by Isabel Wolff
Now I wondered whether I should send him a text to say that I wouldn’t be coming. I hadn’t replied to any of his e-mails, because to do so, if only to say that I didn’t wish to see him, would have been to begin a dialogue with him that I just didn’t want. Even so, I felt guilty at the thought of wasting his time. Then I decided that there was no need for me to feel guilty about anything vis-à-vis my father. If he chose to spend a few hours in a café on the King’s Road, then that was a matter for him.
In Waterstone’s I looked for the Whistler biography but couldn’t find it. As the assistant went to see if there might be a copy in the stock room, I browsed through the fiction on the tables; I was about to pick up the new Kate Atkinson when I noticed several piles of Sylvia Shaw’s latest novel, Dead Right.
I read the back with its gushing hyperbole: Riveting … Daily Mail; Thrilling … GQ; It’s Shaw good! … Express. Now I studied the author’s photo. It was more flattering than the one in Hello!, but she still looked rather grim-faced, as though she thought it inappropriate for someone who wrote about murder and mayhem to smile. I turned to the dedication page – For Max – and marvelled that she’d never known about her husband’s affair.
The bookshop assistant reappeared and told me that they didn’t have the Whistler in stock, so I ordered it then had a quick look at the greetings cards. There was already a selection for Father’s Day so I bought one to give Roy – I’ve Got the World’s Greatest Dad: as I left the shop I reflected that I pretty much had. It was Roy who’d taken me to the park and taught me to ride a bike. It was Roy who’d helped me with my homework and who’d turned out to watch me in school hockey matches, concerts and plays. It was Roy who’d coped with my teenage years, and who’d regularly come out at two in the morning to get me safely home from parties and clubs. It was Roy who’d paid my art school fees and who’d lent me half the deposit to buy my house.
I pushed on the door of the Chelsea Potter and there he was, on the other side of the wood-panelled saloon, waving at me.
I went over to his table, greeted him with a kiss, then hung the carrier bag containing my new paints and brushes on the back of my chair. As I sat down he asked me what I’d like to drink then handed me a menu. I glanced at it. ‘I’ll just have some soup.’
‘Have more than that, Ella.’
‘I’m not hungry, thanks; I’m a bit … stressed.’
‘Well, that’s hardly surprising. Right … I’ll go and order.’ Roy went to the bar and returned with a pint of lager for him and my diet Coke.
We sipped our drinks then he lowered his glass. ‘Ella, I just wanted to talk to you,’ he said. ‘Because I felt it was important, firstly, that I should tell you, face to face, that I had no idea about, well … what you’ve at long last learned. If I had known, I’d have compelled your mother to tell you.’
‘Which is why she concealed it from you too. Mum’s good at keeping secrets, isn’t she?’ I stared at the island of ice in my drink. ‘I keep thinking that she should have been a spy, not a dancer.’
Roy laughed softly. ‘I love your mother, Ella, but she’s handled things with you so badly. I’m appalled at the degree to which she’s … manipulated things.’
‘Oh, she has.’ I know how I want things to be. I looked at Roy. ‘But did you ever guess? About Lydia, I mean?’
He shook his head. ‘I did once ask your mother whether she thought that you might have any siblings in Australia. She replied that she didn’t want to think about whether or not there were – which wasn’t a lie, and wasn’t the truth, as we now know. But the second, more important, thing I wanted to say to you today was that I feel your mother’s putting pressure on you not to reply to … to your …’ Roy’s voice had caught. ‘To John,’ I said gently.
‘To John. Yes …’ He cleared his throat, then paused. ‘She’s saying that you shouldn’t have anything to do with him – on my account. But I just want you to know that, if you do decide to contact … John, then, I’d be … fine about it. I’d support you, Ella.’
‘Well … that would make you very unpopular with Mum.’
He shrugged. ‘So be it. You must put your own feelings before hers – or mine.’ He paused while the barman brought my minestrone and Roy’s fish pie. ‘Anyway,’ he exhaled painfully. ‘You need to give it careful thought.’
