The Very Picture of You

by Isabel Wolff

Reverend Hughes whispered something to them both, and they nodded. I heard Chloë sniffle. Nate reached into his top pocket and gave her his silk handkerchief, which she pressed to her face. Mr Hughes cleared his throat, loudly, then addressed us. ‘There will now be a slight change to the proceedings,’ he announced. ‘Miss Katarina Sopuchova will sing “Ave Maria” while I go into the sacristy with Chloë and Nate for a brief chat. Thank you for your patience.’

  The organist played the opening arpeggios of the Bach-Gounod as Katarina walked up the altar steps.

  A-ve Ma-ri-a … she sang as Chloë and Nate followed the vicar. Plenum gratia … Suddenly Chloë stopped and, to my surprise, turned and beckoned for me to come with her. Dominus te-cum …

  I stood up, and so did Mum, but Roy whispered to her to sit down again which, with clear reluctance, she did. Benedicta tu in mulierbus …

  I followed Chloë and Nate to the sacristy, which was down a short passage to the left of the altar. Et benedictus fructis …

  On the table the thick, leather-bound Marriage Register was open, awaiting Chloë and Nate’s signatures. Chloë sat down, her cheeks gleaming with tears, while Nate sat next to her, staring at her in bewilderment. … ventris tui, lesus …

  I closed the thick oak door and Katarina’s singing faded.

  ‘Chloë,’ said the vicar, ‘would you please tell me what this is about?’ She didn’t answer. He turned to Nate. ‘Do you know?’

  Nate gave a slow shake of the head. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Is it just wedding nerves?’ Reverend Hughes asked Chloë. She shook her head bleakly. ‘But yesterday, after the rehearsal, you told me that you were looking forward to marrying Nate, and so …’ He turned up his palms. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Chloë ran the handkerchief under her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she croaked. I should have called it off last night – or even this morning – but I didn’t have the guts. I told myself that it was too late, and that I’d simply have to go through with it, then decide what to do afterwards. But now that I’m here, and I have to say those words in front of all our friends and family, not to mention God, I just … can’t’

  The vicar blinked. ‘Why can’t you?’

  ‘Because …’ Chloë sniffed. ‘Because … yesterday I discovered something.’ She swallowed painfully. ‘I discovered something about my mother that—’

  Suddenly we heard footsteps, then the door swung open, its hinges creaking, and Mum appeared, Roy just behind her.

  Sancta Maria … we heard.

  ‘Chloë!’ Mum’s eyes were blazing.

  Sanc-ta Mar-i-a …

  Roy shut the door.

  ‘What are you playing at, Chloë?’ Mum demanded hoarsely.

  Chloë glared at her. ‘Go away! You’ve done enough harm!’

  Mum recoiled as though from a slap, then recovered her composure. ‘No,’ she said calmly. ‘I won’t go away – not when this wedding has cost forty thousand pounds—’

  ‘Don’t, Sue,’ Roy interjected, but Mum ignored him. ‘– and when I’ve slaved to make it an unforgettable day.’

  ‘Well, it certainly will be now,’ Roy said dismally.

  ‘Whatever are you thinking, Chloë?’ Mum persisted.

  Chloë clutched the handkerchief in both hands. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m thinking.’ She blinked away a tear. ‘I’m thinking of how you’ve interfered, Mum, and manoeuvred and … manipulated.’

  Mum pursed her lips. ‘The word you should really be using here is “helped”; you clearly have no idea what—’

  ‘Please, Mrs Graham,’ the vicar interrupted. He turned back to Chloë. ‘Chloë, can you please explain what’s happened since yesterday to make you do this?’

  ‘Chloë nodded bleakly, then pressed the hanky to her eyes. ‘What’s happened is that late last night I found out something about my mother, something that … well, it changes everything.’ At that Roy emitted a low groan.

  ‘What do you mean, Chloë?’ the vicar asked.

  ‘I was once very happy with someone,’ Chloë replied. ‘He was called Max, and I loved him – and he loved me.’

  ‘Not enough!’ Mum spat.

  Chloë ignored her. ‘But the problem was that he was married.’

  ‘Don’t tell everyone!’ Mum implored her.

  Chloë glared at her. ‘And my mother was so disapproving – as you’ve just seen. She kept telling me that I had to stop seeing Max because he wasn’t going to leave his wife, and what I was doing was wrong and in any case I was wasting my time, because it would never, never, ever work out.’

