by Isabel Wolff
‘Ah … well, he is a good boy.’
We went into the studio. Vittoria smiled appreciatively at the paintings on the wall.
‘How was the rehearsal?’ I asked Chloë.
‘Fine. I think it’ll all go very well tomorrow. Are you happy with your reading?’
‘Yes. I’ve been practising.’
‘That’s good. So …’ She clapped her hands together, beaming. ‘Let’s see the portrait!’ She turned to Vittoria. ‘It’s very exciting.’
‘It is exciting,’ Vittoria agreed.
I went to the rack, took out Nate’s canvas and placed it on the easel.
Chloë and her future mother-in-law stood in front of the portrait, side by side.
In the silence that followed, I was aware of the soft roar of the traffic, and of the distant wail of a siren. After a few seconds had passed I began to think it would be nice if they said something. Of course, coming from Florence Vittoria would have high standards, I reasoned; but while I wouldn’t claim to be up there with Raphael or Leonardo, I was pretty sure that I’d done a good job. But Vittoria and Chloë’s continuing silence seemed only to confirm that they were disappointed. My heart sank.
Vittoria put her head on one side as she studied the picture. ‘Piacevole,’ she said at last. ‘Pleasant’, I silently translated. She thinks the portrait is ‘pleasant’. ‘Molto piacevole,’ Vittoria added as she studied it. ‘Very pleasant’. Great, I thought. ‘È un buon ritratto – a good portrait. Brava, Ella,’ she concluded, and smiled at me.
I looked at Chloë’s profile as she contemplated the painting. ‘I agree with Vittoria,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s a … good portrait. Very good,’ she added firmly. ‘So … thank you, Ella. But … we have to go now.’
‘Won’t you have some tea?’
‘Oh. No …’ Chloë said. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have time – I need to take Vittoria back to her hotel, then I have to collect things from my flat and drive over to Richmond – and of course I want to have an early night tonight; But … thank you,’ she said again, with this stiff, dignified air, which wasn’t like Chloë at all. It was wedding nerves I told myself. She turned to go.
‘Aren’t you going to take the portrait?’ I asked her. ‘I thought you were going to give it to Nate tomorrow.’
Chloë glanced at the painting again, then coloured.
‘Oh … no. I think I’ll … wait.’
‘Until it’s been framed?’ I said. ‘Yes. Yes … that’s right.’
‘Fair enough.’ We went down the stairs. ‘So …’ I opened the front door then smiled my goodbyes. ‘I’ll see you both tomorrow.’
‘A domani,’ Vittoria replied. She reached for my hand and squeezed it – as if to console me, it occurred to me; then she smiled brightly. ‘Brava, Ella. So nice to meet you – arrivederci.’
‘ Arrivederci,’ I said. Then they left.
The next morning I woke early and lay in bed feeling not just depressed at the thought that this was Nate’s wedding day – but weighed down – as though someone had left a pile of bricks on my chest. I tried to distract myself by working – I finished the drawing of the doctor’s daughter text; then I sent Chloë a ‘Happy birthday’ text; then I looked at Nate’s portrait again, still standing on the easel. ‘Piacevole’, I murmured balefully. Vittoria’s verdict depressed me, and Chloë’s response had been barely more enthusiastic.
I showered, did my hair and make-up and, having scrubbed the last traces of paint off my hands, I polished my nails then got dressed.
At 12.45 I heard Polly beep her horn – she’d offered to drive me to the wedding. I ran downstairs, opened the door then waved as she parked her silver Golf.
She got out then opened the hatchback so that I could put my hat on the shelf. ‘Great dress,’ she said, with a glance at my fitted silk shift with its deep ruffle across the front. ‘I love lime green.’
‘Well … it’s suitably bright and joyous.’ Not that I felt either. ‘You look lovely, Pol.’ She was wearing a pink linen suit with flat silver sandals through which her toes, lacquered with candy pink polish, showed to perfection. I smiled at Lola, sitting in the back in a sky-blue linen dress, her long, fair hair twisted into a bun. ‘You look very grown up, Lola.’
