by Isabel Wolff
I threw off the duvet then stumbled downstairs, clutching the handrail. As I picked up the phone the answerphone clicked off, the red light flashing angrily.
‘Thank goodness,’ said Mum. ‘I was worried that you weren’t there. Ella? Answer me – are you there?’
‘Yes. I am …’ Fury welled up inside me as I remembered her lies and her deception. I wanted to challenge her about it there and then, but every instinct told me to wait. I bit my lip. ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’
‘Chloë’s driving me mad.’
‘In what way?’
‘She’s being so interfering.’
‘Why shouldn’t she interfere – it’s her wedding.’
‘Yes – but I can’t have her trying to alter everything at this late stage. She’s unhappy with the cake – she wants it to have forget-me-nots on it to match the ones on her dress, not pink roses.’
‘Has it been iced yet?’
‘No – but it means having to phone the cake shop to change the order when I’m already so busy. Then she’s being difficult about the menus – she now says that she doesn’t want pot au chocolat, she wants a tower of profiteroles.’
‘Well, why not? Or would you have to get planning permission for it?’
‘Don’t be facetious, Ella. Worse, she won’t make up her mind about the hymns, which means that we can’t get the Orders of Service printed – oh, one good thing though – she has now chosen your reading: it’s “The Good Morrow” by John Donne.’
‘Right …’ I reached for a pen and scribbled it down on a scrap of paper.
‘Then she wants to change the crockery that we’re hiring – I’d ordered the thin, plain white with a fluted edge, but now she wants the pale blue with the gold rim. She’s suddenly become terribly demanding.’
‘Well, that must be hard.’
‘It’s infuriating – although in one way it’s a good sign that she’s now so involved; between you and me, I think she had a little wobble a while ago – but then, brides often get jittery before the big day.’
‘You would know.’
There was an icy silence. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, only that you’ve been a bride twice,’ I said innocently. ‘So you would know.’
‘I can’t bear wrangling with her,’ Mum went on smoothly. ‘Chloë and I often rub each other up the wrong way – I suppose because in some ways we’re rather alike.’
‘Oh, you are.’ I suddenly realised how much Chloë’s life had mirrored Mum’s.
‘Anyway, I hope she’ll calm down and leave everything to me, otherwise the wedding will be a disaster.’
‘I’m sure it won’t be.’ I glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘But I have to go.’
I quickly ended the call, realising that if I didn’t do so I’d be opening the door to Nate in my nightie. A part of me wanted to open the door to him in my nightie. A part of me wanted to open the door to him stark naked, pull him inside and hold myself to him.
I went upstairs and had a cool shower, after which I didn’t blow-dry my hair – I left it damp and unbrushed, my face bare of make-up. I put on a shapeless shift in a bilious shade of custard and a pair of hideous sandals that gave me fat calves. I wanted to make myself look, and feel, plain and frumpy in order to extinguish any sparks that had ever flared between Nate and me. But as I placed his canvas on the easel I felt the sparks glow.
It was as if the portrait was Nate – as though there’d somehow been a fusion of person and picture. I kissed the tip of my finger then placed it gently on his painted mouth. I stroked his cheek then touched his hair. I suddenly decided that I wouldn’t give the portrait to Chloë – I’d keep it, like Goya kept his portrait of the Duchess of Alba because he’d fallen in love with her and wouldn’t part with it.
Drrrrrrnnnnnggggg!
I took a deep breath, walked slowly downstairs, then opened the front door. There Nate was, in jeans and a pale-blue Polo shirt, the green jumper slung around his shoulders. I gave him the kind of neutral smile that I’d give the plumber or the postman. ‘Hi there.’
He smiled warmly in return and I felt my stomach flip-flop. ‘You look great,’ he said as he came in.
‘No I don’t.’
He looked taken aback. ‘You do: it’s a – nice dress.’
‘It isn’t,’ I protested. ‘The colour’s vile and it’s completely shapeless.’
Nate gave a bewildered shrug. ‘Then why are you wearing it?’