‘Thanks, Roy, but I already have.’ He glanced at me anxiously. ‘And I’ve decided that I’m not going to get in touch with him.’
A flicker of relief passed across Roy’s features. ‘Well … it’s not long since you found out. Your feelings may change,’ he added fairly.
‘I don’t think they will. So I’m not going to answer his e-mails, and I’m certainly not going to see him.’
‘See him?’
I broke my bread roll. ‘I wouldn’t see him even if he was in London right now. I wouldn’t see him even if he was in this part of London, just a few minutes away from where we’re sitting. I’d walk right past him, without giving him so much as a glance.’
Roy looked surprised. ‘Well, I think that would be … sad.’
‘He caused enough sadness, didn’t he?’ I began to eat my soup.
Roy picked up his fork. ‘People make mistakes, Ella.’
‘They do.’ I lowered my spoon. ‘But what he did wasn’t a “mistake” – it was a calculated choice. That’s why I can’t forgive him.’
‘Well … please try. Not least because the negativity you feel will only weigh you down, spoiling a part of your life.’
We ate in silence for a while. I looked at Roy. ‘And has Chloë said much about it to you? She’s said nothing to me.’
‘She just said that she wasn’t surprised, though I think that she was quite upset. I know she doesn’t like the idea of you having another sister any more than she ever liked the idea of you having another father. When she was about five and had worked everything out, she used to tell me, when I was putting her to bed, that she was afraid that John would come to the house one day and take you away.’
I laughed darkly. ‘An unlikely scenario, given that he was nine thousand miles away and not remotely interested in me.’
‘You don’t know that he wasn’t.’
‘I do – because he never got in touch. It was as though I was suddenly … nothing to him.’ I pushed my soup bowl aside. ‘But now that we’re talking about all of this, Roy, there’s something I’ve long meant to ask you – about my adoption.’
Roy looked at me. ‘And what’s that?’
‘Whether, when you applied to adopt me, John had to give his consent.’
‘Let me think …’ Roy narrowed his eyes. ‘When your mother and I first saw the solicitor about it, he did say that John would have to agree to it, yes, presumably because his name would have been on your birth certificate. But your mum handled the application herself. All I had to do was to go along to the court one morning and satisfy the judge that I wasn’t insane, didn’t have a criminal record, was indeed married to your mother – she’d already submitted our marriage certificate – and that I was, as stated in the application, employed as a surgeon and would be able to provide for you. I do remember the judge asking your mum about John’s whereabouts: she said that she had no idea where he was.’
‘But that wasn’t true. She knew that he was in Australia. Didn’t she tell the judge that?’
‘No. If she had done I’d definitely have remembered it, as I didn’t know that myself then – any more than you did.’
‘That’s right. I only got that out of her when I was eleven.’
‘Well, as you say, your mother’s good at keeping secrets.’
‘But … surely she would have had an address for him, because he would have to have signed the divorce papers?’
‘Well … I’m not sure whether or not he did sign them. In cases of desertion, the divorce is granted automatically, after two years, and I always had the impression that that’s what had happened in their case.’ Roy shrugged.
&nb
sp; ‘But the fact that Sue was able to say that John had made no contact for three years, as it was by then, made adoption by me, as your stepfather, fairly straightforward. But why are you asking about it now?’
Because it’s been puzzling me, and I didn’t want to ask Mum as I don’t want to talk to her about any of it at the moment. I don’t think she does either; she’s just carrying on as though everything’s normal.’
Roy shrugged. ‘She’s probably blocked it all out – that’s always been her way with anything she finds painful or unpleasant. Down come the mental shutters. And of course she’s very preoccupied with the wedding, as am I. I want Chloë to have a really memorable day.’
‘I’m sure it will be.’ I thought again of Nate, standing at the altar, turning to look at Chloë. ‘Not long now.’
Roy nodded. ‘The RSVP’s are arriving thick and fast – everyone’s coming.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Anyway … would you like a dessert, Ella?’
‘Oh – no thanks – in fact …’ A jolt ran through me as I glanced at my watch. ‘It’s half past two – I have to go. Right now.’
