Isabel Wolff - The Very Picture of You

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?’