The Very Picture of You

by Isabel Wolff

‘Can I just take a moment? I’m a bit … stressed.’ I could hardly tell Chloë why. I had another sip of champagne and began to feel its sedative effects. I managed to smile. ‘You look lovely.’ Chloë was wearing a turquoise silk shift that skimmed her slight frame. She seemed so young, but now it struck me that she was just the age that Mum was when my father left – except that Mum had a five-year-old child. I thought again how unusual it was for an ambitious young dancer to jeopardise her career by having a baby. Perhaps Mum’s pregnancy was accidental and that was the real reason why she and my father had had a register office wedding. What she’d said about his lack of religious belief had somehow rung false.

  ‘Thanks,’ Chloë said.

  As she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear I saw something sparkle and the skewer twisted again. ‘Oh, show me your ring!’

  She held out her hand. A large marquise diamond winked and flashed. ‘Now I really feel engaged,’ she said, widening her eyes with mock anxiety. ‘We chose it a month ago, but it needed to be made smaller so I collected it this morning while you were painting Nate. He’s enjoying the sittings,’ she added as I followed her into the living room. Anxiously I wondered whether Nate discussed them with her. ‘Not that he tells me what you two talk about.’ I exhaled with relief. ‘But he came back reeking of turps – I teased him that he must have been doing some painting himself …’

  There were perhaps twenty people in the room, which was long and wide with a deep bay window. On the white marble mantelpiece were a number of engagement cards and on the wall above it hung a large, semi-abstract seascape in boiling blues and greens. On the other side of the room was a pale-gold damask sofa on which I instantly imagined Chloë and Nate curled up together.

  At the garden end of the room I saw Nate, in jeans and a white shirt, chatting to his guests. Seeing me, he extricated himself and walked towards me. It was like one of the dreams I have of him, in which his face slowly emerges out of a crowd of strangers and I have this sense of happiness and relief. Now though, knowing how powerfully I was drawn to him, I felt only pain and dismay.

  ‘Ella,’ he said warmly.

  I recalled the gentle pressure of his arms around my shoulders, the feel of his hands on my face.

  ‘Hi, Nate – sorry I’m late. What a great flat!’ I turned to Chloë. ‘So is this where you’ll live after the wedding?’

  ‘That’s the idea. Nate rents it, so when the lease is up we’ll buy a place of our own. In fact, I like the streets where you are, Ella.’

  My heart plunged at the prospect of having Chloë and Nate living nearby – seeing them walking along hand in hand, or unloading their shopping from the car, or pushing a buggy …

  ‘That would be great,’ I said. ‘Though bear in mind it can be tricky living near the football stadium.’

  ‘True,’ Chloë agreed. ‘How often do Chelsea play at home?’

  ‘Every other Saturday, but also during the week: the roads get so congested – and it’s dreadfully noisy.’ I suddenly wished that she and Nate would go and live in New York – a scenario I’d dreaded when they’d first got engaged.

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ she said. ‘There’s no rush – is there,

  Nate?’

  ‘No. No … rush at all.’

  Suddenly Chloë’s ‘old phone’ ringtone drilled through the noise and chatter. She took her mobile out of her pocket and peered at the screen. She frowned. ‘I’m sorry … I’ll just …’ She went out into the hall, leaving Nate and me to chat.

  So we talked about property prices in this part of London and about when interest rates might start to rise. Without the intimacy of the studio we were politely going through the conversational motions. This is how it’ll have to be, I reflected, once the portrait’s done.

  Then one of the caterers came to speak to Nate; as I glanced around, I saw that Chloë had returned and was talking to an old school friend of hers, Jane. So I squeezed past them to talk to Mum and Roy, who were standing near the window. I caught snatches of party babble on the way.

  – Wedding’s not long now.

  – So did he get down on bended knee?

  – Capri’s a lovely honeymoon destination.

  – Actually, I asked him!

  Mum was deep in conversation with another friend of Chloë’s, Trish, and her husband Don. Seeing me, Mum extended an elegant arm and drew me to her while she continued to wax lyrical about Nate.

