The Very Picture of You

by Isabel Wolff

  Instead I went to my Facebook page. In the last week I’d acquired two more fans, one of them a boy that I’d taught at Heatherly’s. He’d left a friendly message on the Wall, so I replied in kind, and all this set me thinking about Heatherley’s, then about Guy Lennox, who’d also studied there, nearly a century ago; I thought about how Lennox had fallen for someone that he’d painted. I imagined him standing at his easel, gazing at Edith, falling more and more hopelessly in love with each stroke of his brush.

  Drnnnnngggggg.

  I started at the sound of the bell, then quickly checked my appearance in the wall mirror and ran downstairs.

  I opened the door and there was Nate, smiling at me self-consciously, as though he was still amused by the idea that we had declared a truce. ‘Hi, Ella.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said happily.

  As Nate came in, he kissed me on the cheek – a gesture of peace, I assumed. He smelt deliciously of vetiver and lime.

  ‘So … how did you get here?’

  ‘I walked – it’s only ten minutes. We’re almost neighbours,’ he added as he took off his jacket.

  ‘Let me take that. Oh, good – you remembered to wear the green jumper.’

  ‘Does that get me a gold star?’

  ‘It does. It’s a pain when my sitters forget to put on what they’re being painted in.’

  Nate followed me upstairs. ‘So … how’s your week been?’

  ‘Oh … not bad.’ I pulled the bedroom door to. ‘Though it’s felt a bit long for some reason. Anyway …’ We were in the light and space of the studio. ‘Here we are again.’ I tied on my apron then nodded at the chair. ‘Get posing!’

  Nate laughed then sat down. ‘I’ll try.’

  I pulled my hair through a yellow scrunchie then picked up my palette. As Nate lifted his head and gazed at me, I felt a sudden voltage: I told myself that this was just an artistic frisson because I was excited about the portrait.

  I stood behind the easel. ‘Here’s looking at you then.’

  I began to study Nate’s face, the landscape of which was already so familiar that I could have painted him from memory. I looked at his nose, then his eyes – his lashes were very dark and his right lid was a little more exposed than his left; I studied his forehead and wondered how he’d got that small round scar. His hair was cut close to his head and grew down in front of his ears in a shape that tapered to a point, like the outline of India.

  Nate was smiling. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been looked at quite so closely by anyone – not even my mom.’

  I held up a pencil and squinted at him as I measured the distance between his lower lip and his chin. ‘Well, … that’s my job. Basically, I stare at people for a living.’

  ‘That must feel pretty weird.’

  ‘It does.’ I put the pencil down and picked up a brush. ‘It makes me feel a bit predatory – like a stalker almost – especially when my sitters tell me that I’ve “captured” them.’ I began to mix the wash.

  ‘Well … I hope you’ll capture me.’

  Nate had said it matter-of-factly, but I felt my face flush. ‘I’ll try to,’ I faltered. ‘I mean … I just want my sitters to be happy.’

  ‘And are they?’

  ‘Usually. If they’re not, they’re too nice to say.’

  ‘Do you ever stay in touch with them?’

  ‘Yes – a few have become friends.’

  ‘So you’ve painted them into your life.’

  I smiled at the idea, then reflected that Nate was already in my life. He’s going to be my brother-in-law, I reminded myself. He’s marrying Chloë. My sister is going to be his wife. ‘So … how’s the wedding shaping up?’ I asked brightly.

  ‘Well … the answer is fast.’ Nate drew the breath through his teeth. ‘Your mom’s efficiency is awesome, if not … downright terrifying.’

  I dipped my brush in the turps, aware that he hadn’t exactly paid my mother a compliment. ‘Well, to be fair to her, three and a half months isn’t long.’

  Nate blinked. ‘Not long at all.’

  ‘But then a short engagement’s romantic,’ I pointed out. ‘And it’s nice that you’re getting married on Chloë’s birthday.’

  ‘That was your mom’s idea too.’

  ‘Really?’ I smiled to myself at her manipulation.

