The Very Picture of You

by Isabel Wolff

  Roy laughed. ‘That’s right – get the punters pissed.’

  ‘No – just in a good mood,’ Mum corrected him. ‘Then they’re much more, well, biddable,’ she concluded wryly. ‘But if things are a bit slow …’ she lowered her voice ‘… then I’d like us to do a little strategic bidding.’

  My heart sank. ‘I’d rather not.’

  Mum gave me one of her ‘disappointed’ looks. ‘It’s just to get things going – you wouldn’t have to buy anything, Ella.’

  ‘But … if no one outbids me, I might. These are expensive lots, Mum, and I’ve a huge mortgage – it’s too risky.’

  ‘You’re donating a portrait,’ said Roy. ‘That’s more than enough.’ Too right, I thought crossly. ‘I’ll do some bidding, Sue,’ he added. ‘Up to a limit, though.’

  Mum laid her palm on his cheek – a typical gesture. ‘Thank you. I’m sure Chloë will bid too.’

  I glanced around the crowd. ‘Where is Chloë?’

  ‘She’s on her way,’ Roy replied. ‘With Nate.’

  A groan escaped me.

  Mum shook her head. ‘I don’t know why you have to be like that, Ella. Nate’s delightful.’

  ‘Really?’ I sipped my champagne again. ‘Can’t say I’d noticed.’

  ‘You hardly know him,’ she retorted quietly.

  ‘That’s true. I’ve only met him once.’ But that one time had been more than enough. It had been at a drinks party that Chloë had given last November …

  ‘Any special reason for having it?’ I’d asked her over the phone after I’d opened the elegant invitation.

  ‘It’s because I haven’t had a party for so long – I’ve neglected my friends. It’s also because I’m feeling a lot more cheerful at the moment, because …’ She drew in her breath. ‘Ella … I’ve met someone.’

  Relief flooded through me. ‘That’s great. So … what’s he like?’

  ‘He’s thirty-six,’ she’d replied. ‘Tall with very short black hair, and lovely green eyes.’

  To my surprise I had to suppress a pang of envy. ‘He sounds gorgeous.’

  ‘He is – and he’s not married.’

  ‘Well … that’s good.’

  ‘Oh, and he’s from New York. He’s been in London about a year.’

  ‘And what does this paragon do?’

  ‘He’s in private equity.’

  ‘So he can stand you dinner then.’

  ‘Yes – but I like to pay for things too.’

  ‘So are you … an item?’

  ‘Sort of – we’ve been on five dates. But he said he’s looking forward to the party, so that’s a good sign. I know you’re going to love him,’ she added happily.

  So, a fortnight later, I’d cycled over to Putney, through a veil of fog. And I was locking up my bike outside Chloë’s flat at the end of Askill Drive when I heard a taxi pull up just around the corner in Keswick Road. As the door clicked open I could hear the passenger talking on his mobile. Although he spoke softly his voice somehow carried through the mist and darkness.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t,’ I heard him say. He was American. Realising that this could be Chloë’s new man I found myself tuning in to his conversation. ‘I really can’t,’ he reiterated as the cab door slammed shut. ‘Because I’ve just gotten to Putney for a drinks party, that’s why …’ So it was him. ‘No … I don’t want to go.’ I felt my insides twist. ‘But I’m here now, honey, and so … just some girl,’ he added as the cab drove away. ‘No, no … she’s nothing special,’ he added quietly. By now my face was aflame. ‘I can’t get out of it,’ he protested. ‘Because I promised, that’s why – and she’s been going on and on about it.’ My hands shook as I unclipped my front light. ‘Okay, honey – I’ll come over later. Yes … that is a promise. No … I’ll let myself in … You too, honey …’

  I stood there, filled with dismay, expecting the wretch to come round the corner and walk up Chloë’s path; and I was just wondering what to do when I realised that he was going in the opposite direction, his footsteps snapping across the pavement then becoming fainter and fainter …

  So it wasn’t him. I exhaled with relief. I went up to Chloë’s front door and rang the bell.

  ‘Ella!’ she exclaimed as she opened it. She looked lovely in a black crêpe shift that used to be Mum’s, with a short necklace of over-sized pearls. ‘I’m glad you’re the first,’ she said quickly, ‘I’ve just poured the champagne, but if you could give me a hand with the eats that would be …’ I was aware of steps behind me as Chloë’s gaze strayed over my shoulder. Her face lit up like a firework. ‘Nate!’

