by Isabel Wolff
‘Confetti,’ Mum corrected herself with a laugh. ‘I’m trying to make up my mind between delphinium petals and hydrangea – not an easy decision.’
Honey, clearly bored with the minutiae of the wedding preparations, was reminiscing about Nate. ‘He had this dog, Chopsy,’ she said to James. ‘He was one ugly little mutt, but Nate adored him.’
‘He wasn’t ugly,’ I protested. ‘He looked very sweet. And he wasn’t a mutt – he was a pedigree Border terrier.’
‘Really?’ said Honey. ‘Actually … you’re right. I’d completely forgotten.’ She gave a bewildered laugh. ‘But how would you know what Nate’s dog looked like?’
My heart stopped. I could hardly admit that I’d snooped in Nate’s bedroom. ‘Nate described him to me,’ I replied truthfully. ‘I have a vivid image of him.’
Honey nodded. ‘Ah.’
Now as our coffee arrived Nate came and sat in the chair next to Honey’s. I hardly dared look at him in case my face betrayed my emotions. I pressed my knees against the underside of the table to stop them trembling. And I thought how weird it was, that in the studio I could stare at him uninhibitedly – brazenly, even – but here I hardly dared throw him a glance.
Honey laid her hand on Nate’s arm. I envied her the easy familiarity with which she was able to do this. ‘I was just telling everyone about Chopsy,’ she told him.
Nate grinned. ‘He was a great little dog.’
‘Why was he called Chopsy?’ Chloë asked him. ‘Was it because he liked chops?’
‘No, it was short for Chopin,’ I explained. ‘Nate’s dad got him from a rescue centre. He’d come in half starved, with cigarette burns on his legs – Chopsy, that is – not Nate’s dad. He lived to fourteen, though he might have been as much as sixteen, as they weren’t sure how old he was when they first got him.’
‘Oh,’ said Chloë. ‘I didn’t know that.’
I was suddenly aware of Honey’s gaze, shrewd and knowing. ‘Well …’ I stood up. ‘I’d better get back.’ I blew Mum a kiss then turned to Nate. ‘Thanks, Nate,’ I said pleasantly. ‘It’s been lovely.’ He pushed back his chair, as if to show me out, but Chloë was already on her feet.
‘I’ll come up with you, Ella.’
‘Okay …’ I lifted my hand to everyone. ‘I’ll see you all at the wedding.’
Mum smiled. ‘Not long now.’
I followed Chloë up the stairs. ‘What a great evening,’ I said as we went into the hall. ‘I really enjoyed myself,’ I lied.
She handed me my coat and I put it on then picked up my bag. ‘Ella …?’ As I saw Chloë’s tortured expression my heart plunged. She knew. How could she not know when I’d jabbered on about Nate and his father and his dog like that? So much for concealing my feelings – I’d drunk too much and had displayed them for all to see. ‘Ella …?’ Chloë said again.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m feeling rather … anxious and upset, actually.’
‘Why?’
‘I … think you know …’
‘Know what?’ I said innocently. That I’ve fallen in love with your fiancé? Yes. I have. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I braced myself for Chloë’s censure.
‘Well …’ She pursed her mouth. ‘That … getting married is … scary.’
‘Oh.’ Relief flooded through me. ‘It is … I mean, it must be – but …’ I fought down my emotions. ‘At least you’ve made a good choice. Nate’s … very … nice.’
Chloë closed her eyes then opened them again. ‘I’m so glad you said that – he is. And he’s decent and hard-working – he’s intelligent, and kind. And he’s steady,’ she added earnestly. ‘That’s important, isn’t it? He’s also very generous – and loyal. And he’s attractive – did I say that?’ I shook my head. ‘Well, he is attractive, very, and I know I’m just so … lucky.’ Chloë’s mouth quivered, then a tear splashed on to her cheek. ‘Sorry, Ella … I’m a bit … overwrought.’
I fumbled in my pocket and found some tissues. ‘That’s very understandable …’ I pulled a few out and Chloë pressed them to her eyes. ‘It’s the emotion of it all.’