  ‘He’s so attractive,’ Trish agreed. ‘Obviously very steady … yes … perfect for Chloë – well, he’d be perfect for any woman, really – but not as perfect as you,’ she added to Don with a laugh. Then Trish began telling my mother about the jazz band she and Don had hired for their wedding, and about the awful problems they’d had seating his divorced parents. As she and Mum began discussing the pros and cons of a formal receiving line, I broke away to talk to Roy.

  He smiled at me. ‘So how’s our Ella-Bella?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ I took another sip of champagne. ‘A bit wedding-weary though.’

  Roy sighed. ‘I know what you mean … but …’ He fiddled with his bow tie. ‘I do hope you’re pleased for

  Chloë, Ella.’

  I looked at him, shocked. ‘Of course I am. Why do you ask?’

  A red stain had spread up Roy’s neck. Did he know? I wondered. Had he seen it in my face like Celine had done? Did I have I Nate! stamped on my brow?

  ‘Why are you asking?’ I repeated nervously.

  ‘Well …’ Roy shifted his weight. ‘To be honest, I thought you might not be entirely happy about her getting married.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ My pulse began to race.

  Roy ran a finger round his collar. He knew. He and Mum both knew. ‘Because it must be hard for you,’ he said, ‘seeing your mother and me fussing over your sister like this, not to mention spending such vast amounts on her, so I just hope …’

  ‘Oh, I see …’ I emitted a burst of relieved laughter. ‘You think I’m envious of Chloë – because she’s getting married.’

  ‘Well … I didn’t really think that, but I want you to know that we’ll push the boat out just as far for you. I’ve been saving for both you girls for years now.’

  I smiled. ‘Thank you, Roy.’ He really was the nicest man. I laid my hand on his arm. ‘But as I doubt it’ll ever be needed for me, I hope you’ll spend it on you and Mum.’

  He sipped his champagne. ‘You don’t know what the future holds, Ella. Anyway, it’s good to know that you’re happy for your sister.’

  ‘Of course I am.’ I just wished that she were marrying anyone but Nate.

  Now everyone was moving towards the wide wooden staircase that curved down to the basement.

  ‘I think dinner is served,’ said Roy. ‘Very nice of Nate to do this.’

  ‘It is. But I’d like to wash my hands first – I’ll see you down there.’

  I went out into the hall and a caterer told me that the bathroom was just at the top of the stairs. I walked up. As I pushed on the door I saw a big, claw-footed Victorian tub on the rim of which were Chloë’s shampoo and conditioner and some jewel-coloured glass tea-light holders. I tortured myself with visions of her and Nate having a candle-lit soak. Beside the basin, among Nate’s shaving things, were Chloë’s Cath Kidston wash-bag, a pink toothbrush and a big tub of Elizabeth Arden body cream.

  I should have pleaded a migraine, I reflected miserably as I turned on the tap. I lifted my eyes to the mirror then looked away, unable to face myself. ‘I’m not in love,’ I whispered as I splashed water on my burning cheeks. ‘It is just a … crush – a silly, and completely inappropriate, crush.’ I felt ashamed to acknowledge it, even to myself; I certainly didn’t want anyone else to know about it. I resolved to keep my feelings concealed.

  As I came out of the bathroom I saw that the door of the room next to it was ajar. Through the gap I could see Nate’s green jumper lying on a chair, one arm dangling over the side, as though exhausted. Without thinking,
I pushed on the door then stood there looking at the big sleigh bed, masochistically imagining Chloë and Nate spooned together in it, or lying face to face, their limbs plaited like rope.

  On the chest of drawers I could see some photos in silver frames. I wanted to look at them – to know more about Nate, so, feeling like a trespasser, I went in.

  There was a photo of a young couple – Nate’s parents, presumably – leaning against a stone wall, with Florence’s Duomo rising above the buildings behind them. There was a close-up of a young woman on her wedding day – I guessed that it must be Maria, Nate’s youngest sister, as he’d told me that she was the sister to whom he’s always been close. There was a photo of Nate as a boy of eight or nine, sitting on a sofa, cradling his dog like a baby. In a glass frame was a snap of Chloë and Nate at some black-tie dinner, her arm stretched around the back of his chair. I felt another stab of jealousy. The force of it took me aback.

  I went out, pulled the door shut behind me, then ran downstairs.

