The Very Picture of You

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘But … how will you do that? Will you get a job? Retrain?’

  ‘I do want to work, yes, but first I intend to find an apartment, then take things from there. I’ve already started looking. I told Victor that, about a month ago.’ Celine looked at me. ‘So what does he do?’

  I shrugged, taken aback. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What does Victor do?’ she demanded again.

  ‘I’ve … no idea.’

  Celine was blinking at me furiously. ‘He commissions a portrait of me!’

  ‘But … it’s your birthday present.’

  ‘No! It isn’t. It’s a trap!’

  ‘A trap?’

  She leaned towards me. ‘Can’t you see? He’s trying to fix my image in this house. He’s worried that I’ll leave, so he’s trying to pin me to the wall.’

  I nodded slowly. ‘I understand …’

  ‘That’s why he’s so enthusiastic about the portrait. That’s why he wants to put it there – right there …’ Celine’s left index finger jabbed at the mirror. ‘At the very heart of this house, because I think he believes that it’ll work like magic – like voodoo – keeping me here, with him!’

  ‘Do you still … love Victor?’

  Celine gave a despairing shrug. ‘I am very fond of him, but I don’t want to regret, when I’m on my death bed, in perhaps another forty years, that I chose to remain in my safe, comfy box, with my safe, comfy husband. There …’ She pressed the tissue to her eyes. ‘You asked me whether or not I am okay. That is the answer.’

  I sighed. ‘You said you found the sittings frustrating – but I knew that wasn’t the real reason why you didn’t want to be painted. It was as though you were poised for flight.’

  She nodded bleakly. ‘I was – I still am …’

  I exhaled. ‘It’ll take a lot of courage to do what you say you want to do. You may find you don’t like it, but that you can’t then go back because you’ve burned your—’

  ‘Bridges,’ she concluded. ‘I know. Well, I’ll take that risk. But seeing Victor get so excited about the portrait made me feel very upset. Then Marcelle phoned, so I told her about it, but she wasn’t sympa. So I decided to tell you.’ She reached for another tissue. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘No. I’m glad you have, because at least now I understand what’s been going on. But … what about counselling?’

  ‘I’ve suggested it to Victor. But he insists that we don’t have a problem. And the more I tell him that I want to leave, the more lavish his plans for my birthday become.’

  ‘I see …’

  ‘I don’t want a big, expensive party,’ Celine said bleakly. ‘I don’t want a diamond ring: I don’t even want to go to Venice – it’s such a romantic destination that it feels quite wrong. In fact, I don’t want to celebrate my birthday at all because I feel so unhappy and unsettled that I think it would be dishonest. But Victor’s been making all these arrangements as though nothing’s amiss. So I’ll be sitting there at the Dorchester, a month from now, feeling that I’m taking part in some lavish charade! I keep asking Victor to cancel it, but he refuses. So for weeks, the pressure has been building up inside me and I feel that I’m going to go …’ Her eyes widened. ‘Boom!’

  ‘I’m … sorry,’ I said again, impotently. ‘I wish I could say more than that, Celine – but I can’t.’

  ‘I know you can’t. But I’m glad I’ve told you.’ She sighed. ‘And now we’d better get on.’ She stood up, went to the mantelpiece, and checked her reflection in the mirror. Then she returned to the chair. ‘I must let you do your job.’

  ‘Okay …’ I went back to the easel and picked up my palette and brush.

  Then Celine lifted her head, and resumed the pose.

  As I waited for Mike Johns to arrive three days later, I thought about Celine. Our conversation had been going round and round in my head. Now I understood why she hadn’t wanted to be painted and why she just wouldn’t sit still. I toyed with the idea of painting an open window into her portrait, or a mounted butterfly in a gold frame.

  Since then I’d spent much of the time working on the picture of Grace – I had it on the easel now; and though it was almost finished I could see that it still wasn’t her. It caught a good likeness but conveyed little sense of who Grace had been. Now I bitterly regretted having accepted the commission, and imagined the disappointment of her family and friends.

  Remembering the anguished conversation that I’d had with Mike about Grace, I decided I’d put her painting away before he arrived, and I was about to take it off the easel when the phone rang.

  I picked up. ‘Hello?’

