Isabel Wolff - The Very Picture of You

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.

‘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.