Читать книгу The Very Picture of You - Isabel Wolff - Страница 9

‘Ella?’ said Chloë over the phone a few days later. ‘I need to ask you something.’

‘If it’s that you want me to be a bridesmaid, the answer’s no.’

‘Oh…’ She sounded disappointed. ‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m nearly seven years older and two stone heavier than you are – that’s why. I don’t fancy being a troll to your fairy.’

‘How about maid of honour then?’

‘No. See answer above.’

‘Actually, that wasn’t what I was going to ask you – Nate has a five-year-old niece who’s going to do the honours.’

‘That sounds perfect. So what did you want to ask?’ My insides were churning, because I knew.

‘I’d just like to set up the first sitting with Nate. I was half expecting you to get in touch about it,’ she reproached me.

‘Sorry, I’ve been working flat out,’ I lied.

‘Can we fix up some times now?’

‘Sure,’ I said breezily.

I rummaged on the table for my diary and found it under this month’s Modern Painters. I scribbled in Chloë’s suggested date.

‘So where are you going to paint him? His flat’s near to yours, if you want to paint him there.’

‘No – he’ll have to come to me.’ Disliking Nate, I preferred him to be on my ground.

‘That’s eleven a.m. next Friday then,’ said Chloë. ‘It’s Good Friday.’

‘So it is. I’ll get some hot cross buns in for the break.’

As I tossed the diary back on the table I remembered the girl at the auction asking me if I could paint someone I didn’t like. I was about to find out.

‘Nate will be a good sitter,’ I heard Chloë say.

‘I hope so.’ I sighed. ‘I’ve had some tricky ones lately.’

‘Really?’

I wasn’t going to tell her about Mike – I felt a growing concern for him and wondered what had happened to make him so unhappy.

‘So how are your sitters being tricky?’ Chloë persisted. I described Celine’s behaviour. ‘How odd,’ said Chloë. ‘It’s as though she’s trying to sabotage the portrait.’

‘Exactly. And when we finally got to start, she took two more calls then went to the front door and spoke to her builder for fifteen minutes. The woman’s a nightmare.’

‘Well, Nate will be very good. He’s not that keen on it all either, as you know. But at least he’ll behave well during the sittings.’

‘In that case, we should be able to get away with five rather than the usual six.’ The thought cheered me. ‘Or even four.’

‘Please don’t cut corners,’ I heard Chloë say. ‘I’ve paid a lot for this portrait, Ella. I want it to be… wonderful.’

‘Of… course you do.’ I felt a wave of shame. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do a good job, in at least six sittings – more if they’re needed,’ I added recklessly.

‘And please make it truthful, not just attractive. I want the portrait to reveal something about Nate.’

‘It will do,’ I assured her, then wondered what – that he was cynical and untrustworthy, probably. Convinced that my negativity about him would show, I now regretted the commission even more and wished I could get out of it. I fiddled with a paintbrush. ‘I saw the engagement announcement in The Times, by the way.’ Seeing it in black and white had depressed me…

Mr Nathan Roberto Rossi to Miss Chloë Susan Graham.

Chloë snorted. ‘Mum also put it in the Telegraph, the Independent and the Guardian! I told her it was over the top, but she said she “didn’t want anyone to miss it”.’ I immediately suspected that what Mum really intended was for Max not to miss it.

‘She is amazing, though,’ Chloë went on. ‘She’s already booked the church, the photographer, the video man, the caterers, the florist and the marquee – or Raj tent, rather. She’s now decided on a Moghul pavilion – she says it’s the most elegant way to dine under canvas.’

‘Is it going to be a sit-down affair then?’

‘Yes. I told Mum that finger food would be fine, but she insists we do it “properly” with a traditional, waitered wedding breakfast – poor Dad. He keeps joking that it’s a good job he’s an orthopaedic surgeon as he knows where to get more arms and legs.’

I smiled. ‘And Mum said you wanted a vintage wedding dress.’

‘If I can find one that’s perfect for me, yes.’

While Chloë chatted about her preferred style I went to my computer and, with the phone still clamped to my ear, found three specialist websites. I clicked on the first, the Vintage Wedding-Dress Store.

‘There’s a wonderful fifties dress here,’ I said to her. ‘Guipure lace top with a billowy silk skirt – it’s called “Gina”.’ I told Chloë the name of the site so that she could find it. ‘There’s also a thirties one called “Greta” – see it? That column of ivory satin – but it’s got a very low back.’

