The Very Picture of You

by Isabel Wolff

  Chloë stood beside him.

  ‘I know I said I wouldn’t come … But I’m meeting Mum at Peter Jones – we’re going to look at wedding invitations – so I thought I’d just pop in on my way.’ She stepped inside, then peered at me. ‘Are you all right, Ella? You look a bit … tense.’

  ‘No,’ I said, my insides churning. ‘I’m fine.’

  Chloë turned to Nate. ‘Come in, darling!’ With palpable reluctance, he did. He was wearing jeans and a green cashmere jumper that had a collar, with dark-brown brogues. As I looked at him a current of antagonism flashed between us.

  I wrested my features into a pleasant expression.

  ‘Hello, Nate.’

  He gave me a wary smile. ‘Hi.’

  ‘The studio’s on the top floor,’ Chloë explained as she climbed the stairs. ‘Ella lives under the shop – don’t you,

  Ella?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, as Nate followed her up. We passed the bathroom, then the spare room, then my room, through the open door of which the wrought-iron bedstead was visible – I quickly pulled the door to. Then we went up the last flight and into the studio.

  Nate looked around him in surprise.

  ‘You wouldn’t think there’d be this much space up here, would you?’ Chloë said to him.

  ‘No,’ he answered.

  ‘I mean, the house doesn’t look much from outside – sorry, Ella.’ Chloë gave me an embarrassed smile.

  I shrugged. ‘It’s true. But it’s got a steeply pitched roof, which makes for this big, high attic.’

  Now Chloë went over to the chair, put her hand on the back of it then smiled at Nate. ‘All you have to do is sit here looking handsome – not hard in your case,’ she added with a laugh.

  Nate rolled his eyes. ‘For how long?’

  I unhooked my apron. ‘Two hours.’

  He grimaced.

  ‘It’ll fly by,’ Chloë assured him. ‘You can just chat.’

  ‘Or not,’ I said as I put on the apron. ‘It’s up to you. You can be quiet, if you want – or I can put the radio on; if you want to bring an iPod, that’s fine.’ That would be my preferred option, I decided – then I wouldn’t have to talk to him.

  ‘You should chat,’ Chloë said. She looked from me to Nate. ‘I mean, you hardly know each other – you’ve only met, what – three times?’

  ‘Twice,’ Nate and I said simultaneously. We glanced awkwardly at each other then looked away.

  Chloë crossed the room and picked up my portfolio. She staggered back with it. ‘Have a look at Ella’s portraits, darling.’ She set it down on the table with a thump, and Nate sat on the sofa and began to look through the images while Chloë sat next to him, occasionally explaining who the sitters were. ‘That’s Simon Rattle, that’s P. D. James, that’s Roy, of course …’ Nate turned to the final page. ‘And that’s me!’

  ‘I know.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘I’ve seen the original often enough.’ I pushed away the unwelcome image of him in Chloë’s bedroom. ‘I still can’t understand why you’d want to have yourself painted in this state though.’

  Chloë shrugged. ‘That was in the middle of the boyfriend trouble I mentioned – all water under the bridge now,’ she added airily. I suddenly wondered how much she’d told Nate about Max. ‘But as Ella had started the picture we thought we’d just … carry on. Isn’t that right, Ella?’

  I looked at her. ‘Erm … yes.’ Chloë could hardly tell Nate the truth – that the portrait was for her a record of the deep attachment she’d had for his predecessor. ‘Anyway …’ She threw her arms around him. ‘Thank God I met you!’

  As she planted a kiss on Nate’s cheek I saw his gaze stray to the portrait of Mum. I’d leaned it against the wall. ‘That’s really good,’ he said quietly.

  Chloë turned to look at it. ‘It is – it’s really come on: you can see Mum’s inner strength now, Ella, and her self-discipline and her … what’s the word I’m looking for?’

  Pain, I thought. The wound that she’d sheltered for so long was visible in her eyes, and in the slightly hard set of her mouth – it was visible even in her pose. On the surface it was the pose of a ballerina taking a curtain call, her left hand spread elegantly across her chest. But it was also a defensive gesture – she was shielding her heart.