  ‘What do you think of personalised champagne labels?’

  My mother had clearly recovered from the emotional upset of the previous week and was once again fully focused on the wedding preparations. But I had not recovered and felt a bewildered distrust of her that was seeping into my soul like damp.

  ‘Don’t you think it would be nice?’ I heard her say.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I answered. ‘I didn’t know that you could personalise them.’

  ‘You can – and I think it would be rather fun for the bottles to say “Chloë and Nate” with the date of the wedding. But Chloë’s not keen – so I thought I’d discuss it with you.’

  ‘Why? It’s not my wedding – it’s hers; so if Chloë doesn’t like personalised champagne labels then I suggest you don’t get them.’

  ‘All right,’ Mum said. ‘No need to snap.’

  ‘I didn’t snap – I just told you what I think. And if you don’t want my opinion about something, then don’t ask me.’

  There was a frosty silence. ‘Ella – I hope you’re not upset about the wedding.’ I bristled at my mother’s solicitous tone. ‘You’ve been quite tetchy at times, darling, so it’s crossed my mind that, as you’re a few years older than Chloë, you might not be entirely hap—’

  ‘Of course I’m happy for her! As happy as I possibly could be,’ I added more truthfully. ‘But … I’m still trying to get my head round what you told me about my father and about Lydia, and so I’m not in the mood to discuss wedding trivia!’

  ‘Of course … I’m sorry, darling.’ I heard my mother sigh. ‘I should show more understanding, because it is hard for you. I always knew it would be. Which is precisely why I protected you from it for so long.’

  ‘You protected me?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘You call concealing things of such huge personal significance, “protecting”?’

  ‘I do. I’m not even sure that they are that significant. John and his daughter are, of course, your relatives, but they’re relative strangers in that you don’t know them.’

  ‘Thanks to you, I don’t know them – that’s right!’

  ‘Thanks to him!’ she flung back. I heard her inhale, as though trying to calm herself. ‘Ella,’ she went on quietly, ‘John and his daughter are not in your life. They live nine thousand miles and eight time zones away. Forget about them.’

  ‘How can I, when they’re my own flesh and blood? And isn’t blood supposed to be—’

  ‘Blood is not thicker than water,’ she interjected. ‘If it were, your father could never have done what he did!’ I had to acknowledge the inescapable truth of this. ‘Nor could Roy have done what he did,’ Mum added with an air of triumph, ‘which was to treat you as though you were his. He’s never made the slightest difference between you and Chloë. You do realise that, don’t you?’

  I exhaled. ‘Of course I do. He’s been lovely to me.’ How’s our Number One Girl? ‘I’ve never said otherwise, but—’

  ‘Ella, I’m very worried,’ I heard Mum say. ‘Because you told me that you weren’t going to contact John, but now I feel you’re wavering. So let me say that were you to do so it would be very hard for Roy – I hope you’ve thought about that.’

  ‘I have – of course I have, but … I’m not going to discuss it now.’ I suddenly remembered what Polly h
ad said. ‘I just hope to God you haven’t concealed anything else!’ During the affronted silence that followed I glanced out of the window and saw Mike’s car pulling up. ‘But my sitter’s here – I must go.’

  After I’d ended the call I had to take a moment to calm myself. I splashed cold water on my cheeks then went to the mirror. As I looked at my reflection I imagined Lydia’s face transposed on to it.

  Drrrrrrnnnnggggggg!

  I went downstairs and opened the door. ‘Hi, Mike.’ I was relieved to see that he looked a little less sombre than he had done previously. ‘Congratulations, by the way.’

  ‘On what?’ He touched his chest. ‘Finally remembering to wear the blue jumper?’

  ‘No – though I am glad about that. I meant on the election – you increased your majority, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes – that was a huge relief. It’s been a tough time,’ he added. As I followed him into the studio I saw Mike register the picture of Grace, still standing on the easel. He was staring at it.

  ‘I’ll just put that away,’ I said breezily; I wished I’d done it before he got here. I quickly put it in the canvas rack then got out Mike’s painting. ‘Here’s yours …’ I placed it on the easel then quickly tied on my apron while Mike put his briefcase down by the sofa; then he sat in the chair. ‘Right …’ I smiled at him. ‘This is our final sitting, so let’s just go for it.’

