The Very Picture of You

by Isabel Wolff

‘Right … well, I’ll have a quick coffee then.’

  We went into the house. It was the first time I’d been there since Mum had told me about Lydia. I sat at the same place at the kitchen table and remembered her eyes shimmering with tears, her face a mask of suffering.

  I’ve never wanted to tell you the truth, Ella, but now I will.

  She hadn’t told me the truth – just her own twisted version of it.

  What you’re remembering is the day I saw your father with his … with … his …’ Wife, I thought balefully.

  ‘Are you all right, Ella?’ Roy asked. ‘You look a bit … troubled.’

  ‘Oh … I’m fine.’ I was tempted to tell him about my father’s e-mail, but it felt wrong to do so before I’d had a chance to confront Mum about it, and as she was so busy I had no idea when that would be.

  Roy filled the kettle. ‘I’ll have to hire a penguin suit,’ he said as he got down two mugs. I wondered what I was going to wear – I saw myself in funereal black.

  The French windows were open. I went and stood by them and looked at the huge, luxuriantly green, lawn, fringed by the herbaceous border, with Chloë’s Wendy house, long since turned into a tool shed, at the far end, by the horse chestnut tree. I imagined the massive white tent with its awnings and ropes and gathered drapes. I imagined the guests drifting in and out of it in their formal suits and silk dresses and wide hats, and the cohorts of caterers, musicians and entertainers, all presided over by my mother with her glacial charisma and her ineffable poise.

  Roy made the coffee. ‘So how do you think the garden’s looking?’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘I’m just doing it bit by bit, with endless mowing and feeding and sprinkling – I’m praying there won’t be a hosepipe ban.’

  ‘Fingers crossed.’

  ‘And no freak winds – we don’t want the marquee ending up wrapped round the tree.’

  ‘That would be inconvenient. But it’s going to be a huge event.’

  ‘It is,’ Roy said wearily. He put our mugs of coffee on the table. ‘One hundred and eighty people are coming – and that’s without all the replies in yet.’

  ‘Good God.’

  He sat down and sighed. ‘It’s too much. I tried to get your mother to agree to half that number, but she said she wanted a wedding that everyone would remember

  – and that’s what she’s going to get.’ We’ve got a huge cast list.

  ‘You’d think it was her own wedding that she was organising,’ he added wryly.

  I’ve been thinking about confessi— ‘Roy—’ I said suddenly.

  ‘Yes?’

  I went and sat opposite him, my heart thudding. ‘Roy, there’s something I want to tell you, even though I’m not sure that I should.’

  He blinked. ‘Tell me what?’ His brow furrowed as he peered at me. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Ella?’

  ‘Yes – more or less, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘It’s just that …’ I realised that I couldn’t tell Roy what I now knew – after all, Mum was his wife: he might not want to hear it. And was it my story to tell? ‘That Max is getting divorced,’ I blurted.

  ‘I saw that.’ Roy sipped his coffee. ‘In a newspaper

  – can’t remember which one – but it was in the gossip column. His name leaped out at me.’

  ‘Does Chloë know?’

  ‘Yes. I wasn’t going to say anything about it to her, of course, but then she mentioned it to me.’ He shrugged. ‘She said she felt fine about it.’

  ‘Well, that’s … good.’

  ‘She said that she’s looking forward to marrying Nate. Which is all as it should be,’ he concluded.

  We drank our coffee in companionable silence, then I stood up. ‘I’d better get going. I said I’d be in Chichester by three and I have to go and get my stuff first. Thanks again for the wheels.’

  We went out to the front, I got in Roy’s car, gave him a smile, then drove away.

  I went home, got my equipment, my laptop and my suitcase, stowed everything in the back of the car, locked up the house, then set off towards the A3.

  As I sped on to the motorway twenty minutes later, I felt a surge of relief to be having a week out of London. It would provide a welcome respite from the wedding preparations. Seeing the South Downs rise up in the distance I felt myself begin to relax. Most of my recent commissions had been stressful in one way or another, so I was glad to have one that would be reasonably straightforward – dogs and cats allowing.