  I knew now that I was right not to have told her about my father’s e-mail. It would have been cruel to stir up such painful emotions, and quite unnecessary, given that I wasn’t going to meet him.

  ‘Resolve,’ Chloë concluded. She pointed to the Giselle poster. ‘That’s Mum too. That was two years before I was born,’ she explained to Nate, ‘but Ella saw her in it, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did.’ I remembered sitting in the front row, mesmerised by my mother’s arabesques and her graceful jetés; she was so light that at times she seemed to be poised in mid-air, her slender limbs extending into infinity. Now I suddenly recalled my father sitting next to me, gazing at her, his profile bathed in the light from the stage: and when Mum grabbed Albrecht’s sword then fell down dead he held my hand and whispered that she was ‘just pretending’. And when we went backstage afterwards Mum was still in her long tutu and veil, and she threw her arms round my father and stood up on her pointes and kissed him, and They were both laughing and I was laughing too because my parents were happy and loved each other. But within a few weeks my father had gone …

  ‘I wish I’d seen Mum dance,’ I heard Chloë say. ‘But her career was over by the time I was born.’

  Nate looked at her. ‘You said she was injured.’

  Chloë nodded. ‘She had a fall and broke her ankle – I’m not sure where it happened. Do you know, Ella?’

  ‘No – I did once ask her, but she didn’t want to talk about it.’ I knew only that it had happened more or less when my father left. So within a short space of time both her marriage and her career had ended abruptly, and in great pain.

  ‘That’s how Mum met my dad,’ Chloë said to Nate. ‘He was the surgeon who did the second operation a few months after her accident. He managed to make it a lot better than it had been, but he had to tell her that the injury had been career ending.’

  ‘How heartbreaking for her,’ Nate said, his eyes still on the portrait.

  ‘It was,’ Chloë agreed. ‘Though at least she got him out of it – he was completely smitten with her, wasn’t he, Ella?’ I nodded. ‘Mum often says that he was her silver lining.’

  I thought of my father’s desertion. ‘He was her golden lining,’ I said feelingly.

  Chloë smiled. ‘Ah …’ She glanced at her watch. ‘But I’d better go – she’s a stickler for punctuality.’ She blew Nate a kiss. ‘I’ll see you later, darling.’

  He gave her an anxious smile. ‘Ciao.’

  ‘Chloë,’ I said as she turned to go, ‘will you want to see the portrait while I’m working on it?’

  She made a clicking noise with her tongue while she considered the question. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I think I’d rather see it when it’s finished, to have that wonderful sense of … revelation.’ She gave us a cheery wave and was gone.

  We heard her light, descending tread, then the sound of the front door being opened and then slammed shut. The house fell silent …

  I put the portrait of Mum back in the rack then lifted Nate’s blank, primed canvas on to the easel.

  ‘So …’ My pulse was racing. ‘Let’s start …’

  I nodded at the chair and Nate went and sat in it, gingerly, as though he feared it might be booby-trapped. He crossed his legs then folded his arms.

  ‘Erm … if you could sit in a slightly more relaxed way, Nate.’

  ‘Oh.’ He uncrossed his legs. ‘Like that?’

  ‘Yes … and if you could maybe put your hands on your knees.’ They were large and sinewy, I noticed, with strong, straight fingers. ‘Now lift your head … and look this way …’ I heard him exhale as if already exasperated. ‘That’s great … in fact …’ I felt a sudden f
risson as I decided on the composition. ‘I’m going to paint you looking straight out of the canvas. It’s not something I do very often, but your features are strong enough, and I think it’ll look powerful.’ Nate nodded uncertainly. ‘So you’ll need to look right at me.’ As Nate’s gaze fell on me I felt a shiver of awkwardness, but this was quickly dispelled by my growing excitement at the possibilities of the portrait. Okay, the man wasn’t that nice, but at least he had a great face. ‘That’s good …’ I murmured. ‘Now I’m just going to stare at you, if that’s okay …’

  Nate nodded apprehensively, but I decided to ignore his discomfiture and simply focus on the task in hand. So I took in the shape of his head, the square of light that fell on his brow and the almost bluish shine to his hair; I registered the planes of his cheeks and the different textures and shades of his skin. There were two short lines above his nose, like a number eleven, and a small round scar, like a watermark, on the right side of his brow. His eyes, I realised, weren’t so much a mossy green as dark sage, with flecks of gold. Then I stared at him from either side, examining the angle of his jaw, the swell of his mouth, and the long, slender triangle of his nose.

