by Isabel Wolff
‘I remember how happy you seemed – when you first came here, last December.’
Mike nodded. ‘Now I’m still trying to take in the fact that I’ll never see Grace again, or talk to her, or hear her laugh, or hold her …’ His voice caught. ‘And I haven’t been able to talk to anyone about it; so I’ve felt completely … alone. I wondered about going to a bereavement counsellor, but I was worried that it might get out – it would have ended up in the papers.’ He looked at me. ‘Though that’s not why I’m telling you. I’m telling you because your painting isn’t right, Ella – and I want it to be right.’
‘But … what actually happened? That morning?’
Mike put his hands on his knees, as if bracing himself against some impact. ‘Grace had stayed with me the night before,’ he began quietly. ‘Sarah was in New York and wasn’t due to return until the Thursday morning, but early on the Wednesday morning I saw that a text had come in from her to say that she was flying back a day early. I realised that she’d be home within two hours; so I told Grace this, and she said that she’d leave straight away. I asked her to wait until it was light, but she said she wanted to go back to her flat so that she could change.’ Mike swallowed. ‘I urged her to be careful, because there’d been a hard frost. She told me that she was always careful, then she put on her helmet and I kissed her goodbye …’ Mike smiled. ‘It’s not easy kissing someone when they’re wearing a bicycle helmet, and we were laughing about it.’ He paused. ‘Sarah had texted me that she didn’t have her keys, so I waited until she arrived, at about nine, then I set off for the House of Commons.
Mike heaved a deep sigh. ‘As I drove up to the New King’s Road I saw that the right-hand turn to Fulham Broadway was blocked off. I assumed that this was because of roadworks and so didn’t think anything of it as I followed the diversion. Then – I had London Radio on – I heard a report about a woman cyclist who’d been injured following a hit-and-run incident at Fulham Broadway. I immediately worried that it might have been Grace, so I called her on my Bluetooth, but she didn’t reply. I told myself that this was because she’d be in class, but to reassure myself I phoned her school, without saying who I was. They said that Grace hadn’t yet arrived. By now I was in a panic. When I got to work I phoned the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, as that’s where anyone injured at Fulham Broadway would be taken. The nurse in the intensive care unit wouldn’t confirm or deny that Grace was there; so then I knew that it was her.’
‘How terrible …’
Mike’s eyes were shining with tears. ‘It was … hell. I had a meeting to go to, then a lunch; after that, there was a debate. I don’t know how I got through that day. All I wanted to do was to rush to the hospital, but I knew that I couldn’t even if I’d been free, because Grace’s parents would be there. All I could do was to keep checking the news, which I did, every other minute. By now there was a photo of Grace, and a brief biography of her on a number of news websites. And I was annoyed, because they’d all got her surname spelt wrong, without the “e”, and I was staring at it, furious that they couldn’t have got something as basic as that right, when the piece was suddenly updated to say that … that she’d …’ Mike’s head dropped to his hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ I breathed.
‘It was my fault,’ he said. ‘If she hadn’t been with me, then she wouldn’t have been rushing away from my house in the icy darkness because my wife was coming home. Then she wouldn’t have been hit by a car: then she wouldn’t have struck her head on the kerb: and then she wouldn’t have been in hospital … dying.’ He covered his eyes with his left hand. ‘So that’s why I feel responsible for what happened to Grace. And I’ve spent the last four months pretending that everything’s normal, when my life’s been a living hell. I hardly eat. I can’t sleep. Work’s been my only distraction from the pain and stress of a bereavement that I can never admit to.’
‘So your wife doesn’t know?’
Mike shook his head. ‘She thinks I’m like this because of the problems we’ve had.’ He let out his breath. ‘There’s no one in the world that I can tell. But when I realised that you were going to paint Grace, I was … shocked.’ He blinked. ‘I wanted to talk to you about her then; I wanted to tell you everything I knew about her, but I bit my lip, because I was afraid. But when I saw the portrait just now, and saw how much is … missing from it, I knew I had to tell you, whatever the consequences.’