‘Oh yes… It’s lovely, but I’m not sure I’d want to show that much flesh.’

‘That sixties one would suit you – “Jackie”: it’s a twelve though, so you’d have to take it right in, which might ruin it.’

‘I can’t see it. Hang on a mo’…’

While I waited for Chloë to find it, I clicked on my e-mails. There were three new ones including a request for my bank account details, an advert for ‘bedding bargains’ from ‘Dreamz’ and some offers from Top Table. I deleted them all.

‘Here’s a gorgeous dress,’ Chloë said. ‘It’s called “Giselle”.’

I navigated back to the site. The dress was ballerina style with dense layers of silk tulle below a fitted satin bodice that spangled with sequins. ‘It is gorgeous. You’ll look just like Mum in her dancing days.’

‘It’s perfect,’ Chloë breathed. ‘And I know it would suit me – but…’ She was making little clicking noises. ‘It might be inauspicious to wear a wedding dress called “Giselle” – don’t you think?’

‘Oh… because she has such bad luck in the husband department, you mean?’

‘Exactly – Albrecht’s such a cad, two-timing the poor girl like that. I hope Nate isn’t going to do that to me,’ she snorted. ‘Otherwise I might have to kill myself, like Giselle does.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said faintly. ‘After all, he’s asked you to marry him.’

‘That’s… true. Anyway, if you see any really great dresses, let me know.’

‘Sure. But I’d better go, Chloë – I’ve got a sitting.’

‘And I’ve got some press packs to check – but I’ll tell Nate that he’s got a date with you on Friday.’

A date with Nate, I thought dismally as I hung up.

I ordered the cab then began to get my things together for the sitting with Mrs Carr. Her daughter had already specified the size of canvas, so I took out the one that I’d primed, checked that it was properly stretched, then put my canvas bag and easel by the front door. I was just reaching for my coat when the phone rang.

I picked it up. ‘Ella? This is Alison from the Royal Society of Portrait Painters. Do you remember we spoke before Christmas – when you were first elected?’

‘Of course I do. Hi.’

‘Well, I’ve just had an enquiry about you.’

‘Really?’ My spirits lifted at the possibility of another commission. ‘Who’s it from?’ Through the window I could see the cab pulling up.

‘It’s slightly unusual in that it’s for a posthumous portrait.’

My euphoria evaporated. ‘I’m afraid I don’t do them. I find the idea too sad.’

‘Oh, I didn’t realise that you felt like that – I’ll make a note. Some of our members do do them, but we’ll put on your page that you don’t. Not that these requests arise all that often, but it’s good to know the position. Anyway, I’m sure there’ll be other enquiries about you before long.’

‘Fingers crossed…’

‘So I’ll be in touch again sometime.’

‘Great. Erm… Alison, do you mind if I ask you…?’

‘Yes?’

‘Just out of curiosity – who was it from? This enquiry?’

‘It was from the family of a girl who was knocked off her bike and killed.’ I felt goose bumps stipple my arms. ‘It happened two months ago,’ Alison went on. ‘At Fulham Broadway. In fact, there’s been a bit about it in the press because the police still don’t know what caused the accident – or who, rather.’

I thought of the black BMW speeding away. ‘I live near there,’ I said quietly. ‘I’ve seen where it happened…’

‘There’ll be a memorial service in early September, at the school where she taught – she was a primary teacher. Her parents have decided to commission a portrait of her for it.’

‘Grace. Her name was Grace.’

‘That’s right. It’s terribly sad. Anyway, her family realise that any painting’s going to take time, so her uncle called me to discuss it. He said that they’d been looking at our artists and had particularly liked your work – plus the fact that you’re a similar age to Grace.’

‘I see…’

‘In fact, they’re very keen for you to do it.’

‘Ah.’

‘But I’ll tell him that you can’t, shall I?’

‘No… I mean, yes. Tell him… that…’

‘That you paint only from life?’ Alison suggested.

‘Yes… But please say I’m sorry. And give them my condolences.’

‘I will.’

From outside I heard the impatient beeping of the cab’s horn so I said goodbye, locked up, then went out to the car. It was the red Volvo again; the driver put my easel and canvas in the boot while I climbed into the back.

He sat behind the wheel then looked at me in the mirror. ‘Where to this time?’

I gave him the address and we set off.

‘So who are you painting today?’ he asked me as we drove through Earl’s Court.