  Frank and Marion Berger lived in Itchenor, very close to Chichester Harbour. I drove down their tree-lined lane, catching my breath at the sail-dotted water glinting in the distance. Then I saw the sign for ‘Woodlands’ and turned into the drive. The house was Edwardian, low and wide, fringed by a fuchsia hedge that dripped with pink flowers. It was set in a large garden at the back of which was the turquoise glimmer of a pool.

  As my wheels crunched over the gravel the front door opened and the Bergers came out, followed by three black Labradors who heralded my arrival with a volley of good-natured barks.

  I parked where Mr Berger indicated me to, then got out, shook hands with him and greeted his wife. They were much as I’d imagined them – a pleasant-looking couple in their mid-fifties. I already knew that Frank was a local GP and that Marion worked in the Dean’s office at the Cathedral.

  ‘You’ll be staying in the guest cottage,’ she explained as her husband helped me get my equipment out of the boot. ‘That way you’ll have privacy – but we hope you’ll join us for meals.’

  ‘Thank you, I’d love that.’

  The cottage had an open-plan ground floor on which I’d be able to put the easel if I needed to, and a prettily decorated bedroom and bathroom at the top of a narrow box staircase. From the bedroom window I had a clear view of the sail-dotted harbour and in the distance the shining expanse of the Solent.

  Frank put my case down. ‘Now, we’ve got Wi-Fi in here if you want to e-mail. There’s a radio, a small TV … lots of books.’ He nodded at the shelves. ‘But let’s go and have a cup of tea.’ I followed him down the stairs and back to the house.

  ‘Have you any thoughts on where you’d like to be painted?’ I asked them as we sat in the sunny kitchen.

  ‘Perhaps in here?’ Marion asked.

  ‘Maybe.’ I could paint them at the table, perhaps with the children standing by the Aga. ‘Could I have a look at the rest of the house?’

  Frank nodded ‘Sure.’ He and his wife gave me a tour, first showing me the blank wall in the dining room where the portrait would hang. Then we went into the sitting room.

  ‘You could paint Frank and me standing on either side of the fireplace,’ Marion suggested, ‘with the children on the sofa.’

  I appraised the mantelpiece with its large mirror. ‘Perhaps … but standing up all that time is going to be hard work, plus it’s going to look very formal – do you really want that?’

  ‘No,’ said Frank as one of the cats came in through the open French windows. It began to wind itself in and out of his legs. ‘We want to look relaxed and casual, don’t we, Katisha?’ he crooned as he picked the cat up.

  ‘Could we go outside?’ I asked. I followed the Bergers through the garden doors on to the patio where the other cat was lying on a low stone wall, blinking in the sunshine. ‘How about in the swimming pool?’ I suggested as we walked towards it, the dogs ambling along beside us.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Frank asked.

  ‘I am. I did once paint a family in their pool and they loved it – it’s on my website; you could have a look.’

  Marion grimaced. ‘I’m not sure I’d want to be painted in my swimsuit – but how about in our boat? It’s moored in the harbour – you could put your easel on the pontoon.’

  ‘That could be tricky with the movement of the water, and would the dogs and cats cooperate?’

  ‘Ah. No. Forget that then,’ she said with a laugh.

  In
the end we decided that Marion and Frank would sit on a white wrought-iron garden bench, on the lawn, the cats on their laps, their children lounging on the grass in front with the dogs, with the harbour in the background.

  ‘That will be lovely,’ Marion said. ‘And how long will we sit for you each time?’

  ‘If I’m to get the picture done in a week, then I’ll need you to do three hours a day.’

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ said Frank. ‘We’ll just chat – or look at the boats.’

  I made a start that afternoon. I tied the canvas to the easel because it was slightly breezy, then I began to block in the main shapes with charcoal marks. It was a pleasure being in the sunshine hearing the wind blowing through the trees and with the views of the fields rolling down to the sea.

  The Bergers’ children arrived from London that night – twins of twenty-three; Hannah, a pretty red-haired girl who was a graphic designer, and Henry, a tall boy with brown curls who worked in IT. They could only spare three days, so we agreed that I’d paint them first.