  I turned to see a tall, well-dressed man coming up the path.

  ‘Hi, Chloë.’ As I recognised his voice my heart sank. ‘I just went completely the wrong way – I was halfway down Keswick Road before I realised. I shoulda used my sat-nav,’ he added with a laugh.

  ‘Well, it is foggy,’ she responded gaily. I stepped past her into the house so that she wouldn’t see my face. ‘It’s so nice that you’re here, Nate,’ I heard her say.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been looking forward to it.’ As I glanced at him I tried not to show my contempt.

  Chloë drew him inside; then, still holding his hand, she grabbed mine so that the three of us were suddenly linked, awkwardly, as we stood there in the hallway. ‘Ella,’ she said happily, ‘this is Nate.’ She turned to him. ‘Nate, this is my sister, Ella.’

  He was just as Chloë had described. He had very short dark hair that receded slightly above a high forehead, and eyes that were a pure mossy green. He had a sensuous mouth with a tiny indentation at each corner, and a long, straight nose that had a slender bridge, as though someone had pinched it.

  ‘Great to meet you, Ella.’ He was clearly unaware that I’d overheard his conversation. I gave him a cold smile and saw him register the slight. ‘Erm …’ He nodded at my head. ‘That’s a nice helmet you’ve got there.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’d been too distracted to remove it. I unclipped it while Chloë relieved Nate of his coat.

  She folded it over her arm. ‘I’ll just put this on my bed.’ She put her hand on the banister. ‘But have a glass of champagne, Nate – the kitchen’s through there. Ella will show you.’

  ‘No – I … need to come up too.’ Turning my back on Nate, I followed Chloë upstairs.

  We crossed the landing and went into Chloë’s bedroom. She half-closed the door then put her finger to her lips. ‘So what do you think?’ She laid Nate’s charcoal cashmere coat on her bed then turned to me eagerly. ‘Isn’t he attractive?’

  I took off my cycling jacket. ‘He is.’

  ‘And he’s really … decent. I think I’ve landed on my feet.’

  I fought the urge to tell Chloë that she’d almost certainly landed flat on her face.

  I put my jacket and helmet down, then went over to the large gilded wall mirror. I opened my bag. ‘So how did you meet him?’ My hand shook as I pulled a comb through my fog-dampened hair.

  Chloë came and stood next to me. ‘Playing tennis.’ As she checked her own appearance I was momentarily distracted by the physical difference between us – Chloë with the alabaster paleness of my mother, next to me, with my olive skin, brown hair and dark eyes. ‘Do you remember telling me that I should try and go out more – maybe play tennis?’ I nodded. ‘Well, I took your advice, and booked some lessons at the Harbour Club.’ Chloë licked her ring finger then ran it over her left eyebrow. ‘Nate was on the next court; and I had to retrieve my ball from behind his baseline a few times …’

  I put the comb back in my bag. ‘Really?’

  ‘So of course I said sorry. Then I saw him in the café afterwards and I apologised again …’

  I snapped my bag shut.

  ‘Then we had a coffee – and that’s how it started. So I have you to thank,’ she added happily. My heart sank. ‘It’s still early days – but he’s keen.’

  I looked at her. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well
… because he calls me a lot and because …’ She gave me a puzzled smile. ‘Why do you ask?’

  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Chloë that Nate was in fact a disingenuous, two-timing creep. But then, reflected behind us on the wall I saw my portrait of her, her face so thin, and almost rigid with distress; her blue eyes blazing with pain and regret.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ she repeated.

  As I looked at Chloë’s happy, hopeful expression I knew I couldn’t tell her. ‘No reason.’ I exhaled. ‘I was just … wondering.’

  ‘Ella?’ Chloë was peering at me. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m … fine.’ I went to the corner basin and washed my hands. ‘Actually, a van jumped the lights by the bridge and nearly knocked me off. I’m still feeling shaken,’ I lied as I dried them.

  ‘I knew something was up. I wish you didn’t cycle – and in fog like this it’s crazy. You’ve got to be careful.’

  I laid my hand on Chloë’s arm. ‘So have you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t cycle.’

  I shook my head. ‘I mean be careful …’ I tapped the left side of my chest. Here.’

