The Very Picture of You

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘Fifteen hours,’ I echoed. ‘That’s more than half a day.’ Put like that, it didn’t sound very much. ‘Anyway … I’m looking forward to the wedding.’ He nodded. ‘So …’ I smiled goodbye. ‘I’ll see you then, Nate.’

  ‘I’ll see you then.’ The sittings, with their bittersweet intimacy were over. ‘Bye Ella,’ Nate whispered. He kissed me, holding his cheek against mine for just a moment too long, then he walked quickly away.

  On Sunday, late morning, I put on some old clothes then cycled down to Richmond. As I rode through Fulham Broadway, I saw that there were perhaps twenty new bouquets tied to the railings. I realised that it was six months to the day since Grace had died and that her family and friends must have been there earlier to mark the anniversary. The yellow sign appealing for information had gone.

  I cycled over Wandsworth Bridge, through Roehampton, then across Richmond Park to the house. In my basket was the card I’d bought for Roy and a big box of his favourite Belgian chocolates.

  I locked my bike up by the garage then hung my helmet on the handlebars. Mum’s car wasn’t in the drive – I felt relieved. I walked round the side of the house and spotted Roy at the end of the garden, surrounded by trays of plants. As I approached him, he looked up and waved.

  ‘Happy Father’s Day.’ I gave him the chocolates and the card.

  ‘Thank you, Ella. You never forget. You always used to paint a card for me.’

  ‘I remember.’

  He sat on the bench that encircled the horse chestnut tree and took the cellophane off the chocolates. ‘I’ve kept them all, you know.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Of course.’ He grinned. ‘I knew they’d be worth something one day.’ He offered me the chocolates. ‘Dig in – before we dig in,’ he added with a baleful glance at all the plants. I took one and ate it, then Roy put the box down and opened the card. I’ve Got the World’s Greatest Dad. ‘That’s lovely,’ he said, his voice fracturing.

  ‘Well it’s true. You are. Did Chloë give you anything?’

  ‘No – not that it matters. She’s got enough on her mind.’

  ‘And is she coming over to help too?’

  ‘Not today – she did a bit yesterday, while you were painting Nate. Now, you’d better put some wellies on – there are some in the Wendy house – ditto gardening gloves.’

  ‘Oh, my hands are always covered in paint, so a bit of mud won’t matter.’

  As I went into the Wendy house I remembered how, when we were children, Chloë and I spent hours in it. She used to have her toy cooker in there and I’d have to sit hunched over a tiny table in her ‘café’, eating triangles of plastic pizza with rapturous relish.

  I took a pair of wellingtons outside, checked them for spiders then pulled them on. ‘Right, I’m booted.

  What do I do?’

  ‘We’ve got twenty white lavender bushes to plant—’ Roy indicated them in their trays. ‘There are also twenty phlox, thirty Achillea, forty Aquilegia and twenty-five sedums. This side of the tent will be open – unless it’s pouring – so I want the border to be a joy to behold.’

  I looked at the mass of delphiniums, peonies and acanthus. ‘It’s already looking gorgeous.’

  ‘Well, this is the last lot to go in. Okay …’ He handed me a small spade. ‘Let’s start. Just follow the markers that I’ve stuck in the ground – and don’t snag yourself on the roses.’

  It had rained overnight, so at least the soil was easy to turn. I started at one end of the border, Roy at the other, and we worked towards the middle.

  ‘We’re doing well,’ he announced after an hour or so. He straightened up then ran his hand across his brow. ‘But let’s stop for a bit of lunch.’

  ‘I’m glad you said that.’

  We left our boots outside and went into the kitchen. Roy washed his hands then opened the fridge and got out some ham and a bowl of salad while I set the table.

  We didn’t talk for a while, then finally Roy broke the silence. ‘Ella … I’m sorry I was a bit … touchy last week. When you spoke to me about John.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ I exhaled. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. But I wanted to tell you about it, because … well, it wasn’t as it’s always been portrayed.’

  Roy frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Now at last I talked to Roy about the long e-mail my father had sent me. I told him about the many letters that John had written to me when I was a child, and about the cheques and the notice that he’d put in The Stage.

