by Isabel Wolff
I’d looked at pictures of Grace on the swings aged three, smiling gappily at five, riding her new bike at six, on a brown pony at eight, starting secondary school at eleven, atop Mount Snowdon at fourteen, arm in arm with friends in her graduation robes, and on a sunny day last September on the steps of her school, surrounded by the children she’d taught.
‘It was a hit-and-run,’ I said to Mike.
The corners of his mouth clenched. ‘They don’t know that. The driver might have had no idea what had happened.’
‘Surely he would have realised what he’d done.’
‘Why do you say “he”?’ Mike snapped.
‘Well …’ Mike’s tone had taken me aback.
‘How do you know it was a “he”?’
‘I … don’t.’ I conceded. My heart was thudding.
‘Whoever it was …’ Mike’s sudden anger had vanished and now he just looked distressed, ‘… they might very well not have known.’ He was blinking rapidly, as though trying to work something out. ‘Especially as it happened in the dark.’
I exhaled. ‘That’s true. The wing mirror might have just clipped her, and helmets don’t always offer enough protection in a bad fall.’ Mike nodded, dismally. ‘But they’re trying to enhance the CCTV: apparently the images were very grainy and they don’t have the registration number, but there are things that they can do … to … anyway.’ I dipped the brush in the white spirit. ‘That’s my latest commission – Grace.’
A mournful look came into Mike’s eyes as silence fell.
I had no idea what to make of Mike’s intensity. He was clearly already on edge, but he also seemed … defensive. As I continued painting him, a shiver ran through me. Perhaps he did know what had happened to Grace. After all, he often drove through Fulham Broadway, and he had a black BMW. I’d thought about that, but had dismissed it as coincidence; but perhaps it had been his car that had struck her, and he’d had no idea at the time, only realising afterwards from the media coverage …
That would explain his turmoil. He’d be horrified at what he’d done, and he’d be dreading what the enhanced CCTV tape might reveal. He’d be in terror, too, at the thought of the newspaper headlines, given that he was an MP – and on a transport committee – a protector of cyclists. He’d be vilified for failing to stop. He might face criminal charges. This would destroy his career; if not his life …
As my mind raced through this scenario I remembered that Mike had abruptly cancelled his sittings at the end of January, a couple of days after Grace had died. The e-mail he’d sent me saying that he’d ‘suddenly got very busy’ had been so incoherent that when I’d read it I’d thought that he must have been drunk. Now he was a shadow of the big, happy, self-confident man whom I’d started to paint less than four months ago. And he’d cried at a sad song on the radio. He was clearly under huge emotional strain. Perhaps that was why he’d seen what he had in my mother’s face – because of what he himself was desperately trying to conceal.
He exhaled, painfully. ‘So … have you started the painting?’
‘Erm, no, not yet.’ I felt awkward now, discussing the commission with Mike, but he seemed to want to know about it. ‘First I need to get some feeling for who Grace was. I have photos of her.’ Mike flinched. ‘But I want the portrait to be more than just a likeness: I want it to capture Grace’s spirit. But as I never met her, that isn’t going to be easy.’
‘No,’ Mike agreed quietly. ‘It’s going to be hard.’
‘I can only stay for half an hour,’ Mum announced when she arrived that afternoon. ‘I’ve so much to do. It’s unending,’ she added, with a curious blend of satisfaction and annoyance. She slipped off her coat and handed it to me. ‘The invitations have gone off to be printed,’ she said as I hung it up. ‘I’ve decided to enclose RSVP cards; people can be shockingly casual, even about weddings. Will you help me write them?’ she added as we went upstairs.
‘Sure. I’ll come over with my calligraphy pen.’ I pushed on the studio door. ‘So how many people are you inviting?’
‘Two hundred and ten.’
‘Good God!’
‘Well, there are people who’ve invited us to their children’s weddings, and of course Nate has a very large family.’ I imagined his sisters, lined up like Russian dolls. ‘Chloë has a lot of friends,’ Mum went on, ‘plus she wants to invite some of her colleagues, so it’s not hard to get up to that kind of figure.’ She went over to the wall mirror and checked her appearance. ‘Luckily, we can accommodate that number as the garden’s so big.’ She opened her bag and took out her gold compact. ‘But it’s nice to make a bit of a statement.’