  Then I went back to the canvas, dipped my brush in the wash and, still looking at him, made my first mark.

  I worked in silence, aware only of the shapes that flowed from the tip of my brush, and the sound of Nate’s gentle, steady breathing. I gazed at the lower part of his face. The runnel between lip and nose was very clearly defined. I was seized by the bewildering urge to place my fingertip in it.

  As I dipped the brush in the wash again I heard a deep sigh.

  I looked at Nate. ‘Are you okay?’

  He shifted on the chair. ‘Well …’

  ‘Do you need a cushion?’

  ‘No. I’m … fine.’ I turned back to the canvas and carried on painting for a minute or two, then the chair creaked again and he exhaled wearily. ‘Are you sure you can’t do this from a photograph?’

  ‘I could – but it wouldn’t make for a good portrait.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I ignored the edge in his tone. ‘Because a photo is only a snapshot of a single moment. But a portrait represents an accumulation of moments – all the moments of the sitter’s life. So although it might look like you, it wouldn’t show who you are, which is what I’ll be trying to do.’

  ‘I see,’ he said grimly.

  I worked for four or five minutes; then I heard another pained sigh and the chair creaked again.

  I lowered my brush. ‘You do seem a bit … uncomfortable, Nate.’

  ‘I … am.’

  ‘Then do let me get you a cushion.’

  ‘No. Thanks. My discomfort isn’t physical.’ His meaning lay between us, like a grenade.

  ‘Sitting for a portrait isn’t easy,’ I said, nervously. ‘It’s an … odd situation; there’s often a … tension.’

  ‘There is,’ Nate agreed. ‘Especially if the sitter feels that the artist doesn’t like him.’

  My brush stopped in mid-stroke. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I think you do,’ he countered. ‘Because you haven’t exactly been … simpatico.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe you think I’m not good enough for your sister.’

  ‘No, that’s not …’ I faltered. ‘I mean … Chloë’s obviously happy with you, which is all that matters.’ My hand was shaking, making it hard to hold the brush.

  ‘In fact, you’ve been pretty hostile, right from the start.’

  I wiped a little splash of blue off the corner of the canvas. ‘You know, Nate, I really don’t think this conversation is very helpful – especially as we have to spend another eleven and a half hours in each other’s company.’

  ‘It’s because we have to spend another eleven and a half hours in each other’s company that I think it is helpful,’ Nate shot back. ‘Because you say you’re going to show who I am in this portrait.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said weakly.

  ‘Well, I’m not happy about that – given your obvious negativity toward me. I see the portrait as a potential attack.’

  I silently cursed Chloë for landing me with a commission that wasn’t just awkward – it was becoming downright embarrassing.

  Nate shifted on the chair again. ‘You’ve clearly got a big problem with me. I don’t know why …’

  I glared at him. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘Really?’

  He gave me a challenging stare. ‘So you do have a problem with me. Would you mind telling me what it is?’ I dipped the brush in the wash again then turned back to the canvas. ‘If you’re going to paint me, then I need to know,’ I heard him say. ‘And if you don’t tell me, then I might just walk out and give Chloë the money for the wasted commission.’

  I could hear the tick of the clock. ‘All right,’ I said quietly. ‘I will tell you – as you’ve pushed me to it.’ A part of me was glad to be able to get it off my chest. So I told him about the night of the party. ‘You didn’t see me, because I was on the other side of Chloë’s fence, locking my bike. But I heard you talking to someone – another woman – about Chloë. I didn’t like what I heard – and yes, it’s affected how I feel about you. There,’ I concluded. ‘Now you know.’

  Nate was staring at me. ‘You listened to my private conversation?’

  ‘No – because it wasn’t private, given that you were having it on a mobile phone in the street. I couldn’t help hearing it, and I wish I hadn’t, because it was pretty upsetting.’