‘Sure,’ Roy said, looking slightly surprised. ‘But I’m glad we’ve had this chat.’
‘So am I, Roy.’ As he went to the bar to pay I remembered what Polly had said. He’d support you, Ella. I know he would. She’d been right – but so had I, in predicting that he’d be upset. I was glad to know that I wouldn’t be exposing him to any more painful feelings.
Roy had to wait a few minutes to be served, so by the time we left the pub it had gone twenty to three.
‘Thank you for lunch,’ I said to Roy. ‘And thank you for everything you’ve said.’ Roy smiled, then we hugged goodbye. As he set off for Sloane Square I went the other way, with a sick feeling gathering in my stomach at the thought of how close my father now was.
I tried to distract myself by thinking about work. I was going to see Iris again in two days’ time. Then there’d be another sitting with Nate on Saturday morning. Then I was going to do Celine’s last three sittings over three days as time was short. I’d also spoken to the couple in Chichester – Mr and Mrs Berger. They wanted the portrait for their silver wedding celebration in mid July, so I was going to go there in early June and get it done in a week. I was glad I’d bought the new paints – I was going to need them.
I stopped dead. I’d left the paints at the pub. I’d put the bag on the back of my chair and had forgotten it when we’d left. I’d have to go and get it.
I ran back to the Chelsea Potter, where the bag had already been handed in. I had to wait while someone went upstairs to the office to retrieve it, so by the time I left it was five to three. My father would be arriving. My heart banging, I began to walk down the road, fast: and there the café was, just a hundred yards or so ahead. What if he was there already and saw me go by? What if he rushed out and pleaded with me in the street? What had I been thinking in agreeing to have lunch within five minutes of where he was going to be? Had it been raining, I could have concealed myself beneath an umbrella, but it was a bright, sunny day and I’d only have made myself more conspicuous.
Now the Café de la Paix was less than fifty yards away. I decided to cross to the other side of the road. I stopped at the kerb and waited for a number 22 bus to go past and was momentarily distracted by the sight, all the way up the back of it, of Polly’s massively magnified thumb and forefinger, holding a memory card. Then I realised that crossing the road was hardly going to help as I’d be no less visible from the other side.
Suddenly I saw a taxi coming towards me, its carriage-work gleaming like treacle in the sunshine. I hailed it, climbed in, then sank right back into the corner of the seat as we drove past Starbucks, Sweaty Betty and India Jane. Now we were within ten yards of Café de la Paix. With its full-length glass windows it was as transparent as a fish tank.
I could see the barrista making coffee, and a man of about sixty standing at the counter, but he was too tall and thin to be John. Waiting behind him were a couple of smoochy-looking teenagers. At a table in the window was a forty-something woman in a blue sleeveless dress, reading the Independent. I felt heat flood into my cheeks. For there, at the other window table, was my father. His face looked weathered and lined, but he was otherwise quite recognisable from the photo he’d sent. He was still handsome and broad-shouldered, though his hair was iron-grey now, and swept back, giving him a leonine appearance. He was wearing a light-coloured suit over a white shirt.
By now we had drawn almost level with the café. I pressed myself further back into the seat and hoped that he wouldn’t spot me through the taxi’s quarter-light window. There was a large ‘thank you for not smoking’ sticker on it, so I sunk right down so that it would at least partly obscure me, and lifted my hand to the side of my face. Through my splayed fingers I could see that my father wasn’t looking at the taxi at all; his eyes flickered over the passers-by, his head turning subtly from side to side. Now he’d spotted a dark-haired woman of about my age, but as he saw that she wasn’t me, he glanced away. I expected the taxi to crawl past the café, but to my dismay we’d stopped – there was a red light ahead. We were right outside now, the full length of the taxi reflected in the window. All that separated me from my father were two panes of glass. As I saw the anxiety on his face my heart contracted. I imagined jumping out of the cab then going into the café.
How can I not do that, I asked myself miserably, when he’s sitting there, right there, in that window, looking out for me? Then I thought of myself, aged five, sitting at the window in our flat looking out for him. Hoping to see him. I’d sat there not just for a few hours, but for months …
I saw the traffic light change. We moved forward, quickly picking up speed, and my father was behind me now, as the taxi drove on.