I nodded slowly. ‘I won’t tell anyone, Mike.’
‘Please … don’t.’
‘But her parents – they’d surely want to know; they need to understand why she was where she was.’
‘No,’ Mike said bleakly. ‘I couldn’t face them. They’d say that I was a sleazy married man who’d messed about with their daughter. They’d blame me for her death. And I don’t need them to do that, because I’m going to be blaming myself for the rest of my life.’
‘But you urged Grace to stay until it was light – she chose to leave. It’s not your fault that she was knocked off her bike – that could have happened to her in broad daylight, in good conditions – she was … unlucky. But … didn’t she even tell a best friend about you?’
‘She simply told her closest friend that she’d started seeing someone called Mike, and that she was happy – which she was.’
‘Wouldn’t your number have been on her mobile phone?’
‘Her mobile was never found. It might have gone down a grating or been crushed by a van or lorry and the pieces swept up. But yes, my number was on it – and all my messages.’ Mike inhaled. ‘And I’ve got all her messages on mine.’ He put his hand into his pocket, pulled out his phone and looked at it. ‘I read them over and over again. And I listen to her voicemails to get that momentary illusion that she’s still alive, and I …’ Mike was pressing the buttons now, and I realised that he was going to play me Grace’s voice messages. I didn’t want to hear them.
‘Mike. I really don’t—’
‘No, please … you must.’ As he handed me the phone my heart sank. Then, as I saw what was on the screen, it lifted again …
There was Grace. She was leaning against a kitchen counter, laughing into the lens. Why are you filming me? I heard her say. Because I’m nuts about you, Mike answered. Grace laughed, then picked up a bowl of something and offered it to him. Then have a Brazil, she giggled. I hope this isn’t going on YouTube, she teased. Certainly not, Mike said. It’s so that I can take my phone out from time to time during the day and look at you and feel that I’m with you, because that’s a wonderful feeling.
Now, as Grace turned, I could see her profile; I could see the prominence of her cheekbones, the slight flare of her jaw, the curve and shape of her ear and the length and angle of her throat. Smile, Grace I heard Mike say. She turned back to the lens, smiled shyly and blew him a kiss. Then the screen went dark.
Mike got to his feet and picked up his briefcase. For a moment I thought he was going to leave. But now he was opening his briefcase and pulling out a charger. He inserted the jack into his mobile then handed the whole thing to me. ‘You can copy this on to your hard drive while I wait.’
‘Yes. I can. Of course I can. Thanks, Mike. Thank you …’ I plugged the cable into my computer, opened a file then downloaded the video and clicked on ‘Save’. Saving … Then I hit ‘Play’. There, enlarged to the full width of my screen was Grace’s living, breathing, moving, talking, laughing, smiling face. I could see everything I needed to see – the form and depth and mobility of her features and, most importantly, the life in them.
Then I looked at the portrait and knew what to do.
NINE
I spent most of Saturday engrossed in Grace’s painting – replaying Mike’s footage of her over and over again, and wondering whether he’d ever be able to tell anyone about his relationship with her: I wondered whether he’d ever be able to tell his wife – after fifteen years of marriage, perhaps he wished that he could. I wondered whether Mike would go to Grace’s memorial service or wh
ether he’d feel that he should stay away. Then I wondered what one word he would have chosen to encapsulate his feelings about her. As my brush moved across the canvas I thought about my mother and about John; within twenty-four hours he’d be in London – my heart began to pound. Now I thought about Lydia, and then about Iris and Celine, before my thoughts returned, as they always did, to Nate.
He’d messaged me earlier in the week to say that he’d be returning from Stockholm on Saturday so wouldn’t be able to make this week’s sitting. I consoled myself with the thought that the delay would at least mean that the portrait process would continue for longer. I was tempted to make deliberately slow progress in order to justify asking him for a few extra sittings.
