Isabel Wolff
The Very Picture of You

Dedication

For my parents in-law, Eva and John

Epigraph

Are we to paint what is on the face, what’s inside the

face, or what’s behind it?

Pablo Picasso

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

‘Ella…? El-la?’ My mother’s voice floats up the stairs as…

One

‘Sorry about this,’ the radio reporter, Clare, said to me…

Two

‘I will be keeping the sittings to a minimum,’ I…

Three

‘Ella?’ said Chloë over the phone a few days later.

Four

On the morning of Good Friday I prepared for my…

Five

On Saturday morning I decided to give the studio a…

Six

‘Thanks for coming with me,’ Chloë said the following Thursday…

Seven

‘Wasn’t the party fun?’ Mum said the following Saturday morning.

Eight

‘Haven’t seen you for a while,’ said the taxi driver…

Nine

I spent most of Saturday engrossed in Grace’s painting –…

Ten

I read my father’s e-mail again and again. As I…

Eleven

‘So you had a good time?’ Roy asked when I…

Epilogue

I am at the Eastcote Gallery, on the King’s Road,…

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise

Other books by the Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Richmond, 23 July 1986

‘Ella…? El-la?’ My mother’s voice floats up the stairs as I sit hunched over my sketchpad, my hand moving rapidly across the cartridge paper. ‘Where are you?’ Gripping the pencil I make the nose a little more defined then shade in the eyebrows. ‘Could you answer me?’ Now for the hair. Fringe? Swept back? I can’t remember. ‘Gabri-el-la?’ And I know I can’t ask. ‘Are you in your room, darling?’ As I hear my mother’s light, ascending tread I stroke a soft fringe across the forehead, smudge it to add thickness, then swiftly darken the jaw. As I appraise the drawing I tell myself that it’s a good likeness. At least I think it is. How can I know? His face is now so indistinct that perhaps I only ever saw it in a dream. I close my eyes, and it isn’t a dream. I can see him. It’s a bright day and I’m walking along and I can feel the warmth rising from the pavement and the sun on my face, and his big, dry-feeling hand enclosing mine. I can hear the slap of my sandals and the click-clack of my mother’s heels and I can see her white skirt with its sprigs of red flowers.

He’s smiling down at me. ‘Ready, Ella?’ As his fingers tighten around mine I feel a rush of happiness. ‘Here we go. One, two, three…’ My tummy turns over as I’m lifted. ‘Wheeeeeee…!’ they both sing as I sail through the air. ‘One, two, three – and up she goes! Wheeeeeeeeee…!’ I hear them laugh as I land.

‘More!’ I stamp. ‘More! More!’

‘Okay. Let’s do a big one.’ He grips my hand again. ‘Ready, sweetie?’

‘I rea-dee!’

‘Right then. One, two, three and… u-u-u-u-u-p!’

My head goes back and the blue dome of the sky swings above me, like a bell. But as I fall back to earth, I feel his fingers slip away and when I turn and look for him, he’s gone…

‘There you are,’ Mum is saying from my bedroom doorway. As I glance up at her I quickly slide my hand over the sketch. ‘Would you go and play with Chloë? She’s in the Wendy house.’

‘I’m… doing something.’

‘Please, Ella.’

‘I’m too old for the Wendy house – I’m eleven.’

‘I know darling, but it would help me if you could entertain your little sister for a while, and she loves you to play with her…’ As my mother tucks a strand of white-blonde hair behind one ear I think how pale and fragile-looking she is, like porcelain. ‘And I’d rather you were outside on such a warm day.’ I will her to go back downstairs; instead, to my alarm, she is walking towards me, her eyes on the pad. I quickly flip the page over to a fresh sheet. ‘So you’re drawing?’ My mother’s voice is, as usual, soft and low. ‘Can I see?’ She holds out her hand.

‘No… not now.’ I wish I’d torn out the sketch before she came in.

‘You never show me your pictures. Let me have a look, Ella.’ She reaches for the pad.

‘It’s… private, Mum – don’t…’

But she is already turning over the spiral-bound sheets. ‘What a lovely foxglove,’ she murmurs. ‘And these ivy leaves are perfect – so glossy; and that’s an excellent one of the church. The stained glass must have been tricky but you’ve done it brilliantly.’ My mother shakes her head in wonderment then gives me a smile; but as she turns to the next page her face clouds.

Through the open window I can hear a plane, its distant roar like the tearing of paper.

‘It’s a study,’ I explain. ‘For a portrait.’ My pulse is racing.

‘Well…’ Mum nods. ‘It’s… very good.’ Her hand trembles as she closes the book. ‘I had no idea that you could draw so well.’ She puts it back on the table. ‘You really… capture things,’ she adds quietly. A muscle at the corner of her mouth flexes but then she smiles again. ‘So…’ She claps her hands. ‘I’ll play with Chloë if you’re busy, then we’ll all watch the royal wedding. I’ve put the TV on so that we don’t miss the start. You could draw Fergie’s dress.’

I shrug. ‘Maybe…’

‘We’ll have a sandwich lunch while we watch. Is cheese and ham okay?’ I nod. ‘Actually, could make coronation chicken – that would be very suitable, wouldn’t it!’ she adds with sudden gaiety. ‘I’ll call you when it starts.’ She walks towards the door.

I take a deep breath. ‘So have I captured him?’ My mother seems not to have heard me. ‘Does it look like him?’ I try again. She stiffens visibly. The sound of the plane has dissolved now into silence. ‘Does my drawing look like my dad?’

I hear her inhale, then her slim shoulders sag and I suddenly see how expressive a person’s back can be. ‘Yes, it does,’ she answers softly.

‘Oh. Well…’ I say as she turns to face me. ‘That’s good. Especially as I don’t really remember him any more. And I don’t even have a photo of him, do I?’ I can hear sparrows squabbling in the flower beds. ‘Are there any photos, Mum?’

‘No,’ she says evenly.

‘But…’ My heart is racing. ‘Why not?’

‘Because… there just… aren’t. I’m sorry, Ella. I know it’s not easy. But…’ She shrugs, as if she’s as frustrated by it as I am. ‘I’m afraid that’s just… how it is.’ She pauses for a moment, as if to satisfy herself that the conversation has ended. ‘Now, would you like tomato in your sandwich?’

‘But you must have some photos of him?’

‘Ella…’ My mother’s voice remains low, but then she rarely raises it. ‘I’ve already told you – I don’t. I’m sorry, darling. Now I really do have to—’

‘What about when you got married?’ I imagine a white leather album with my parents smiling in every photo, my father darkly handsome in grey, my mother’s veil floating around her china-doll face.

She blinks, slowly. ‘I did have some photos, yes – but I don’t have them any more.’

‘But there must be others. I only need one.’ I pick up my heart-shaped rubber and flex it between my thumb and forefinger. ‘I’d like to put his photo on the sideboard. There’s that empty silver frame I could use.’

Her large blue eyes widen. ‘But… that simply wouldn’t do.’

‘Oh. Then I’d buy a frame of my own: I’ve got some pocket money. Or I could make one, or you could give me one for my birthday.’

‘It’s not the frame, Ella.’ My mother seems helpless suddenly. ‘I meant that I wouldn’t want to have his photo on the sideboard – or anywhere else, for that matter.’

My heart is thudding. ‘Why not?’

‘Because…’ She throws up her hands. ‘He’s not part of our lives, Ella, as you very well know – and he hasn’t been for a long time, so it would be confusing, especially for Chloë – he wasn’t her father; and it wouldn’t be very nice for Roy. And Roy’s been so good to you,’ she hurries on. ‘He’s been a father to you, hasn’t he – a wonderful father.’

‘Yes – but he isn’t my real one.’ My face has gone hot. ‘I’ve got a “real” father, Mum, and his name is John I don’t know where he is, or why I don’t see him and I don’t know why you never ever talk about him.’ Her lips have become a thin line, but I’m not going to stop. ‘I haven’t seen him since I was… I don’t even know that. Was I three?’

My mother folds her slim arms and her gold bangle gently clinks against her watch. ‘You were almost five,’ she answers softly. ‘But you know, Ella, I’d say that the person who does the fathering is the father, and Roy does everything that any father could do, whereas… John… well…’ She lets the sentence drift.

‘But I’d still like a photo of him. I could keep it here, in my room, so that no one else would have to see it – it would just be for me. Good,’ I add quickly. ‘So that’s settled then.’

‘Ella… I’ve already told you, I don’t have any photos of him.’

‘Why… not?’

She heaves a painful sigh. ‘They got… lost…’ She glances out of the window. ‘…when we moved down here.’ She returns her gaze to me. ‘Not everything came with us.’

I stare at her. ‘But those photos should have come. It’s mean,’ I add angrily. ‘It’s mean that you didn’t keep just one of them for me!’ I am on my feet now, one hand on my chair to steady myself against the clamour in my ribcage. ‘And why don’t you talk about him? You never, ever talk about him!’

My mother’s pale cheeks are suddenly pink – as if I’d brushed a swirl of rose madder on to each one. ‘It’s… too… difficult, Ella.’

‘Why?’ I try to swallow, but there’s a knife in my throat. ‘All you ever say is that he’s out of our lives and that it’s better that way, so I don’t know what happened…’ Tears of frustration sting my eyes. ‘Or why he left us…’ My mother’s features have blurred. ‘Or if I’ll ever see him again.’ A tear spills on to my cheek. ‘So that’s why – that’s why I—’ In a flash I’m on the floor, reaching under the bed, and dragging out my box. It has Ravel printed on it and Mum’s best boots came in it. I get to my feet and place it on the bed. My mother looks at it, then, with an anxious glance at me she sits down next to it and lifts off the lid…

The first drawing is a recent one, in pen and ink with white pastel on his nose, hair and cheekbones. I was pleased with it because I’d only just learned how to highlight properly. Then she takes out three pencil sketches of him that I’d done in the spring, in which, with careful cross-hatching, I’d managed to get depth and expressiveness into the eyes. Beneath that are ten or twelve older drawings in which the proportions are all wrong – his mouth too small or his brow too wide or the curve of the ear set too high. Then come five sketches in which there is no hint of any contouring, his face as flat and round as a plate. Mum lifts out several felt-tip images of my dad standing with her and me in front of a red-brick house with a flight of black steps up to the dark green front door. Then come some bright poster-colour paintings in each of which he’s driving a big blue car. Now Mum lifts out a collage of him with pipe cleaners for limbs, mauve felt for his shirt and trousers and tufts of brown woollen hair that are crusted with glue. In the final few pictures Dad is barely more than a stick man. On these I have written, underneath, dad but on one of them the first ‘d’ is the wrong way round so that it says bad.

‘So many,’ my mother murmurs. She returns the pictures to the box, then she reaches for my hand and I sit down next to her. I hear her swallow. ‘I should have told you,’ she says quietly. ‘But I didn’t know how…’

‘But… why didn’t you? Tell me what?’

‘Because… it was… so awful.’ Her chin dimples with distress. ‘I was hoping to be able to leave it until you were older… but today… you’ve forced the issue.’ She presses her fingertips to her lips, blinks a few times then exhales with a sad, soughing sound. ‘All right,’ she whispers. Her hands drop to her lap and she takes a deep breath; and now, as the ‘Wedding March’ thunders out to us from Westminster Abbey she talks to me, at last, about my father. And, as she tells me what he did, I feel my world suddenly lurch, as though something big and heavy has just shunted into it…

We stay there for a while and I ask her some questions, which she answers. Then I ask her the same questions all over again. Then we go downstairs and I fetch Chloë in from the garden and we all sit in front of the TV and exclaim over Sarah Ferguson’s billowing silk dress with its seventeen-foot, bee-embroidered train. And the next day I take my box down to the kitchen and lift out the pictures. Then I thrust them all deep into the bin.

ONE

‘Sorry about this,’ the radio reporter, Clare, said to me early this evening as she fiddled with her small audio recorder. She tucked a hank of Titian red hair behind one ear. ‘I just need to check that the machine’s recorded everything… there seems to be a gremlin…’

‘Don’t worry…’ I stole an anxious glance at the clock. I’d need to leave soon.

‘I really appreciate your time.’ Clare lifted out the tiny batteries with perfectly manicured fingers. I glanced at my stained ones. ‘But with radio you need to record quite a lot.’

‘Of course.’ How old was she? I’d been unsure to start with, as she was very made up. Thirty-five I now decided – my age. ‘I’m glad to be included,’ I added as she slotted the batteries back in and snapped the machine shut.

‘Well, I’d already heard of you, and then I read that piece about you in The Times last month…’ I felt my stomach clench. ‘And I thought you’d be perfect for my programme – if I can just get this damn thing to work…’ Even through the foundation I could see Clare’s cheeks flush as she stabbed at the buttons. And when did you first realise that you were going to be a painter? ‘Phew…’ She clapped her hand to her chest. ‘It’s still there.’ I knew I wanted to be a painter from eight or nine… She smiled. ‘I was worried that I’d erased it.’ I simply drew and painted all the time … Now, as she pressed ‘fast forward’, my voice became a Minnie Mouse squeak then slowed again to normal. Painting’s always been, in a way, my… solace. ‘Great,’ she said as I scratched a blob of dried Prussian blue off my paint-stiffened apron. ‘We can carry on.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Can you spare another twenty minutes?’

My heart sank. She’d already been here for an hour and a half – most of which had been spent in idle chatter or in sorting out her tape recorder. But being in a Radio 4 documentary might lead to another commission, so I quelled my frustration. ‘That’s fine.’

She picked up her microphone then glanced around the studio. ‘This must be a nice place to work.’

‘It is… That’s why I bought the house, because of this big attic. Plus the light’s perfect – it faces north-east.’

‘And you have a glorious view!’ Clare laughed. Through the two large dormer windows loomed the massive rust-coloured rotunda of Fulham’s Imperial Gas Works. ‘Actually, I like industrial architecture,’ she added quickly, as if worried that she might have offended me.

‘So do I – I think gas containers have a kind of grandeur; and on the other side I’ve got the old Lots Road Power Station. So, no, it’s not exactly green and pleasant, but I like the area and there are lots of artists and designers around here, so I feel at home.’

‘It’s a bit of a no-man’s land, though,’ Clare observed. ‘You have to trail all the way down the King’s Road to get here.’

‘True… but Fulham Broadway’s not far. In any case, I usually cycle everywhere.’