  The kitchen was very large with a big conservatory dining room, the glass of which was strung with little lights that twinkled in the gathering dusk. Everyone was finding their places at the trestle table that hugged the sides of the room.

  I found my name – written in Chloë’s large, round hand – and was joined by a forty-ish woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and a slash of cyclamen lipstick.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, smiling warmly. ‘I’m Nate’s cousin, Honeysuckle.’

  I returned her smile. ‘That’s a great name.’

  ‘Well my father adored Fats Waller so I’m “Honeysuckle Rose”, but everyone calls me Honey or Hon.’

  I remembered my misunderstanding about ‘Honey’ on the night of Chloë’s party. I’d been furious at the idea that Nate might be two-timing Chloë: now some dark part of me wanted him to two-time her – with me!

  ‘This is my husband, Doug.’ Honey indicated the sandy-haired man who was standing on my left.

  I shook his outstretched hand. ‘I’m Ella – Chloë’s sister.’

  ‘I’ve heard about you,’ Doug said. ‘You’re painting Nate, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Is he behaving himself in the sittings?’ Honey asked as we all sat down.

  ‘Of course he is.’ I saw Honey register my indignant tone. I felt my face flush. ‘I just mean … he keeps very still and he’s … nice.’

  ‘Oh, Nate’s a darling,’ Honey said as Doug poured us all some white wine. ‘We grew up together in New York, then my folks moved to London when I was twelve – hence my nearly English accent, but Nate and I always got on well, and now we work together.’

  ‘He’s told me a lot about you,’ I said. ‘Nice things,’ I added hastily. Then I remembered that Nate had said that Honey could be inquisitive. I’d have to be on my guard.

  She smiled. ‘So … how long do the sittings take?’ I explained. ‘And how well did you know him at the start?’

  ‘I didn’t know him – I’d met him twice. But then, I don’t usually know my sitters before I paint them.’ Honey shook her head. ‘How weird – spending so much time closeted with a stranger.’ She laughed. ‘It must be like being on a blind date!’

  I nodded. ‘In some ways it is.’ Except that in Nate’s case there’d been no possibility of the encounter ever developing into anything more. I felt a burst of anger with Chloë: in asking me to paint Nate she had, albeit unwittingly, put before me a feast that I could never touch. I felt like Tantalus, neck-deep in water that he could never drink, grasping at fruit that was always just out of reach.

  I stole a glance at Nate, sitting on the other side of the conservatory, next to Chloë. I tried to work out what had happened between us this morning; then I told myself that there was nothing to work out. Seeing me become upset, he’d instinctively comforted me. That was all there was to it. And yet …

  Now Nate’s friend James came and sat next to me with his wife Kay: I already knew that James worked in London, for Citibank, had been at high school with Nate, and was to be his best man. James and Honey clearly knew each other, so as they struck up a conversation I chatted to Kay, who told me that she was doing a part-time art history degree.

  The caterers brought in our starters but I was too stressed to eat. As I picked at my smoked trout, I wondered how soon I’d be able to leave. My dinner companions were very pleasant, but it was an effort to make small talk with them in my present mood: thankfully they seemed interested in portraiture, so at least I didn’t have to scrape the mental barrel for things to say.

  ‘Is there anyone you wouldn’t want to paint?’ Kay asked me.

  I lowered my fork. ‘I find young children difficult, because their expressions are so fleeting. And I don’t like painting women who’ve had plastic surgery – it’s difficult to deal with because it never looks … right. Last year I painted this fifty-something woman who’d clearly had her eyelids lifted; it just looked as though two stun grenades had gone off in her sockets. But I’m currently painting a woman of eighty-three who’s had nothing done and is still very beautiful.’ I hoped that I’d soon be able to start painting Iris again, not least because I longed to hear what had happened to Guy Lennox – his tragic story had got under my skin.

  Now Kay began talking about self-portraits – about Rembrandt’s, Francis Bacon’s and Lucian Freud’s. ‘And there’s a self-portrait by Dürer that I adore,’ she added. ‘It’s so sexy.’

  ‘You mean the Christ-like one?’ I said. ‘With the long, curling hair?’

  ‘Yes – that one – he’s gorgeous.’ She giggled. ‘I had a massive crush on him when I was a teenager because of that picture!’

