The Very Picture of You

by Isabel Wolff

  Her face fell. ‘I’m going to wear this—’ She indicated her outfit.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I said as I considered it. ‘But it won’t work.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because the belt’s so big and shiny that it will dominate the picture. If you could wear something a little plainer …’

  ‘Are you saying I have to change?’

  ‘Well … it would be better if you did, yes.’ She exhaled irritably. ‘Could I help you to choose? That’s what I usually do when I paint people in their homes.’

  ‘I see,’ she snapped. ‘So you control the whole show.’

  I bit my lip. ‘I don’t mean to be controlling,’ I replied quietly. ‘But the choice of outfit is very important because it affects the composition so much – I did explain that to your husband.’

  ‘Oh.’ Celine was rubbing her fingertips together, impatiently, as if sifting flour. ‘He forgot to tell me – he’s away this week.’ She stood up. ‘All right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘You’d better come.’

  I followed her across the room and up the stairs into the master bedroom, the far wall of which was taken up by an enormous fitted wardrobe. Celine slid open the middle section then stood there, staring at the garments. ‘I don’t know what to wear.’

  ‘Could I look?’

  She nodded. As I began to pull out a few things her mobile phone rang. She looked at the screen, answered in French, then left the room, talking rapidly in a confidential manner. It was more than ten minutes until she returned.

  Struggling to hide my irritation, I showed her a pale-green linen suit. ‘This would look wonderful.’

  Celine chewed on her lower lip. ‘I no longer wear that.’

  ‘ Would you – just for the portrait?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t like myself in it.’

  ‘O-kay, then … what about this?’ I showed her an oyster satin dress by Christian Dior.

  Celine pursed her mouth. ‘It’s not a good fit.’ Now she began pulling things out herself: ‘Not that,’ she muttered. ‘No … not that either … this is horrible … that’s much too small … this is so uncomfortable …’ Why did she keep all these things if she didn’t even like them? She turned to me. ‘Can’t I wear what I’m wearing?’

  I began to count to ten in my head. ‘The belt will wreck the composition,’ I reiterated quietly. ‘It will draw all the attention away from your face. And it’s not really flattering,’ I added, then instantly regretted it.

  Celine’s face had darkened. ‘Are you saying I look fat?’

  ‘No, no,’ I replied as she studied her reflection in the cheval mirror. ‘You’re very slim. And you’re really attractive,’ I added impotently. ‘Your husband said so and he was right.’

  I’d hoped this last remark might mollify her, but to my surprise her expression hardened. ‘I adore this belt. It’s Prada,’ she added, as though I could have cared less whether she’d got it in Primark.

  By now I was struggling to maintain my composure. ‘It won’t look … good,’ I tried again. ‘It’ll just be a big block of black.’

  ‘Well …’ Celine folded her arms. ‘I’m going to wear it and that’s all there is to it.’

  I was about to pretend that I needed the loo so that I could take five minutes to calm myself down – or quite possibly cry – when Celine’s mobile phone rang again. She left the room and had another long, intense-sounding conversation which drifted across the landing in snatches.

  ‘Oui, chéri … je veux te voir aussi … bientôt, chéri.’

  By now I’d decided to admit defeat and was just working out how best to minimise the monstrous belt when Celine returned. To my surprise her mood seemed to have lightened. Now she took out a simple linen shift in powder blue, then held it against her.

  ‘What about this?’

  I could have wept with relief. ‘That will look great.’

  The next morning, as I waited for Mike Johns to arrive for his sitting I looked at Celine’s portrait – so far no more than a few preliminary marks in yellow ochre. She was the trickiest sitter I’d ever had – obstructive, unreasonable, and entirely lacking in enthusiasm.

  Her attitude struck me as bizarre. Most people give themselves up to the sittings, recognising that to be painted is a rather special thing. But for Celine it was clearly something to be endured, not enjoyed. I wondered why this should be.

  I once had to paint a successful businessman whose company had commissioned the portrait for their boardroom. During the sittings he kept glancing at his watch, as though to let me know that he was an extremely busy and important man whose time was very precious. But when I at last started to paint Celine she told me that she didn’t work, and that now that her son was at boarding school she led a ‘leisured’ sort of life. So her negativity can’t have been because she didn’t have time.

  Thank God for Mike Johns, I thought. A big bear of a man, he was always genial, cooperative and expressive – the perfect sitter. As I took out his canvas I was pleased to see that even in the painting’s semi-finished state, his amiability and warmth shone through.