‘That’s brave of you. Anyway…’ She riffled through the sheaf of notes on the low glass table. ‘Where were we?’ I slid the pot of hyacinths aside to give her more room. ‘We started with your background,’ she said. ‘The Saturdays you spent as a teenager in the National Gallery copying old masters, the foundation course you did at the Slade; we talked about the painters you most admire – Rembrandt, Velázquez and Lucian Freud… I adore Lucian Freud.’ She gave a little shiver of appreciation. ‘So lovely and… fleshy.’

‘Very fleshy,’ I agreed.

‘Then we got to your big break with the BP Portrait Award four years ago—’

‘I didn’t win it,’ I interrupted. ‘I was a runner-up. But they used my painting on the poster for the competition, which led to several new commissions, which meant that I could give up teaching and start painting full time. So yes, that was a big step forward.’

‘And now the Duchess of Cornwall has put you right on the map!’

‘I… guess she has. I was thrilled when the National Portrait Gallery asked me to paint her.’

‘And that’s brought you some nice exposure.’ I flinched. ‘So have you had many famous sitters?’

I shook my head. ‘Most are “ordinary” people who simply like the idea of having themselves, or someone they love, painted; the rest are either in public life in one way or another, or have had a distinguished career which the portrait is intended to commemorate.’

‘So we’re talking about the great and the good then.’

I shrugged. ‘You could call them that – professors and politicians, captains of industry, singers, conductors… a few actors.’

Clare nodded at a small unframed painting hanging by the door. ‘I love that one of David Walliams – the way his face looms out of the darkness.’

‘That’s not the finished portrait,’ I explained. ‘He has that, of course. This is just the model I did to make sure that the close-up composition was going to work.’

‘It reminds me of Caravaggio,’ she mused. I wished she’d get on with it. ‘He looks a bit like Young Bacchus…’

‘I’m sorry, Clare,’ I interjected. ‘But can we…?’ I nodded at the tape recorder.

‘Oh – I keep chatting, don’t I! Let’s crack on.’ She lifted her headphones on to her coppery bob then held the microphone towards me. ‘So…’ She started the machine. ‘Why do you paint portraits, Ella, rather than, say, landscapes?’

‘Well… landscape painting’s very solitary,’ I replied. ‘It’s just you and the view. But with portraits you’re with another human being and that’s what’s always fascinated me.’ Clare nodded and smiled for me to expand. ‘I feel excited when I look at a person for the very first time. When they sit in front of me I drink in everything I can about them. I study the colour and shape of their eyes, the line of their nose, the shade and texture of the skin, the outline of the mouth. I’m also registering how they are, physically.’

‘You mean their body language?’

‘Yes. I’m looking at the way they tilt their head, and the way they smile; whether they look me in the eye, or keep glancing away; I’m looking at the way they fold their arms or cross their legs, or if they don’t sit on the chair properly but perch forward on it or slouch down into it – because all that will tell me what I need to know about that person to be able to paint them truthfully.’

‘But—’ a motorbike was roaring down the street. Clare waited for the noise to fade. ‘What does “truthfully” mean – that the portrait looks like the person?’

‘It ought to look like them.’ I rubbed a smear of chrome green off the palm of my hand. ‘But a good portrait should also reveal aspects of the sitter’s character. It should capture both an outer and an inner likeness.’

‘You mean body and soul?’

‘Yes… It should show the person, body and soul.’

Clare glanced at her notes again. ‘Do you work from photographs?’

‘No. I need to have the living person in front of me. I want to be able to look at them from every angle and to see the relationship between each part of their face. Above all, I need to see the way the light bounces off their features, because that’s what will give me the form and the proportions. Painting is all about seeing the light. So I work only from life, and I ask for six two-hour sittings.’

Clare’s green eyes widened. ‘That’s a big commitment – for you both.’

‘It is. But then a portrait is a significant undertaking, in which the painter and sitter are working together – there’s a complicity.’

She held the microphone a little closer. ‘And do your sitters open up to you?’ I didn’t reply. ‘I mean, there you are, on your own with them, for hours at a time. Do they confide in you?’

‘Well…’ I didn’t like to say that my sitters confide the most extraordinary things. ‘They do sometimes talk about their marriages or their relationships,’ I answered carefully. ‘They’ll even tell me about their tragedies, and their regrets. But I regard what happens during the sittings as not just confidential, but almost sacrosanct.’

‘It’s a bit like a confessional then?’ Clare suggested teasingly.

‘In a way it is. A portrait sitting is a very special space. It has an… intimacy: painting another human being is an act of intimacy.’

‘So… have you ever fallen in love with any of your sitters?’

I smiled. ‘Well, I did once fall in love with a dachshund that someone wanted in the picture, but I’ve never fallen for a human sitter, no.’ I didn’t add that as most of my male subjects were married they were, in any case, off-limits. I thought of the mess that Chloë had got herself into…

‘Is there any kind of person you particularly enjoy painting?’ Clare asked.

I was silent for a moment while I considered the question. ‘I suppose I’m drawn to people who are a little bit dark – who haven’t had happy-ever-after sort of lives. I like painting people who I feel are… complex.’

‘Why do you think that is?’

‘I… find it more interesting – to see that fight going on in the face between the conflicting parts of someone’s personality.’ I glanced at the clock. It was half past six. I had to go. ‘But… do you have enough material now?’

Clare nodded. ‘Yes, plenty.’ She lifted off her headphones, then smoothed down her hair. ‘But could I have a quick look at your work?’

‘Sure.’ I suppressed a sigh. ‘I’ll get my portfolio.’

As I fetched the heavy black folder from the other side of the studio, Clare walked over to my big studio easel and studied the canvas standing on it. ‘Who’s this?’

‘That’s my mother.’ I heaved the portfolio on to the table then came and stood next to her. ‘She popped by this morning so I did a bit more. It’s for her sixtieth birthday later this year.’

‘She’s beautiful.’

I looked at my mother’s round blue eyes with their large, exposed lids beneath perfectly arching eyebrows, at her sculpted cheekbones and her aquiline nose, and at her left hand resting elegantly against her breastbone. Her skin was lined, but time had otherwise been kind. ‘It’s almost finished.’

Clare cocked her head to one side. ‘She has… poise.’

‘She was a ballet dancer.’

‘Ah.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I remember now, it said so in that article about you.’ She looked at me. ‘And was she successful?’

‘Yes – she was with the English National Ballet, then with the Northern Ballet Theatre in Manchester – this was in the seventies. That’s her, actually, on the wall, over there…’

Clare followed my gaze to a framed poster of a ballerina in a full-length white tutu and bridal veil. ‘Giselle,’ Clare murmured. ‘How lovely… It’s such a touching story, isn’t it – innocence betrayed…’

‘It was my mother’s favourite role – that was in ’79. Sadly, she had to retire just a few months later.’

‘Why?’ Clare asked. ‘Because of having children?’

‘No – I was nearly five by then. It was because she was injured.’

‘In rehearsal?’

I shook my head. ‘At home. She fell, breaking her ankle.’

Clare’s brow pleated in sympathy. ‘How terrible.’ She looked at the portrait again, as if seeking signs of that disappointment in my mother’s face.

‘It was hard…’ I had a sudden memory of my mother sitting at the kitchen table in our old flat, her head in her hands. She used to stay like that for a long time.

‘What did she do then?’ I heard Clare ask.

‘She decided that we’d move to London; once she’d recovered enough she began a new career as a ballet mistress.’ Clare looked at me enquiringly. ‘It’s something that older or injured dancers often do. They work with a company, refreshing the choreography or rehearsing particular roles: my mother did this with the Festival Ballet for some years, then with Ballet Rambert.’

‘Does she still do that?’

‘No – she’s more or less retired. She teaches one day a week at the English National Ballet school, otherwise she mostly does charity work; in fact she’s organised a big gala auction tonight for Save the Children, which is why I’m pushed for time as I have to be there but in here—’ I went over to the table and opened the folder – ‘are the photos of all my portraits. There are about fifty.’

‘So it’s your Facebook,’ Clare said with a smile. She sat on the sofa again and began to browse the images. ‘Fisherman…’ she murmured. ‘That one’s on your website, isn’t it? Ursula Sleeping… Emma, Polly’s Face…’ Clare gave me a puzzled look. ‘Why did you call this one Polly’s Face – given that it’s a portrait?’

‘Oh, because Polly’s my best friend – we’ve known each other since we were six; she’s a hand and foot model and was jokingly complaining that no one ever showed any interest in her face, so I said I’d paint it.’

‘Ah…’

I pointed to the next image. ‘That’s Baroness Hale – the first woman Law Lord; this is Sir Philip Watts, a former Chairman of Shell.’

Clare turned the page again. ‘And there’s the Duchess of Cornwall. She looks rather humorous.’

‘She is, and that’s the quality I most wanted people to see.’

‘And did the Prince like it?’

I gave a shrug. ‘He seemed to. He said nice things about it when he came to the unveiling at the National Portrait Gallery last month.’

Clare turned to the next photo. ‘And who’s this girl with the cropped hair?’

‘That’s my sister, Chloë. She works for an ethical PR agency called PRoud, so they handle anything to do with fair trade, green technology, organic food and farming – that kind of thing.’

Clare nodded thoughtfully. ‘She’s very like your mother.’

‘She is – she has her fair complexion and ballerina physique.’ Whereas I am dark and sturdy, I reflected balefully – more Paula Rego than Degas.

Clare peered at the painting. ‘But she looks so… sad – distressed, almost.’

I hesitated. ‘She was breaking up with someone – it was a difficult time; but she’s fine now,’ I went on firmly. Even if her new boyfriend’s vile, I didn’t add.

My phone was ringing. I answered it.

‘Where are you?’ Mum demanded softly. ‘It’s ten to seven – nearly everyone’s here.’

‘Oh, sorry, but I’m not quite finished.’ I glanced at Clare, who was still flicking through the portfolio.

‘You said you’d come early.’

‘I know – I’ll be there in twenty minutes, promise.’ I hung up. I looked at Clare. ‘I’m afraid I have to go now…’ I went to my work table and dipped some dirty brushes in the jar of turps.

‘Of course…’ she said, without looking up. ‘That’s the singer Cecilia Bartoli.’ She turned to the final image. ‘And who’s this friendly looking man with the bow tie?’

I pulled the brushes through a sheet of newspaper to squeeze out the paint. ‘That’s my father.’

‘Your father?’

‘Yes.’ I did my best to ignore the surprise in her voice. ‘Roy Graham. He’s an orthopaedic surgeon – semi-retired.’ I went to the sink, aware of Clare’s curious gaze on my back.

‘But in The Times—’

‘He plays a lot of golf…’ I rubbed washing-up liquid into the bristles. ‘At the Royal Mid-Surrey – it’s not far from where they live, in Richmond.’

‘In The Times it said that—’

‘He also plays bridge.’ I turned on the tap. ‘I’ve never played, but people say it’s fun once you get into it.’ I rinsed and dried the brushes, then laid them on my work table, ready for the next day. ‘Right…’ I looked at Clare, willing her to leave.

She put the tape recorder and notes into her bag then stood up. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking you this,’ she said. ‘But as it was in the newspaper, I assume you talk about it.’

My fingers trembled as I screwed the top back on a tube of titanium white. ‘Talk about what?’

‘Well… the article said that you were adopted when you were eight…’ Heat spilled into my face. ‘And that your name was changed—’

‘I don’t know where they got that.’ I untied my apron. ‘Now I really must—’

‘It said that your real father left when you were five.’

By now my heart was battering against my ribcage. ‘My real father is Roy Graham,’ I said quietly. ‘And that’s all there is to it.’ I hung my apron on its hook. ‘But thank you for coming.’ I opened the studio door. ‘If you could let yourself out…’

Clare gave me a puzzled smile. ‘Of course.’

As soon as she’d gone, I furiously rubbed at my paint-stained fingers with a turps-soaked rag then quickly washed my face and tidied my hair. I put on some black trousers and my green velvet coat and was about to go and unlock my bike when I remembered that the front light was broken. I groaned. I’d have to get the bus, or a cab – whichever turned up first. At least Chelsea Old Town Hall wasn’t far.

I ran up to the King’s Road and got to the stop just as a number 11 was pulling up, its windows blocks of yellow in the gathering dusk.

As we trundled over the bridge I reflected bitterly on Clare’s intrusiveness, yet she’d only repeated what she’d read in The Times. I felt a burst of renewed fury that something so intensely private was now online…

‘Would you please take that paragraph out,’ I’d asked the reporter, Hamish Watt, when I’d tracked him down an hour or so after I’d first seen the article. As I’d gripped the phone my knuckles were white. ‘I was horrified when I saw it – please remove it.’

‘No,’ he’d replied. ‘It’s part of the story.’

‘But you didn’t ask me about it,’ I’d protested. ‘When you interviewed me at the National Portrait Gallery last week you talked only about my work.’

‘Yes – but I already had some background about you – that your mother had been a dancer, for example. I also happened to know a bit about your family circumstances.’

‘How?’

There was a momentary hesitation. ‘I’m a journalist,’ he answered, as though that were sufficient explanation.

‘Please cut that bit out,’ I’d implored him again.

‘I can’t,’ he’d insisted. ‘And you were perfectly happy to be interviewed, weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed weakly. ‘But if I’d known what you were going to write I’d have refused. You said that the article would be about my painting, but a good third of it was very personal and I’m uncomfortable about that.’

‘Well, I’m sorry you’re unhappy,’ he’d said unctuously. ‘But as publicity is undoubtedly helpful to artists, I suggest you learn to take the rough with the smooth.’ With that, he’d hung up…

It would be on the Internet for ever, I now thought dismally – for anyone to see. Anyone at all… The thought of it made me feel sick. I’d simply have to find a way to deal with it, I reflected as we passed the World’s End pub.

My father is Roy Graham.

My father is Roy Graham and he’s a wonderful father.

I’ve got a father, thank you. His name is Roy Graham…

To distract myself I thought about work. I was starting a new portrait in the morning. Then on Thursday Mike Johns, MP, was coming for his fourth sitting – there’d been quite a gap since the last one as he said he’d been too busy; and yesterday I’d had that enquiry about painting a Mrs Carr – her daughter, Sophia, had contacted me through my website. Then there’d be the new commission from tonight – not that it was going to make me any money, I reflected regretfully as we passed Heal’s. I stood up and pressed the bell.

I got off the bus, crossed the road and followed a knot of smartly dressed people up the steps of the town hall. I walked down the black-and-white tiled corridor, showed my invitation, then pushed on the doors of the main hall, next to which was a large sign: Save The Children – Gala Auction.