  ‘It didn’t!’ Mum said triumphantly.

  ‘No it didn’t,’ Chloë agreed miserably. ‘But it would have done if you’d just left me alone, because now Max and Sylvia have split up.’

  But Chloë had known this for weeks: Roy had told me that she’d been fine about it, so why would it bother her now?

  Chloë looked at the vicar her eyes red-rimmed. ‘I’m not expecting you to approve of any of this,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m just trying to explain …’

  Reverend Hughes’s brow furrowed. ‘So, you feel that your mother stopped you from being with Max.’

  ‘She did.’ Chloë’s eyes had filled again. ‘Because she persuaded me to end the relationship – and it broke my heart.’

  ‘How old were you then, Chloë?’ he asked her.

  ‘Twenty-seven – so, yes, more fool me for listening to her at that age. But I trusted her, and believed that she was acting only in my best interests.’

  ‘I was!’ Mum protested. ‘Of course I was.’

  Chloë shook her head. ‘But last night I discovered something about my mother that made me realise that she hadn’t acted in my best interests at all.’

  Mum blenched. ‘Whatever are you talking about?’

  Chloë stared at her coldly then turned back to the vicar. ‘Over dinner, Mum and I had a row. She said, yet again, how happy she was about the wedding, and how thankful she was that I’d “seen the light” about my “awful relationship” with Max – and she was rude about him. I became very upset. But after she’d gone to bed, Dad tried to calm me down. And he told me where this obsessive attitude of my mother’s comes from. He said that it was because she’d had a long affair with a married man – Ella’s father, John.’ Mum looked at Roy, aghast. ‘Yet Mum’s always made out that she was his poor abandoned wife.’

  Mum sank on to a chair. ‘What have you done, Roy?’ she whispered.

  ‘What have you done, Sue,’ he countered quietly, ‘in not being honest with us all these years? Ella learned it only very recently, from John, in an e-mail – he had no idea that she didn’t know. A few days ago, she told me. And last night l told Chloë.’ He closed his eyes. ‘And now I wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ Chloë exclaimed.

  Reverend Hughes heaved an exasperated sigh. ‘I still don’t understand why this should have such a bearing on today, Chloë.’

  She looked at him desperately. ‘It’s because last night everything fell into place. I finally understood why my mother had been so relentlessly negative about Max – it was because my relationship with him reminded her of her own failed relationship with Ella’s father. She was transferring all her stored-up bitterness about John on to him.’

  ‘No!’ said Mum. ‘I was trying to protect you.’

  ‘I was an adult!’ Chloë retorted. ‘I didn’t need your protection, and now I realise how much damage your “protection” has done. Not just because you stopped me being with someone I loved, but because you’ve pushed and pushed for this wedding to happen.’ I saw Nate incline his head.

  Mum sniffed. ‘You didn’t have to agree to it – did you?’

  Chloë stared at her. ‘That’s true – but you’re so persuasive, and Nate’s a nice man, and I was desperate to try and forget Max and move on and so I allowed myself to get swept up by your plans, and I wish to God I hadn’t,’ Chloë wailed. ‘Because then there would have been enough t
ime to avoid this … mess that I’m in now!’ She buried her face in her hands.

  ‘You’ve heard from Max again,’ Mum said quietly. ‘That’s what this is about.’ Chloë nodded. Mum’s lips compressed. ‘When?’

  Chloë looked up, her cheeks shining with tears. ‘The night of the engagement party,’ she replied thickly. ‘He phoned me to tell me that he and Sylvia had finally separated.’ I realised that that was why Chloë had been so upset when she’d showed me out that night. ‘Max knew that I was engaged, but he desperately wanted to see me again before it was too late. So I did see him.’ Chloë looked at Nate. ‘It was when you were in Finland. We only talked,’ she added. ‘Nothing else. But …’ She twisted the hanky in her fingers. ‘Seeing Max again made me wish that I could be with him.’ So that’s when Chloë had had her ‘wobble’ I reflected. ‘I was dreadfully torn,’ she went on. ‘So I saw Max again: it was on that Sunday when you said that you’d bumped into Ella, Nate. I’d told you that I was going to see Mum and Dad – but I was with Max. I hated lying to you, but I knew that I had to see him just one more time, in order to decide. And I told him that it was too late: because I’d made a commitment to you.