  The week passed quickly because I was working so intensively. Sometimes thistledown would drift on to the canvas and I’d have to tweeze it off. Several times I had to extricate a ladybird or a mayfly from the paint, and I had to watch out for the dogs’ wagging tails. Apart from these hazards, the composition flowed. It was a relief to have a break from the emotional intensity of painting a lone sitter, one on one.

  I’d spend the afternoons working on the background landscape. At night I’d be so exhausted that I’d go to bed early and read: amongst the books on the shelf was a poetry anthology in which I found ‘The Good Morrow’. I’d forgotten how beautiful it is – a tender aubade in which, for the lovers, their ‘one little room’ is ‘an everywhere’.

  I gave myself a few hours off; on one afternoon I drove into Chichester and looked at the cathedral. On another I walked down to the beach and lay amongst the dunes beneath the blue bowl of the sky, watching the dinghies and windsurfers rip past.

  On my last night the Bergers set dinner in the dining-room and we drank champagne to celebrate the fact that the portrait was done. They were to have it framed, locally, the week before their silver wedding party.

  Marion couldn’t stop looking at the picture, propped against the wall. ‘It’s full of warmth and happiness.’

  ‘That’s because your family is,’ I told her. ‘I just paint what I see.’

  Afterwards I went back to the cottage and sat by the bedroom window watching the midsummer sky turn from orange to crimson, to a deep indigo, against which the first stars were beginning to shine. I thought about Celine, who would be at the Dorchester now, mid-party. I wondered if she really would leave Victor and, if she did, where her life would take her; I wondered how Mike was coping, and how Iris was. Then I opened my laptop to check my e-mails: there was one from Chloë to say that Nate’s final sitting would have to be postponed as he had to go to Stockholm again. I can’t wait to see the portrait, she’d added in a PS. I sent her a quick reply and was about to close my inbox when, instead, I clicked on ‘Create’, and in the ‘To’ box I typed John Sharp.

  ELEVEN

  ‘So you had a good time?’ Roy asked when I returned the car to him the following afternoon. He shut the garage doors.

  ‘I did. It was a wonderful break and they were nice people.’ I handed him the keys. ‘I’ve filled the tank.’

  ‘That’s kind.’

  ‘It’s the least I could do. So how’s everything been here?’

  ‘All right.’ He grimaced. ‘Actually, that’s not true – there’ve been rows.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Oh, about the seating plan, inevitably, and the choice of hymns, and whether or not we should have fireworks

  – your mother wants them because it’s the Fourth of July the next day, but I say absolutely not as there won’t be enough space to let them off safely. There was a spat about whether the chairs should have white tie-on covers

  – Chloë likes the idea, but your mother doesn’t.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m glad you enjoyed your week away. What did you do in the evenings?’

  ‘I listened to the radio or I read. I had my laptop with me. In fact … there’s something I wanted to tell you.’

  Roy looked at me apprehensively. ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Well …’ My heart began to pound. ‘I’ve decided that I do want to get in touch with John.’ Roy’s face flushed. ‘I’d been thinking about it, but then last night I decided to send him a short message; so I just wanted to tell you about it, and to say that I hope you’re okay with it.’

  ‘Yes …’ He gave a shrug. ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Because you see—’

  ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to explain.’

  ‘I feel I do, because I told you that I wasn’t going to contact him and now I have.’

  Roy put up his hands. ‘So you’ve changed your mind,

  Ella. That’s fine.’

  ‘But there’s a reason why I’ve changed it, which is that—’

  ‘Ella,’ Roy interrupted. ‘You’re thirty-five: you don’t have to justify getting in touch … with your …’ His voice had caught.

  I felt my throat constrict. ‘There are things I didn’t know,’ I said softly. ‘And now that I do know them, it’s changed my view of what happened – at least in some ways,’ I hurried on. ‘Because you see—’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Roy said. ‘So do what you want to do, Ella, but please don’t tell me.’ To my dismay, his eyes were glimmering.

  I felt tears sting my own. ‘You said you’d support me.’