The ornate blue-and-ochre room was already full, the stertorous chatter almost drowning out the string trio that was valiantly playing away on one side of the stage. Aproned waiters circulated with trays of canapés and drinks. The air was almost viscous with scent.

I picked up a programme and skim-read the introduction. Five million children at risk in Malawi… hunger in Kenya… continuing crisis in Zimbabwe… in desperate need of help… Then came the list of lots – twenty of which were in the Silent Auction, while the ten ‘star’ lots were to be auctioned live. These included a week in a Venetian palazzo, a luxury break at the Ritz, tickets for the first night of Swan Lake at Covent Garden with Carlos Acosta, a shopping trip to Harvey Nichols with Gok Wan, a dinner party for eight cooked by Gordon Ramsay and an evening dress designed by Maria Grachvogel. There was an electric guitar signed by Paul McCartney and a Chelsea FC shirt signed by the current squad. The final lot was A portrait commission by Gabriella Graham, kindly donated by the artist. As I looked at the crowd I wondered who I’d end up painting.

Suddenly I spotted Roy, waving. He walked towards me. ‘Ella-Bella!’ He placed a paternal kiss on my cheek.

Damn Clare, I thought. Here was my father.

‘Hello, Roy.’ I nodded at his daffodil-dotted bow tie. ‘Nice neckwear. Haven’t seen that one before, have I?’

‘It’s new – thought I’d christen it tonight in honour of the spring. Now, you need some fizz…’ He glanced around for a waiter.

‘I’d love some. It’s been a long day.’

Roy got me a glass of champagne and handed it to me with an appraising glance. ‘So, how’s our Number One Girl?’

I smiled at the familiar, affectionate appellation. ‘I’m fine, thanks. Sorry I’m late.’

‘Your mum was getting slightly twitchy, but then this is a big event. Ah, here she comes…’

My mother was gliding through the crowd towards us, her slender frame swathed in amethyst chiffon, her ash-blonde hair swept into a perfect French pleat.

She held out her arms to me. ‘El-la.’ Her tone suggested a reproach rather than a greeting. ‘I’d almost given up on you, darling.’ As she kissed me I inhaled the familiar scent of her Fracas. ‘Now, I need you to be on hand to talk to people about the portrait commission. We’ve put the easel over there, look, in the presentation area, and I’ve made you a label so that people will know who you are.’ She opened her mauve satin clutch, took out a laminated name badge and had already pinned it to my lapel before I could protest about the mark it might leave on the velvet. ‘I’m hoping the portrait will fetch a high price. We’re aiming to raise seventy-five thousand pounds tonight.’

‘Well, fingers crossed.’ I adjusted the badge. ‘But you’ve got some great items.’

‘And all donated,’ she said wonderingly. ‘We haven’t had to buy anything. Everyone’s been so generous.’

‘Only because you’re so persuasive,’ said Roy. ‘I often think you could persuade the rain not to fall, Sue, I really do.’

Mum gave him an indulgent smile. ‘I’m just focused and well organised. I know how I want things to be.’

‘You’re formidable,’ Roy said amiably, ‘in both the English and the French meaning of that word.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to you, Sue – and to a successful event.’

I sipped my champagne then nodded at the empty podium. ‘So who’s wielding the gavel?’

Mum adjusted her pashmina. ‘Tim Spiers. He’s ex-Christie’s and brilliant at cajoling people into parting with their cash – having said which, I’ve instructed the waiters to keep topping up the glasses.’

Roy laughed. ‘That’s right – get the punters pissed.’

‘No – just in a good mood,’ Mum corrected him. ‘Then they’re much more, well, biddable,’ she concluded wryly. ‘But if things are a bit slow…’ she lowered her voice ‘…then I’d like us to do a little strategic bidding.’

My heart sank. ‘I’d rather not.’

Mum gave me one of her ‘disappointed’ looks. ‘It’s just to get things going – you wouldn’t have to buy anything, Ella.’

‘But… if no one outbids me, I might. These are expensive lots, Mum, and I’ve a huge mortgage – it’s too risky.’

‘You’re donating a portrait,’ said Roy. ‘That’s more than enough.’ Too right, I thought crossly. ‘I’ll do some bidding, Sue,’ he added. ‘Up to a limit, though.’

Mum laid her palm on his cheek – a typical gesture. ‘Thank you. I’m sure Chloë will bid too.’

I glanced around the crowd. ‘Where is Chloë?’

‘She’s on her way,’ Roy replied. ‘With Nate.’

A groan escaped me.

Mum shook her head. ‘I don’t know why you have to be like that, Ella. Nate’s delightful.’

‘Really?’ I sipped my champagne again. ‘Can’t say I’d noticed.’

‘You hardly know him,’ she retorted quietly.

‘That’s true. I’ve only met him once.’ But that one time had been more than enough. It had been at a drinks party that Chloë had given last November…

‘Any special reason for having it?’ I’d asked her over the phone after I’d opened the elegant invitation.

‘It’s because I haven’t had a party for so long – I’ve neglected my friends. It’s also because I’m feeling a lot more cheerful at the moment, because…’ She drew in her breath. ‘Ella… I’ve met someone.’

Relief flooded through me. ‘That’s great. So… what’s he like?’

‘He’s thirty-six,’ she’d replied. ‘Tall with very short black hair, and lovely green eyes.’

To my surprise I had to suppress a pang of envy. ‘He sounds gorgeous.’

‘He is – and he’s not married.’

‘Well… that’s good.’

‘Oh, and he’s from New York. He’s been in London about a year.’

‘And what does this paragon do?’

‘He’s in private equity.’

‘So he can stand you dinner then.’

‘Yes – but I like to pay for things too.’

‘So are you… an item?’

‘Sort of – we’ve been on five dates. But he said he’s looking forward to the party, so that’s a good sign. I know you’re going to love him,’ she added happily.

So, a fortnight later, I’d cycled over to Putney, through a veil of fog. And I was locking up my bike outside Chloë’s flat at the end of Askill Drive when I heard a taxi pull up just around the corner in Keswick Road. As the door clicked open I could hear the passenger talking on his mobile. Although he spoke softly his voice somehow carried through the mist and darkness.

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t,’ I heard him say. He was American. Realising that this could be Chloë’s new man I found myself tuning in to his conversation. ‘I really can’t,’ he reiterated as the cab door slammed shut. ‘Because I’ve just gotten to Putney for a drinks party, that’s why…’ So it was him. ‘No… I don’t want to go.’ I felt my insides twist. ‘But I’m here now, honey, and so… just some girl,’ he added as the cab drove away. ‘No, no… she’s nothing special,’ he added quietly. By now my face was aflame. ‘I can’t get out of it,’ he protested. ‘Because I promised, that’s why – and she’s been going on and on about it.’ My hands shook as I unclipped my front light. ‘Okay, honey – I’ll come over later. Yes… that is a promise. No… I’ll let myself in… You too, honey…’

I stood there, filled with dismay, expecting the wretch to come round the corner and walk up Chloë’s path; and I was just wondering what to do when I realised that he was going in the opposite direction, his footsteps snapping across the pavement then becoming fainter and fainter…

So it wasn’t him. I exhaled with relief. I went up to Chloë’s front door and rang the bell.

‘Ella!’ she exclaimed as she opened it. She looked lovely in a black crêpe shift that used to be Mum’s, with a short necklace of over-sized pearls. ‘I’m glad you’re the first,’ she said quickly, ‘I’ve just poured the champagne, but if you could give me a hand with the eats that would be…’ I was aware of steps behind me as Chloë’s gaze strayed over my shoulder. Her face lit up like a firework. ‘Nate!’

I turned to see a tall, well-dressed man coming up the path.

‘Hi, Chloë.’ As I recognised his voice my heart sank. ‘I just went completely the wrong way – I was halfway down Keswick Road before I realised. I shoulda used my sat-nav,’ he added with a laugh.

‘Well, it is foggy,’ she responded gaily. I stepped past her into the house so that she wouldn’t see my face. ‘It’s so nice that you’re here, Nate,’ I heard her say.

‘Oh, I’ve been looking forward to it.’ As I glanced at him I tried not to show my contempt.

Chloë drew him inside; then, still holding his hand, she grabbed mine so that the three of us were suddenly linked, awkwardly, as we stood there in the hallway. ‘Ella,’ she said happily, ‘this is Nate.’ She turned to him. ‘Nate, this is my sister, Ella.’

He was just as Chloë had described. He had very short dark hair that receded slightly above a high forehead, and eyes that were a pure mossy green. He had a sensuous mouth with a tiny indentation at each corner, and a long, straight nose that had a slender bridge, as though someone had pinched it.

‘Great to meet you, Ella.’ He was clearly unaware that I’d overheard his conversation. I gave him a cold smile and saw him register the slight. ‘Erm…’ He nodded at my head. ‘That’s a nice helmet you’ve got there.’

‘Oh.’ I’d been too distracted to remove it. I unclipped it while Chloë relieved Nate of his coat.

She folded it over her arm. ‘I’ll just put this on my bed.’ She put her hand on the banister. ‘But have a glass of champagne, Nate – the kitchen’s through there. Ella will show you.’

‘No – I… need to come up too.’ Turning my back on Nate, I followed Chloë upstairs.

We crossed the landing and went into Chloë’s bedroom. She half-closed the door then put her finger to her lips. ‘So what do you think?’ She laid Nate’s charcoal cashmere coat on her bed then turned to me eagerly. ‘Isn’t he attractive?’

I took off my cycling jacket. ‘He is.’

‘And he’s really… decent. I think I’ve landed on my feet.’

I fought the urge to tell Chloë that she’d almost certainly landed flat on her face.

I put my jacket and helmet down, then went over to the large gilded wall mirror. I opened my bag. ‘So how did you meet him?’ My hand shook as I pulled a comb through my fog-dampened hair.

Chloë came and stood next to me. ‘Playing tennis.’ As she checked her own appearance I was momentarily distracted by the physical difference between us – Chloë with the alabaster paleness of my mother, next to me, with my olive skin, brown hair and dark eyes. ‘Do you remember telling me that I should try and go out more – maybe play tennis?’ I nodded. ‘Well, I took your advice, and booked some lessons at the Harbour Club.’ Chloë licked her ring finger then ran it over her left eyebrow. ‘Nate was on the next court; and I had to retrieve my ball from behind his baseline a few times…’

I put the comb back in my bag. ‘Really?’

‘So of course I said sorry. Then I saw him in the café afterwards and I apologised again…’

I snapped my bag shut.

‘Then we had a coffee – and that’s how it started. So I have you to thank,’ she added happily. My heart sank. ‘It’s still early days – but he’s keen.’

I looked at her. ‘How do you know?’

‘Well… because he calls me a lot and because…’ She gave me a puzzled smile. ‘Why do you ask?’

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Chloë that Nate was in fact a disingenuous, two-timing creep. But then, reflected behind us on the wall I saw my portrait of her, her face so thin, and almost rigid with distress; her blue eyes blazing with pain and regret.

‘Why do you ask?’ she repeated.

As I looked at Chloë’s happy, hopeful expression I knew I couldn’t tell her. ‘No reason.’ I exhaled. ‘I was just… wondering.’

‘Ella?’ Chloë was peering at me. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m… fine.’ I went to the corner basin and washed my hands. ‘Actually, a van jumped the lights by the bridge and nearly knocked me off. I’m still feeling shaken,’ I lied as I dried them.

‘I knew something was up. I wish you didn’t cycle – and in fog like this it’s crazy. You’ve got to be careful.’

I laid my hand on Chloë’s arm. ‘So have you.’

‘What do you mean?’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t cycle.’

I shook my head. ‘I mean be careful…’ I tapped the left side of my chest. ‘Here.’

‘Oh.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘I see. Don’t worry, Ella. I’m not about to make another… well, mistake, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nate’s free of complications, thank God.’ My stomach lurched. ‘But he’ll be wondering what we’re doing.’ She opened the door. ‘Let’s go and talk to him.’

This was the last thing I wanted to do, not least because I didn’t think I’d be able to hide my hostility; and I was just wondering how I could get out of it when the bell rang, so I said I’d do door duty, then I offered to heat up the canapés, then I went round with a tray of drinks, by which time Chloë’s flat was heaving, and in this way I managed to avoid Nate. As I left, pleading an early start, I glanced at him as he chatted to someone in the sitting room and hoped that his romance with Chloë wouldn’t last. Having overheard what I had done, it didn’t seem likely.

So my heart sank when Chloë phoned me three days later to say that Nate was taking her to Paris for the weekend in early December. Then just before Christmas they gave a dinner party at his flat; Chloë wanted me to be there, but I said I was busy. In January they invited me to the theatre with them but I made some excuse. Then last month Mum asked us all to Sunday lunch, but I told Chloë I’d be away.

‘What a shame,’ she’d said. ‘That’s three times you’ve been unable to meet up with us, Ella. Nate will think you don’t like him,’ she added with a good-natured laugh.

‘Oh, that’s not true,’ I lied…

‘Well, I like Nate,’ I heard Mum say above the pre-auction chatter ‘Nate’s attractive and charming.’ Her voice dropped to a near whisper. ‘And we should all just be thankful that he makes Chloë so happy after…’ Her mouth pursed.

‘Max,’ said Roy helpfully.

I nodded. ‘Max was a bit of a mistake.’

‘Max was a disaster,’ Mum hissed. ‘I told Chloë,’ she went on quietly. ‘I told her that it would never work out, and I was right. These situations bring nothing but heartbreak,’ she added with sudden bitterness, and I knew that she was thinking of her own heartbreak three decades ago.

‘Anyway, Chloë’s fine now,’ said Roy evenly. ‘So let’s change the subject, shall we? We’re at a party.’

‘Of course,’ Mum murmured, collecting herself. ‘And I must circulate. Roy, would you go and see how the Silent Auction’s going? Ella, you need to go and stand next to the easel, but do make the portrait commission sound enticing, won’t you? I want to get the highest possible price for every item.’

‘Sure,’ I responded wearily. I hated having to do a hard sell – even for a good cause. I made my way through the crowd.

The easel was standing between two long tables on which the information about all the star lots was displayed. The Maria Grachvogel gown was draped on to a silver mannequin next to a life-size cut-out of Gordon Ramsay. On a green baize-covered screen were pinned large photos of the Venetian palazzo and the Ritz and next to these was a Royal Opera House poster for Swan Lake, flanked by two pendant pairs of pink ballet shoes. The guitar was mounted on a stand, and next to it the Chelsea FC shirt with its graffiti of famous signatures.