  Roy sat very still, until I’d finished. He pushed aside his plate. ‘So this is very different from what your mother’s always maintained.’

  I nodded. ‘She’s always said that he behaved as though we’d never existed. But there’s something else, Roy – something that I’ve never known, or even guessed at.’ I told him what it was.

  He didn’t say anything for a few moments. He just blinked, as though he was trying to work something out. ‘Well …’ he said at last. ‘Things that have puzzled me for years now make sense.’

  ‘That’s just what happened with me, when I found out. I felt as though I had to … recalculate everything.’

  He folded his arms. ‘During the adoption process, I do remember that your mother seemed keen for me not to see our marriage certificate.’

  ‘Because it would have said “spinster” by her name rather than “divorcée”?’

  He looked at me. ‘Yes. She insisted on submitting it to the court herself, even though it was my responsibility to do so. I also remember that she used to gloss over the way in which her marriage had ended. She just said, very bitterly, that your father had abandoned you both to be with this “other woman”.’

  ‘But you never guessed at the truth?’

  ‘No …’ Roy narrowed his eyes. ‘Your mother was so convincing. And to be frank, I didn’t want to talk about her relationship with John because I knew that she’d loved him. But … to think that you can live with someone for almost three decades and not really know them.’ He gave a bewildered laugh. ‘And her obsession with the horrors of adultery …’ He shrugged. ‘All part of the charade, I suppose … I really don’t know what I feel. I think I mostly feel sorry for her.’

  ‘That was my reaction too, but I also feel … angry.’

  Roy let out his breath. ‘Well, she’s concealed so much from you. And she’s lied to you. It’s as though she’s woven a web around her relationship with John – a tangled web,’ he added balefully.

  ‘The only reason I’m telling you all this is because I hope it’ll help you understand why I’ve changed my mind about replying to John.’

  ‘Yes, I do understand that,’ Roy said. ‘This does … change things.’

  ‘Because you see he was here.’

  ‘Here?’ Roy echoed.

  ‘Yes. He came to London – to see me.’

  ‘You met him?’

  ‘No, no – I didn’t.’ I explained why.

  Roy’s jaw went slack. ‘Are you saying that you went past that café in a taxi, and saw him there but didn’t go in?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said faintly. I felt my throat constrict.

  Roy closed his eyes. ‘Poor man …’

  I nodded bleakly. ‘All he wanted to do was to sit with me for a few minutes, and tell me that he was sorry. But as I didn’t give him the chance, he wrote to me, not realising that I’d never known the truth about him and Mum.’

  ‘And … does it make what he did feel any … better?’

  ‘Not much – but it does at least make it easier to understand. I no longer see him as Mum’s always portrayed him – heartless and calculating: I just see him as weak and confused.’

  Confused? Allowing men to be ‘confused’ gives them an excuse to just … string other women along, offering them … nothing.

  ‘And where does his wife feature in all this?’

  ‘Nowhere now – she died last December.’ Roy looked surprised. ‘She’d been secretive
about the whole thing too, and only told Lydia about my existence a year ago. Then John began searching for me, and happened to see me in The Times.’ I shrugged. ‘The rest you know.’

  ‘So … you’re in e-mail contact with him now?’

  ‘Yes. I explained that I hadn’t known most of what he’d told me. I said that I didn’t even know where he was until I was eleven.’

  ‘Did you tell him about your mother?’

  I shook my head. ‘I said that I have a sister who’s about to get married. And I told him that I have a wonderful father, whose name is Roy.’ Roy flushed; his eyes were glimmering. ‘You don’t have to worry,’ I went on. ‘John’s not going to become my dad again – even if I didn’t have you. It’s far too late for that – plus he lives nine thousand miles away, but … I’d just like to e-mail him from time to time – if you’re okay with it.’

  Roy hesitated. ‘No. I’m not okay with it.’ My heart plunged. ‘Because I think you should do more.’

  I looked at him. ‘More? What do you mean? Phone him? I’ve got his number – I guess I could …’

  ‘No. I mean that you should go and see him – see them.’ My heart did a swallow dive. ‘If you can’t afford it, then I’ll happily—’

  ‘No, I can afford it – thanks. But … one step at a time,’ I added faintly.