  Roy looked crestfallen suddenly. ‘I did say that,’ he conceded quietly. ‘But … it’s not easy. The truth is, I’ve always dreaded this. I’ve read about how hard it is for adoptive parents when their children contact their birth parents – even when they’ve encouraged them to do so. Now I’m finding out just how hard it is.’

  ‘Mum never told me the whole story,’ I persisted. ‘But now I know it, and the point is that she’s …’ I froze.

  Roy looked at me. ‘That she’s what?’

  Over Roy’s shoulder I saw Mum walking towards us, her arms outstretched. ‘El-la,’ she crooned.

  ‘Don’t say anything to her,’ I whispered. ‘Please.’

  Roy flashed me a puzzled glance, but nodded.

  ‘How lovely to see you, darling.’ Mum laid her palm on my cheek. It felt cold, and I shivered. ‘What were you two talking about?’ she added playfully. ‘You looked quite engrossed.’

  ‘I … was just telling Roy about Chichester.’

  ‘Did it go well?’ Mum’s ice-blue eyes scanned my face. ‘You’ve caught the sun, darling.’

  ‘Yes. A bit. I was painting outside.’

  ‘ En plein air? How lovely. Now do come in and tell me about it too – I’ve just made a pot of coffee.’

  We were already halfway to the front door. I pulled my hand away. ‘Thanks, Mum, but I need to get back. I’ve got things to sort out.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ she responded softly. ‘But I was just about to e-mail you to ask whether you’d come over next Sunday and give Roy a hand in the garden. I’ve got a rehearsal for my students’ summer performance, so I have to be there all day, but there’s a lot of last-minute planting to be done here. Would you be an angel and help Roy with it?’

  ‘Yes – of course.’ It would give me another chance to talk to him alone.

  The week passed quickly. I took Mike’s portrait to be framed and in the dress shop opposite found an outfit to wear to the wedding. I went to Peter Jones and bought a hat and bag to match, then went up to their wedding registry to order the soup tureen from Chloë and Nate’s chosen dinner service. After that I walked down to Waterstone’s, collected the Whistler biography, and bought the Everyman edition of John Donne’s Collected English Poems to read from in the church.

  On my way home I sa
w the Café de la Paix. I went in, bought a latte, then, as a small act of atonement, I sat at the table where my father had sat, looking out. Then I got out my phone and read again his delighted reply to my e-mail.

  I spent the next couple of days working on the portrait of Grace, which, thanks to Mike’s film of her, now had a luminosity and vitality that it had lacked.

  On the Friday I went back to paint Iris again – she told me that she’d had an idea about what I might put in the background of her portrait.

  Then, on the Saturday morning, Nate came for his final sitting.

  He was very quiet, which suited me because I was worried that, if we talked, we’d inevitably flirt and banter, and it was too tantalising; but today there seemed to be an unspoken recognition that the bubble of exclusivity that we’d been in was about to burst.

  I dipped my finest brush in the titanium white then, put a tiny stroke on to each of Nate’s pupils. It was like throwing a switch – his face was suddenly vibrant, alive.

  I stood back from the canvas. ‘It’s done.’

  Nate stood up, came over to the easel but barely glanced at the painting before saying, simply, that it was ‘very good’.

  I wiped my paint-spattered hands on a rag. ‘So …’ I smiled. ‘It’s over.’

  ‘Yes.’ Nate nodded. ‘Finita la comedia,’ he said quietly.

  I untied my apron, then we went down the stairs. I hoped that Nate wouldn’t make the kind of lingering goodbye that he’d made last time – it had left me with a melancholy ache that had lasted for days.

  ‘Well …’ I opened the front door. ‘Thanks for being such a great sitter.’

  He gave me a rueful smile. ‘Funny to think that you hated me to start with.’

  ‘Not hated.’

  ‘All right then – loathed.’

  ‘Erm … let’s say “didn’t much like”.’

  ‘Okay – I’m happy with that,’ he said judiciously.

  ‘But it was all a misunderstanding.’

  ‘It was …’

  ‘And … we’re friends now, Nate. Aren’t we?’

  ‘We are. We ought to be,’ he added. ‘After twelve hours together. No – fifteen with our lunch,’ he added brightly.