As I stood beside the portrait a dark-haired woman in a turquoise dress approached me. She glanced at my name badge. ‘So you’re the artist.’ I nodded. The woman gazed at the painting. ‘And who’s she?’

‘My friend Polly. She’s lent it to us tonight as an example of my work.’

‘I’ve always wanted to have my portrait done,’ the woman said. ‘But when I was young and pretty I didn’t have the money and now that I do have the money I feel it’s too late.’

‘You’re still pretty,’ I told her. ‘And it’s never too late – I paint people who are in their seventies and eighties.’ I sipped my champagne. ‘So are you thinking of bidding for it?’

She sucked on her lower lip. ‘I’m not sure. How long does the process take?’ I explained. ‘Two hours is a long time to be sitting still.’ She frowned.

‘We have a break for coffee and a leg stretch. It’s not too arduous.’

‘Do you flatter people?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I hope you do, because look –’ She pinched the wedge of flesh beneath her chin, holding it daintily, like a tidbit. ‘Would you be able to do something about this?’

‘My portraits are truthful,’ I answered carefully. ‘But at the same time I want my sitters to be happy; so I’d paint you from the most flattering angle – and I’d do some sketches first to make sure you liked the composition.’

‘Well…’ She cocked her head to one side as she appraised Polly’s portrait again. ‘I’m going to have a think about it – but thanks.’

As she walked away, another woman in her mid-forties came up to me. She gave me an earnest smile. ‘I’m definitely going to bid for this. I love your style – realistic but with an edge.’

‘Thank you.’ I allowed myself to bask in the compliment for a moment. ‘And who would you want me to paint? Would it be you?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘It would be my father. You see, we never had his portrait painted.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And now we regret it.’ My spirits sank as I realised what was coming. ‘He died last year,’ the woman went on. ‘But we’ve got lots of photos, so you could do it from those.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t do posthumous portraits.’

‘Oh.’ The woman looked affronted. ‘Why not?’

‘Because, to me, a portrait is all about capturing the essence and spirit of a living person.’

‘Oh,’ she said again, crestfallen. ‘I see.’ She hesitated. ‘Would you perhaps make an exception?’

‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t. I’m sorry,’ I added impotently.

‘Well…’ She shrugged. ‘Then I guess that’s that.’

As the woman walked away I saw my mother go up the flight of steps at the side of the stage. She waited for the string trio to finish the Mozart sonata they were playing, then she went up to the podium and tapped the mike. The hubbub subsided as she smiled at the crowd then in her soft, low voice, thanked everyone for coming and exhorted us to be generous. As she reminded us all that our bids would save children’s lives, the irritation that I’d been feeling towards her was replaced by a sudden rush of pride. Next she expressed her gratitude to the donors and to her fellow committee members before introducing Tim Spiers, who took her place as she gracefully exited stage left.

He leaned an arm on the podium, peering at us benignly over his half-moon glasses. ‘We have some wonderful lots on offer tonight – and remember there’s no buyer’s premium to pay, which makes everything very affordable. So, without further ado, let’s start with the week at the fabulous Palazzo Barbarigo in Venice…’

An appreciative murmur arose as a photo of the palazzo was projected on to the two huge screens that had been placed on either side of the stage. ‘The palazzo overlooks the Grand Canal,’ Spiers explained as the slideshow image changed to an interior. ‘It’s one of Venice’s most splendid palazzos and has a stunning piano nobile, as you can see …It sleeps eight, is fully staffed, and in high season a week’s stay there costs ten thousand pounds. I’m now going to open the bidding at an incredibly low three thousand.’ He affected astonishment. ‘For a mere three thousand pounds, ladies and gentlemen, you could spend a week at one of Venice’s most glorious private palaces – the experience of a lifetime. So do I hear three thousand…?’ His eyes raked the room. ‘Three thousand pounds – anyone? Ah, thank you, sir. And three thousand five hundred… and four thousand… thank you – at the back there… five thousand…’

As the bidding proceeded a girl in her early twenties approached me and looked at the portrait of Polly. ‘She’s very pretty,’ she whispered.

I gazed at Polly’s heart-shaped face, framed by a helmet of rose-gold hair. ‘She is.’

‘Do I hear six thousand?’ we heard.

‘What if you have to paint someone who’s plain?’ the girl asked. ‘Or ugly, even? Is that difficult?’

‘It’s actually easier than painting someone who’s conventionally attractive,’ I answered softly, ‘because the features are more clearly defined.’

‘Seven thousand now – do I hear seven thousand pounds? Come on, everyone!’

The girl sipped her champagne. ‘And what happens if you don’t like the person you’re painting – could you still paint them then?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘Though I don’t suppose I’d enjoy the sittings very much.’ Suddenly I noticed the doors swing open and there was Chloë, in her vintage red trench coat, and behind her, Nate. ‘Luckily I’ve never had a sitter I disliked.’

‘Going once,’ we heard the auctioneer say. ‘At eight thousand pounds. Going twice…’ His eyes swept across us, then, with a flick of his wrist he tapped the podium. ‘Sold to the lady in the black dress there.’ I glanced over at Mum. She looked reasonably happy with the result. ‘On to lot two now,’ said Spiers. ‘An evening gown by Maria Grachvogel, who designs dresses for some of the world’s most glamorous women – Cate Blanchett, for example, and Angelina Jolie. Whoever wins this lot will receive a personal consultation and fitting with Maria Grachvogel herself. So I’m going to start the bidding at a very modest five hundred pounds. Thank you, madam – the lady in pale blue there – and seven hundred and fifty?’ He scrutinised us all. ‘Seven hundred and fifty pounds is still a snip – thank you, sir. So do I hear one thousand now?’ He pointed to a woman in lime green who’d raised her hand. ‘It’s with you, madam. At one thousand two hundred and fifty? Yes – and one thousand five hundred …thank you. Will anyone give me two thousand?’

I glanced to my right. Chloë was making her way around the room, leading Nate by the hand.

I know you’re going to love him, Ella…

She’d been wrong about that. I loathed the man. I watched her as she spotted Roy and waved.

‘Is that two thousand pounds there?’ The auctioneer was pointing at Chloë. ‘The young woman at the back in the scarlet raincoat?’

Chloë froze; then with a stricken expression she shook her head, mouthed sorry at Spiers, then looked at Nate with horrified amusement.

‘So still at one thousand five hundred then – but do I hear two thousand? There was a pause then I saw my mother raise her hand. ‘Thank you, Sue,’ the auctioneer said. ‘The bid’s with our organiser, Sue Graham, now at two thousand pounds.’ Mum’s face was taut with tension. ‘Will anyone give me two thousand two hundred? Thank you – the lady in the pink dress.’ Mum’s features relaxed as she was outbid. ‘So at two thousand two hundred pounds… going once… twice and…’ The gavel landed with a ‘crack’. ‘Sold to the lady in pink here – well done, everyone,’ he added jovially. ‘On we go to lot three.’

As the bidding for the weekend at the Ritz got underway I saw Chloë greet Mum and Roy. Mum smiled warmly at Nate, then as Chloë leaned closer to say something to her, Mum clapped her hands in delight then turned and whispered in Roy’s ear. I wondered what they were talking about.

‘So for three thousand pounds now…’ Tim Spiers was saying. ‘A weekend at the Ritz in one of their deluxe suites – what a treat. Thank you, sir – it’s with the man with the yellow tie there. Going once… twice… and…’ He rapped the podium. ‘Sold! You have got yourself a bargain,’ Spiers said to the man amiably. ‘If you’d like to go the registration desk to arrange payment, thank you. Now to the dinner party for eight, cooked by Gordon Ramsay himself – well worth all the shouting and swearing. Let’s start with a very modest eight hundred pounds – to include wine, incidentally…’

The sound of the auction faded as I silently observed Chloë and Nate. Chloë seemed to do most of the talking while Nate just nodded now and again, absorbing her conversation, rather than responding to it. I saw him look at his phone and wondered if the woman he’d promised to meet that night was still in his life.

‘Now for the portrait,’ I heard the auctioneer say, and as my picture of Polly was projected on to the screens he indicated me with a sweep of his hand. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Gabriella Graham is an outstanding young artist.’ I felt a warmth suffuse my face. ‘You’ve probably seen media coverage of the lovely painting she did of the Duchess of Cornwall which was commissioned by the National Portrait Gallery for its permanent collection. Now you too have the chance to be immortalised by Ella. So I’m going to open the bidding at all pitifully low – two thousand pounds. Do I hear two thousand?’ Spiers looked at us over his spectacles. ‘No? Well, let me tell you that Ella’s portraits usually command between six and twelve thousand pounds, depending on the size and composition. So who’ll give me a trifling two thousand? Thank you, madam!’ He beamed at the woman in the turquoise dress who’d spoken to me earlier. ‘And two thousand five hundred?’ I heard Spiers say. ‘Just two and a half thousand – anyone?’ He smiled indulgently. ‘Come on, folks. Let’s see some bidding now! Thank you, Sue.’ My mother’s hand had gone up. ‘So it’s with Sue Graham now at two thousand five hundred pounds… and three thousand – the lady in turquoise again. Who’ll offer me four thousand?’ I was startled. That was a big jump. ‘Four thousand pounds?’ There was silence. ‘No takers?’ he said with mock incredulity. I felt a pang of disappointment tinged with embarrassment that no one thought it worth that much. Suddenly Spiers’ face lit up. ‘Thank you, young lady!’ He grinned. ‘I hope you mean it this time!’

I followed his gaze and to my surprise saw that this remark had been directed at Chloë, who was nodding enthusiastically. So she was bidding in order to help Mum. ‘Do I hear four thousand five hundred now?’ Spiers demanded. ‘Yes, madam.’ The woman in turquoise had come back in. ‘And who will give me five thousand pounds for the chance to be painted by Ella Graham? You’ll be getting not just a portrait but an heirloom. Thank you! And it’s the young woman in the red raincoat again.’ I stared at Chloë – why was she still bidding? ‘It’s with you at five thousand pounds now.’ I held my breath. ‘And five thousand five hundred? Yes? Now it’s back with the lady in turquoise.’ Chloë was off the hook – thank God. ‘So at five thousand five hundred pounds – to the lady in the turquoise dress there – going once… twice… and… SIX thousand!’ Spiers shouted. He beamed at Chloë then held out his right hand to her. ‘The bid’s back with the lady in the red coat, at six thousand pounds now! Any advance on six K?’ This was crazy. Chloë couldn’t spare six thousand – she probably didn’t have six thousand. Now I felt furious with Mum for asking her to bid. ‘So at six thousand pounds – still with the young woman in red,’ Spiers continued. ‘Going once… twice…’ He looked enquiringly at the woman in the turquoise dress, but to my dismay she shook her head. The gavel landed with a ‘crack’, like a gun firing. ‘Sold!’

I expected Chloë to look appalled; instead she looked thrilled. She made her way through the crowd towards me, leaving Nate with Mum and Roy.

‘So what do you think?’ She was smiling triumphantly.

‘What do I think? I think it’s insane. Why didn’t you stop when you had the chance?’

‘I didn’t want to,’ she protested. ‘I decided I was going to get it – and I did!’

I stared at her. ‘Chloë – how much champagne have you had?’

She laughed. ‘I had some at lunchtime, but I’m not drunk. Why do you assume I am?’

‘Because you’ve just paid six thousand pounds for something you could have had for free. What on earth were you doing?’

‘Well… today I was made a director of PRoud – with a thirty per cent pay rise.’ So that was what Mum had been looking so thrilled about. ‘And I’ve just had a tax rebate – plus I want to support the charity.’

‘That’s very generous of you,’ I told her. ‘But it was at five and a half grand, which was already a good price, plus I’ve done a portrait of you, remember?’

‘Of course I do – don’t be silly, Ella – but the point is—’

I suddenly twigged. ‘You want me to do it again.’ I thought of how distressed Chloë had been at the time. She’d broken up with Max shortly after I’d started painting it. I’d urged her to wait, but she’d refused. She’d insisted that she wanted me to paint her in that state, so that she would never forget how much she’d felt for him. ‘You know, Chloë,’ I said, ‘it probably would be good to do another portrait of you now that—’

‘Ella,’ she interrupted. ‘That’s not why I bid. Because it isn’t me you’re going to paint.’

‘No?’

‘It’s Nate.’

My heart sank. And now here he was. I gave him a thin smile. ‘Erm… apparently it’s you I’m to paint, Nate.’

He looked at Chloë in confusion.

‘Yes, you,’ she confirmed happily.

‘Oh… Well…’ He was clearly as dismayed as I was. ‘I don’t know whether I want Ella to paint me. In fact I don’t want her to – I mean, I don’t want anyone to paint me.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Chloë, it’s not my kinda thing, so I’m going to have to say thanks – it’s very sweet – but no thanks.’

Chloë gave him a teasing smile. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed to refuse, because the portrait’s to be a present from me to you – a very special one.’

‘His birthday present?’ I asked her.

‘No.’ Chloë smiled delightedly. ‘His wedding present.’ She slipped her arm through Nate’s. ‘We’re engaged!’

TWO

‘I will be keeping the sittings to a minimum,’ I said to Polly grimly the following morning as we sat in her bedroom overlooking Parsons Green. I’d taken her portrait, carefully bubble-wrapped, back to her flat. ‘I am not relishing the prospect of spending twelve hours with that creep in order to paint his face – or rather his two faces. I’ll paint him as Janus,’ I added darkly.

Polly’s nail file paused in mid-stroke. ‘So I take it you still don’t like him?’

I shuddered with distaste. ‘I thoroughly dislike him – and I don’t trust him.’ I went and sat on the window seat. ‘I told you how he behaved before her party.’

‘Hmm.’ Polly scrutinised the tip of her left index finger then began filing it again, the rasp of the emery board masking the drone of morning traffic.

‘He was very disparaging about Chloë – plus it was obvious that he was already in a relationship with the woman he was on the phone to. So for those two very good reasons I have taken against him.’

Polly shifted on the bed. ‘Fair enough, although – let’s assume he was in a relationship with this other woman…’

‘He was.’

‘But at that stage he hadn’t known Chloë long – so he was hedging his bets.’ She shrugged. ‘Lots of men do that.’

‘Well… okay. Not that it’s any excuse.’

‘Or it could be that he was only pretending that he wasn’t keen on Chloë in order to protect the other woman’s feelings.’ Polly blew on her fingertips. ‘I’d hardly condemn him for that.’

‘But if he’d wanted to protect the other woman’s feelings then he shouldn’t have told her about Chloë’s party at all. He should have lied.’