  ‘You certainly had,’ Mum said.

  Chloë ignored her. ‘I thought about all Nate’s good qualities,’ she went on. ‘I’d repeat them to myself over and over. I’d tell myself how lucky I was to be with him.’

  The vicar frowned. ‘But you said that to me only yesterday, Chloë. After the rehearsal.’

  Chloë looked at him desperately. ‘I did. But there was a big problem that I didn’t know about. Because the thing is that …’ Suddenly the door opened and Nate’s mother came in, with James and Honey. ‘You see, the thing is …’ She turned up her palms. ‘That Nate doesn’t love me.’

  Mum gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Of course Nate loves you. He asked you to marry him.’

  ‘No.’ Chloë shook her head. ‘I asked him. We were in Quaglino’s, celebrating my promotion – we’d had a bottle of champagne, and I suddenly said, “Why don’t we get married?” I said it as a kind of joke – we’d only known each other four months – but to my surprise Nate said, “Okay – why don’t we?” Then that night, at the auction, we told you about it, Mum, and before we knew what was happening you’d not only set the date, you’d made half the arrangements. You’ve controlled this wedding, Mum – you’ve controlled the whole show!’

  ‘Why shouldn’t you get married?’ Mum countered. ‘You’re twenty-nine – Nate’s nearly thirty-seven! And love isn’t everything at the start of a marriage. Love grows.’

  ‘That’s what I told myself.’ Chloë sniffed. ‘But I knew that I didn’t feel for Nate a fraction of what I’d ever felt for Max.’

  ‘How can you say such hurtful things in front of Nate?’ Mum demanded.

  ‘Because I know I’m not hurting him,’ Chloë replied. ‘And that’s not just because, as I say, Nate doesn’t love me.’ She swallowed. ‘It’s because I know that he loves someone else. And I had no idea until yesterday afternoon; it was only then that I realised that Nate loves …’ She gave a bewildered little laugh. ‘Nate loves …’

  ‘Ella,’ Vittoria said. ‘Nate loves Ella.’ She looked at him. ‘Don’t you, Nate? Tu ami Ella?’ Nate didn’t answer. My cheeks burned as everyone turned their gaze on me. ‘I saw it,’ Vittoria went on; ‘I saw it in the ritratto – the portrait; it’s there, Nate, in your eyes, in the way that you’re gazing at Ella as she paints you. I saw it at once. And I could see that Chloë had seen it too – but then it’s quite unmistakable – no one could have missed it.’ I had missed it, I realised. Still Nate didn’t respond. ‘And I felt very sad for Chloë,’ Vittoria continued. ‘I felt sad for you, too, Nate, because I knew it would be a disaster for you to marry Chloë when you were clearly in love with her sister. But I couldn’t say so, because it was too late.’ She shrugged. ‘But you do love Ella.’

  Mum turned to me. ‘What have you done, Ella?’ she demanded coldly. ‘Were you so jealous of Chloë, that you had to use the sittings to try and—’

  ‘Ella’s done nothing,’ Nate said sharply. It was the first time he’d spoken and we all turned to him. ‘All she did was to paint me, and talk to me,’ he said. ‘But yes … we got on … well.’

  Mum gave Nate a basilisk stare. ‘Then why did you go ahead with the wedding if it’s Ella that you love?’

  ‘Because … I’m not a flake,’ Nate answered. ‘I wasn’t about to cancel my wedding on the basis that I’d spent a total of fifteen hours with Ella – especially as I had no real idea what she thought of me!’

  A silence fell, then Honey gave a little cough. ‘She’s nuts about you, sweetie.’ We all looked at Honey. ‘I didn’t tell you that,’ Honey went on. ‘I didn’t feel that I could, given that you were about to marry Chloë. But I saw it at the engagement party – in the close attention that she’d paid to everything you’d ever said to her; and in the little glances that she’d throw you.’ I felt my pulse race. ‘And I felt so sorry for her.’ Honey turned to me. ‘But I don’t feel sorry for you now, Ella, because I think that everything’s going to be all right.’

  ‘Well …’ said Reverend Hughes. ‘I assume that the upshot of this discussion is that Chloë and Nate are not now to be married.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Chloë quietly. ‘Isn’t it, Nate?’ She turned to look at him, and he nodded.