‘Is it?’ I asked as she reapplied her lipstick.
‘Yes.’ She snapped the compact shut. ‘It is.’ She put it back in her bag then glanced around the studio. ‘It’s looking nice up here, Ella – less of a jumble.’
‘I’ve tidied up.’ I unhooked my apron and put it on. ‘Oh, well done,’ I added as Mum took off her cardigan. ‘You remembered to wear the silk shirt.’
‘I’m amazed that I did as I’ve so much to think about.’ She shook her head as if to stop it spinning, then she sat down, lifted her chin, and laid her left hand on her chest.
My mother was still every inch the prima ballerina. She didn’t just ‘sit’ in a chair – she folded herself into it, ensuring that there was a graceful ‘line’ to her body, that her limbs were positioned harmoniously and that her head was at an elegant angle to her neck.
‘I’m very upset with the organist,’ she confided.
I adjusted the blind. ‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s trying to insist that we have Purcell’s “Trumpet Tune”, but I’ve heard it at so many weddings.’
I returned to the easel. ‘It’s joyful though.’
Mum inclined her head. ‘That’s true. And Chloë’s wedding is going to be very joyful.’
I felt the skewer turn in my heart. ‘It is.’ For everyone except me, I reflected, then felt ashamed at the thought.
‘But I’m putting my foot down about the Widor Toccata.’
I picked up my palette. ‘That is over-used. Could you look this way?’
Mum turned her pale-blue gaze on me. ‘But I’ve found a wonderful soprano. She’s in the chorus at Covent Garden and her voice …’ Mum closed her eyes in an attitude of ecstasy, then slowly opened them. ‘We’ll all be in floods. In fact, I may staple a tissue into each Order of Service.’
‘Good idea. I’m sure I’ll need one,’ I added balefully. I dipped my brush in the light skin tone that I’d prepared. ‘So what’s this diva going to sing?’
‘“Ave Maria” after the first reading – the Bach-Gounod, not the Schubert – then “Panis Angelicus” during the signing of the register: I adore both.’
‘Does Chloë?’
Mum shrugged. ‘She seems to be happy with all my ideas. She’s being surprisingly easy-going about everything.’
‘That’s lucky.’
‘It is – especially as I have so little time; I couldn’t cope with any arguments, and you know how stubborn she can be.’ Mum tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. ‘But she still hasn’t chosen her dress. I thought you were helping her on that front, darling.’
‘I am,’ I said, trying not to bridle at the suggestion that I’d been dragging my heels. ‘I’m going to a vintage wedding-dress shop with her next week. She’s going to try on a few that we’ve seen on their website.’
Mum was making ‘tutting’ noises. ‘I wish she’d have something contemporary – I really don’t want to see her in yellowed lace.’
‘You won’t, Mum.’ I began to work on her left hand. ‘These gowns are beautifully restored – and they’re expensive: you’d better warn Roy that the one she most likes the look of costs two thousand pounds.’
Mum’s eyes were round. ‘She could get an Amanda Wakeley for that.’
‘Something old – that’s what she wants.’
‘Well, I shall
be wearing something new.’
Now Mum told me about the outfit she’d ordered from Caroline Charles, the Philip Treacy ‘fascinator’ that would adorn her head, the menus that she was keen on but had yet to confirm with Chloë and Nate, the ice sculpture that she was considering and whether I thought a peacock might be preferable to a swan. She talked about the hardwood flooring she’d ordered for the wedding tent and about the work Roy was doing in the garden to get it looking ‘tip-top’. Then she discussed the flowers.
‘The church will already have flowers from the eleven o’clock service,’ she said as I painted a cream highlight on to the gold of her wedding ring. As I did this I wondered what Mum had done with her first wedding ring. Perhaps she’d flushed it away, or flung it into the sea. More likely, she’d kept it in a box inside another box inside a bag at the back of a drawer.
‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘Then you won’t have to buy any.’
‘It isn’t good at all,’ Mum protested. ‘They might be hideous, and I don’t want to find that we’re stuck with carnations and chrysanthemums. So I’ve asked the florist to strip them all out, and we’ll have tuberoses, pink peonies and green viburnam for the larger arrangements, with posies of sweet peas at the end of each pew. I love sweet peas …’ Mum shivered with happiness, like a small child anticipating Christmas.
I found her excitement touching. It was as though it was she who was …
I dipped my brush in the zinc yellow. ‘Can I ask you something, Mum?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve never asked you this before – or probably not since I was very young, but … what with Chloë getting married, I’ve been wondering …’
‘Wondering what?’ she asked serenely.
‘Did you have a big wedding? The first time, I mean.’ I suddenly imagined my mother standing at the altar with the entire corps de ballet fanned out behind her.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t.’
‘So … it was just … a small one, was it? But in church, presumably.’ Mum blinked. ‘No.’
‘Didn’t you want to get married in church?’
‘I did,’ she replied. ‘But, well … your father didn’t believe. But you know, it was such a long time ago and I really don’t want to …’
I raised my hands in surrender. ‘Okay.’
So Mum had got married in a register office both times. That would go a long way to explaining why she wanted to make such a ‘statement’ with Chloë’s wedding – she was turning it into the big, glamorous meringue-and-marquee number that she’d never had.
I dipped the brush in the pot of turps. ‘There’s one other thing I wanted to ask you.’
Mum suppressed an annoyed sigh. ‘What’s that?’
‘Did we go to the seaside somewhere – when I was about four?’
She inclined her head, like a bird suddenly aware of a predator. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because … I recently had a memory of being on a beach somewhere. In a blue-and-white striped dress.’
I held my breath as Mum considered the question. For a moment I thought she wasn’t going to answer. ‘We had a holiday in Wales,’ she replied slowly. ‘The summer before you were five. We went to Anglesey for three days. You did have a blue-and-white striped dress – I’m amazed that you remember it.’
‘So … that holiday must have been with my father. Is that right?’ I added.
‘Yes,’ she answered reluctantly. ‘Now, I’d just like to—’
‘Three days for a holiday isn’t long,’ I interrupted, before she could change the subject.
‘Well …’ I heard Mum swallow. ‘We didn’t have long holidays.’
‘Oh. Why not?’
‘Because … we couldn’t.’ She brushed a bit of fluff off her skirt. ‘I was dancing principal roles, and so taking a fortnight, or even a week off, simply wasn’t possible.’
‘I see …’
‘So we just took a few short breaks – where we could.’ I nodded, blankly. ‘Are you all right, Ella? You seem rather … intense.’
I stared at her.
My father’s sent me two e-mails and a photo. He’ll be in London in a few weeks’ time. He wants to see me, but I know that that would cause big problems for you, so I’ve been ignoring him, but it’s making me feel confused and unhappy – plus I’ve fallen for Nate, which is also making me feel confused and unhappy – so, all in all, I’m feeling, yes, rather intense.
‘I’m fine,’ I said.
Mum smiled. ‘Good. Now I’ve got to find a jazz band – there’s one that plays down by the river on Thursday evenings, so Roy and I are going to go and hear them this week. I’ve also been wondering about having an entertainer – a caricaturist might be amusing. What do you think, darling?’
‘That would be fun.’
‘I wish you’d find someone.’
‘I don’t know any caricaturists.’
‘I mean a man.’ Mum sighed, extravagantly. ‘I’ve always thought it a shame you didn’t settle down with David.’
I picked up the tube of cadmium green. ‘I didn’t want to.’ I unscrewed the cap.
‘Why not?’
I squeezed a little on to the palette. ‘Because he was very nice, but it was terribly … cosy. I felt too young to be in the comfort zone for the rest of my life.’
Mum shifted on her chair. ‘The comfort zone is preferable to many other, more hazardous zones, Ella. I hope you won’t come to regret that decision.’