  Nate nodded. ‘Chloë and I had only gotten engaged a few hours before. We’d vaguely mentioned October, but then your mom suddenly said why didn’t we get married on Chloë’s birthday as it fell on a Saturday: Chloë looked so thrilled I felt I couldn’t say no – not that I wanted to say no,’ he added hastily. ‘I was just … taken aback.’

  ‘It’ll make it easier to remember your wedding anniversary.’

  ‘That’s true. And, as your mom pointed out, it’s the Fourth of July weekend, so that will make it easier for people coming from the States as the Monday’s a holiday, so …’ He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘July third’s … great.’

  ‘And will your sisters be there?’ I imagined them, in a gang, outside the church, with fistfuls of rice.

  Nate nodded. ‘There’s no way they’d miss it: they’ll all be standing there, telling me what to do.’

  ‘It’s going to be a big wedding then.’

  ‘It looks like it. The guest list seems to be … huge, but …’ He shook his head.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘The idea of making such private vows in front of so many people …’

  ‘Oh … you’ll be fine: all you have to do is stand there and say “I do”.

  Then I decided that I didn’t want to talk about the wedding any more, so I steered the conversation to Florence and New York – we talked about the Uffizi gallery and the Frick; I asked Nate about his childhood, and he told me some more about growing up in Brooklyn with his sisters, about how he’d got the scar on his brow, and about the dog that he’d had when he was a boy. Then we discussed films and plays we’d both seen, books we’d read, and suddenly Nate was getting to his feet.

  ‘Do you need to stretch your legs?’ I asked him.

  ‘No …’

  ‘Let’s have a break anyway.’ I put down my brush. ‘It must be at least an hour since we started.’

  Puzzlement furrowed Nate’s brow, then he nodded at the clock on the wall behind me. ‘Ella. It’s been two and a half.’

  ‘It can’t be.’ I looked. It was. ‘I had no idea …’

  ‘Well, we were talking a lot – like last time.’

  ‘Even so …’ I turned back to him. ‘How can it be five to one?’

  Nate smiled. ‘Maybe we hit a time warp, or got sucked down a wormhole?’

  ‘That’s the only credible explanation.’ I put my palette on the worktable. My hand ached from holding it for so long. ‘Why didn’t you say something? You must have been desperate for a break.’

  ‘No – I was … happy.’

  ‘But you haven’t even had a cup of coffee – let alone a Hobnob.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘They’re biscuits. Fancy one now?’ Nate shook his head. ‘Thanks, but I’m meeting Chloë for lunch.’

  I felt a piercing sensation, as though someone had plunged a skewer into my chest. I smiled. ‘Please give her my love. Tell her I’ll call her soon. So …’ I untied my apron and hung it up. ‘Is next Saturday okay?’

  ‘That’ll be fine.’

  Nate came over to look at the canvas. He was standing so close to me that I could almost feel the warmth of his body. ‘It’s still in the early stages,’ I said as we looked at the broad lines and massed areas of flat colour. ‘But I’ve got down the basic structure of your face, and from next week you’ll see yourself begin to …’

  ‘Emerge?’

  ‘Yes. Each time you’ll recognise a little more of yourself until we get, well … the whole picture of you. Or as I see you.’

  ‘I wonder what you’ll make of me.’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know – I’m still working you out.
But you’re a good sitter.’

  ‘That’s because I’m enjoying it.’

  I glanced at him. ‘That’s … great.’

  He shifted his weight then turned back to the unfinished painting. ‘It’s funny to think that I was dreading these sessions. Now, well … I’m looking forward to them.’

  I felt a bewildering burst of euphoria. ‘Me too.’

  We went downstairs and I unhooked Nate’s jacket, then opened the door. I turned to him. ‘So I’ll see you next week then. Ten-thirty again?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll be here.’

  I waited for him to leave, but for some reason he was still standing there, just looking at me intently. My heart did a swallow dive.

  ‘Ella?’ Nate murmured after a few moments.

  ‘Hm?’ Suddenly his eyes didn’t look as green as they had done. They looked quite dark.

  ‘Ella?’ he repeated gently.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could I have my coat?’

