Bruce, taking you through the morning… Eric Clapton’s on tour – he’ll be playing the O2 next week, then he’ll be in Birmingham and Leeds…

The doorbell rang. As I ran down I heard a gentle guitar introduction, then Clapton’s voice.

Would you know my name

If I saw you in heaven

Will it be the same

If I saw you in heaven…

I opened the door. It was a courier with the new bank card I’d been expecting. As I signed for it, Clapton’s sad ballad drifted down the stairs.

Would you hold my hand

If I saw you in heaven

I went back up to the studio. ‘Sorry about that.’ I went to my desk and put the letter in a drawer.

I must be strong, and carry on

Because I know I don’t belong

Here in heaven…

I returned to the easel, picked up my brush, then looked at Mike…

…don’t belong

Here in heaven.

He was crying.

I turned the radio off. ‘Let’s stop,’ I murmured after a moment. ‘You’re… upset.’

‘No. No.’ He cleared his throat, struggling to compose himself. ‘I’m fine – and the picture needs to be finished.’ He swallowed. ‘I’d like to continue.’

‘Are you sure?’

He nodded, then raised his head to resume the pose, and we continued in silence for another fifteen minutes or so, at the end of which Mike stood up. I wondered whether he’d come and look at the painting, as he usually does; but he just picked up his jacket and went out of the studio.

I followed him downstairs. ‘So just two more sittings now.’ I opened the front door. ‘And is the same time next week okay for you?’

‘That’ll be fine,’ he said absently. ‘See you then, Ella.’

‘Yes. See you then, Mike. I look forward to it.’

I watched him walk to his car. As I stood there, Mike lifted his hand, gave me a bleak smile, then got into his black BMW and drove slowly away.