  ‘Oh.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘I see. Don’t worry, Ella. I’m not about to make another … well, mistake, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nate’s free of complications, thank God.’ My stomach lurched. ‘But he’ll be wondering what we’re doing.’ She opened the door. ‘Let’s go and talk to him.’

  This was the last thing I wanted to do, not least because I didn’t think I’d be able to hide my hostility; and I was just wondering how I could get out of it when the bell rang, so I said I’d do door duty, then I offered to heat up the canapés and by the time I’d been round with a tray of drinks Chloë’s flat was heaving, and I’d managed to avoid Nate. As I left, pleading an early start, I glanced at him as he chatted to someone in the sitting room and hoped that his romance with Chloë wouldn’t last. Having overheard what I had done, it didn’t seem likely.

  So my heart sank when Chloë phoned me three days later to say that Nate was taking her to Paris for the weekend in early December. Then just before Christmas they gave a dinner party at his flat; Chloë wanted me to be there, but I said I was busy. In January they invited me to the theatre with them but I made some excuse. Then last month Mum asked us all to Sunday lunch, but I told Chloë I’d be away.

  ‘What a shame,’ she’d said. ‘That’s three times you’ve been unable to meet up with us, Ella. Nate will think you don’t like him,’ she added with a good-natured laugh.

  ‘Oh, that’s not true,’ I lied …

  ‘Well, I like Nate,’ I heard Mum say above the pre-auction chatter ‘Nate’s attractive and charming.’ Her voice dropped to a near whisper. ‘And we should all just be thankful that he makes Chloë so happy after …’ Her mouth pursed.

  ‘Max,’ said Roy helpfully.

  I nodded. ‘Max was a bit of a mistake.’

  ‘Max was a disaster,’ Mum hissed. ‘I told Chloë,’ she went on quietly. ‘I told her that it would never work out, and I was right. These situations bring nothing but heartbreak,’ she added with sudden bitterness, and I knew that she was thinking of her own heartbreak three decades ago.

  ‘Anyway, Chloë’s fine now,’ said Roy evenly. ‘So let’s change the subject, shall we? We’re at a party.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mum murmured, collecting herself. ‘And I must circulate. Roy, would you go and see how the Silent Auction’s going? Ella, you need to go and stand next to the easel, but do make the portrait commission sound enticing, won’t you? I want to get the highest possible price for every item.’

  ‘Sure,’ I responded wearily. I hated having to do a hard sell – even for a good cause. I made my way through the crowd.

  The easel was standing between two long tables on which the information about all the star lots was displayed. The Maria Grachvogel gown was draped on to a silver mannequin next to a life-size cut-out of Gordon Ramsay. On a green baize-covered screen were pinned large photos of the Venetian palazzo and the Ritz and next to these was a Royal Opera House poster for Swan Lake, flanked by two pendant pairs of pink ballet shoes. The guitar was mounted on a stand, and next to it the Chelsea FC shirt with its graffiti of famous signatures.

  As I stood beside the portrait a dark-haired woman in a turquoise dress approached me. She glanced at my name badge. ‘So you’re the artist.’ I nodded. The woman gazed at the painting. ‘And who’s she?’

  ‘My friend Polly. She’s lent it to us tonight as an example of my work.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to have my portrait done,’ the woman said. ‘But when I was young and pretty I didn’t have the money and now that I do have the money I feel it’s too late.’

  ‘You’re still pretty,’ I told her. ‘And it’s never too late – I paint people who are in their seventies and eighties.’ I sipped my champagne. ‘So are you thinking of bidding for it?’

  She sucked on her lower lip. ‘I’m not sure. How long does the process take?’ I explained. ‘Two hours is a long time to be sitting still.’ She frowned.

  ‘We have a break for coffee and a leg stretch. It’s not too arduous.’

  ‘Do you flatter people?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I hope you do, because look –’ She pinched the wedge of flesh beneath her chin, holding it daintily, like a tidbit. ‘Would you be able to do something about this?’

  ‘My portraits are truthful,’ I answered carefully. ‘But at the same time I want my sitters to be happy; so I’d paint you from the most flattering angle – and I’d do some sketches first to make sure you liked the composition.’

  ‘Well …’ She cocked her head to one side as she appraised Polly’s portrait again. ‘I’m going to have a think about it – but thanks.’