‘Because …’ I could hardly tell him the truth. ‘Because I’m going to be painting in it, so it doesn’t matter.’
‘Well … I guess that makes sense.’ We went upstairs into the space and light of the studio. I adjusted the blinds, rearranged the screen then tied on my apron. Nate pulled on the jumper then came over to the easel and looked at the canvas. ‘You’ve done a lot more to it since I was last here.’
‘I have – but only because time’s getting short now. In fact this is the penultimate sitting,’ I added cheerfully, as though I didn’t mind that the portrait process was almost over.
‘And will the last one be next Saturday?’
I twisted my hair into a scrunchie. ‘The Saturday after, if that’s okay, as I have to go to Chichester.’ I told Nate about the silver wedding portrait commission. ‘They need it very quickly. It’s an emergency,’ I added seriously.
Nate smiled. ‘Do you charge more for emergency portraits?’
‘I do. I have a twenty-four hour call-out, with an 0800 number.’
‘And a blue flashing light on your easel?’
‘Of course. And a siren.’ I felt myself smile. ‘Anyway …’ I took the lid off the jar of turps. ‘Today I’m going to be working on your eyes, so I’m just going to stare right into them, if that’s okay.’
‘Be my guest.’
I went over to Nate, put my hands on my knees, and gazed into his eyes. I was so close to him that I could see my reflection in his pupils and, behind me, the square of the window, its sides curved across the convexity of his cornea.
Nate gave me a suspicious glance. ‘What are you muttering?’
‘I’m counting your lashes. Now you’ve distracted me I’ll have to start all over again. Right …’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘One, two, three, four …’ I could smell the scent of Nate’s vetiver and the faint tang of his sweat.
He smiled and his laughter lines deepened into small creases. ‘I can see myself,’ he said. ‘In your eyes.’
‘Well … that’s what happens at this distance.’
‘Can you see yourself in mine?’
I looked into his pupils. ‘Yes – my hair’s a mess.’ I pulled at my fringe. ‘Hey, don’t blink. Right … that’s enough eyeballing.’ I went back to the easel and began to fill in Nate’s irises with a myriad dots of lamp black and viridian green.
‘I wonder how many times you look at the person while you’re painting them,’ I heard Nate ask.
‘Oh – so many.’ I wiped a drip of paint off the back of my hand. ‘A portrait consists of many thousands of glances. But you’re a terrific sitter, Nate. I’m going to nominate you for a Golden Behind award.’ I felt my face flush. ‘I mean … a Golden Chair.’
He grinned. ‘So have you worked out who I am yet?’
‘Hm … getting there.’
‘Let me know, won’t you? It’s been driving me crazy.’
‘I hope you’ll see it for yourself, in the portrait. And I hope you’ll be happy with it.’
‘Are you?’
‘I love it,’ I said unthinkingly.
Nate blinked. ‘You love my portrait?’
‘Yes … I just mean … that I feel a creative satisfaction with it. I think the composition’s worked really well – having you looking straight out of the canvas, eye to eye with the viewer – it’s dramatic and engaging and—’
‘In your face?’ Nate suggested.
I smiled. ‘It’s certainly very direct. I hope Chloë likes it,’ I added with a pang.
The skewer turned in my heart again. ‘That’s fine. We’ll have an early break.’
‘Hi, Chloë,’ Nate said as I filled the kettle. ‘No … you’re not interrupting.’ I could detect the enthusiasm and happiness in Chloë’s voice. ‘Er … I do like profiteroles,’ I heard Nate say as I spooned coffee into the pot. ‘No, I don’t mind what colour the crockery is … We’ll talk about the hymns – sure … I’ll see you later.’ He put the phone back in his pocket. ‘Sorry – Chloë’s getting all worked up about the wedding.’
‘But she seems very happy.’
He shrugged. ‘I think she is.’
‘And you must be too.’
He gave a bewildered laugh. ‘I guess I am. It’s pretty close now.’