On Sunday I got up late, showered, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and went out. I intended to power-walk up to Sloane Square and back, but as I crossed the railway bridge I decided to turn down Lots Road and have a look at the auction house. Previewing Now announced the sandwich board on the pavement outside. I pushed on the swing doors and went into the huge, hangar-like room. I looked at the Persian carpets hanging on their rails, and the suites of modern furniture and the assortment of silver plate. There was a big leather rhinoceros, a footstool upholstered with a Union Jack, and a rather lovely silver ink well in the shape of a shell. I peered at it in its glass case, tempted to leave a bid for it.
‘That’s George the Third,’ said a familiar voice. As I turned and saw Nate I felt my face flush with pleasure and surprise – and discomfiture. I wished that I’d worn something nicer, or at least put on a little make-up.
‘What are you doing here?’ I glanced round, half-expecting to see Chloë amongst the people inspecting the lots.
Nate shrugged. ‘I just came out for a walk. I sometimes come down here on Sunday mornings for the interest of it – occasionally I buy something. Anyway, that inkpot …’ he flipped through the catalogue in his hands, ‘… is London silver, circa 1810, made by Thomas Wallis.
‘Right … and … is … Chloë here?’
Nate shook his head. ‘She’s gone to see your folks.’
‘Really? I haven’t spoken to her for a while.’
‘I only got back from Stockholm last night: so she said that she’d let me off coming with her because she just wants to talk to them about wedding things … Anyway, … I’m at a bit of a loose end.’ I nodded. ‘And … what are you doing now?’
‘Erm … nothing much.’
‘Good – because I was just about to go and find myself some lunch. Will you join me?’
‘Yes.’ I looked at my jeans. ‘As long as it’s not anywhere smart.’
Nate smiled. ‘You look great. So … where shall we go?’
‘Megan’s Deli?’ I suggested. ‘Though that gets busy on Sundays. Or there are a couple of places on the river …
‘Let’s try that,’ Nate decided.
So Nate and I walked down Lots Road in the shadow of the power station, then we turned on to the Thames Path and strolled along the embankment, past the houseboats and barges, towards Albert Bridge. Terns wheeled and dived above the water. The day was warm, so we just walked on, talking about politics, and the weather, the price of groceries and the last film we’d each seen.
‘What about this?’ Nate said as we came to the Cheyne Walk Brasserie.
‘Looks good.’
We managed to get a corner table and sank on to the blue leather banquette.
‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ Nate said as we looked at the menu.
‘Yes – please.’
‘How about a bottle?’
‘No – I couldn’t manage a whole bottle.’
‘To share, I mean. With me.’
‘Oh – a much better idea.’
Nate laughed. ‘It’s funny seeing you outside of the studio,’ he said. ‘You’re so much more relaxed, though I miss having you staring at me in that insane way of yours.’
‘I don’t stare on Sundays. I give my eyeballs the day off.’ Nate placed our order and the waiter quickly returned with the wine and filled our glasses. ‘So …’ I raised my glass. ‘Cheers.’
Nate lifted his. ‘Salute.’
Over the smoked salmon starter the conversation turned to Nate’s father – I thought, with a rush of adrenalin, about my own father, who would perhaps even now be landing in London, if he wasn’t already here. I tried to push the thought away.
‘Ella,’ said Nate, ‘can I ask you something?’
‘Sure. What?’
‘It’s a bit personal.’
‘Really? Like – what’s my favourite colour? Well, if you must know, it’s phthalocyanine turquoise, with transparent oxide yellow coming a close second. What’s yours?’
‘Er … green. But that’s not what I was going to ask. I was going to ask you … tell me to get lost, if you want to, but how could your mother …’ Nate gave a bewildered shrug. ‘How could she not have told you something so huge?’
‘Chloë’s obviously mentioned what’s happened.’
He nodded. ‘Your father … did contact you.’
‘Yes. In fact he’d already done so when I talked to you about him that day.’