‘I know I won’t – because a few weeks ago I bumped into David at the Chelsea Arts Club; he was with someone new, and I didn’t mind. But if you’ve loved someone it must be hard to see them with anyone else.’
‘Very hard …’ Mum agreed quietly.
I knew that she must be thinking of my father, because she’d seen him with someone else – the woman for whom he would eventually leave her. She’d once told me that she’d ‘come across them’, which suggested that this encounter had happened outside. Would I have been with her? I wondered. Suddenly I felt sure that I was, because I had a vision of my father’s startled face, and I saw that white skirt with its bold red flowers …
‘Isn’t there some nice man that you like?’ Mum was asking me now.
‘Er … no. There’s no one …’
My mother touched her cheek, then put her hand back on her chest. ‘Now what about Nate?’
It was as though I’d plunged down a manhole. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, what about Nate’s portrait? Sorry, darling, I’ve changed the subject – my mind’s all over the place. How’s his painting going? Do tell me.’
I exhaled with relief, as though I’d committed a crime and had narrowly escaped detection. ‘It’s going … fine.’ My heart rate slowed. ‘We’ve had two sittings.’ So only four more, I reflected with a pang. How odd to think that I’d hoped to keep them to a minimum: now I wished I could have dozens more.
‘So when will it be ready?’
‘I’ll aim to finish it by mid-June so that it has time to dry. Then Chloë will collect it the day before the wedding. I hope she’ll like it.’
‘I’m sure she’ll love it. I know you’ll bring out Nate’s intelligence and charm – and his kindness: he’s a compassionate sort of man.’ Mum shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I still can’t understand how you could have disliked him, Ella.’
The conversation was making me so tense that I accidentally smudged the line of Mum’s hand. ‘I just … did.’
‘But you like him now?’
I know you’re going to love him!
‘I do.’ So Chloë had been right.
‘And you’re coming to the engagement party, aren’t you? It’s next Saturday.’
I began to correct my mistake. ‘Chloë told me about it, but I’m not sure …’
‘Well, you’ll have to let them know, because it’s a sit-down dinner just for close friends and family – they’re not having a big party because the wedding’s so soon: Nate
’s having it at his flat.’
‘I see …’ I wished I didn’t have to go. It would be painful seeing him with Chloë. I wondered how I could get out of it …
Mum lifted her chin. ‘By the way, I presume you chat to Nate during the sittings.’
‘Ye-es.’
‘Well, please don’t let on, should the subject arise, that Chloë’s last boyfriend was married.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I don’t discuss Chloë with Nate.’
‘Good. Because I’ve told her that it’s better if he doesn’t know.’
‘Why?’ I looked at her. ‘It’s got zero to do with him.’
‘Yes, but men can be … funny about things: it doesn’t do to tell them everything.’ I wondered what sort of things Mum hadn’t told Roy. ‘After all, they haven’t known each other that long,’ she went on. ‘So I’ve advised her to say nothing about it until they’ve been married at least a year – or better still, not to tell him at all.’
I picked a stray bristle off the canvas. ‘You know, Mum, I think it’s for Chloë to decide what she does and doesn’t tell her own fiancé.’
‘Well, I don’t think that her association with Max is something that she should shout about.’
I shrugged. ‘Nate would have to be a prig to care one way or another, and I don’t think he is.’
‘Anyway, that’s how I feel and Chloë agrees.’ The chair creaked as Mum shifted her position. ‘But thank God she met Nate. I still can’t bear to think how unhappy she was before – thanks to Max’s awful treatment of her.’
I squeeze a little Naples yellow on to the palette. ‘Max wasn’t “awful” to Chloë, Mum. She said he treated her well. She was only unhappy because she couldn’t be with him.’
Mum laughed. ‘Of course she couldn’t – the man was married!’ Mum was always so censorious about adultery, I reflected. But then she knew only too well the damage it does. ‘In any case, he didn’t treat her well – he stayed with his wife.’
‘Oh …’ I was about to challenge my mother’s somewhat skewed analysis of the situation, but she was hurrying on.
‘Why he stayed with her, I really don’t know. It’s not as though they had children, so I assume it was because she earned a lot with those books of hers.’