  I smiled in recognition. ‘Me too. It was as though he was real – not a two-dimensional image of himself that he’d painted five centuries before.’

  ‘So will Nate look as “real” as that?’ Honey asked. ‘With women swooning over him hundreds of years hence?’

  I smiled. ‘I’d like to think so. But I’m certainly ambitious for his portrait.’

  ‘Ambitious?’ Honey echoed. ‘In what way?’

  ‘In that a competent portrait just catches a likeness, and a good portrait reveals aspects of the sitter’s character. But a great portrait will show something about the sitter that they didn’t even know themselves. That’s what I hope to achieve with Nate’s.’

  Doug raised his glass to me. ‘Then here’s to a great portrait of Nate. He’ll have to have an official unveiling for it.’

  ‘Terrific idea,’ Honey said. ‘We’ll all come and see it – but I know it’ll be gorgeous, because he is.’ At that she caught Nate’s eye and blew him a kiss.

  Nate smiled back at Honey, then, as she turned to say something to Doug, Nate let his gaze rest, just for a few moments, on me. I flashed him a brief smile then looked away, my face aflame. He’s just checking that I’m okay, I told myself firmly.

  ‘Don’t forget that little scar on his head.’ I looked at Honey. ‘One of his sisters dropped him when he was a baby,’ she added. ‘I think it was Valentina.’

  ‘No.’ I lowered my glass. ‘It was Maria.’

  Surprise flickered across Honey’s features. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because Nate told me that Maria dropped him when he was four months old. She was six and had lifted him out of his cot because she wanted to cuddle him. They rushed him to hospital and Maria was so upset that they had to buy her a big doll to make her stop crying. He said that she still can’t bear to talk about it.’

  Honey nodded, slowly. ‘I’d … forgotten.’

  As our plates were taken away, Honey reminisced about Nate’s father, Roberto. ‘Uncle Rob knew so many famous pianists,’ she said to Kay. ‘He worked with Ashkenazy, Horowitz, Martha Argerich and Alfred Brendel; and he was a terrific pianist himself – he used to give recitals in a local church, Saint Thomas Aquinas.’

  ‘It was St Vincent de Paul,’ I corrected her without thinking.

  Honey loo
ked at me in surprise. ‘Was it?’

  ‘Yes. At least … that’s what Nate told me.’

  ‘Then … that must be right. You obviously take in what he says.’

  ‘I … always take in what my sitters say; in order to paint them I have to get to know them. Don’t I?’ I added, then wished that I hadn’t.

  Nate had stood up and was chinking his glass. I assumed that he was about to make a speech, but he simply asked if some of us would pick up our wine glasses and swap places for dessert and coffee. Doug moved round, as did Kay and a few moments later Mum came over and sat in Kay’s chair. As I introduced her to everyone I realised that, like me, she’d had too much to drink.

  ‘So how are the wedding plans going?’ James asked her pleasantly.

  ‘Fine,’ she answered with a smile. ‘We’re sending the ‘vitations out next week. That’s going to be quite a job as we’ve got a huge cast list.’

  ‘I … think you mean guest list,’ Honey suggested.

  Mum looked puzzled. ‘Isn’t that what I said?’

  ‘Will there be any Italian elements?’ Honey asked her.

  ‘Yes. The soprano’s going to sing some Rossini and I’m thinking of releasing a pair of doves outside the church, to add a bit of drama.’

  ‘Not that one wants too much drama at a wedding,’ Kay cautioned.

  Mum heaved a tipsy sigh. ‘That’s true. It’s a pity we’re not Catholic, like Nate, otherwise he and Chloë could have had a Nuptial Mass – they’re rather beautiful; but we’ll definitely have those little bags of sugared almonds and I do want Chloë and Nate to smash a glass.’

  I had another sip of wine. ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘During the reception, the bride and groom smash a glass,’ Honey explained. ‘The number of fragments denotes the number of years that they’ll be happily married – like in a Jewish wedding.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mum, as Chloë now joined us. ‘Hello, darling.’ Chloë sat down next to her. ‘We’re talking about the wedding, and I was just saying that I want you and Nate to smash a glass. I’ve also been wondering about confessi.’

  ‘Confessi?’ Chloë smiled. ‘What have you got to confess, Mum? Come on – out with it!’