She nodded, then regained her composure. ‘So …’ She looked at me, her eyes red-rimmed. ‘How will you get home? Do you want me to call you a cab? I can wait with you until it arrives,’ she added, brightening suddenly. ‘We could sit here and chat.’
‘It’s okay, Chloë, I’m going to walk – I need the air. And you ought to get back to your guests.’
‘You’re right,’ she sighed. ‘So …’ She flashed me a regretful smile. ‘I’ll see you soon, Ella.’
‘Yes – and … don’t worry, sweetie.’ I kissed her on the cheek.
As I went down the steps, Chloë’s words rang in my ears. She loved Nate so much that just the thought of it made her cry. She would soon marry him, and I would just have to be happy for her and try to view him in a different way.
When I got home I went up to the studio. Then I got out Nate’s canvas, put it on the easel, picked up my palette and began to work on it. As I did so I tried to understand why I was so drawn to him. Was it because I’d hated him to start with and found the realisation that I liked him exhilarating somehow? Was I competing with Chloë? If so I’d never competed with her before; I’d only felt protective towards her – I was six years older than her after all: nor had I felt even a flicker of interest in any of her previous boyfriends. I was drawn to Nate, I realised, for the simple reason that I found him so attractive and decent and so easy to be with. We had an almost effortless rapport.
I worked on his portrait for the best part of two hours; then, satisfied with what I’d done, I cleaned the brushes and went to my computer to check my e-mails before going to bed.
There was a new enquiry from a Mr and Mrs Berger about painting them to mark their silver wedding anniversary. That was good news. There was also a message from Sophia, to say that her mother was over her cold, asking if we could arrange the next sitting. I was glad. It would be good to see Iris again. I typed my reply and as I pressed ‘send’ another message arrived. It was from my father.
Dear Ella,
I’ve still had no word from you, but I continue to hope that you’ll find it in your heart to see me, even if it’s only for a few minutes. So this is to let you know where I’ll be staying – at the Kensington Close Hotel, in Wright’s Lane. I’ll be in touch again nearer the time, but for now I send you my sincerest wishes, and my love. Your father, John
I stared at his message. Hope … heart … love. It was far too late for him to be using words like that.
I scrolled down to ‘options’. Delete message? I highlighted Yes.
Then, without knowing why, I changed my mind and pressed No.
SEVEN
‘Wasn’t the party fun?’ Mum said the following Saturday morning. We were sitting at the kitchen table in Richmond, having a cup of coffee before starting the invitations. She was in her dancewear, having already done the hour of Pilates with which she starts each day. ‘I think I drank a little more than was wise,’ she added. ‘I didn’t say anything silly, did I?’
‘No – you just had a bit of trouble with the word confetti.’
‘Oh yes.’ Mum rolled her eyes. ‘But it was a lovely evening – I liked Nate’s friends.’ She moved the well-thumbed copies of Brides magazine, You & Your Wedding and Perfect Wedding to the end of the table. ‘You know he’s in Finland at the moment?’
‘I do – otherwise I’d be painting him right now.’ I wished I were, I reflected ruefully. I longed to see him again.
Through the French windows I could see Roy, at the very end of the garden, by Chloë’s old wooden Wendy house, toiling away in the long flowerbed that skirted the lawn.
‘I hope Nate won’t have to do too much travelling,’ I heard Mum say.
I looked at the horse chestnut waving its white candles. ‘I think it goes with the job.’ I sipped my coffee. ‘What he does is to look at companies with a view to buying them �
�� so at the moment he’s putting together a leveraged bid for a liquid chemicals transport business in Helsinki. Its primary operations are in Scandinavia, but they’re expanding into Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. He’s also looking at a shipping company in Sweden.’
Mum’s brow furrowed. ‘You seem to know a lot about it, darling.’
‘Well … Nate talks about his work during the sittings.’
She opened her glasses case. ‘It’s sweet the way you pay so much attention to the people you paint – it must really put them at their ease.’ She took out the spectacles, looping the mauve cord over her head. ‘And have you had a busy week?’
‘No – the election threw everything into disarray. I couldn’t paint my MP, Mike Johns, for obvious reasons. Another sitter, Celine, had to go to France to see a friend – she said it was very important – so she cancelled our sitting. Other than that, I’ve been working on the posthumous portrait I’m doing. Did I tell you about it?’