  Puzzlement furrowed Nate’s brow. ‘So … what did you hear?’

  I heaved a sigh. ‘You said that you didn’t want to go to Chloë’s party – but that you felt you couldn’t get out of it because she’d been going on and on about it – as though she’d pestered you.’

  ‘Well …’ Nate turned up his palms. ‘She did. She must have phoned me ten times a day about it. It got to be pretty annoying.’

  I ignored this. ‘Then I heard you making arrangements to go and see this woman, who you kept calling “honey”, later that night. That didn’t exactly endear you to me either.’

  ‘Ah …’ He put his head on one side.

  ‘But what really got up my nose was the fact that you were discussing Chloë with this other woman – and in disparaging terms!’ My face was suddenly burning with retrospective indignation. ‘You reassured her that Chloë was “nothing special”.’

  Nate was nodding slowly. ‘I remember this conversation now – and I did say that, yes.’

  The man was brazen! ‘So I heard all that,’ I said, ‘then, lo and behold, a few minutes later I see you greet Chloë warmly and tell her how much you’ve been looking forward to her party. At which point I decided that you were a cynical, disingenuous, hypocritical, two-faced, two-timing …’

  ‘Creep?’ said Nate helpfully.

  ‘Yes. And to be frank, I hoped that Chloë wouldn’t be seeing too much more of you, but now she’s engaged to you and she’s paid a lot of money for me to paint you, which for her sake is what I intend to do.’ My heart was pounding. ‘And having answered your question, I suggest we now get on with the sitting – if only to minimise the time that we have to spend together!’

  I picked up my brush and began stabbing at the canvas with it.

  I could hear Nate sucking on his lower lip. ‘So you heard me talking to “honey”?’

  ‘Yes.’ I picked a bristle off the canvas. ‘I did. And I don’t like men who date two women at a time – especially if one of the women is my sister!’

  ‘I see. You didn’t tell Chloë any of this, did you?’

  ‘No. Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Your secret is safe. I was tempted to tell her, but couldn’t bring myself to rain on her parade – so I didn’t.’

  ‘Well, that’s a shame,’ he said, with irritating calm. ‘Because if you had done then you would have found out from Chloë that the woman I called “honey” is my first cousin.’

  I looked at
him. ‘Then you appear to have an unhealthily close relationship with her.’

  ‘Her name is Honeysuckle, but everyone calls her

  “Honey” or “Hon”.’

  My mouth had suddenly dried to the texture of felt. ‘But … you had keys to her place. You said that you were going to let yourself in, so it sounded as if she was your—’

  ‘I do have keys,’ he interrupted. ‘Not to her “place”, but to her office – our office – because Honey’s also my boss. She’s CEO of the firm I work for, Blake Investments, which was set up twenty years ago by her father, Ted Blake, who’s married to my mom’s younger sister, Alessandra.’

  I tried to swallow. ‘I see …’

  ‘And the reason why I was going to go and see Honey was because when I was on the way to Putney she’d called me on my cell to ask me to go back to the office – a problem had blown up with an acquisition that we were handling. I didn’t want to disappoint Chloë, so I told Honey I was going to a party but promised I’d come back afterwards. I said I’d let myself in because the security guy leaves at eight – and that’s what I did. I returned to the office at nine, and Honey and I worked until two in the morning and got it all sorted.’ He looked at me. ‘Happy now?’

  My cheeks were burning. ‘No – because you were rude about Chloë. You’d made out that it was a chore to have to go to her party.’

  ‘That’s true – because, although Honey’s great, she can be very inquisitive, so I was talking it down.’

  ‘Okay.’ His smug tone infuriated me. ‘But you didn’t have to tell her that Chloë was “nothing special” did you?’

  ‘Well … the minute she thinks I am seeing “someone special” – as she invariably puts it – I never hear the end of it. Worse, she tells her mom, who then tells mine. The next thing I know, all my sisters are phoning me, demanding information.’

  ‘So … how many sisters … have you got?’

  ‘Five – all older.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now I vaguely remembered Chloë saying that Nate came from a big family.

  ‘Plus, I’d only known Chloë for a couple of months, so I wasn’t ready to talk about it to Honey.’