Polly looked at me. ‘Now you’re saying you don’t trust him because he didn’t lie?’

‘Yes. No… but… what if that other woman’s still on the scene?’

She began to file her thumbnail. ‘As he and Chloë are engaged, I doubt it.’

‘But it’s not that long ago, so she could be – and he’s clearly duplicitous. I don’t want Chloë having her heart broken again. It was bad enough last time.’

Polly reached for the tub of hand cream on her bedside table. ‘Ella – how old is Chloë now?’

‘She’s… nearly twenty-nine.’

‘Exactly – oh…’ She grimaced as she tried to twist off the lid. ‘Open this for me, would you?’ She leaned forward and handed me the pot. ‘I daren’t snag a nail – I’m working tomorrow.’

‘What’s the job?’ I asked as I unscrewed it.

‘A day’s shoot for a feature film. My hands are going to double for Keira Knightley’s – I have to put them up to her face, like this.’ Polly held her palms to her cheeks. ‘I’ll be kneeling behind her and won’t be able to see, so I hope I don’t stick my fingers up her nose. I did that to Liz Hurley once. It was embarrassing.’

‘I can imagine.’ I handed Polly the opened tub.

She scooped out a blob of cream and dabbed it on her knuckles. ‘Chloë’s got to make her own mistakes.’

‘Of course: the trouble is she makes such bad ones – like getting involved with a married man. The first thing she ever knew about Max was that he was someone else’s husband.’

‘Remind me how she met him?’

‘Chloë and I had gone into Waterstone’s on the King’s Road; we saw that Sylvia Shaw was signing copies of her new book and, as Chloë had liked her first two, we decided to stay. While Chloë was queuing to have her copy signed, she started chatting to this man – I could see she really liked him – who said that he was Sylvia Shaw’s husband. So that’s how it started – right under his wife’s nose!’

‘And his wife never found out?’

‘No. Chloë said that she was too absorbed in her writing to notice. But Chloë was crazy about him. Do you remember the state she got herself in when it finally ended?’ Polly nodded grimly. ‘She went down to seven stone. And what she did to her hair?’

‘It was a bit… severe.’

‘It was savage. She looked as though she’d been in some… war.’

Polly stroked cream on to her other hand. ‘That was a year and a half ago,’ she pointed out calmly. ‘Chloë’s on an even keel again now.’

‘I hope so – but she’s always been fragile. She’s not like Mum, who has this core of steel.’

‘That’s ballerinas for you,’ Polly said simply. ‘They have to learn to dance through the agony, don’t they, whether they’ve got a broken toenail or a broken heart. Damn…’ She peered at her left hand then reached for the magnifying glass on the bedside table and examined it through that. ‘I’ve got a freckle.’ How did that happen?’ she wailed. ‘I use factor 50 on my hands all year round – my rear end gets more UV than they do. Where’s my Fade Out?’

Polly went over to her dressing table and rummaged amongst all the hand creams, nail polishes and jars of cotton-wool puffs. ‘I can’t afford to have any blemishes,’ she muttered. She lifted up a framed photo of her daughter, and my god-daughter, Lola. ‘Here it is…’ She sat down on the bed again then held out the pot for me to open. ‘I know you’ve always looked out for Chloë.’

I loosened the lid and passed the pot back to her. ‘Well, she’s a lot younger than me, so yes… I have.’

‘That’s nice; but now you should just… let go.’ Polly looked at me. ‘As I’ve known you since we were six, I feel I can say that.’ She began to massage the skin lightener on to the offending brown mark. ‘Chloë’s got over Max enough now to be able to marry Nate – just be happy for her.’

‘I’d be thrilled if Nate was someone I liked.’ I groaned. ‘And why does she have to give him a portrait? If she wants to spend that much, then why can’t she give him something normal, like a gold watch or… diamond cufflinks or something?’

Polly squinted at her hand. ‘Why don’t you paint them together?’

‘I suggested that, but Chloë wants a picture of Nate on his own. She’s going to give it to him the day before the wedding.’

‘Which will be when?’

‘July third – which is also her birthday.’

‘Well, she’s always wanted to be married before she was thirty.’

‘Yes – so perhaps that explains the quick engagement – as though anyone could care less what age a woman is when she gets married or whether she gets married at all: I mean, I’m thirty-five and still single, but I really don’t…’ I let the sentence drift.

‘I’m thirty-five,’ said Polly, ‘and I’m divorced.’ She tucked a hank of red-gold hair behind one ear. ‘But it doesn’t bother me. Lola has a good relationship with Ben and that’s the key thing. He’s being tricky about maintenance though,’ she added wearily. ‘Lola’s school fees are fifteen grand now with all the extras, so thank God my digits give me an income.’

I considered Polly’s hands with their long, slim fingers and gleaming nail beds. ‘They are lovely. Your thumbs are fantastic.’

‘Oh, thanks. But it isn’t just about looks – my hands can act. They can be sad or happy.’ She wiggled her fingers. ‘They can be angry…’ She clenched her fists. ‘Or playful.’ She ‘walked’ her fingers through the air. ‘They can be inquisitive…’ She turned up her palms. ‘…Or pleading.’ She clasped them in supplication. ‘The whole gamut, really.’

‘There should be an Oscar category for it.’

‘There should. Anyway…’ She examined them again. ‘They’re done. Now it’s time for my tootsies.’

‘Have they got a part in the film too?’

‘No. But they’ve got a Birkenstock ad next week, so I need to get them tip-top.’

Polly kicked off her oversized sheepskin slippers and examined her slender size six feet with their perfectly straight toes, shell-pink nails, elegantly high arches and smooth, rosy heels. Satisfied that there were no imperfections to attend to, she put them in the waiting foot spa and switched it on.

‘Ooh, that’s nice,’ she crooned as the water bubbled around them. ‘So what does your mum think about Chloë’s engagement?’

‘She’s elated. But then, she couldn’t stand Max.’

‘Well, he was married, so you could hardly expect her to have been crazy about him.’

‘True – though it went deeper than that. Mum only met Max once, but she seemed to loathe him – as though it was personal. I’m sure that was because… well, you know the background.’

Polly nodded. ‘I still remember when you told me. We were eleven.’

The window was misted with condensation. I rubbed a patch clear and sighed. ‘I hadn’t known it myself until then.’

‘That was a long time for your mother to keep it from you,’ Polly observed quietly.

I shrugged. ‘I don’t really hold it against her – she’d been terribly hurt. Having made a new life, I suppose she didn’t want to remember the awful way in which her old one had ended.’

Your father was involved with someone else, Ella. I knew about it and it made me desperately unhappy – not least because I loved him so much. But one day I saw him with this… other woman; I came across them together: it was a terrible shock. I begged him not to leave us, but he abandoned us and went far, far away…

‘Do you think about him?’ I heard Polly say.

‘Hm?’

She turned off the foot spa. ‘Do you think about him much? Your father.’

‘No.’ I registered the surprise in her eyes. ‘Why would I when I haven’t seen him since I was five and can barely remember him?’

One, two three… up in the air she goes.

‘You must have some memories.’

Ready, sweetie? Don’t let go now!

I shook my head. ‘I used to, but they’ve gone.’

Through the smudged window pane I watched the children playing on the green below.

Again, Daddy! Again! Again!

Polly reached for the towel on the end of the bed and patted her feet with it. ‘And where in Australia did he go?’

‘I don’t know – I only know that it was Western Australia. But whether it was Perth or Fremantle or Rockingham or Broome, or Geraldton or Esperance or Bunbury or Kalgoorlie I’ve no idea and I’m not interested.’

Polly was looking at me again. ‘And he made no attempt to stay in touch?’

I felt my lips tighten. ‘It was as though we’d never existed.’

‘But… what if he wanted to find you?’

I heaved a sigh. ‘That would be hard—’

‘Oh, it probably would be,’ Polly interjected. ‘But you know, Ella, I’ve always thought that you should at least try to—’

I shook my head. ‘It would be hard for him to do – given that he doesn’t even know my surname.’

‘Oh.’ She looked deflated. ‘I see. Sorry – I thought you meant…’ She swung her legs off the bed. ‘I remember when your name was changed. I remember Miss Drake telling us all at register one morning that you were Ella Graham now. It was a bit confusing.’

‘Yes. But it was so that Chloë and I would be the same – and Roy had adopted me by then, so I can understand why they did it.’

I had a sudden memory of Mum cutting the old name tapes out of my school uniform and sewing in new ones, pulling up the thread with a vehement tug.

You’re not Ella Sharp any more…

Now I remembered Ginny Parks, who sat behind me, endlessly asking me why my name had been changed and where my real father was. When I tearfully told Mum this she said that Ginny was a nosy little girl and that I didn’t have to answer her questions.

You’re Ella Graham now, darling.

But—

And that’s all there is to it…

‘What if he got in touch?’ Polly tried again. ‘What would you do?’

I looked at her. ‘I’d do… nothing. I wouldn’t even respond.’

Polly narrowed her eyes. ‘Not even out of… curiosity?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m not curious about him. I was – until Mum told me what he’d done; after that I stopped thinking about him. I have no idea whether he’s even alive. He’d be sixty-six now, so perhaps he isn’t alive any more, perhaps he’s… not…’ A shiver convulsed me. I looked out of the window again, scrutinising the people below as though I somehow imagined I might spot him amongst them.

‘I think it’s sad,’ I heard Polly say.

‘I suppose it is. But if your father had behaved like mine, you’d probably feel the same.’

‘I don’t know how I’d feel,’ she said quietly.

‘Plus I wouldn’t want to upset Mum.’

‘Would it still upset her – after so long?’

‘I know it would, because she never mentions him – he broke her heart. But I’m sure that’s why she had it in for Max, because his affair reminded her of my father’s betrayal. She and Chloë had huge rows about it – I told you.’

Polly nodded. ‘I guess your mum just wanted to protect Chloë from getting hurt.’

‘She did. She kept telling her that Max would never leave his wife – and she was right; so Chloë finally took Mum’s advice and ended it.’ I shrugged. ‘And now she’s with Nate. I hope he’s not going to cause her any grief, but I’ve got the awful feeling he is.’

Polly put her slippers on again then stood up. ‘So when did they decide to tie the knot?’

‘Yesterday, over lunch. They went to Quaglino’s to celebrate her promotion and came out engaged. They told Mum and Roy at the auction. Mum’s so thrilled, she’s offered to plan it all for them.’

‘She hasn’t got long then. Only – what? Three and a half months?’

‘True, but she has a tremendous talent for arranging things – it’s probably all the choreography she’s done.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Yikes! I must go.’ I shot to my feet. ‘I’ve got to get to Barnes for a sitting.’

‘Anyone of note?’ Polly asked as we went on to the landing.

‘Not really – she’s a French woman married to a Brit. Her husband’s commissioned me to paint her for her fortieth. He sounds quite a bit older – but he kept telling me how beautiful she is: I could hardly get him off the phone.’

Polly heaved a sigh of deep longing. ‘I’d love to have someone appreciate me like that.’

‘Any progress in that area?’ I asked as we went downstairs.

‘I liked the photographer at the Toilet Duck shoot last week. He took my card – not that he’s phoned,’ she added balefully as I opened the cupboard and got out my parka. ‘What about you?’

I thrust my arms into the sleeves. ‘Zilch – apart from a bit of flirting at the framer’s.’ I looked at the bare patch of wall where Polly’s portrait usually goes. ‘Shall I hang you up again before I go?’

She nodded. ‘Please – I daren’t do anything practical until the shoot’s over; the tiniest scratch and I’ll lose the job; there’s two grand at stake and I’m short of cash.’

I pulled the bubble wrap off the painting. ‘Me, too.’

Polly leaned against the wall. ‘But you seem to be busy.’

I lifted the portrait on to its hook. ‘Not busy enough – and my mortgage is huge.’ I straightened the bottom of the frame. ‘Perhaps I could offer to paint the chairman of the Halifax in return for a year off the payments.’

‘Maybe one of Camilla Parker Bowles’s friends will commission you.’

I picked up my bag. ‘That would be great. I’ve just joined the Royal Society of Portrait Painters, so I’m on their website – and I’ve got a Facebook page now…’

‘That’s good. Then there’s that piece in The Times. I know you didn’t like it,’ Polly added hastily, ‘but it’s great publicity and it’s online. So…’ She opened the door. ‘Who knows what might come out of it?’

I felt my gut flutter. ‘Who knows…?’

There was a sharp wind blowing as I walked home so I pulled up my hood and shoved my hands into my pockets. As I cut across Eel Brook Common, with its bright stripe of daffodils, my mother phoned.

‘El-la?’ She sounded elated. ‘I’ve just had the final figures from last night. We raised eighty thousand pounds – five thousand more than our target, and a record for the Richmond branch of the charity.’

‘That’s wonderful, Mum – congratulations.’

‘So I just wanted to thank you again for the portrait.’ I resisted the urge to say that had I known who the sitter was to be I wouldn’t have offered it. ‘But how funny that you’re going to paint Nate.’

‘Yes… extremely amusing.’

‘It’ll give you an opportunity to get to know him before the wedding. I’ve just booked the church, by the way.’

‘Mum… they’ve been engaged less than twenty-four hours.’

‘I know – but July third’s not that far off! So I phoned the vicar at St Matthew’s first thing and by some miracle the two p.m. slot for that day had become free – apparently the groom had got cold feet.’

‘Oh dear.’

There was a bewildered silence. ‘No, not “oh dear”, Ella – “oh great”! I didn’t think we’d find any churches in the area free at such short notice, let alone our own one.’

‘And where’s the reception going to be?’

‘At home. We’ll come out of the church then stroll down the lane to the house through a cloud of moon daisies.’

‘There aren’t any moon daisies in the lane, Mum.’

‘No – but there will be, because I’m going to plant some. Now we’ll need a large marquee,’ she went on. ‘Eighty feet by thirty feet, minimum: the garden’s just big enough – I paced it out this morning; I think we should have the “traditional” style, not the “frame” – it’s so much more attractive – and I’ll probably use the caterers from last night, although I’ll get a couple of other quotes…’

‘You’ve got the bit between your teeth then.’

‘I have – but most weddings take at least a year to plan: I’ve got less than four months to organise Chloë’s!’

‘Doesn’t she want to do any of it herself?’

‘No – she’s going to be very busy at work now that she’s been promoted, and it means that she can enjoy the run-up to her big day without all the stress. She’ll make the major decisions, of course, but I’ll have done all the legwork.’

‘Can I do anything?’