‘You did.’ My mother shook her head. ‘That poor girl. And how’s her picture going?’
‘Not well.’ I heaved a frustrated sigh. ‘It’s just … flat. What I need is some close-up video footage of her, but there isn’t any.’ I refilled my coffee cup. ‘Then I had another sitting with a lovely woman called Iris who’s in her eighties.’ I’d hoped that Iris would continue the story about Guy Lennox, but an electrician had been there, doing some re-wiring, so we’d only made small talk. I looked at the garden again. ‘What’s Roy doing?’
‘He’s planting lots of delphiniums, foxgloves and hollyhocks – they should flower just in time for July third. Then he’s going to do some weeding – with last week’s rain the beds are like Papua New Guinea.’
‘I’ll help him with that,’ I volunteered. ‘It’s too much for him on his own. Or maybe Chloë could give him a hand – she’s coming over today, isn’t she?’
‘No – she phoned first thing to say that she can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘She said she needs to go into the office.’
‘I see. But however busy she is, she should help you and Roy – I mean, this is all for her,’ I added crossly.
‘I’ll help Roy later,’ Mum said soothingly. She lifted her glasses on to her nose. ‘But you and I must get on with the invitations.’
‘Okay.’ I put my cup in the sink. ‘We’ll start.’
I went over to the large green box standing on the end of the kitchen table, lifted the lid and pulled out the first invitation. The card was so thick that it could almost stand up unaided.
‘Isn’t the font lovely?’ Mum said.
I looked at the flowing curlicues and extravagant swashes. ‘It’s … a bit fancy for my tastes.’
‘Well, I love it. It took me ages to choose it.’
‘Didn’t Chloë want to choose it?’
‘No. She’s left all the arrangements to me – except for the dress, which I’ve now seen, and I must say it’s gorgeous.’ Mum took her glasses off. ‘Chloë told me that she’d been a bit unsure about it, given its history, but I said that there was no way Nate would try and get out of their wedding.’
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t.’ I felt a stab of guilt for then wishing that he would.
Mum put some printed sheets in front of me. ‘Here’s your copy of the guest list. I want you to do A to M while I do N to Z. The addresses are all in here …’ She thumped her Filofax on to the table.
I opened my backpack, got out my calligraphic pen and practised on a piece of scrap paper. Nate, Nate, Nate, Nate. I saw Mum peering at it, so then I wrote Chloë, Chloë, Chloë, Chloë then Nate & Chloë. ‘It’s fine,’ I said.
‘Good.’ Mum unscrewed the top of her fountain pen then took an invitation out of the box, put her glasses on again, then began to write. I could hear the nib scratch across the card.
I inscribed an invitation to Mum’s friend Janet Allen and her husband Keith; then I looked up their address, wrote it on the envelope and carefully blotted it. ‘There’s the first one done.’ I slid it into the envelope.
Mum peered at it over her spectacles. ‘Very nice: don’t seal them, will you – we’ll be adding the accommodation list and RSVP cards afterwards. Right …’ She turned back to her card. ‘Here’s my first one.’ She inserted the invitation into the envelope then put it next to mine. I picked it up.
When I’d done my calligraphy course we’d studied graphology. I’d been sceptical at first, but studying my mother’s writing had convinced me that there must be something to it, as all her personality traits seemed to be there. Her hand was forward sloping, indicating ambition and drive; the words were evenly spaced and of a uniform height, denoting organisational ability and self-control; the ‘i’s were beautifully dotted, indicating a meticulous character. Now I noticed that the tops of her letters were perfectly closed. This, I now recalled, pointed to a secretive nature.
‘What are you doing?’ Mum asked.
I put the envelope down. ‘Just admiring your writing.’
‘Thanks – it’s not as elegant as yours, of course, but it’ll do. Now, shall we listen to the radio while we work?’
‘Yes – in fact …’ I looked at the clock. ‘I’m on the radio – in five minutes time. I’d completely forgotten.’ I told Mum about the BBC documentary that I’d been interviewed for.