  ‘Of course. You need to build up to it – send some more e-mails. But look – are you going to talk to your mother about all this?’

  ‘I am – I need to; but I won’t do it until after the wedding, because it’s going to be a very upsetting conversation. So please don’t tell her that you know what you do.’

  ‘I won’t say anything to her,’ Roy agreed.

  The next few days passed quickly. I went to see two or three art galleries with a view to hiring one for a week in September, and decided on the Eastcote Gallery, halfway down the King’s Road. I might get a bit of press about the show, I reflected; it might even lead to a new commission or two but, most of all, it would be fun just to get my sitters together and have a party.

  There was space for about twenty portraits, so I contacted everyone who’d sat for me during the past three years. To each I explained that I would personally collect the paintings, insure them, and safely return them.

  I gave Celine the details when I went to collect her portrait to take to the framers.

  ‘Alors …’ She opened her diary. ‘Fifteenth of September …’ She flicked over the pages. ‘That’s a Wednesday.’ She wrote it down. ‘I shall be back by then.’ Back from where, I wondered. ‘At what time?’

  ‘It’ll be from six-thirty to eight-thirty. I’ll invite Victor too.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So how was your birthday party?’

  She smiled. ‘It was wonderful – Victor made a lovely speech, and Philippe said a few words. My friends and family were all there. It was a very happy occasion.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘And Victor is giving me the most wonderful present.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I couldn’t think of anything I wanted, but yesterday he hit on a brilliant idea. He said that he’ll give me a trip, on my own, lasting precisely forty days, during which I can go wherever in the world I’d like to go. I’m planning the itinerary at the moment.’

  ‘How exciting.’

  ‘It will be liberating. I have friends in the States, in Argentina, in Cambodia, Ghana and Greece; I shall visit them all, with my round-the-world ticket, finishing my journey in Venice, where Victor and Philippe will meet me. We’ll then spend three days there before flying back to the UK in time for Philippe’s return to school.’

  ‘It sounds fantastic.’ We heard the doorbell ring. ‘That’ll be my cab – I’d better get your portrait ready.’ The painting was still in the study, propped up on top of the desk. I clipped it into the canvas carrier that I’d brought with me, then went outside.

  It was the usual driver because I’d asked for him. I put the painting carefully on the back seat, got in, then waved to Celine, who was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Picture finished, is it?’ The driver turned to look at it. ‘Beautiful.’ He glanced at Celine. ‘It’s just like her.’ He started the car. ‘Now don’t forget …’

  ‘I know. But if I painted you – what’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘It’s Rafael.’

  ‘Well, you’d have to come to my studio and sit for a total of at least twelve hours.’

  ‘Oh.’ He turned out of the drive. ‘Can’t see myself doing that, to be honest – I do more than enough sitting in my cab. Couldn’t you do it from photos, like that poor—’

  ‘No,’ I interrupted. ‘I couldn’t. I paint only from life.’

  ‘They’ve found the car, by the way.’

  ‘Have they?’

  ‘It wasn’t a black BMW – it was a dark-blue Range Rover, but the number plate was so muddy that they hadn’t been able to read it. Turned out the poor sod driving it had no idea. He hadn’t even touched her, but he’d driven too close and she’d swerved into a pothole and got thrown off.’

  ‘Poor girl …’

  ‘I’m not sure I do want to be painted,’ Rafael said as we drove over Hammersmith Bridge. ‘Maybe you could just draw me.’

  ‘I could – in charcoal, or crayon, or pen and ink.’

  ‘So what does that cost then?’

  ‘Well … perhaps we could barter? I used to do that when I first started out. I once painted my plumber in return for a boiler repair. So …’

  ‘All right then – I’ll give you some free cab rides – within central London, that is.’

  ‘Fair enough. And how many would you offer?’

  ‘Erm … would ten do it?’

  ‘Ten would be great.’ He could help me collect some of the portraits for the party. ‘It’s a deal.’