  ‘Oh.’ I was still holding it – hugging it almost. ‘Sorry …’ I laughed. ‘Here you go.’

  Nate slipped the jacket on then leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Ciao, Ella.’ He walked out of the house, then turned, smiling. ‘See you.’

  ‘See you,’ I echoed.

  I closed the door then leaned against it, listening to his fading footsteps.

  There’s someone you like …

  ‘Yes,’ I murmured.

  You’re very attracted to him.

  ‘I am.’

  I can see it in your face.

  ‘But he’s engaged to my sister.’

  My euphoria gave way to dismay.

  I wasn’t falling for Nate, I reasoned as I lay in bed the following morning. It was just a crush – a silly, no, in the circumstances, insane – infatuation. If I simply ignored it, it would soon pass. Once, when my mother was having yet another go at Chloë about Max, she’d told her that she shouldn’t have fallen in love with him. Chloë had retorted that she hadn’t chosen to fall in love with him. ‘You could have chosen not to!’ Mum had flung back.

  I decided that Mum had been right. I would now make the deliberate and rational choice not to fall in love with my sister’s husband-to-be. For the remaining sittings Nate and I would have a pleasant but purely professional relationship, after which we’d default to the friendly rapport expected of us as in-laws.

  ‘Good.’ I swung my legs out of bed. ‘Got that sorted.’

  I quickly showered and dressed. As I picked up my mobile I saw that another message had come in overnight from my father. With a sinking heart, I opened it.

  Dear Ella, I hope you received my message of a fortnight ago.

  ‘I did.’

  I realise that you may not wish to respond.

  ‘I don’t.’

  But this is to let you know the dates that I’m going to be in London in case you do decide that you’d like to meet up. I’ll be there for four days from 23 May.

  I felt my pulse quicken.

  It would mean so much to me if I could see you.

  A wave of anger ran through me. ‘It would have meant so much to me if I could have seen you anytime in the last thirty years!’

  In the meantime here’s my mobile phone number –

  and a photo.

  Sincerely,

  Your father

  ‘My ex-father,’ I muttered. At least he hadn’t signed off as ‘Daddy’ or ‘Dad’.

  I read the message six or seven times. Then, with a shaking hand, I opened the attachment.

  I felt a sudden ‘thud’ in my ribcage as I saw myself, aged about four, standing hand in hand on a beach somewhere with a man I knew instantly was my father. I was wearing a blue-and-white striped dress and was squinting into the late afternoon sun, my short brown hair whipped by the breeze. My father, barefoot, in knee-length shorts and a casual shirt, was dark-haired and powerfully built with broad shoulders – a big, handsome man. In the hand that wasn’t holding mine, he held a red spade while, behind us, on a yellow towel were a picnic basket and a white sunhat. I had no idea where we were, but knew that the photo had been taken by my mother because in the foreground I could see her shadow stretching towards us across the pale sand.

  I realised with a shock that this was the only photograph of my father that I’d ever seen. I consoled myself with the thought that he’d loved me enough to keep it; but sending it to me now was just an act of manipulation. I scrolled down to ‘options’. Delete message?

  I hesitated: then on his left hand I spotted his wedding ring gleaming in the sunshine. I exhaled, closed my eyes, then touched Yes …

  I thought I’d feel relieved; instead I felt upset – so much so that I then tried to retrieve the photo but couldn’t. With a rising sense of panic I ran up to the studio and yanked open the bottom drawer of my desk. From the back of it I pulled out a large white envelope, the edges of which were yellowed with age. I lifted the flap and slid out the drawing of my father – the one that I’d never been able to throw away. It was very much like him, I now saw. I must have been pleased with it because I’d signed it. And I was just trying to work out how old I would have been when I’d sketched it – nine or ten – when I heard a car pulling up. I looked out of the window and saw Mike parking his BMW. I quickly put the drawing back in its envelope, returned it to my desk then ran down and opened the door.

  ‘Hi, Mike.’ I was glad to have the distraction of the sitting.

  ‘Morning, Ella.’ He locked his car then came in. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘No. Thanks. I’m fine.’