‘No – thanks, darling. Although… actually there is one thing. Chloë’s thinking about having a vintage wedding dress. Could you give her a hand on that front? I don’t even know who sells them.’

‘Sure. Steinberg & Tolkien’s gone now, hasn’t it, but there’s Circa, or Dolly Diamond, and I think there’s a good one down in Blackheath – or hang on, what about…?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well…’ I bit my lip. ‘What about yours?’

‘But… Roy and I got married in a register office, Ella. I wore that pale-blue silk trouser suit.’

‘I know – but what about when you got married… before?’ During the silence that followed I tried to imagine what my mother wore when she married my father in the early 1970s. A sweet, pin-tucked dress perhaps, Laura Ashley style, with a white velvet choker – or maybe something flowingly Bohemian by Ossie Clark. ‘It would probably fit Chloë,’ I went on. ‘But… maybe you didn’t keep it,’ I added weakly as the silence continued. Why would she have done, I now reflected, when she hadn’t even kept the wedding photos? I had a sudden vision of the dress billowing out of a dustbin. ‘Sorry,’ I said, as she still didn’t respond. ‘Obviously not a good idea – forget I suggested it.’

‘I have to go,’ Mum said smoothly. ‘There’s a beep in my ear – I think it’s Top Tents. We’ll speak again soon, darling.’

As she ended the call, I marvelled at my mother’s ability to blank things that she didn’t want to talk about. I’ll steer a conversation away from a no-go area, but my mother simply pretends that the conversation isn’t happening.

When I got home, I booked my minicab to Barnes then quickly packed up my paints, palette and my portable box easel. I took three new canvases out of the rack, unhooked my apron and put everything ready by the front door.

While I waited for the car I went to my computer and checked my e-mails. There was one from Mike Johns, MP, confirming his sitting for nine o clock on Thursday morning – his first for two months. I was looking forward to seeing him as he’s always great fun. There was some financial spam, which I deleted, and a weekly update on the number of visits to my official Facebook page. The last message was from Mrs Carr’s daughter, confirming that the first sitting with her mother would be on Monday, at Mrs Carr’s flat in Notting Hill.

Hearing a beep from outside I lifted the slats of the Venetian blind and saw a red Volvo from Fulham Cars pulling up. I gathered my things and went out.

‘I’ve driven you before, haven’t I?’ the driver asked as he put my things in the boot.

‘That’s right. I use your firm quite a bit.’

‘Can’t you drive then?’

‘I can. But I don’t have a car.’

As we drove up Waterford Road we passed the Wedding Shop. Seeing the china and cut glass in its windows I wondered how many guests Chloë and Nate would have. I speculated about where they’d go on honeymoon; but that only made me think about the woman that Nate had called ‘honey’. Now I tried to guess where he and Chloë would live. It suddenly struck me that they might move to New York, a prospect that only made me feel more depressed.

‘Shame,’ I heard the driver say as we idled at the lights at Fulham Broadway.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It’s a shame.’ He nodded to our right.

‘Oh. Yes,’ I said feelingly.

The railings at the junction were festooned with flowers. There were perhaps twenty bouquets tied to them, their cellophane icy in the sunlight. Some were fresh but most looked limp and lifeless, their leaves tinged with brown, their ribbons drifting in the breeze.

‘Poor kid,’ he murmured.

Tied to the top part of the railings was a large, laminated photo of a very pretty woman, a little younger than me, with short, blonde hair and a radiant smile. Grace, it said beneath.

‘The flowers keep coming,’ I observed softly.

The driver nodded. ‘There’re always new ones.’ Today there was also a big teddy bear on a bike; it was wearing blue cycling shorts, a silver helmet and a sensible hi-vis sash.

Two months on, the large yellow sign was still there.

Witness Appeal. Fatal accident, 20 Jan., 06.15. Can you help?

‘So they still don’t know what happened?’ I murmured.

‘No,’ replied the driver. ‘It happened very early – in the dark. One of our drivers said he saw a black BMW drive off, fast, but he never got the number and the CCTV wasn’t working properly – typical.’ He shook his head again. ‘It’s a shame.’ The lights changed and we drove away.

The rest of the journey passed quietly, apart from the stilted commands of the sat-nav as it coaxed us over Hammersmith Bridge towards Barnes.

Mrs Burke lived halfway down Castlenau, in one of the imposing Victorian houses that line the road. The cab swung through the lion-topped gateposts then the driver got out and opened the boot.

He handed me the easel. ‘You paint me one day?’

I smiled. ‘Maybe I will.’

I rang the bell and the door was opened by a woman in her late fifties who said she was the housekeeper.

‘Mrs Burke will be down shortly,’ she said, as I stepped inside. The hall was large and square, with a marble-tiled floor and large architectural prints in black and gold frames. On the sideboard was a big stone jug with branches of early cherry blossom.

The housekeeper asked me to wait in the study, to our right. It had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, an antique Chesterfield that gleamed like a conker, and a big mahogany desk on which were ranged several family photos in silver frames. I looked at these. There were two of Mrs Burke on her own, a few of the couple’s son from babyhood to teens, and three of her with a man I assumed to be her husband. He was patrician-looking, with a proud, proprietorial expression, and, as I’d imagined, he was at least a decade older than his wife. She had large grey eyes, a long, perfectly straight nose and a curtain of dark hair that fell in waves from a high forehead. She was beautiful. I began to make imaginary marks on the canvas to define her cheeks and jawline.

The appointment had been for eleven, but by twenty past I was still waiting. I went into the hall to try and find out what was happening. Hearing a creak on the stairs I looked up to see Mrs Burke coming down. She was slim and petite, and wore a pink silk shirtwaister that was cinched in by a very wide, black patent-leather belt. I felt a flash of annoyance that she didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said flatly as she reached the bottom step. ‘I was on the phone. So…’ She gave me a restrained smile. ‘You’re here to paint me.’

‘Yes,’ I said, taken aback by her clear lack of enthusiasm. ‘Your husband said it’s to celebrate your birthday.’

‘It is.’ She heaved an anxious sigh. ‘If hitting the big “Four O” is a cause for “celebration”.’

‘Well, forty’s still young.’

‘Is it?’ she said flatly. ‘I only know that it’s when life is supposed to begin. So…’ She drew her breath through her teeth. ‘We’d better get on with it then.’ You’d have thought she was steeling herself for root-canal treatment.

‘Mrs Burke—’

‘Please.’ She held up a hand. ‘Celine.’

‘Celine, we can’t start until you’ve chosen the size of canvas. I’ve brought along three…’ I nodded at them, propped against the skirting board. ‘If you know where the portrait’s going to hang, that’ll help you decide.’

She stared at them. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’ She turned to me. ‘My husband’s sprung this on me – I would never have thought of having myself painted.’

‘Well… a portrait’s a nice thing to have. And it’ll be treasured for generations. Think of the Mona Lisa,’ I added cheerfully.

Celine gave a Gallic shrug then pointed to the smallest canvas. ‘That one is more than big enough.’

I picked it up. ‘Now we need to choose the background – somewhere where you’ll feel relaxed and comfortable.’

She blew out her cheeks. ‘In the drawing room then, I suppose. This way…’

I followed her across the hall into a large yellow-papered room with a cream carpet and French windows that led on to a long walled garden, at the end of which a huge red camellia was in extravagant flower.

I glanced around the room. ‘This will be fine. The colour’s very appealing, and the light’s lovely.’

On our left was an antique Knole sofa in a dark-green damask. The sides were very high, almost straight, and were secured to the back with thickly twisted gold cord, like a hawser. Celine sat on the left-hand side of it then smoothed her dress over her knees. ‘I shall sit here…’

I studied her for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, but that won’t look right.’

Her face clouded. ‘You said I should feel comfortable – this is.’

‘But the high sides make you look… boxed in.’

‘Oh.’ She turned to look at them. ‘I see. Yes… I am, as you say, boxed in. That is perfectly true.’ She stood up then looked around. ‘So where should I sit?’ she added petulantly.

‘Perhaps here…?’ To the left of the fireplace was a mahogany chair with ornately carved arms and a red velvet seat. Celine sat in it while I moved back a few feet to appraise the composition. ‘If you could just turn this way,’ I asked her. ‘And lift your head a little? Now look at me…’

She shook her head. ‘Who would have thought that sitting could be such hard work?’

‘Well, it’s a joint effort in which we’re both aiming to get the best possible portrait of you.’ Celine shrugged as though this was a matter of sublime indifference to her. I held up my hands, framing her head and shoulders between my thumbs and forefingers. ‘It’s going to be great,’ I said happily. ‘Now we just have to decide what you’re going to wear.’

Her face fell. ‘I’m going to wear this—’ She indicated her outfit.

‘It’s lovely,’ I said as I considered it. ‘But it won’t work.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the belt’s so big and shiny that it will dominate the picture. If you could wear something a little plainer…’

‘Are you saying I have to change?’

‘Well… it would be better if you did, yes.’ She exhaled irritably. ‘Could I help you to choose? That’s what I usually do when I paint people in their homes.’

‘I see,’ she snapped. ‘So you control the whole show.’

I bit my lip. ‘I don’t mean to be controlling,’ I replied quietly. ‘But the choice of outfit is very important because it affects the composition so much – I did explain that to your husband.’

‘Oh.’ Celine was rubbing her fingertips together, impatiently, as if sifting flour. ‘He forgot to tell me – he’s away this week.’ She stood up. ‘All right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘You’d better come.’

I followed her across the room and up the stairs into the master bedroom, the far wall of which was taken up by an enormous fitted wardrobe. Celine slid open the middle section then stood there, staring at the garments. ‘I don’t know what to wear.’

‘Could I look?’

She nodded. As I began to pull out a few things her mobile phone rang. She looked at the screen, answered in French, then left the room, talking rapidly in a confidential manner. It was more than ten minutes until she returned.

Struggling to hide my irritation, I showed her a pale-green linen suit. ‘This would look wonderful.’

Celine chewed on her lower lip. ‘I no longer wear that.’

‘Would you – just for the portrait?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t like myself in it.’

‘O-kay, then… what about this?’ I showed her an oyster satin dress by Christian Dior.

Celine pursed her mouth. ‘It’s not a good fit.’ Now she began pulling things out herself: ‘Not that,’ she muttered. ‘No… not that either… this is horrible …that’s much too small… this is so uncomfortable…’ Why did she keep all these things if she didn’t even like them? She turned to me. ‘Can’t I wear what I’m wearing?’

I began to count to ten in my head. ‘The belt will wreck the composition,’ I reiterated quietly. ‘It will draw all the attention away from your face. And it’s not really flattering,’ I added, then instantly regretted it.

Celine’s face had darkened. ‘Are you saying I look fat?’

‘No, no,’ I replied as she studied her reflection in the cheval mirror. ‘You’re very slim. And you’re really attractive,’ I added impotently. ‘Your husband said so and he was right.’

I’d hoped this last remark might mollify her, but to my surprise her expression hardened. ‘I adore this belt. It’s Prada,’ she added, as though I could have cared less whether she’d got it in Primark.

By now I was struggling to maintain my composure. ‘It won’t look… good,’ I tried again. ‘It’ll just be a big block of black.’

‘Well…’ Celine folded her arms. ‘I’m going to wear it and that’s all there is to it.’

I was about to pretend that I needed the loo so that I could take five minutes to calm myself down – or quite possibly cry – when Celine’s mobile phone rang again. She left the room and had another long, intense-sounding conversation which drifted across the landing in snatches.

‘Oui, chéri… je veux te voir aussi… bientôt, chéri.’

By now I’d decided to admit defeat and was just working out how best to minimise the monstrous belt when Celine returned. To my surprise her mood seemed to have lightened. Now she took out a simple linen shift in powder blue, then held it against her.

‘What about this?’

I could have wept with relief. ‘That will look great.’

The next morning, as I waited for Mike Johns to arrive for his sitting I looked at Celine’s portrait – so far no more than a few preliminary marks in yellow ochre. She was the trickiest sitter I’d ever had – obstructive, unreasonable, and entirely lacking in enthusiasm.

Her attitude struck me as bizarre. Most people give themselves up to the sittings, recognising that to be painted is a rather special thing. But for Celine it was clearly something to be endured, not enjoyed. I wondered why this should be.

I once had to paint a successful businessman whose company had commissioned the portrait for their board-room. During the sittings he kept glancing at his watch, as though to let me know that he was an extremely busy and important man whose time was very precious. But when I at last started to paint Celine she told me that she didn’t work, and that now that her son was at boarding school she led a ‘leisured’ sort of life. So her negativity can’t have been because she didn’t have time.

Thank God for Mike Johns, I thought. A big bear of a man, he was always genial, cooperative and expressive – the perfect sitter. As I took out his canvas I was pleased to see that even in the painting’s semi-finished state, his amiability and warmth shone through.

Mike’s portrait had been commissioned by his constituency association to mark his fifteenth anniversary as their MP: he’d been elected very young, at twenty-six. He’d said he wanted to get the painting done well before the run-up to the general election began in earnest: so we’d had two sittings before Christmas, then the third early in the New Year. We’d scheduled another for 22 January but Mike had suddenly cancelled it the night before. In a strangely incoherent e-mail he’d put that he’d be in touch again ‘in due course’, but to my surprise I hadn’t heard from him in the intervening two months, which had surprised me, not least because he lives nearby, just on the other side of Fulham Broadway. Then last week he’d messaged me to ask if we could continue. I was glad, partly because it would mean I’d get the other half of my fee, but also because I liked Mike and enjoyed chatting to him.

We’d arranged for him to come early so that the sitting wouldn’t eat into his working day. At five past eight the bell rang and I ran downstairs.

As I opened the door I had to stifle a gasp. In the nine weeks since I’d last seen him, Mike must have lost nearly three stone.

‘You’re looking trim,’ I said as he stepped inside. ‘Been pounding the treadmill?’ I added, although I already knew, from his noticeably subdued air, that his weight loss must be due to some kind of stress.

‘I have shed a few pounds,’ he replied vaguely. ‘A good thing too,’ he added with a stab at his usual bonhomie, but his strained demeanour gave him away. He was friendly, but there was a sadness about him now – an air of tragedy almost, I realised as I registered the dead look in his eyes. ‘Sorry about the early start,’ he said as we went up to the studio.

‘I don’t mind at all,’ I replied. ‘We can do all the remaining sessions at this time, if you like.’

Mike nodded then took off his jacket and put it on the sofa. He sat in the oak armchair that I use for sittings. ‘Back in the hot seat then,’ he said with forced joviality.