  I began to paint Mike’s jumper, then I worked on his hair, blending a touch of grey into the sideburns; then adding some blue into the texture of his jaw. And all the time we chatted about the election and about how fraught it had been.

  ‘But I’m glad to be part of the coalition,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve got a government job?’

  ‘Yes – I was made a junior transport minister.’

  ‘How brilliant.’

  I asked Mike what he thought about Boris’s bikes, and about the proposed reintroduction of the Routemaster bus. And so the time passed.

  I worked intently, enjoying the scent of the paint and the linseed. Then it came to the moment when I put in the very last thing I ever add to a portrait – the light in the eyes. That’s when I feel like Pygmalion, having life breathed into his statue; because it’s that little flick of white in each pupil that finally – ‘ping!’ – brings a portrait alive.

  ‘There.’ I took a few steps back. The touch of titanium white in Mike’s pupils had given his portrait vitality. I put down my brush. ‘We’re done.’

  Mike got to his feet then came and stood beside me as we studied his canvas. ‘That’s me,’ he said wonderingly. It was as though he was seeing the portrait for the first time.

  ‘I hope your constituency association like it,’ I said. ‘Above all, I hope you do.’

  ‘I … do like it – but I look so thin.’ It was as though he hadn’t realised how much weight he’d shed.

  I nodded. ‘That was quite a challenge. Your weight loss changed so many things about you: it altered the planes of your face. I was worried that you’d appear less friendly than before, but I think you still look very approachable and warm and …’

  ‘Sad,’ he said.

  I gazed at the portrait. ‘You do look a bit – thoughtful, perhaps.’

  ‘I look sad,’ he insisted softly. ‘That’s what everyone will say.’

  My heart sank. He was unhappy with the picture. ‘If you’re concerned about it, Mike, there are things I can do. I can tweak the corners of the eyes and mouth – less than a millimetre would lift your expression: but I painted what I saw. And you did look pretty serious a lot of the time.’

  I now saw in the painting the air of tragedy that I’d noticed in Mike. I’d tried to avoid it but it had crept in. ‘It’ll need at least a month to dry,’ I pointed out. ‘Then I’ll take it to be framed but—’

  ‘Could I see it?’ he asked.

  ‘The frame? Well … I go to Graham and Stone on the King’s Road; I was going to suggest that you go and look at their mouldings – I could come with you, if you’d like –’

  Mike was shaking his head. ‘I meant could I see the painting that was on the easel when I got here.’

  ‘Oh. Sure …’ I kicked myself again for not having put it away before he arrived. If only Mum hadn’t distracted me with her maddening phone call.

  I took Mike’s canvas down and laid it on the floor, face up, so that it wouldn’t drip. Then I went to the rack, lifted out the painting of Grace and put it on the easel.

  Beautiful, sparkling, funny, warm …

  None of those qualities were evident, I realised dismally.

  Happy, loyal, brave, strong …

  All I’d done was to replicate her features.

  I heard Mike exhale. ‘So is it finished?’

  I chewed on my lower lip. ‘It’s as finished as it’ll ever be. I’ve worked on it so much; I keep pushing the paint about, but I’m not happy with it. It’s not …’

  ‘Real,’ Mike interjected softly as he stared at it. ‘It’s as if you’ve painted a waxwork.’

  I suppressed a frustrated sigh. I didn’t much like Mike’s views on my portraits. I remembered what he’d said about Mum’s – she looks guarded … as though she’s hiding something. And he’d been right.

  I folded my arms as we stood side by side, studying the portrait. ‘The problem is that I never met Grace. So I have no memory of how she talked, or moved, or laughed – or how she felt about anything. If I’d been able to see some close-up video footage of her, that would have helped, but there isn’t any – I’ve asked – and it’s hard making someone look three-dimensional when you’ve only got two dimensions to go on.’

  Mike was still staring at the portrait. ‘It’s life-like,’ he said. ‘But not alive.’

  ‘Exactly.’ I heaved a frustrated sigh. ‘But I think it’s as good as it gets. I’m going to have to accept that this portrait is not going to be my finest achievement.’ I was about to put it back when, to my surprise, Mike lifted his hand to the canvas.