‘An elderly lady.’

‘Lots of wrinkles then,’ he laughed.

‘Yes – and lots of character. I like painting old people. I love looking at paintings of old people too.’ I thought of Rembrandt’s tender and dignified portraits of the elderly.

‘You’re going to paint me, one day – don’t forget now!’

‘Don’t worry – I won’t forget,’ I said. He had an interesting, craggy sort of face.

Mrs Carr’s flat was in a mansion block in a narrow street close to Notting Hill Gate. I paid the driver, got out of the cab, then he handed me my equipment. To my left was an antique shop, and to the right a primary school. I could hear children’s voices and laughter and the sound of a ball being kicked about. I pressed the bell for flat 9 and after a moment heard Mrs Carr’s daughter, Sophia, over the intercom.

‘Hi, Ella.’ The door buzzed open and I pushed on it. ‘Take the lift to the third floor.’

The interior of the Edwardian building was cold, its walls still clad in the original Art Nouveau tiles in a fluid pattern of green and maroon. I stepped into the antiquated lift and rattled up to the third floor where it stopped with a sonorous ‘clunk’. As I pulled back the grille I could see Sophia waiting for me at the very end of the semi-lit corridor. Mid-fifties, she was dressed youthfully in jeans and a brown suede jacket, her fair hair scraped into a ponytail.

‘It’s nice to see you again, Ella.’ As I walked towards her she looked at the equipment. ‘But that’s a lot to lug about.’ She stepped forward. ‘Let me help you.’

‘Oh – thanks. It’s not heavy,’ I added as she took the easel. ‘Just a bit awkward.’

‘Thanks for coming to us,’ she said as I followed her inside. She shut the door. ‘It makes it so much easier for my mother.’

‘That’s fine.’ I didn’t add that I like painting people in their own homes: it gives me important insights into who they are – their taste, how much comfort they prefer and how tidy they like these things; I can tell, from the number of family photos, how sentimental they are and, if there are invitations to be seen, how social. All this gives me a head start on my subjects before painting even begins.

‘Mum’s in the sitting room,’ Sophia said. ‘I’ll introduce you, then leave you to it while I do a bit of shopping for her.’

I followed her down the hallway.

The sitting room was large with two green wing-back chairs, a lemon-yellow chaise longue and a cream-coloured sofa. A large green-and-yellow Persian rug covered most of the darkly varnished parquet-tiled floor.

Mrs Carr was standing by the far window. She was tall and very slim, but slightly stooped, and she leaned on a stick. Her hair was tinted a pale caramel colour and was set in soft layered waves. In profile her nose was Roman, and her eyes, when she turned to look at me, were a remarkable dark blue, almost navy.

Sophia put the easel down. ‘Mummy?’ She’d raised her voice. ‘This is Ella.’

‘Hello, Mrs Carr.’ I extended a hand.

She took it in her left one. Her fingers felt as cool and smooth as vellum. As she smiled, her face creased into dozens of little lines and folds. ‘How nice to meet you.’

Sophia took my parka. ‘Can I get you a cup of coffee, Ella?’

‘Oh, no thanks.’

‘What about you, Mummy? Do you want some coffee?’

Mrs Carr shook her head, then went over to the sofa and sat down, leaning her stick against the arm.

Sophia waved to her. ‘I’ll be back around four – four, Mummy! Ok-ay?’

‘That’s fine, darling. No need to shout…’ As we heard Sophia’s retreating steps Mrs Carr looked at me, then shrugged. ‘She thinks I’m deaf,’ she said wonderingly. The front door slammed, creating a slight reverberation.

I took a closer look at the room. One wall was lined with books; the others bore an assortment of prints and paintings that hung, in attractive chaos, from the picture rail. I opened my bag. ‘Have you lived here long, Mrs Carr?’

She held up her hand. ‘Please call me Iris – we’ll be spending quite a lot of time together, after all.’

‘I will then – thanks.’

‘But to answer your question – fifteen years. I moved here after my husband died. We’d lived not far away, in Holland Street. The house was too big and too sad for me on my own; but I wanted to stay in this area as I have many friends here.’

I opened up the easel. ‘And do you have any other children?’

Iris nodded. ‘My younger one, Mary, lives in Sussex. Sophia’s just down the road in Brook Green; but they’re both very good to me. This portrait was their idea – rather a nice one, I think.’

‘And have you ever been painted before?’