The morning light was sharp so I lowered the blinds on the Velux windows to soften it. As I put Mike’s canvas on the easel I realised that I was going to have to adjust the portrait. His torso was much slimmer, his face and neck thinner, the collar of his shirt visibly gaping. His hands looked less fleshy as he clasped them in his lap. He fiddled with his wedding ring, which was clearly loose.

I scraped a pebble of dried paint off the palette then squeezed some new colour out of the tubes, enjoying, as I always did, the oily scent of the linseed.

‘I forgot to wear the blue jumper,’ Mike said. ‘I’m sorry – it slipped my mind.’

‘Don’t worry.’ I mixed the colour with a palette knife, then selected a fine brush. ‘I’ll be working on your face today, but if you could wear it next time, that would be great.’

Now I looked at Mike, and began to paint; I looked at him again, then painted a little more. And so it went on, just looking and painting, looking and painting.

Mike usually chatted away, but today he was virtually silent. He directed his gaze towards me but avoided eye contact. His mouth and jaw were tight. Aware that I must have noticed the change in him, he suddenly confided that he was ‘a bit strung out’ with all the extra work he was doing in preparation for the general election.

I wondered if he was worried that he might lose his seat, but then remembered reading somewhere that he had a huge majority. I shaded a slight hollow into his left cheek. ‘Have you been away?’ I wondered whether that was why he’d been unable to sit for me lately.

He nodded. ‘I went to Bonn last month on a cross-party trip.’

I cleaned the brush in the pot of turps. ‘What was that for?’

‘We were looking at their tram system. I’m on a transport committee.’

I dipped the brush in the cobalt to make the flesh tone around his jaw a bit greyer. ‘Then please will you do what you can to help cyclists – it’s not easy on two wheels in this city.’

Mike nodded, then glanced away. Then I asked him about his wife, a successful publisher in her late thirties.

He shifted on the chair. ‘Sarah’s fine. She’s incredibly busy though – as usual.’

I thinned the paint with a little turps. ‘I saw a photo of her in the business pages the other day – I can’t remember what the story was, but she looked terribly glamorous.’

‘She’s just bought Delphi Press – to add to her empire,’ Mike added with a slightly bitter smile. Now I remembered him confiding that his wife’s career was all-consuming. I wondered again at the change in him; maybe she’d decided that she didn’t want children, and he did: or maybe they couldn’t have them and it was getting to him. Maybe, God forbid, he was ill.

Suddenly he heaved a sigh so deep, it was almost a groan.

I lowered my brush. ‘Mike,’ I said quietly. ‘Are you okay? I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you seem a bit—’

‘I’m… fine,’ he said brusquely. He cleared his throat. ‘As I say, I’m just a bit stressed… with polling day looming… and it’s particularly tense this time round.’

‘Of course. Would you like to have a coffee break now – if you’re tired?’ He shook his head. ‘Well… shall we just listen to the radio then?’ He nodded gratefully. So I found my paint-spattered tranny and switched it on.

Ra-di-o Two… It’s ten to nine. And if you’ve just joined us, you’re listening to me, Ken Bruce, taking you through the morning… Eric Clapton’s on tour – he’ll be playing the O2 next week, then he’ll be in Birmingham and Leeds…

The doorbell rang. As I ran down I heard a gentle guitar introduction, then Clapton’s voice.

Would you know my name

If I saw you in heaven

Will it be the same

If I saw you in heaven…

I opened the door. It was a courier with the new bank card I’d been expecting. As I signed for it, Clapton’s sad ballad drifted down the stairs.

Would you hold my hand

If I saw you in heaven

I went back up to the studio. ‘Sorry about that.’ I went to my desk and put the letter in a drawer.

I must be strong, and carry on

Because I know I don’t belong

Here in heaven…

I returned to the easel, picked up my brush, then looked at Mike…

…don’t belong

Here in heaven.

He was crying.

I turned the radio off. ‘Let’s stop,’ I murmured after a moment. ‘You’re… upset.’

‘No. No.’ He cleared his throat, struggling to compose himself. ‘I’m fine – and the picture needs to be finished.’ He swallowed. ‘I’d like to continue.’

‘Are you sure?’

He nodded, then raised his head to resume the pose, and we continued in silence for another fifteen minutes or so, at the end of which Mike stood up. I wondered whether he’d come and look at the painting, as he usually does; but he just picked up his jacket and went out of the studio.

I followed him downstairs. ‘So just two more sittings now.’ I opened the front door. ‘And is the same time next week okay for you?’

‘That’ll be fine,’ he said absently. ‘See you then, Ella.’

‘Yes. See you then, Mike. I look forward to it.’

I watched him walk to his car. As I stood there, Mike lifted his hand, gave me a bleak smile, then got into his black BMW and drove slowly away.

THREE

‘Ella?’ said Chloë over the phone a few days later. ‘I need to ask you something.’

‘If it’s that you want me to be a bridesmaid, the answer’s no.’

‘Oh…’ She sounded disappointed. ‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m nearly seven years older and two stone heavier than you are – that’s why. I don’t fancy being a troll to your fairy.’

‘How about maid of honour then?’

‘No. See answer above.’

‘Actually, that wasn’t what I was going to ask you – Nate has a five-year-old niece who’s going to do the honours.’

‘That sounds perfect. So what did you want to ask?’ My insides were churning, because I knew.

‘I’d just like to set up the first sitting with Nate. I was half expecting you to get in touch about it,’ she reproached me.

‘Sorry, I’ve been working flat out,’ I lied.

‘Can we fix up some times now?’

‘Sure,’ I said breezily.

I rummaged on the table for my diary and found it under this month’s Modern Painters. I scribbled in Chloë’s suggested date.

‘So where are you going to paint him? His flat’s near to yours, if you want to paint him there.’

‘No – he’ll have to come to me.’ Disliking Nate, I preferred him to be on my ground.

‘That’s eleven a.m. next Friday then,’ said Chloë. ‘It’s Good Friday.’

‘So it is. I’ll get some hot cross buns in for the break.’

As I tossed the diary back on the table I remembered the girl at the auction asking me if I could paint someone I didn’t like. I was about to find out.

‘Nate will be a good sitter,’ I heard Chloë say.

‘I hope so.’ I sighed. ‘I’ve had some tricky ones lately.’

‘Really?’

I wasn’t going to tell her about Mike – I felt a growing concern for him and wondered what had happened to make him so unhappy.

‘So how are your sitters being tricky?’ Chloë persisted. I described Celine’s behaviour. ‘How odd,’ said Chloë. ‘It’s as though she’s trying to sabotage the portrait.’

‘Exactly. And when we finally got to start, she took two more calls then went to the front door and spoke to her builder for fifteen minutes. The woman’s a nightmare.’

‘Well, Nate will be very good. He’s not that keen on it all either, as you know. But at least he’ll behave well during the sittings.’

‘In that case, we should be able to get away with five rather than the usual six.’ The thought cheered me. ‘Or even four.’

‘Please don’t cut corners,’ I heard Chloë say. ‘I’ve paid a lot for this portrait, Ella. I want it to be… wonderful.’

‘Of… course you do.’ I felt a wave of shame. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do a good job, in at least six sittings – more if they’re needed,’ I added recklessly.

‘And please make it truthful, not just attractive. I want the portrait to reveal something about Nate.’

‘It will do,’ I assured her, then wondered what – that he was cynical and untrustworthy, probably. Convinced that my negativity about him would show, I now regretted the commission even more and wished I could get out of it. I fiddled with a paintbrush. ‘I saw the engagement announcement in The Times, by the way.’ Seeing it in black and white had depressed me…

Mr Nathan Roberto Rossi to Miss Chloë Susan Graham.

Chloë snorted. ‘Mum also put it in the Telegraph, the Independent and the Guardian! I told her it was over the top, but she said she “didn’t want anyone to miss it”.’ I immediately suspected that what Mum really intended was for Max not to miss it.

‘She is amazing, though,’ Chloë went on. ‘She’s already booked the church, the photographer, the video man, the caterers, the florist and the marquee – or Raj tent, rather. She’s now decided on a Moghul pavilion – she says it’s the most elegant way to dine under canvas.’

‘Is it going to be a sit-down affair then?’

‘Yes. I told Mum that finger food would be fine, but she insists we do it “properly” with a traditional, waitered wedding breakfast – poor Dad. He keeps joking that it’s a good job he’s an orthopaedic surgeon as he knows where to get more arms and legs.’

I smiled. ‘And Mum said you wanted a vintage wedding dress.’

‘If I can find one that’s perfect for me, yes.’

While Chloë chatted about her preferred style I went to my computer and, with the phone still clamped to my ear, found three specialist websites. I clicked on the first, the Vintage Wedding-Dress Store.

‘There’s a wonderful fifties dress here,’ I said to her. ‘Guipure lace top with a billowy silk skirt – it’s called “Gina”.’ I told Chloë the name of the site so that she could find it. ‘There’s also a thirties one called “Greta” – see it? That column of ivory satin – but it’s got a very low back.’

‘Oh yes… It’s lovely, but I’m not sure I’d want to show that much flesh.’

‘That sixties one would suit you – “Jackie”: it’s a twelve though, so you’d have to take it right in, which might ruin it.’

‘I can’t see it. Hang on a mo’…’

While I waited for Chloë to find it, I clicked on my e-mails. There were three new ones including a request for my bank account details, an advert for ‘bedding bargains’ from ‘Dreamz’ and some offers from Top Table. I deleted them all.

‘Here’s a gorgeous dress,’ Chloë said. ‘It’s called “Giselle”.’

I navigated back to the site. The dress was ballerina style with dense layers of silk tulle below a fitted satin bodice that spangled with sequins. ‘It is gorgeous. You’ll look just like Mum in her dancing days.’

‘It’s perfect,’ Chloë breathed. ‘And I know it would suit me – but…’ She was making little clicking noises. ‘It might be inauspicious to wear a wedding dress called “Giselle” – don’t you think?’

‘Oh… because she has such bad luck in the husband department, you mean?’

‘Exactly – Albrecht’s such a cad, two-timing the poor girl like that. I hope Nate isn’t going to do that to me,’ she snorted. ‘Otherwise I might have to kill myself, like Giselle does.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said faintly. ‘After all, he’s asked you to marry him.’

‘That’s… true. Anyway, if you see any really great dresses, let me know.’

‘Sure. But I’d better go, Chloë – I’ve got a sitting.’

‘And I’ve got some press packs to check – but I’ll tell Nate that he’s got a date with you on Friday.’

A date with Nate, I thought dismally as I hung up.

I ordered the cab then began to get my things together for the sitting with Mrs Carr. Her daughter had already specified the size of canvas, so I took out the one that I’d primed, checked that it was properly stretched, then put my canvas bag and easel by the front door. I was just reaching for my coat when the phone rang.

I picked it up. ‘Ella? This is Alison from the Royal Society of Portrait Painters. Do you remember we spoke before Christmas – when you were first elected?’

‘Of course I do. Hi.’

‘Well, I’ve just had an enquiry about you.’

‘Really?’ My spirits lifted at the possibility of another commission. ‘Who’s it from?’ Through the window I could see the cab pulling up.

‘It’s slightly unusual in that it’s for a posthumous portrait.’

My euphoria evaporated. ‘I’m afraid I don’t do them. I find the idea too sad.’

‘Oh, I didn’t realise that you felt like that – I’ll make a note. Some of our members do do them, but we’ll put on your page that you don’t. Not that these requests arise all that often, but it’s good to know the position. Anyway, I’m sure there’ll be other enquiries about you before long.’

‘Fingers crossed…’

‘So I’ll be in touch again sometime.’

‘Great. Erm… Alison, do you mind if I ask you…?’

‘Yes?’

‘Just out of curiosity – who was it from? This enquiry?’

‘It was from the family of a girl who was knocked off her bike and killed.’ I felt goose bumps stipple my arms. ‘It happened two months ago,’ Alison went on. ‘At Fulham Broadway. In fact, there’s been a bit about it in the press because the police still don’t know what caused the accident – or who, rather.’

I thought of the black BMW speeding away. ‘I live near there,’ I said quietly. ‘I’ve seen where it happened…’

‘There’ll be a memorial service in early September, at the school where she taught – she was a primary teacher. Her parents have decided to commission a portrait of her for it.’

‘Grace. Her name was Grace.’

‘That’s right. It’s terribly sad. Anyway, her family realise that any painting’s going to take time, so her uncle called me to discuss it. He said that they’d been looking at our artists and had particularly liked your work – plus the fact that you’re a similar age to Grace.’

‘I see…’

‘In fact, they’re very keen for you to do it.’

‘Ah.’

‘But I’ll tell him that you can’t, shall I?’

‘No… I mean, yes. Tell him… that…’

‘That you paint only from life?’ Alison suggested.

‘Yes… But please say I’m sorry. And give them my condolences.’

‘I will.’

From outside I heard the impatient beeping of the cab’s horn so I said goodbye, locked up, then went out to the car. It was the red Volvo again; the driver put my easel and canvas in the boot while I climbed into the back.

He sat behind the wheel then looked at me in the mirror. ‘Where to this time?’

I gave him the address and we set off.

‘So who are you painting today?’ he asked me as we drove through Earl’s Court.

‘An elderly lady.’

‘Lots of wrinkles then,’ he laughed.

‘Yes – and lots of character. I like painting old people. I love looking at paintings of old people too.’ I thought of Rembrandt’s tender and dignified portraits of the elderly.

‘You’re going to paint me, one day – don’t forget now!’

‘Don’t worry – I won’t forget,’ I said. He had an interesting, craggy sort of face.

Mrs Carr’s flat was in a mansion block in a narrow street close to Notting Hill Gate. I paid the driver, got out of the cab, then he handed me my equipment. To my left was an antique shop, and to the right a primary school. I could hear children’s voices and laughter and the sound of a ball being kicked about. I pressed the bell for flat 9 and after a moment heard Mrs Carr’s daughter, Sophia, over the intercom.

‘Hi, Ella.’ The door buzzed open and I pushed on it. ‘Take the lift to the third floor.’

The interior of the Edwardian building was cold, its walls still clad in the original Art Nouveau tiles in a fluid pattern of green and maroon. I stepped into the antiquated lift and rattled up to the third floor where it stopped with a sonorous ‘clunk’. As I pulled back the grille I could see Sophia waiting for me at the very end of the semi-lit corridor. Mid-fifties, she was dressed youthfully in jeans and a brown suede jacket, her fair hair scraped into a ponytail.

‘It’s nice to see you again, Ella.’ As I walked towards her she looked at the equipment. ‘But that’s a lot to lug about.’ She stepped forward. ‘Let me help you.’