  On the Saturday, the doctor colleague of Roy’s brought his daughter for her sitting; she was an intelligent-looking girl of ten with long, glossy dark hair; she said that she wanted to be a violinist. Her father stayed while I sketched her in red crayon on brown paper.

  On the Tuesday I went back to Iris: her portrait was very nearly done: in it she looked distinguished and serene, and the background that she’d chosen added depth and interest to the composition.

  And now, the wedding was only two days away.

  On the Thursday afternoon I cycled over to the house to write out all the place cards. In the drive was a big white van with Pavillioned in Splendour emblazoned on it; in the garden a team of men were slotting steel poles together and unrolling expanses of white canvas.

  Roy came and stood next to me and we watched the tent rise up. ‘Well … it’s all happening,’ he said. ‘And Nate’s family have been arriving.’

  I glanced at him. ‘When will you meet them?’

  ‘We’re going to have a quick drink with them tonight, tomorrow your mum and I will be very busy here all day; then we’ll have a quiet evening with Chloë – she wants to sleep in her old bedroom one last time.’

  ‘Of course – and how’s she feeling?’

  Roy shrugged. ‘Absolutely fine.’

  I turned and saw my mother walking towards us, shielding her eyes against the bright sunlight. She nodded at the men. ‘I hope they’re being careful with the plants.’

  ‘I’m watching them like a hawk,’ Roy assured her. ‘I’m not going to let anyone trample my aquilegias.’

  ‘I’m very worried about smoking,’ Mum said. ‘I just know that Gareth Jones will light up – he’s still on forty a day, according to Eleanor.’

  ‘Then I expect he will,’ I said.

  ‘As long as he doesn’t light up in church,’ Roy teased.

  My mother ignored us as she considered the problem. ‘I think I’ll tell everyone that smoking is allowed – but afterdinner cigars only: I’ll get a big box of Romeo y Giulietta.’

  Roy groaned. ‘That’s another five hundred quid I can kiss goodbye to then.’r />
  Mum looked at him reproachfully. ‘Let’s not spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar.’

  ‘Tar being the operative word,’ he muttered.

  Mum turned to me. ‘Ella, will you come and write the place cards now? I’ve got them all ready on the kitchen table.’

  ‘Sure.’ I followed her inside. Once there, she opened the box of gold-edged white cards, handed me the guest list, then I got out my calligraphy pen and set to work. ‘I feel like the official scribe.’

  ‘Well, it’s a great help that you’re doing this,’ she said. ‘But everything’s coming together very smoothly. We’ve got the rehearsal in the morning.’

  ‘Do you need me for that?’

  ‘No: it’s really so that the soprano can practise and so that Chloë and Nate can go through their paces. Then in the afternoon the caterers and I will lay the tables.’ She sucked on her lower lip. ‘I don’t suppose you could lend a hand with that, could you, Ella darling?’

  ‘No – I’m sorry, I can’t: Chloë’s coming to see the portrait.’

  ‘Oh, well then.’ Mum frowned. ‘But hasn’t she seen it yet?’

  ‘No – she insisted that she didn’t want to see it until it was finished so she’s coming to the studio at three.’ Mum smiled. ‘So it’ll be the moment of truth!’

  At five past three the following afternoon the doorbell rang and I went quickly downstairs.

  ‘Ella!’ Chloë beamed at me then turned to the smartly dressed white-haired woman standing beside her. ‘This is Nate’s mother – Mrs Rossi. She said she’d like to see the portrait too – I hope that’s okay.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ I held out my hand and Nate’s mother took it. ‘Hello, Mrs Rossi.’

  ‘Please … call me Vittoria.’ Mrs Rossi sounded very Italian, and was less frail than I’d imagined. She had pretty, mobile features and large greenish-grey eyes that reminded me of Nate’s.

  ‘Nate looks like you,’ I said as she stepped inside.

  She nodded. ‘Si – more than his papà.’

  ‘My studio’s at the top of the house. I can bring the painting down, if you’d …’

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I can go up.’ She followed Chloë and me up the stairs.

  ‘Nate was a good sitter,’ I said to Vittoria as we reached the first landing. ‘He kept very still.’