Iris hesitated. ‘Yes. A long time ago…’ She half-closed her eyes as if revisiting the memory. ‘But… the girls suddenly said that they wanted a picture of me. I did wonder whether I wanted to be painted at this age – but I have to accept the fact that my face is now an old face.’

‘It’s also a beautiful one.’

She smiled. ‘You’re being kind.’

‘Not really – it’s true.’ I felt that Iris and I were going to get on well. ‘So… I’ll just get everything ready.’ I got out the paints and my palette. I tied on my apron and spread a dustsheet around the easel. ‘And did you have a career, Iris?’

She exhaled. ‘Ralph was in the Foreign Office, so that was my career, being a diplomatic wife – dutifully flying the flag in various parts of the globe.’

‘Sounds exciting – so where did you live?’

‘In Yugoslavia, Egypt and Iran – this was before the revolution – and in India and Chile. Our last posting was in Paris, which was lovely.’ As Iris talked I studied her face, seeing how it moved, and where the light fell upon her features.

I got out my pad and a stump of charcoal. ‘It sounds like a wonderful life.’

‘It was – in most ways.’

I sat in the wing-backed chair nearest Iris, looked at her, and began to make rapid marks: ‘I’m just doing a preliminary sketch.’ The charcoal squeaked across the paper. ‘And do you come from a diplomatic background yourself?’

‘No. My stepfather was in the City. So are you going to paint me sitting here?’

‘Yes.’ I lowered the sketchpad. ‘If you’re happy there.’

‘I’m perfectly happy. And is the light satisfactory?’

‘It’s lovely.’ I glanced at the window, through which I could see the dome of the Coronet Cinema and behind it a patch of pale sky. ‘There’s a lot of high cloud today, which is good because it eliminates strong shadows.’ I carried on drawing, then turned the pad round to show Iris what I’d done. ‘I’m going to paint you like this, in a three-quarters position.’

She peered at it. ‘Will my hands be in the picture?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case I’ll wear one or two rings.’

‘Please do – I love painting jewellery.’ I wiped a smudge of charcoal off my thumb.

‘And what about my clothes?’ Iris asked. ‘Sophia told me that you like to have some say in what your sitters wear.’

‘I do – if they don’t object.’ I thought of Celine.

‘I don’t object in the slightest.’

‘You’re very easy to work with,’ I said gratefully.

Iris looked puzzled. ‘Why shouldn’t I be? You’re going to deliver me up to posterity – the least I can do is to cooperate. My daughters say that your portraits are so vibrant that one almost expects the people in them to climb out of the frames.’

‘Thank you – what a lovely compliment.’

‘But I’ve not yet seen one myself.’

‘Ah.’ I should have brought some photos of them with me. ‘Do you have a computer, Iris?’ She shook her head. ‘Then I’ll show you some images of them on my mobile phone – it’s got a good screen.’

I got out my phone, went to ‘Gallery’ then touched one of the thumbnail images and handed the phone to Iris.

She brought it close to her eyes then nodded appreciatively. ‘That’s Simon Rattle.’

I nodded. ‘The Berlin Philharmonic commissioned it last year – I went there for a week and painted him every day in between rehearsals. He was a good, patient sitter.’

‘I’ll try to be the same.’

I took the phone from Iris, touched another image, then handed it back to her. ‘This is P. D. James.’

‘So it is… I see what my daughters mean – there’s such a vitality to your work.’

As Mrs Carr gave me back my phone I noticed that I had new e-mails. I touched the inbox and saw a flyer from the V&A and a message from Chloë. At that moment a new e-mail arrived – one that had been forwarded automatically from my website. I felt a tingle of excitement because it was likely to be an enquiry; I could see a bit of the first line, Dear Ella, My… but resisted the temptation to open it as I didn’t want to risk annoying Iris – I was here to paint her, not to read my messages. I put the phone in my bag.

‘So now we’ll decide what I’m to wear,’ said Iris. ‘Please come.’

Reaching for her stick, she pushed herself to her feet and I followed her down the corridor into her bedroom. It was large and light, with pale-blue chintz curtains and a blue candlewick bedspread. Against one wall was a big Art Deco wardrobe in a walnut veneer. As Iris opened its doors, a faint scent of lily-of-the-valley drifted out.

‘Can I help you get things out?’ I asked her.

‘No… I can manage. Thank you.’ Iris leaned her stick against the wall, then, with slightly shaky hands took out a pink, lightly patterned dress and a blue tweed suit. She laid them on the bed. ‘What about these?’