She went to the dresser and switched on the kitchen radio and we heard the tail end of Travelling Light.
‘Now Artists of the Portrait,’ said the announcer, ‘in which our reporter, Clare Bridges, examines the fine art of painting people …’
We heard Clare talking about why it is that human beings have always sought to portray themselves, from the earliest scratchings at Lascaux to Marc Quinn’s iconic bust, Self, carved out of eight pints of his own frozen blood. There were contributions from Jonathan Yeo and June Mendoza, and a rare clip of Lucian Freud. Then I heard my voice.
I knew I wanted to be a painter from eight or nine.
Mum smiled as Clare back-announced me.
I simply drew and painted all the time. Painting’s always been, in a way, my solace …
Mum glanced at me, and I saw a flicker of something like guilt pass across her features.
I like painting people who I feel are complex: I like seeing that fight going on in the face between the conflicting parts of someone’s personality.
I realised that I often saw that fight going on in my mother’s face – the glacial serenity beneath which I caught glimpses of the struggle with her deeper emotions.
Now Clare was talking about the complex nature of the relationship between sitter and artist. Then I heard myself speak again.
A portrait sitting is a very special space. It has an intimacy – painting another human being is an act of intimacy … I’ve never fallen for a human sitter, no …
Then there was some discussion of the influence of the BP award, and of how portraiture, once seen as safe and conventional, has become almost cool and cutting edge. Then the programme came to an end, and I turned the radio off.
‘That was fascinating,’ Mum said. ‘You spoke well, Ella. But have you really never fallen in love with one of your sitters?’
‘Never,’ I lied.
‘Well, I hope you do one day, because it must be a wonderful way to meet someone – think of how well you get to know them – and they must get to know you very well, too.’
‘Yes – depending on who it is, and on how much I want to reveal about myself …’ I was walking on quicksand. ‘Now …’ I peered at the invitation list. ‘Why are you inviting the Egertons?’
‘Well, because they’re near neighbours, and because they asked us to Lara’s wedding last year. In fact, they’re about to become grandparents.’
‘Really? How old is Lara?’
‘She must be …’ Mum narrowed her eyes. ‘Twenty-four.’
‘She’s having her family young then.’
‘Twenty-four is young,’ Mum agreed. ‘Especially these
days: I think it’s better to wait.’
‘But …’ I pressed the blotting paper down. ‘You had me when you were twenty-four.’
Mum’s pen paused in mid-stroke. ‘That’s true.’
‘And you were very ambitious – it could have ruined your career. I’ve always been surprised that you had me when you did – in fact, I’ve sometimes wondered whether you really, well, intended to have me.’
Mum had flushed. ‘Do you mean – were you an accident? Is that what you’re asking me, Ella?’
I took another invitation. ‘Well, yes – it’s unusual for young ballerinas to have babies, isn’t it, given how ruthlessly determined they have to be to succeed? And you got married in a register office: so, lately, I’ve been thinking about it all, and wondering whether or not I was … planned.’
‘Oh, Ella.’ Mum reached for my hand. ‘I was so happy to be having a baby.’
‘But … weren’t you worried that you’d be unable to get back to fitness afterwards?’
She shrugged. ‘I simply trusted that I would. As it turned out, I was on stage again within four months.’
‘So … presumably my father looked after me in the evenings, when you were performing.’
‘No.’ Mum picked up her pen. ‘He did very little in that respect.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Well … he travelled a lot for his work. At that time he was building a school in Nottingham.’
‘But Nottingham’s not far from Manchester.’
‘Even so … he’d quite often be away: and so I had babysitters for you. Sometimes our upstairs neighbour, Penny, would help. And when I was on tour my mother would come and stay.’
‘I see. So Grandma would have been there in the flat, with my father. That must have been awkward. Did they get on?’
Mum blinked. ‘Not really.’
‘Didn’t he like her?’
‘She didn’t … like him.’
‘Oh. Because she knew about his affair, I suppose.’ Mum nodded, grimly. ‘Well, that would have put a strain on the relationship.’ I began to write another invitation, to a friend of Chloë’s, Eva Frost. I glanced at Mum. ‘What about his parents? I don’t remember them at all – did we ever see them?’