Isabel Wolff - The Very Picture of You

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.