‘Yes – so there’s no getting out of it,’ I declared cheerfully as I handed him his coffee. ‘Not that you’d want to,’ I added hastily. Then I asked Nate when his sisters and mother would be arriving, and how long they’d be staying, and whether his friend James was looking forward to being best man.
‘He can’t wait – he says he’s already written the speech.’ Nate went back to the chair and sat down.
I picked up my tiniest sable brush and started to paint the fringe of Nate’s eyelashes. When I’d done that I worked on the hollow at the base of his throat, on the swell and curve of his Adam’s apple, then on the blue shadow beneath his chin. We were in silence now, except for the rumble of traffic and the somehow incongruous trilling of a blackbird.
I put down my brush. ‘That’s it, I think – for today.’
Nate stood up and stretched, then he took off his jumper. As he did so his shirt rode up, revealing his abdomen with its covering of dark, fine hair. I was almost felled by a wave of desire.
I put the palette back on the table, took off my apron, then we went down the stairs. I opened the front door. ‘So … we’re almost there.’
‘Almost there,’ Nate echoed quietly. ‘Ciao, Ella.’ He kissed me on the cheek, and as his skin grazed mine it was all I could do not to put my arms round his neck.
Instead I gave him a bright, impersonal smile. ‘Bye, Nate.’ I opened the door.
‘Ciao,’ he murmured. He was still standing there. ‘You’ve already said that.’
‘Have I? Oh …’ He kissed me again. ‘And had I done that?’
Heat spilled into my face. ‘Yes.’
‘Ah.’ He gave me a rueful, crooked smile. ‘I got confused.’
‘Well, please … don’t.’
‘I won’t,’ he responded firmly. ‘I mustn’t.’ Then, to my despair, he kissed me a third time, and left.
‘You’ve got that look on your face again,’ Celine said the following week. It was her final sitting.
I picked up my palette knife. ‘And what look’s that?’
‘A wistful one – as though you’re thinking about someone – a man.’ I didn’t answer. ‘I do wish you’d tell me about him,’ she added. ‘You know so much about me, after all.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’ I put a few red-gold highlights in Celine’s hair.
‘But there is someone …’
‘No. At least, no one that it could ever work out with.’
‘Why not? Is he … otherwise engaged?’
‘Yes. “Engaged” being the operative word.’
‘Ah.’ She sighed. ‘That’s hard.’
‘Yes.’ I put down the palette knife. ‘But there it is. Anyway … I’ve almost finished your portrait.’
‘You have?’
‘Just one more thing to do …’ I picked up a fine brush.
‘I shall miss the sittings,’ Cecile said. ‘I’ve come to enjoy them. I’m only sorry that I made it so tricky for you at the beginning.’
‘That’s okay.’ I dipped the brush in the titanium white. ‘I’m sure it helped the painting to have had that initial … tension,’ I said carefully. Celine smiled. Now I looked at her, then placed a touch of white in each eye. I stood back from the canvas. ‘That’s it.’
‘Let me see.’ Celine came over to the easel and stared at the painting. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said after a few moments. ‘Thank you, Ella.’
I’d worried that Celine would look anxious and unhappy in the painting, but she looked calm and composed, though there was an air of determination about her.
She tilted her head. ‘I look as though I’m about to get up and go somewhere. I think that’s what people will say.’
‘Perhaps some will, but we all see different things – it’s very subjective. Sometimes people see things in my portraits that I haven’t even seen myself.’ I picked a stray bristle off the canvas. ‘It’ll be a few weeks before it can be framed, but at least you’ll be able to display it in the meantime.’
She sucked on her lower lip. ‘I’m still not sure where: definitely not in here,’ she added wryly. I thought of her fury with her husband when he’d suggested that it should go above the mantlepiece. ‘Maybe in the study,’ she mused. ‘In fact, if you wouldn’t mind putting it in there now for me …’
‘Sure – that’ll be a good place for it to dry.’ I lifted the portrait off the easel and followed Celine across the hall into the study, then laid it on a corner table.
‘I hope Victor will like it,’ I said, as we returned to the drawing room.
‘I know he will.’