  As he took off his jacket I grimaced. ‘You forgot to wear the blue jumper.’

  He groaned. ‘Sorry – but I’ve got so much on my mind.’

  ‘Of course, but the next sitting will be the last one, so I’ll text you the day before to remind you about it, okay?’

  ‘Sure …’

  We went up to the studio and I got Mike’s canvas out of the rack and put it on the easel. As I mixed the colours we chatted about the election, the date of which had at last been announced. ‘That must be a relief.’

  ‘It is,’ he answered wearily. He sat in the chair. ‘But it’s going to be tough.’

  I squeezed a little Prussian blue on to the palette. ‘But you have a big majority, haven’t you?’

  ‘I do, but I can’t take anything for granted.’

  Now Mike talked about the opinion polls and about how hard he found the door-to-door canvassing, having to persuade and cajole. ‘I feel like a Jehovah’s Witness,’ he said ruefully. ‘Only less welcome.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I thought of Celine. ‘Some people are quite pleased to have the Jehovah’s Witnesses turn up.’

  ‘Maybe … and who else are you painting at the moment?’

  ‘A beautiful French woman – but it’s been a battle as she doesn’t want to be painted.’ I imagined Celine and I locked in combat over the canvas.

  Mike looked puzzled. ‘Why doesn’t she?’

  ‘She says she finds sitting frustrating, which in some ways it is, but …’ I shrugged, not wanting to add that I believed that there was more to it than that. ‘Then I’m painting a very elegant Englishwoman who’s in her eighties.’ I thought about how much I was looking forward to seeing Iris again, but it wouldn’t be for at least another week as Sophia had phoned me to say that her mother had a bad cold. ‘I’m also painting my sister’s fiancé.’ I felt my face flush. ‘And I’m still working on the portrait of my mum.’ I nodded at her canvas, leaning against the wall. ‘It’s almost finished now.’

  Mike turned to it. ‘She’s beautiful.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘Her expression’s interesting.’

  ‘What do you see?’ I asked, out of curiosity.

  ‘She looks … guarded.’

  ‘She does look a bit guarded, that’s true.’ I dipped the brush in the turps.

  ‘I mean secretive,’ he mused. ‘As though she’s hiding something.’
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  ‘Oh….’ I looked at the painting again. ‘Well … I don’t see that.’ Now I regretted having asked Mike for his opinion – what did he know? ‘I don’t do proper sittings with her,’ I explained. ‘She usually pops in for half an hour after she’s been teaching at the English National Ballet School. She’s going to be there tomorrow, so we’ll do a bit more.’

  ‘So you’re busy,’ Mike remarked.

  ‘Yes, pleasantly so.’ I studied the tip of his nose, then added a highlight to its painted counterpart. ‘And I’ve just been commissioned to do a posthumous portrait.’

  ‘Really? They must be … strange.’

  I picked up a smaller brush. ‘I’m about to find out. I’ve never done one before – I’ve always avoided them because they’re rather sad and probably quite tricky, technically. In fact, when I was first approached I said no.’

  ‘What made you change your mind?’

  ‘Because I read a tribute to the person who’d died – her friends had each contributed one word that they felt encapsulated this girl. It … touched me and for some reason I don’t seem able to stop thinking about her.’

  I felt the tension in the room tighten. ‘So who … was she?’

  As I told Mike he closed his eyes for a moment, as though he’d just been given bad news.

  ‘There’s been quite a bit about her death in the press,’ I said. ‘You must have seen it.’

  The chair creaked as Mike turned away. ‘Yes …’

  ‘It’s so hard for her family, not least because they still don’t know how it happened – or why she was cycling through Fulham Broadway at that time of day, given that she didn’t live or work anywhere near there.’

  Now I thought of my meeting with Grace’s uncle. A quiet man in his late fifties, he’d come to the studio the day before and had talked to me about Grace for a couple of hours. He told me that she’d lived in Chiswick and had taught at a primary school in Bedford Park. He’d brought with him four photo albums – two that had been hers and two that belonged to her parents.