‘Ah …’
‘But I didn’t tell you because, well … I was worried that you might tell Chloë, who might have told Mum.’
‘I know how to keep a secret, Ella,’ Nate said gently. ‘But now I understand why you were so upset that time … I just … hated seeing you like that.’
I realised that Nate had simply been consoling me when he’d held me in his arms that day. As my mother had correctly identified, he was a compassionate sort of man – and a tactile one, not afraid to give someone a hug if they were feeling low. I banished my dangerous, deluded and futile fantasy that his touch had ever meant anything more.
‘So … do you think you’ll want to see … John?’ Nate asked. ‘And your sister?’
My sister …? ‘My sister’ had only ever meant Chloë. Now it meant another woman, who I’d met just once, for a few moments, when we were both very young children. ‘I … don’t know. I’m still really confused … so … I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s okay.’
‘Of course,’ Nate murmured. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude.’
‘You weren’t intruding.’ I sipped my wine. ‘How could I possibly think you were when I’ve already told you so much about it. But there’s enough going on in the family at the moment, with the wedding, so I just want to … park it all for now.’
Nate nodded. ‘I understand,’ He deftly turned the conversation to other things and the awkwardness of the moment passed. I felt so happy just being with him, in this unexpected way, that I had to stop myself from smiling too much. I’ve had an extra three hours with him, I reflected. As the waiter brought the bill. I reached for my bag.
Nate shook his head. ‘Put that away, Ella.’
‘But …’
‘I’m Italian – I don’t go Dutch; anyway, I invited you.’
‘Well, I’m glad you did. It’s been lovely Nate. Thanks.’
As we strolled back along the embankment, Nate’s phone rang.
He reached into his pocket. ‘I’m sorry – I’d better …’
‘It’s okay.’ I hoped the call wasn’t from Chloë. A call from Chloë would break the spell.
‘Hi, Chloë,’ Nate said. ‘Yes … I’m fine.’
Her clear, light voice cut through the ether. ‘… still in Richmond,’ I heard her say. ‘… so where are you, then?’
‘Well …’ Nate had flushed. I wondered whether he’d tell Chloë about our lunch. ‘I’ve just bumped into Ella.’
‘How funny – well, give her my love.’
He glanced at me. ‘Sure. So … see you later, Chloë.’
‘Yes,’ she said warmly. ‘I’ll see you later, darling. I can’t wait.’
When I got back to the house there was a message from Roy on my answerphone.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch with you about
our lunch,’ he said when I called him back. ‘I’ve been covering for a colleague, so life’s been frantic; but now I’ve got a few days off, so would tomorrow be okay?’
‘Yes – where shall we meet?’
‘I thought somewhere close to you. How about that pub on the King’s Road – the Chelsea Potter? I’m sure you know it.’
‘I do.’ It was dangerously close to the Café de la Paix. ‘I’m … not sure about meeting there, Roy.’
‘Well … it would be convenient for us both as I can just walk up to Sloane Square tube afterwards, but it doesn’t matter – we can go somewhere else. What about—’
‘It’s okay,’ I said suddenly. ‘The Chelsea Potter’s fine.’
‘Good. So I’ll see you there at, what … one?’
‘Could we make it half past twelve?’ Then we’d easily be out by two-thirty, which would give me time to leave the danger zone before three o’clock.
‘Half twelve it is then,’ said Roy.
I went up to the King’s Road an hour beforehand as there were some things I needed to do. First I went into Graham and Stone and bought lots of oil paints, some canvas stretchers, and a few brushes. I also looked at frames, and decided that the Dutch Black with the brass scrolling would suit Mike’s portrait. I took a photo of it to e-mail to him. Then I went up to Waterstone’s as there was a new book about Whistler that I wanted to buy. On the way there, I passed the Café de la Paix. I looked through the full-length glass window at the simple interior. How strange to think that in three hours time my father would be seated at one of those tables. I quickened my step, and walked on.