I looked at the garments, then at Iris. ‘Either would look good. But… the suit, I think.’

Iris smiled. ‘I hoped you’d say that. Ralph bought it for me in Simpson’s on a home leave one time – he couldn’t really afford it, but he saw how much I liked it and wanted me to have it.’

‘It’s perfect. So what jewellery will you wear?’

‘A lapis lazuli necklace that I had made when I was in India and my engagement ring.’

Iris went to her dressing table and lifted the lid of an ornately carved sandalwood box. As she did so I glanced round the room. There was a gilded mirror on one wall, flanked by a pair of small alpine paintings. Over the bed was a silk wall hanging of a crested crane. A blue Persian glass vase stood in the window, casting a cobalt shadow on to the sill.

‘Would you kindly get my stick?’ I heard Iris say. ‘It’s leaning against the wall there, by the wardrobe.’

As I did so I noticed a painting hanging next to her bed. It was of two little girls playing in a park. They were about five and three and were throwing a red ball to each other while a small dog darted at their feet in a blur of brown fur. On a bench close by, a woman in a white apron sat knitting.

I stared at it. ‘What a lovely picture.’

Iris turned. ‘Yes… that painting is very special. In fact, it’s priceless,’ she added quietly.

I tried to disguise my curiosity. ‘It’s certainly very fine.’ I handed Iris her stick then looked at the painting again. ‘So is it an… heirloom?’

She hesitated. ‘I bought it in an antique shop in 1960, for ten shillings and sixpence.’

I turned to her. ‘So you just… liked it.’

Iris was still gazing at it. ‘Oh it was much more than “liked”…’ She paused. ‘I was drawn to it – guided to it, I sometimes think.’

I waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t say any more. ‘Well,’ I said after a moment, ‘it’s easy to understand why you fell in love with it. It’s beautifully composed and has so much – I was going to say charm – but what I really mean is feeling.’

Iris nodded. ‘There’s a lot of feeling there. Yes.’

‘The woman on the bench must be the girls’ nanny.’

‘That’s right.’

‘She seems absorbed in her knitting, but she’s actually looking at the artist, covertly, which gives it a kind of edge. It looks as though it’s from the early 1930s. I wonder where it was painted…’

‘In St James’s Park, near the lake.’

I studied the silvery-grey water shining in the background. ‘Well, it’s lovely. It must lift your spirits, just looking at it.’

‘On the contrary,’ Iris murmured. ‘It makes me feel sad.’ She lowered herself on to the bed. ‘But now I’ll change, so if you could give me a few moments…’

‘Of course.’

I went back to the sitting room. As I tied on my apron I wondered why the painting would have that effect on Iris. Of course we all see different things in works of art; yet the scene was, objectively, a happy one, so why should it make her sad?

While I was preparing my palette, my phone rang. I quickly answered.

‘He’s called me,’ Polly declared excitedly.

‘Who has?’

‘Jason – from the Toilet Duck shoot; he’s just called and asked me to have lunch with him on Saturday.’

‘Great,’ I whispered. ‘But I can’t chat, Pol – I’m in a sitting.’

‘Ooh, sorry – I’ll leave you to it.’

As I pressed the ‘end call’ button I looked at the envelope icon; I was tempted to open the e-mail from my website, but then I heard Iris’s footsteps.

‘So…’ She was standing in the doorway. The suit fitted her perfectly and brought out the intense blue of her eyes; she’d applied some powder and a touch of pink lipstick.

‘You look beautiful, Iris.’ I put my phone back in my bag.

She smiled. ‘Thank you. So now we can start.’

Iris sat on the sofa, smoothed down her skirt then turned towards me. As I looked at her, I felt the frisson I always feel when I begin a new portrait. We were silent for a while, the brush scraping softly across the canvas as I began to block in the main shapes with an ochre wash.

After a couple of minutes Iris shifted her position.

‘Are you comfortable?’ I asked her, concerned.

‘I am – though I confess I feel a little self-conscious.’

‘That’s normal,’ I assured her. ‘A portrait sitting’s quite a strange experience – for both parties – because there’s this sudden relationship. I mean, we’ve only just met, but here I am, openly gawping at you: it’s a pretty unnatural first encounter.’

Iris smiled. ‘I’m sure I’ll soon get used to your… scrutiny. But wouldn’t you rather be painting someone young?’