‘Eleven is quite grown up,’ she pointed out gravely.
I went back into the house to fetch my bag and the book of poems. I locked up then, mindful of my tight seams, I lowered myself carefully on to the front seat of Polly’s car.
She pulled on her driving gloves. ‘Gorgeous day for it,’ she remarked as we drove away.
As we went through Putney I told Polly about Chloë and Vittoria’s visit.
‘I bet they loved the portrait,’ she said.
‘Erm … I don’t think they did.’
Polly glanced at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Chloë said that it was very good.’
‘Then that’s fine. I’m sure it’s wonderful,’ she added loyally.
‘But Nate’s mother just said that it was piacevole – i.e. “nice” – as though she thought I hadn’t done him justice.’
Polly put on her indicator. ‘Look, Ella – she’s his mum; she’d probably have said that if Michelangelo himself had painted him.’
‘You’ve got a point there. I’m being over-sensitive.’
‘That’s okay – you’re an artist.’
The traffic was surprisingly light, so we got to Richmond in good time. Polly parked outside the house, swapped her driving gloves for a pair of white lace ones, then we all got out. She opened the boot and passed me my hat.
‘Let’s have a quick look in the garden,’ I said.
The tent looked magnificent, the canvas a pristine white, the ‘ceiling’ a lining of pale calico that spangled with tiny mirrors. The poles were swathed in cream voile and laced with long coils of summer jasmine. Bone china and lead crystal gleamed on the linen-covered tables on each of which was a huge centrepiece of belladonna lilies.
Polly gave a low whistle. ‘It’s spectacular – isn’t it, Lola?’
Lola nodded. ‘So many flowers …’
In front of each place setting was a gold-tasselled menu, and a silk mesh bag of pink and white sugared almonds. I wondered if Chloë and Nate would smash a glass.
Through the open side of the tent I saw four uniformed caterers crossing the lawn, carrying a huge ice sculpture of a swan, anxiously supervised by my mother. They came into the tent and lowered it on to the large side table from which the drinks were to be served.
Mum looked up and saw us. ‘Polly!’ she exclaimed softly. ‘And Lola – you’ve grown since I last saw you. And what a terrific outfit, Ella – you all look beautiful.’
‘So do you, Sue,’ said Polly. ‘But it’s all … wonderful.’
‘Thank you,’ Mum gave Polly a gratified smile. ‘I must say I think the intensive planning’s paid off.’
‘I thought you’d be helping Chloë get dressed,’ I remarked to her.
Mum gave an odd little laugh. ‘She said she didn’t want me to. But as she’s got her hairdresser and a make-up artist with her, I thought I’d leave them to it and get on with things here. But I’ll walk to the church with Chloë and Roy.’
I glanced at my watch. ‘I think we’d better go.’
‘We’ll see you there,’ Polly said to Mum.
I put on my hat and we walked up the road to St Matthew’s. Nate was standing outside, looking so handsome in his morning suit and grey waistcoat that my heart contracted. As he saw me he smiled, and my heart flooded with longing. I walked up to him and congratulated him, then introduced Polly and Lola.
‘Great to meet you,’ he said to them. ‘This is my best man, James,’ he added as James appeared.
I smiled at him. ‘I hear you’ve written a great speech.’
‘Oh, it’s a humdinger.’ He clapped his hands. ‘I’m looking forward to it – after all, you’ve made me wait long enough for this day, pal,’
he joshed Nate. Nate gave him a good-natured grin.
‘You’re certainly going to have a big audience,’ I said to James.
He nodded. ‘There’s gonna be a huge crowd.’
By now that crowd was beginning to materialise as the guests rounded the corner in knots of two and three, then congregated by the porch. A woman with a camcorder and a big black bag slung over her shoulder was filming us while a man in a cream suit snapped away with an SLR.
‘Shall we go in now?’ I said to Polly.
‘Let’s.’
As we entered the church we could hear the organist playing ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’. I spotted Honeysuckle, wearing a black-and-white houndstooth suit and wide-brimmed black hat, chatting to Kay, who was in a blue-and-white floral patterned dress. I smiled at them and hoped that they’d both forgotten my rather intense behaviour at the engagement party. Honey’s husband Doug, who was an usher, handed Polly, Lola and I our Orders of Service, then we walked to the front of the church.