  He pointed to the area below Grace’s bottom lip. ‘She had a tiny scar,’ he said quietly. ‘Just here. It only showed when she smiled, but as you’ve painted her smiling, it needs to be there.’

  ‘Oh …’

  ‘And her eyes aren’t right.’ He put his head to one side. ‘The shape’s correct, but they weren’t such a pure blue – there was a lot of green in them, and the rim of the iris was a darker shade, like wet slate, which gave her gaze an intensity that you haven’t caught. And she had this funny little hole, just here, on her forehead. It was tiny – smaller than a pin-head – but you could see it, if you were standing close enough – and there was a mole, just here.’ He pointed to the place, his hand hovering over her cheek.

  ‘I see …’ I said softly. ‘But—’

  Mike continued to stare at the painting. ‘She was beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘She was really … beautiful. And if it weren’t for me, she’d still be alive.’

  It was as though I’d been plunged into a bath of ice water. ‘What do you mean?’ I stammered.

  Mike blinked. ‘That it’s my fault that she died.’

  My heart was thudding in my ribcage. ‘But … how?’

  He went to the sofa then sank down on to it. ‘My life’s been hell,’ he murmured. ‘It’s been hell since January twentieth – since it happened. The shock of it … Then not being able to talk about it, all these months. Not being able to confide in anyone.’ He closed his eyes as if he was exhausted. ‘Let alone confess.’

  ‘Confess …?’ I echoed faintly. ‘Confess … what?’

  Mike didn’t at first respond. Then he heaved a sigh so profound it seemed to come from his very depths. ‘That her accident was my fault.’

  My heart plummeted. Why was he telling me this? If his had been the car that had hit Grace, then he should be telling the police, not me. ‘Was it your car?’ I asked after a moment. My mouth had dried. ‘Was it your black

  BMW?’

  Mike looked at me
in bewilderment. ‘No … I didn’t knock her off her bike – that’s not what I mean.’ Relief flooded through me. ‘I only mean that if it hadn’t been for me, Grace wouldn’t have been cycling through Fulham Broadway that morning.’

  ‘But … why was she?’ Mike didn’t reply. ‘Her uncle said that they think she must have been staying with someone – but they’ve no idea who, as that person hasn’t come forward.’

  Mike closed his eyes. ‘She was staying with me.’

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. I’d been so taken aback by the turn the conversation had taken that my brain had simply failed to keep up. ‘You were in love with Grace,’ I said wonderingly.

  How else could Mike have known about the tiny scar under her lip, or be able to describe the precise blue of her eyes? How else could he have known about the little hole in her forehead that could only be seen by anyone standing very close to Grace, as he must have been? ‘You loved her,’ I reiterated.

  ‘Yes,’ Mike said softly. ‘I did.’

  I sank on to a chair. ‘And no one knew?’

  ‘No one,’ he confirmed blankly. ‘Neither of us told a soul.’

  ‘That’s why you cancelled the sittings.’ He nodded. And that’s why he’d lost so much weight, and why he’d become upset when he’d talked about what had happened to Grace. That’s why he’d wept when he heard ‘Tears in Heaven’. ‘How did you know her, Mike?’

  He exhaled. ‘She was a member of the London Cycling Campaign. Last September she and two others came to talk to the cross-party transport committee that I’m on. We discussed cycle lanes and whether there should be more red routes on busier roads – extra mirrors on lorries – all those issues. But I found it almost impossible to focus on anything other than Grace. She was so beautiful,’ he went on quietly. ‘It was as though there was a light on inside her – a sort of dancing light that spilled in all directions.’

  I glanced at the portrait: now it seemed all the more flat and dull.

  I heard Mike sigh. ‘After that meeting I couldn’t get Grace out of my mind; so I phoned her, and asked her if she’d have a drink with me sometime. To my delighted surprise, she said yes. Then we met again and we realised that we were very drawn to each other.’ Mike clasped his hands in front of him. ‘Sarah and I had been unhappy for a long time: we’d been trying to decide whether to stay together or call it a day. Then I met Grace,’ he added with a kind of wonderment. ‘And I was happier than I’ve ever been in my adult life.’