  Mum’s face crumpled. ‘There are one hundred and eighty-nine people out there.’ It was the ‘nine’ that seemed to bother her.

  Roy straightened his shoulders. ‘Then we need to tell them what’s happening.’

  He spoke to Reverend Hughes, then we all went back into the church, where by now Katarina had finished Panis Angelicus and was halfway through Rossini’s ‘Stabat Mater’. The organist brought the piece to an end then Katarina returned to the front pew, her face pink with exertion from her unexpectedly lengthy recital.

  The vicar cleared his throat. ‘We’re sorry to have kept you all waiting,’ he said. ‘But we’ve been having a very important conversation, the conclusion of which is that Chloë and Nate have decided that they’re not, after all, to get married.’ There were whispered exclamations as everyone reacted to this news. ‘They both recognise that marriage is too profound a commitment to make where there are doubts,’ the Reverend went on. ‘However, Roy has asked me to point out that today is Chloë’s birthday, and he hopes you’ll all come back to the house, as planned, and celebrate that instead.’

  Everyone was shifting in their pews, some were laughing, out of shock. ‘What happened?’ Polly whispered as everyone stood up to leave. ‘Did Chloë just get cold feet? But what a disaster,’ she added.

  ‘No it’s not a disaster,’ I said, my spirits soared.

  As I walked out of the church into the bright sunshine Vittoria approached me. She touched my arm. ‘Now I can tell you what I really think of your portrait of Nate,’ she said quietly. ‘I think that it is … fantastico!’ I wanted to kiss her, but simply gave her a grateful smile. I glanced at Honey, and wanted to kiss her too. Then I looked at Nate, and felt my heart expand. But I left him to walk to the house with Honey and James, who looked disappointed not to be making his speech. My mother walked beside Roy, doing her best to retain an air of dignity, but her face was a mask of shock and dismay.

  When we reached the house Mum didn’t come into the garden with everyone else – instead she opened the front door and went in, closing it behind her: through the hall window I saw her walk slowly upstairs, leaning on the handrail.

  I went into the tent where Roy was pouring the champagne. Next to him the ice swan was dripping into its tray. Then I went into the kitchen to help the bemused-looking caterers. Chloë was standing by the French windows, next to the trolley on which was the five-tiered wedding cake. She gazed at the guests milling in and out of the tent, then she went to the dresser and picked up the phone. As she began to dial, I knew who she was calling. And I knew too why she�
�d chosen the forget-me-not-scattered dress: because she’d been drawn to its story of a love that had been ruptured and then restored.

  EPILOGUE

  15 September 2010

  I am at the Eastcote Gallery, on the King’s Road, putting the finishing touches to my exhibition, which will open in five minutes’ time. The twenty-five paintings are all on the white-painted walls; most of them collected with the help of Rafael, whose red crayon portrait hangs next to that of David Walliams. There are pictures of P. D. James, Cecilia Bartoli, and, courtesy of the National Portrait Gallery, the Duchess of Cornwall. The biggest painting is the one of the Berger family, which takes up most of the back wall. There are portraits of Polly and Lola, of Roy and Mum, Celine, Mike, Chloë, and a dozen more. Surrounded by their faces, I feel that the party has already begun.

  The gallery assistant, a pretty dark-haired woman called Lucy, is pouring the wine – just in time, as my first guest is arriving. Iris stands framed in the doorway, leaning lightly on her stick; she is wearing her blue suit and her lapis beads. I cross the pale wooden floor and greet her with a kiss.

  ‘Many happy returns, Ella,’ she says. ‘And many congratulations!’

  ‘Thank you, Iris. I’m glad you’re the first – this was your idea, remember.’

  ‘I do.’ She looks around. ‘What lovely paintings – I shall enjoy looking at them and meeting the people behind them.’

  ‘You’re over there, on the other side of that screen.’ I take Iris to her portrait, which I collected from the framer only yesterday.

  As we study it, Iris tilts her head. ‘I like it. I feel that it’s … me. I loved being painted,’ she goes on. ‘It made me really think about who I am, and how I’ve lived my life. And I didn’t cry, did I?’

  ‘No. I did though.’

  ‘You did,’ says Iris thoughtfully. ‘I’m glad that in our later sittings you chose to tell me why.’

  Lucy brings us both a glass of wine. She looks at Iris, then at the canvas. ‘It’s a lovely likeness – and you look very distinguished.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Iris says.