There were posies of sweet peas tied to the end of each pew; but as I saw the flowers on the altar I caught my breath – a tumbling mass of peonies, agapanthus, viburnum and tuberose – the overpowering scent of which brought to mind my mother’s Fracas.
‘Where should Lola and I sit, Ella?’ Polly whispered.
‘With me,’ I answered. ‘After twenty-nine years, you count as family.’
So the three of us sat in the second pew on the left-hand side, leaving the front pew for my mother and Roy. The soprano, Katarina, was already sitting there, looking through her music folder. The sun sliced through the stained-glass windows scattering coloured shards across the walls and floor.
Now Nate came and took his place at the front.
‘Well,’ said Polly as she looked at him. ‘You did say he was attractive.’ She glanced at me. ‘You enjoyed painting him, didn’t you?’
‘I did,’ I said neutrally.
‘He looks nervous,’ Lola observed.
‘He does rather,’ Polly murmured.
Nate didn’t look so much nervous as troubled, I reflected.
Across the aisle, a number of women, who, I assumed, were Nate’s sisters, were taking their places with their husbands and children; I could hear them chatting in a mixture of Italian and English.
– Che bella chiesa.
– I am so jet-lagged.
– Che bei fiori.
– Si, sono magnifici: I shoulda had lunch.
– Mamma dice che il ritratto é un disastro.
‘Are those all his relations?’ Polly asked me wonderingly.
‘I think they must be.’ I tried to work out why Nate’s mother should think the portrait a ‘disastro’. It wasn’t a disaster – it was a good, vibrant portrait. She and Chloë obviously hadn’t liked the composition. Now here his mother was, in an emerald-green two-piece with a navy hat and shoes. As she stepped into her pew I smiled at her and she smiled back then fixed her gaze on the altar. I turned and had a quick look behind. The central part of the church was now full.
A friend of Chloë’s, in a beige silk dress, teetered past on six-inch black stilettos: for a moment she looked as though she might fall.
‘She needs stabilisers,’ I murmured to Polly. ‘Or maybe a Zimmer frame.’
Polly nodded. ‘In the seventeenth century the aristocrats used to wear heels so high that they’d have a servant on either side, holding them up as they walked along.’
‘How sensible …’ I opened the book of poems.
Polly glanced at it. ‘Are you nervous?’
‘Very. I haven’t read anything in public since I was at school: by the way, how’s it going with the nice dad?’
‘Fine.’ Polly smiled. ‘He’s coming to lunch tomorrow.’
‘Good. Have you told him what you do for a living yet?’
‘I have, and it’s not a problem. In fact—’
Suddenly the organ stopped and the hubbub subsided. The vicar, Reverend Hughes, had stepped out on to the altar. He lifted his hands and we all stood up.
He smiled. ‘May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all …’
‘And also with you,’ we intoned.
I turned and saw, across the sea of hats, Chloë silhouetted against the west doors of the church, with Roy beside her, and behind her Mum, who was making some last-minute adjustment to Chloë’s dress. Then the ‘Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’ sounded, and Chloë stepped forward.
As Chloë processed slowly up the aisle on Roy’s arm, my mother walked quickly up the left side of the church and slipped into the pew in front of us. Now Chloë was passing us, gloriously beautiful in her forget-me-not scattered tulle, an organza stole shimmering over her slender shoulders, her hair wound into a chignon and dressed with a gardenia. In her hands was a simple spray of white roses. Nate’s niece Claudia, in a pale-blue dress and matching ballet shoes, followed a few feet behind.
I glanced at Nate as Chloë approached the altar. I’d often tortured myself by imagining his delighted pride at this moment, but in his face I could see only tension and anxiety. As Chloë drew level with him he smiled at her, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. If Chloë had noticed this, her features didn’t betray it. As she turned to hand Claudia her bouquet she wore an expression of ineffable serenity. Claudia took the flowers then clambered into the third pew to sit with her parents while Roy came and stood next to Mum.