‘It’s so nice to see you again,’ Iris smiled as she opened the door of her flat to me two days later. ‘This is our third sitting, isn’t it?’ she asked as I stepped inside.
‘It is: we had a gap because you were away for a while, and then you had that cold. But it doesn’t matter,’ I added, as I followed her down the hallway. ‘I once had a sitter who was so busy that her portrait took a year to complete.’
Iris gave me a rueful smile. ‘Given my age, I don’t think we can risk it taking that long.’
We went into the sitting room. ‘You look in fine fettle, Iris.’
‘I’m not doing too badly.’ She sat on the sofa, leaning her stick against the arm. ‘I was thinking this morning that I’ve already outlived my mother by twenty years. But then she’d been worn down by the war and her life wasn’t easy afterwards.’
I put my equipment down. ‘What about your father? Did he reach a good age?’
Even as I asked the question I remembered that Iris hadn’t told me anything about her father – she’d only ever mentioned her stepfather.
‘My father died at thirty-seven,’ she replied quietly.
‘So young …’
I wondered if Iris would explain what had happened to him, but she didn’t seem to want to say anything more. Now, as I opened the easel, I thought about my own father. He’d be getting ready to leave London; he’d probably be making his way to the airport right now …
I got out my palette and began to mix the colours.
‘Was I sitting like this?’ Iris asked.
I looked at her, then at the canvas. ‘You were. But if you could just fold your right hand over your left – you’ve got your left over your right, and if you could lift your chin a little … and look this way … That’s lovely.’ I picked up a medium-sized brush.
As I began to paint we chatted about what was in the news. Then Iris told me that Sophia had gone to the Chelsea Flower Show this morning, but that she herself had always preferred the flower show at Hampton Court. Then she asked me whether I ever held exhibitions of my work.
‘No. The Royal Society of Portrait Painters have an annual show and I might take part i
n that next year, otherwise I don’t exhibit my work, because I’m painting to commission.’
‘You should have an exhibition of your own,’ Iris said.
‘Well … maybe I will. I could ask a few of my more recent sitters to lend me their portraits; they could all come in the clothes that I’d painted them in. Would you come if I did that, Iris?’
‘I’d be delighted to.’ I could do it in September, I reflected, on my birthday. ‘I’ll give it some thought,’ I said. Then I asked Iris about the paintings on her sitting-room walls: there was a very fine Scottish landscape, a couple of beautifully executed botanical paintings and a geometric-looking nude that she told me was by Euan Uglow. All I really wanted to talk about was the picture of the two little girls.
‘Iris, I hope you don’t mind my asking,’ I said at last, ‘but when I first came here you started telling me about the painting in your bedroom – the one by Guy Lennox?’
She nodded. ‘I remember. I didn’t finish telling you the story, did I?’
‘No, though I’d … love to hear it – if you’re happy to tell me.’ It had occurred to me that she might have changed her mind for some reason.
‘I am happy to tell you – in fact, it was on my mind to do so. But I’m a little stiff today, would you mind fetching the painting for me?’
‘Of course.’
I put down my palette and brush then went out of the sitting room and along the hallway to where I remembered Iris’s room was. There was the picture, in its usual place by her bed. I looked at it for a moment, captivated, as before, by the tenderness of the composition: and now I could see that there was somehow an elegiac mood to it. I lifted it off its hook, leaving a ghostly rectangle, then took it to Iris.
‘Thank you,’ she said. She placed the painting on her lap. ‘I can’t recall where I had got to.’
I went back to the easel. ‘You told me that Guy Lennox was commissioned to paint a very rich man called Peter Loden, who then started an affair with his wife.’ I picked up the palette and brush.
Iris nodded. ‘That’s right. It must have been dreadful for Guy. But – and this was where I left off, I remember now – far worse was to come. Edith told Guy that she wanted a divorce – that was a bad enough blow; but she added that she was not prepared to admit to having committed adultery.’