  Mike’s portrait had been commissioned by his constituency association to mark his fifteenth anniversary as their MP: he’d been elected very young, at twenty-six. He’d said he wanted to get the painting done well before the run-up to the general election began in earnest: so we’d had two sittings before Christmas, then the third early in the New Year. We’d scheduled another for 22 January but Mike had suddenly cancelled it the night before. In a strangely incoherent e-mail he’d put that he’d be in touch again ‘in due course’, but to my surprise I hadn’t heard from him in the intervening two months, which had surprised me, not least because he lives nearby, just on the other side of Fulham Broadway. Then last week he’d messaged me to ask if we could continue. I was glad, partly because it would mean I’d get the other half of my fee, but also because I liked Mike and enjoyed chatting to him.

  We’d arranged for him to come early so that the sitting wouldn’t eat into his working day. At five past eight the bell rang and I ran downstairs.

  As I opened the door I had to stifle a gasp. In the nine weeks since I’d last seen him, Mike must have lost nearly three stone.

  ‘You’re looking trim,’ I said as he stepped inside. ‘Been pounding the treadmill?’ I added, although I already knew, from his noticeably subdued air, that his weight loss must be due to some kind of stress.

  ‘I have shed a few pounds,’ he replied vaguely. ‘A good thing too,’ he added with a stab at his usual bonhomie, but his strained demeanour gave him away. He was friendly, but there was a sadness about him now – an air of tragedy almost, I realised as I registered the dead look in his eyes. ‘Sorry about the early start,’ he said as we went up to the studio.

  ‘I don’t mind at all,’ I replied. ‘We can do all the remaining sessions at this time, if you like.’

  Mike nodded then took off his jacket and put it on the sofa. He sat in the oak armchair that I use for sittings. ‘Back in the hot seat then,’ he said with forced joviality.

  The morning light was sharp so I lowered the blinds on the Velux windows to soften it. As I put Mike’s canvas on the easel I realised that I was going to have to adjust the portrait. His torso was much slimmer, his face and neck thinner, the collar of his shirt visibly gaping. His hands looked less fleshy as he clasped them in his lap. He fiddled with his wedding ring, which was clearly loose.

  I scraped a pebble of dried paint off the palette then squeezed some new colour out of the tubes, enjoying, as I always did, the oily scent of the linseed.

  ‘I forgot to wear the blue jumper,’ Mike said. ‘I’m sorry – it slipped my mind.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ I mixed the colour with a palette knife, then selected a fine brush. ‘I’ll be working on your face today, but if you could wear it next time, that would be great.’

  Now I looked at Mike, and began to paint; I looked at him again, then painted a li
ttle more. And so it went on, just looking and painting, looking and painting.

  Mike usually chatted away, but today he was virtually silent. He directed his gaze towards me but avoided eye contact. His mouth and jaw were tight. Aware that I must have noticed the change in him, he suddenly confided that he was ‘a bit strung out’ with all the extra work he was doing in preparation for the general election.

  I wondered if he was worried that he might lose his seat, but then remembered reading somewhere that he had a huge majority. I shaded a slight hollow into his left cheek. ‘Have you been away?’ I wondered whether that was why he’d been unable to sit for me lately.

  He nodded. ‘I went to Bonn last month on a cross-party trip.’

  I cleaned the brush in the pot of turps. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘We were looking at their tram system. I’m on a transport committee.’

  I dipped the brush in the cobalt to make the flesh tone around his jaw a bit greyer. ‘Then please will you do what you can to help cyclists – it’s not easy on two wheels in this city.’

  Mike nodded, then glanced away. Then I asked him about his wife, a successful publisher in her late thirties.

  He shifted on the chair. ‘Sarah’s fine. She’s incredibly busy though – as usual.’

  I thinned the paint with a little turps. ‘I saw a photo of her in the business pages the other day – I can’t remember what the story was, but she looked terribly glamorous.’

  ‘She’s just bought Delphi Press – to add to her empire,’ Mike added with a slightly bitter smile. Now I remembered him confiding that his wife’s career was all-consuming. I wondered again at the change in him; maybe she’d decided that she didn’t want children, and he did: or maybe they couldn’t have them and it was getting to him. Maybe, God forbid, he was ill.

  Suddenly he heaved a sigh so deep, it was almost a groan.

  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.

  THREE

  ‘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.