The Handel drew to a thundering close. The vicar let the last reverberations subside, then he welcomed us all to St Matthew’s to witness the marriage of Chloë and Nathan, to pray for God’s blessing on them and to share their joy. Then he announced the first hymn – ‘Praise My Soul the King of Heaven’. As we sang it, Katarina’s exquisite voice soared above all of ours.
During the last verse I saw Nate lift his eyes to the altar. Chloë looked very solemn. Then the hymn ended and we all sat down.
‘And now the first reading,’ said Reverend Hughes, ‘which is read by Chloë’s sister, Gabriella.’
My heart pounding, I stepped out of the pew and went up to the eagle-shaped lectern. I placed the book on it.
‘“The Good Morrow”,’ I said. ‘By John Donne.’ I lifted my head. The sea of faces was a blur. ‘I wonder by my troth what thou and I did, till we loved. Were we not wean’d till then? …’ As I read on, I could feel Nate’s gaze upon me, but was aware that Chloë was staring straight ahead. ‘And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love, all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere …’ I paused. ‘My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears …’ At that I saw Chloë turn and look at me. ‘And true, plaine hearts do in the faces rest. Where can we find two better hemispheres Without sharp north, without declining west? …’
I read on to the end, then returned to the pew, my knees shaking.
Polly put her gloved hand on mine. ‘Well done,’ she whispered.
Now the vicar was declaring the gift of marriage to be a way of life made holy by God, and a sign of unity and loyalty which all should honour and uphold. ‘No one,’ he went on, ‘should enter into it lightly or selfishly, but reverently and responsibly in the sight of almighty God.’ He lifted his hands. ‘First, I am required to ask if there is anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now.’ I glanced at my mother. She was smiling serenely but her jaw was tight; then, as no one spoke, she relaxed.
The vicar looked at Chloë and Nate. ‘The vows you are about to take,’ he said intently, ‘are to be made in the presence of God, who is judge of all and knows all the secrets of our hearts; therefore if either of you knows a reason why you may not lawfully marry, declare it now.’
There was a silence, then the vicar joined Nate and Chloë’s hands. ‘Nathan,’ he said, ‘will you take Chloë to be your wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and protect her, and, forsaking all
others, be faithful to her, as long as you both shall live?’
Nate didn’t respond. I felt a sudden rush of hope, followed by a stab of shame. ‘I …’ he began. ‘I …’ he faltered again. Now he exhaled gently, as though breathing on glass. Then I heard him whisper, ‘I will.’
The vicar turned to Chloë. ‘Chloë, will you take Nathan to be your husband? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?’
Now Chloë hesitated as well: I decided that this must be because Nate had hesitated and she didn’t want to look too eager, or to show that she had listened to the question carefully and was giving it her fullest consideration, but by now ten seconds must have passed since she’d been asked it, then fifteen, then twenty … The silence in the church had intensified and thickened until it seemed to hum and throb. And by now at least a minute had gone by and the pews were creaking as people shifted in their seats.
‘Will you?’ Reverend Hughes tried again. His face was crimson, but still Chloë didn’t reply. She simply stood there, immobile, head bowed. People craned their necks to see what was happening. Suddenly Chloë’s shoulders began to shake. She was giggling – the emotion of the occasion had made her hysterical I thought. Then I realised that she wasn’t giggling. She was crying.
The vicar, clearly used to seeing brides weep on their wedding day, ignored her tears. ‘Chloë, will you take Nathan to be your husband?’ he pressed on. ‘Will you love him, comfort him, honour and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?’
Chloë’s drew in her breath, brokenly. Then there was another pause that seemed to stretch forever. ‘No,’ she whispered.
There was a collective gasp. Mum’s hand flew to her mouth.
‘But … Chloë?’ The vicar’s face was beaded with sweat.
She looked at him imploringly, then her face crumpled. ‘I … can’t,’ she sobbed; then she glanced at Nate, who was staring at her, his jaw slack. She let go of his hand. ‘I’m … sorry, Nate.’