‘But a portrait’s a lovely thing to have and it will last for a long, long time.’ I began to pack up. ‘Barring fire, catastrophic flooding or nuclear attack, your portrait will still be being looked at in two or three hundred years, Celine.’
She smiled. ‘Which rather puts forty years into perspective.’
‘It does. So …’ I put the brushes in the box. ‘Are you looking forward to your birthday a bit more?’
‘I am, she answered carefully. ‘Not least because I’ve reached a compromise with Victor. We are going to have the party, because it would be disappointing for our friends if we cancelled it.’
I collapsed the easel. ‘Of course.’
‘But I’ve told him not to buy the diamond ring.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s far too extravagant a gift when things between us are so … unsettled. Instead I’ve asked him if he’ll make a donation to a charity.’
‘That’s nice,’ I said as I gathered up the dustsheet. I straightened up. ‘Any particular one?’
‘Yes. I was at a lunch a week ago,’ Celine said. ‘Sitting next to me was a man who runs a clean-water charity,
Well-Spring.’
‘Max Viner?’
‘You know him?’
‘I do – a little.’ I wasn’t going to say how. ‘He’s married to the crime writer, Sylvia Shaw.’
‘Was married to her,’ Celine corrected me. ‘He told me that they separated three months ago and are divorcing.’
‘Really?’ I wondered if Chloë knew.
‘He talked about it briefly; he seemed sad, but said that it was mutual; it appears she’s involved with her publisher now.’
‘I see.’ The photo of Max standing proudly beside Sylvia at her book launch took on a different complexion.
‘Anyway, I was very impressed with what he told me about the charity, and so, having now talked to Max himself, Victor’s agreed to make a donation that will fund forty new hand-dug wells in Mozambique.’
‘How wonderful. What a fabulous birthday present!’
‘It is. He said that he still wants to give me something for myself – something memorable, he said, which is typically kind of him, but I can’t think of anything.’
I collapsed the easel. ‘I’ve decided that I’m going to do something for my birthday, Celine – it’s in mid-September. I want to have an exhibition of my recent portraits. I’ll hire a gallery for a few days and I’d like to borrow your portrait back, if you’ll l
end it to me; and I’d love you to come – preferably wearing what I painted you in. Will you do that?’
Celine smiled. ‘I’d love to.’
I’d come to think of my forthcoming stay in Chichester as a working holiday, but it became clear from further telephone conversations with the Bergers that it was to be far more work than holiday, given that they now wanted the portrait to include their grown-up son and daughter, their three dogs and their two Siamese cats. I wasn’t about to complain – a big group portrait like that would boost the bank balance, but it would be a challenge to do it in a week: it would also need a large canvas; and I was just wondering how I’d transport it down there when Roy phoned to ask me if he could give my number to a colleague who wanted to have his daughter sketched.
‘Of course you can,’ I answered, cheered at the prospect of more work. ‘I’ll chat to him about the different options, so ask him to call me – thanks for that, Roy.’ I told him about my trip to Chichester.
‘That’s a big commission then.’
‘It is – with a correspondingly big canvas; I don’t know how I’ll get it down there.’
‘Surely you could buy the canvas in Chichester?’
‘I could, but I have to prime it with emulsion first, which takes two days to dry, so I want to take one from London, ready prepared. I’ll have to hire a car.’
‘You can borrow mine.’
‘Don’t you need it?’
‘I’m only at the hospital one day next week, and I’m sure your mother will lend me hers, or drop me there – it’s not a problem.’
‘Well, that would be great.’
So I went to collect the car on the Saturday morning. ‘This is really kind,’ I said to Roy as he unlocked the garage.
He pulled back the green painted doors. ‘Glad to help my Number One Girl.’ He went in and backed his silver Audi out on to the drive. He got out then gave me the keys. ‘Are you going to come in for a cup of something, before you go?’
‘Erm …’ I was worried that if I saw my mother, there might be a scene. ‘Is Mum here?’ I asked casually.
‘No.’ I felt a wave of relief. ‘She’s gone to collect her wedding outfit – it was being altered.’