  As she walked away, another woman in her mid-forties came up to me. She gave me an earnest smile. ‘I’m definitely going to bid for this. I love your style – realistic but with an edge.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I allowed myself to bask in the compliment for a moment. ‘And who would you want me to paint? Would it be you?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘It would be my father. You see, we never had his portrait painted.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And now we regret it.’ My spirits sank as I realised what was coming. ‘He died last year,’ the woman went on. ‘But we’ve got lots of photos, so you could do it from those.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t do posthumous portraits.’

  ‘Oh.’ The woman looked affronted. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, to me, a portrait is all about capturing the essence and spirit of a living person.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said again, crestfallen. ‘I see.’ She hesitated. ‘Would you perhaps make an exception?’

  ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t. I’m sorry,’ I added impotently.

  ‘Well …’ She shrugged. ‘Then I guess that’s that.’

  As the woman walked away I saw my mother go up the flight of steps at the side of the stage. She waited for the string trio to finish the Mozart sonata they were playing, then she went up to the podium and tapped the mike. The hubbub subsided as she smiled at the crowd then in her soft, low voice, thanked everyone for coming and exhorted us to be generous. As she reminded us all that our bids would save children’s lives, the irritation that I’d been feeling towards her was replaced by a sudden rush of pride. Next she expressed her gratitude to the donors and to her fellow committee members before introducing Tim Spiers, who took her place as she gracefully exited stage left.

  He leaned an arm on the podium, peering at us benignly over his half-moon glasses. ‘We have some wonderful lots on offer tonight – and remember there’s no buyer’s premium to pay, which makes everything very affordable. So, without further ado, let’s start with the week at the fabulous Palazzo Barbarigo in Venice …’

  An appreciative murmur arose as a photo of the palazzo was projected on to the two huge screens that had been plac
ed on either side of the stage. ‘The palazzo overlooks the Grand Canal,’ Spiers explained as the slideshow image changed to an interior. ‘It’s one of Venice’s most splendid palazzos and has a stunning piano nobile, as you can see … It sleeps eight, is fully staffed, and in high season a week’s stay there costs ten thousand pounds. I’m now going to open the bidding at an incredibly low three thousand.’ He affected astonishment. ‘For a mere three thousand pounds, ladies and gentlemen, you could spend a week at one of Venice’s most glorious private palaces – the experience of a lifetime. So do I hear three thousand …?’ His eyes raked the room. ‘Three thousand pounds – anyone? Ah, thank you, sir. And three thousand five hundred … and four thousand … thank you – at the back there … five thousand …’

  As the bidding proceeded a girl in her early twenties approached me and looked at the portrait of Polly. ‘She’s very pretty,’ she whispered.

  I gazed at Polly’s heart-shaped face, framed by a helmet of rose-gold hair. ‘She is.’

  ‘Do I hear six thousand?’ we heard.

  ‘What if you have to paint someone who’s plain?’ the girl asked. ‘Or ugly, even? Is that difficult?’

  ‘It’s actually easier than painting someone who’s conventionally attractive,’ I answered softly, ‘because the features are more clearly defined.’

  ‘Seven thousand now – do I hear seven thousand pounds? Come on, everyone!’

  The girl sipped her champagne. ‘And what happens if you don’t like the person you’re painting – could you still paint them then?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘Though I don’t suppose I’d enjoy the sittings very much.’ Suddenly I noticed the doors swing open and there was Chloë, in her vintage red trench coat, and behind her, Nate. ‘Luckily I’ve never had a sitter I disliked.’

  ‘Going once,’ we heard the auctioneer say. ‘At eight thousand pounds. Going twice …’ His eyes swept across us, then, with a flick of his wrist he tapped the podium. ‘Sold to the lady in the black dress there.’ I glanced over at Mum. She looked reasonably happy with the result. ‘On to lot two now,’ said Spiers. ‘An evening gown by Maria Grachvogel, who designs dresses for some of the world’s most glamorous women – Cate Blanchett, for example, and Angelina Jolie. Whoever wins this lot will receive a personal consultation and fitting with Maria Grachvogel herself. So I’m going to start the bidding at a very modest five hundred pounds. Thank you, madam – the lady in pale blue there – and seven hundred and fifty?’ He scrutinised us all. ‘Seven hundred and fifty pounds is still a snip – thank you, sir. So do I hear one thousand now?’ He pointed to a woman in lime green who’d raised her hand. ‘It’s with you, madam. At one thousand two hundred and fifty? Yes – and one thousand five hundred … thank you. Will anyone give me two thousand?’