‘No. I prefer painting older people. It’s much more interesting. I love seeing a whole life etched on to a face, with all that experience, and insight.’

‘And regret?’ Iris suggested quietly.

‘Yes… that’s usually there too. It would be strange if it wasn’t.’

‘So… do your sitters ever get upset?’

My brush stopped. ‘They do – especially the older ones, because as they sit there they’re looking back on their lives. Sometimes people cry.’ I thought of Mike and wondered again what could have happened to make him so unhappy.

‘Well, I promise not to cry,’ Iris said.

I shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter if you do. I’m going to paint you, Iris, in all your humanity, as you are – or as I see you, at least.’

‘You have to be perceptive then, to do what you do.’

‘That’s true.’ I exhaled. ‘And I couldn’t even try to do this if I didn’t believe that I was. Portrait painters need to be able to detect things about the sitter – to try to work out who that person is.’

We continued in silence for a few moments.

‘And do you ever paint yourself?’

My brush stopped in mid-stroke. ‘No.’

Surprise flickered across Iris’s features. ‘I thought portrait artists usually did do self-portraits.’

You’re Ella Graham now…

‘Well… I don’t – at least not for years now.’

And that’s all there is to it…

‘But… I’d love to hear more about your time abroad, Iris. You must have met some remarkable people.’

‘I did,’ she said warmly. ‘Well, they weren’t just people, they were personalities. Let me see… Whose names can I drop?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘We met Tito,’ she began. ‘And Indira Gandhi – I have a photo of Sophia, aged five, sitting on her lap. I also met Nasser – the year before Suez; I danced with him at an embassy ball. In Chile we met Salvador Allende: Ralph and I liked him enormously and were outraged at what the Americans did to help overthrow him, though we could never say so openly. Discretion is a frustrating, if necessary, aspect of diplomatic life.’

‘What was your favourite posting?’

Iris smiled. ‘Iran. We were there in the mid-1970s – it was paradisally beautiful and I have wonderful memories of our time there.’

‘But presumably your daughters went to boarding school?’

She nodded. ‘In Dorset. They weren’t able to join us for every holiday, so that was hard. Their guardian was very good, but we hated being separated from our two girls.’

There was another silence, broken only by the dull rumble of traffic in Kensington Church Street.

‘Iris… I hope you don’t mind my asking you – but the painting in your bedroom…’

She shifted slightly. ‘Yes?’

‘You said it made you feel sad. I can’t help wondering why – as it’s such a happy scene.’

Iris didn’t at first reply, and for a few moments I wondered whether she wasn’t, in fact, slightly deaf; and I was considering whether to ask her again when she exhaled, painfully. ‘That picture makes me feel sad because there is a sad story attached to it – one I learned a few years after I’d bought it.’ She heaved another deep sigh. ‘Perhaps I’ll tell you…’

I felt crass suddenly. ‘You don’t have to, Iris – I didn’t mean to pry: I was just surprised by your remark, that’s all.’

‘That’s perfectly understandable. It is, on the surface, a happy scene. Two little girls playing in a park…’ She paused, then looked at me intently. ‘I will tell you the story, Ella – because you’re an artist and I believe you’ll understand.’ Understand what, I wondered. What could the sad story behind the painting be? It now occurred to me, with an anxious pang, that the girls might not have survived the war – or perhaps something awful had happened to the nanny. Now I wasn’t sure that I wanted to hear the story, but Iris was beginning.

‘I bought the painting in May 1960,’ she said. ‘We were in Yugoslavia then – our first posting; but I’d come home with Sophia, who was then three, to have my second child, Mary. There were good hospitals in Belgrade, but I decided to have the baby in London so that my mother could help me. Also, she was widowed by then and I wanted to take the opportunity to spend some time with her; so I went to stay with her for three months.’

I studied Iris, and drew in the curve of her right cheek.

‘My mother’s house was in Bayswater. She’d spent most of her married life in Mayfair but, as I say, my stepfather lost everything after the war.’ I wondered about Iris’s own father. ‘The week before the baby was due I took Sophia out in her pushchair. We had an ice cream in Whiteleys then walked slowly up Westbourne Grove: and I was just passing a small antique shop when I glanced in the window and saw that painting. I remember stopping dead and staring at it: I was completely taken with it – as you have been today. Sophia turned round and squawked at me to go on, so I did. But I couldn’t get the picture out of my mind. So, a few minutes later I turned back and pushed on the door.