‘Oh – thanks. It’s not heavy,’ I added as she took the easel. ‘Just a bit awkward.’

‘Thanks for coming to us,’ she said as I followed her inside. She shut the door. ‘It makes it so much easier for my mother.’

‘That’s fine.’ I didn’t add that I like painting people in their own homes: it gives me important insights into who they are – their taste, how much comfort they prefer and how tidy they like these things; I can tell, from the number of family photos, how sentimental they are and, if there are invitations to be seen, how social. All this gives me a head start on my subjects before painting even begins.

‘Mum’s in the sitting room,’ Sophia said. ‘I’ll introduce you, then leave you to it while I do a bit of shopping for her.’

I followed her down the hallway.

The sitting room was large with two green wing-back chairs, a lemon-yellow chaise longue and a cream-coloured sofa. A large green-and-yellow Persian rug covered most of the darkly varnished parquet-tiled floor.

Mrs Carr was standing by the far window. She was tall and very slim, but slightly stooped, and she leaned on a stick. Her hair was tinted a pale caramel colour and was set in soft layered waves. In profile her nose was Roman, and her eyes, when she turned to look at me, were a remarkable dark blue, almost navy.

Sophia put the easel down. ‘Mummy?’ She’d raised her voice. ‘This is Ella.’

‘Hello, Mrs Carr.’ I extended a hand.

She took it in her left one. Her fingers felt as cool and smooth as vellum. As she smiled, her face creased into dozens of little lines and folds. ‘How nice to meet you.’

Sophia took my parka. ‘Can I get you a cup of coffee, Ella?’

‘Oh, no thanks.’

‘What about you, Mummy? Do you want some coffee?’

Mrs Carr shook her head, then went over to the sofa and sat down, leaning her stick against the arm.

Sophia waved to her. ‘I’ll be back around four – four, Mummy! Ok-ay?’

‘That’s fine, darling. No need to shout…’ As we heard Sophia’s retreating steps Mrs Carr looked at me, then shrugged. ‘She thinks I’m deaf,’ she said wonderingly. The front door slammed, creating a slight reverberation.

I took a closer look at the room. One wall was lined with books; the others bore an assortment of prints and paintings that hung, in attractive chaos, from the picture rail. I opened my bag. ‘Have you lived here long, Mrs Carr?’

She held up her hand. ‘Please call me Iris – we’ll be spending quite a lot of time together, after all.’

‘I will then – thanks.’

‘But to answer your question – fifteen years. I moved here after my husband died. We’d lived not far away, in Holland Street. The house was too big and too sad for me on my own; but I wanted to stay in this area as I have many friends here.’

I opened up the easel. ‘And do you have any other children?’

Iris nodded. ‘My younger one, Mary, lives in Sussex. Sophia’s just down the road in Brook Green; but they’re both very good to me. This portrait was their idea – rather a nice one, I think.’

‘And have you ever been painted before?’

Iris hesitated. ‘Yes. A long time ago…’ She half-closed her eyes as if revisiting the memory. ‘But… the girls suddenly said that they wanted a picture of me. I did wonder whether I wanted to be painted at this age – but I have to accept the fact that my face is now an old face.’

‘It’s also a beautiful one.’

She smiled. ‘You’re being kind.’

‘Not really – it’s true.’ I felt that Iris and I were going to get on well. ‘So… I’ll just get everything ready.’ I got out the paints and my palette. I tied on my apron and spread a dustsheet around the easel. ‘And did you have a career, Iris?’

She exhaled. ‘Ralph was in the Foreign Office, so that was my career, being a diplomatic wife – dutifully flying the flag in various parts of the globe.’

‘Sounds exciting – so where did you live?’

‘In Yugoslavia, Egypt and Iran – this was before the revolution – and in India and Chile. Our last posting was in Paris, which was lovely.’ As Iris talked I studied her face, seeing how it moved, and where the light fell upon her features.

I got out my pad and a stump of charcoal. ‘It sounds like a wonderful life.’

‘It was – in most ways.’

I sat in the wing-backed chair nearest Iris, looked at her, and began to make rapid marks: ‘I’m just doing a preliminary sketch.’ The charcoal squeaked across the paper. ‘And do you come from a diplomatic background yourself?’

‘No. My stepfather was in the City. So are you going to paint me sitting here?’

‘Yes.’ I lowered the sketchpad. ‘If you’re happy there.’

‘I’m perfectly happy. And is the light satisfactory?’

‘It’s lovely.’ I glanced at the window, through which I could see the dome of the Coronet Cinema and behind it a patch of pale sky. ‘There’s a lot of high cloud today, which is good because it eliminates strong shadows.’ I carried on drawing, then turned the pad round to show Iris what I’d done. ‘I’m going to paint you like this, in a three-quarters position.’

She peered at it. ‘Will my hands be in the picture?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case I’ll wear one or two rings.’

‘Please do – I love painting jewellery.’ I wiped a smudge of charcoal off my thumb.

‘And what about my clothes?’ Iris asked. ‘Sophia told me that you like to have some say in what your sitters wear.’

‘I do – if they don’t object.’ I thought of Celine.

‘I don’t object in the slightest.’

‘You’re very easy to work with,’ I said gratefully.

Iris looked puzzled. ‘Why shouldn’t I be? You’re going to deliver me up to posterity – the least I can do is to cooperate. My daughters say that your portraits are so vibrant that one almost expects the people in them to climb out of the frames.’

‘Thank you – what a lovely compliment.’

‘But I’ve not yet seen one myself.’

‘Ah.’ I should have brought some photos of them with me. ‘Do you have a computer, Iris?’ She shook her head. ‘Then I’ll show you some images of them on my mobile phone – it’s got a good screen.’

I got out my phone, went to ‘Gallery’ then touched one of the thumbnail images and handed the phone to Iris.

She brought it close to her eyes then nodded appreciatively. ‘That’s Simon Rattle.’

I nodded. ‘The Berlin Philharmonic commissioned it last year – I went there for a week and painted him every day in between rehearsals. He was a good, patient sitter.’

‘I’ll try to be the same.’

I took the phone from Iris, touched another image, then handed it back to her. ‘This is P. D. James.’

‘So it is… I see what my daughters mean – there’s such a vitality to your work.’

As Mrs Carr gave me back my phone I noticed that I had new e-mails. I touched the inbox and saw a flyer from the V&A and a message from Chloë. At that moment a new e-mail arrived – one that had been forwarded automatically from my website. I felt a tingle of excitement because it was likely to be an enquiry; I could see a bit of the first line, Dear Ella, My… but resisted the temptation to open it as I didn’t want to risk annoying Iris – I was here to paint her, not to read my messages. I put the phone in my bag.

‘So now we’ll decide what I’m to wear,’ said Iris. ‘Please come.’

Reaching for her stick, she pushed herself to her feet and I followed her down the corridor into her bedroom. It was large and light, with pale-blue chintz curtains and a blue candlewick bedspread. Against one wall was a big Art Deco wardrobe in a walnut veneer. As Iris opened its doors, a faint scent of lily-of-the-valley drifted out.

‘Can I help you get things out?’ I asked her.

‘No… I can manage. Thank you.’ Iris leaned her stick against the wall, then, with slightly shaky hands took out a pink, lightly patterned dress and a blue tweed suit. She laid them on the bed. ‘What about these?’

I looked at the garments, then at Iris. ‘Either would look good. But… the suit, I think.’

Iris smiled. ‘I hoped you’d say that. Ralph bought it for me in Simpson’s on a home leave one time – he couldn’t really afford it, but he saw how much I liked it and wanted me to have it.’

‘It’s perfect. So what jewellery will you wear?’

‘A lapis lazuli necklace that I had made when I was in India and my engagement ring.’

Iris went to her dressing table and lifted the lid of an ornately carved sandalwood box. As she did so I glanced round the room. There was a gilded mirror on one wall, flanked by a pair of small alpine paintings. Over the bed was a silk wall hanging of a crested crane. A blue Persian glass vase stood in the window, casting a cobalt shadow on to the sill.

‘Would you kindly get my stick?’ I heard Iris say. ‘It’s leaning against the wall there, by the wardrobe.’

As I did so I noticed a painting hanging next to her bed. It was of two little girls playing in a park. They were about five and three and were throwing a red ball to each other while a small dog darted at their feet in a blur of brown fur. On a bench close by, a woman in a white apron sat knitting.

I stared at it. ‘What a lovely picture.’

Iris turned. ‘Yes… that painting is very special. In fact, it’s priceless,’ she added quietly.

I tried to disguise my curiosity. ‘It’s certainly very fine.’ I handed Iris her stick then looked at the painting again. ‘So is it an… heirloom?’

She hesitated. ‘I bought it in an antique shop in 1960, for ten shillings and sixpence.’

I turned to her. ‘So you just… liked it.’

Iris was still gazing at it. ‘Oh it was much more than “liked”…’ She paused. ‘I was drawn to it – guided to it, I sometimes think.’

I waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t say any more. ‘Well,’ I said after a moment, ‘it’s easy to understand why you fell in love with it. It’s beautifully composed and has so much – I was going to say charm – but what I really mean is feeling.’

Iris nodded. ‘There’s a lot of feeling there. Yes.’

‘The woman on the bench must be the girls’ nanny.’

‘That’s right.’

‘She seems absorbed in her knitting, but she’s actually looking at the artist, covertly, which gives it a kind of edge. It looks as though it’s from the early 1930s. I wonder where it was painted…’

‘In St James’s Park, near the lake.’

I studied the silvery-grey water shining in the background. ‘Well, it’s lovely. It must lift your spirits, just looking at it.’

‘On the contrary,’ Iris murmured. ‘It makes me feel sad.’ She lowered herself on to the bed. ‘But now I’ll change, so if you could give me a few moments…’

‘Of course.’

I went back to the sitting room. As I tied on my apron I wondered why the painting would have that effect on Iris. Of course we all see different things in works of art; yet the scene was, objectively, a happy one, so why should it make her sad?

While I was preparing my palette, my phone rang. I quickly answered.

‘He’s called me,’ Polly declared excitedly.

‘Who has?’

‘Jason – from the Toilet Duck shoot; he’s just called and asked me to have lunch with him on Saturday.’

‘Great,’ I whispered. ‘But I can’t chat, Pol – I’m in a sitting.’

‘Ooh, sorry – I’ll leave you to it.’

As I pressed the ‘end call’ button I looked at the envelope icon; I was tempted to open the e-mail from my website, but then I heard Iris’s footsteps.

‘So…’ She was standing in the doorway. The suit fitted her perfectly and brought out the intense blue of her eyes; she’d applied some powder and a touch of pink lipstick.

‘You look beautiful, Iris.’ I put my phone back in my bag.

She smiled. ‘Thank you. So now we can start.’

Iris sat on the sofa, smoothed down her skirt then turned towards me. As I looked at her, I felt the frisson I always feel when I begin a new portrait. We were silent for a while, the brush scraping softly across the canvas as I began to block in the main shapes with an ochre wash.

After a couple of minutes Iris shifted her position.

‘Are you comfortable?’ I asked her, concerned.

‘I am – though I confess I feel a little self-conscious.’

‘That’s normal,’ I assured her. ‘A portrait sitting’s quite a strange experience – for both parties – because there’s this sudden relationship. I mean, we’ve only just met, but here I am, openly gawping at you: it’s a pretty unnatural first encounter.’

Iris smiled. ‘I’m sure I’ll soon get used to your… scrutiny. But wouldn’t you rather be painting someone young?’

‘No. I prefer painting older people. It’s much more interesting. I love seeing a whole life etched on to a face, with all that experience, and insight.’

‘And regret?’ Iris suggested quietly.

‘Yes… that’s usually there too. It would be strange if it wasn’t.’

‘So… do your sitters ever get upset?’

My brush stopped. ‘They do – especially the older ones, because as they sit there they’re looking back on their lives. Sometimes people cry.’ I thought of Mike and wondered again what could have happened to make him so unhappy.

‘Well, I promise not to cry,’ Iris said.

I shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter if you do. I’m going to paint you, Iris, in all your humanity, as you are – or as I see you, at least.’

‘You have to be perceptive then, to do what you do.’

‘That’s true.’ I exhaled. ‘And I couldn’t even try to do this if I didn’t believe that I was. Portrait painters need to be able to detect things about the sitter – to try to work out who that person is.’

We continued in silence for a few moments.

‘And do you ever paint yourself?’

My brush stopped in mid-stroke. ‘No.’

Surprise flickered across Iris’s features. ‘I thought portrait artists usually did do self-portraits.’

You’re Ella Graham now…

‘Well… I don’t – at least not for years now.’

And that’s all there is to it…

‘But… I’d love to hear more about your time abroad, Iris. You must have met some remarkable people.’

‘I did,’ she said warmly. ‘Well, they weren’t just people, they were personalities. Let me see… Whose names can I drop?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘We met Tito,’ she began. ‘And Indira Gandhi – I have a photo of Sophia, aged five, sitting on her lap. I also met Nasser – the year before Suez; I danced with him at an embassy ball. In Chile we met Salvador Allende: Ralph and I liked him enormously and were outraged at what the Americans did to help overthrow him, though we could never say so openly. Discretion is a frustrating, if necessary, aspect of diplomatic life.’

‘What was your favourite posting?’

Iris smiled. ‘Iran. We were there in the mid-1970s – it was paradisally beautiful and I have wonderful memories of our time there.’

‘But presumably your daughters went to boarding school?’

She nodded. ‘In Dorset. They weren’t able to join us for every holiday, so that was hard. Their guardian was very good, but we hated being separated from our two girls.’

There was another silence, broken only by the dull rumble of traffic in Kensington Church Street.

‘Iris… I hope you don’t mind my asking you – but the painting in your bedroom…’

She shifted slightly. ‘Yes?’

‘You said it made you feel sad. I can’t help wondering why – as it’s such a happy scene.’

Iris didn’t at first reply, and for a few moments I wondered whether she wasn’t, in fact, slightly deaf; and I was considering whether to ask her again when she exhaled, painfully. ‘That picture makes me feel sad because there is a sad story attached to it – one I learned a few years after I’d bought it.’ She heaved another deep sigh. ‘Perhaps I’ll tell you…’

I felt crass suddenly. ‘You don’t have to, Iris – I didn’t mean to pry: I was just surprised by your remark, that’s all.’

‘That’s perfectly understandable. It is, on the surface, a happy scene. Two little girls playing in a park…’ She paused, then looked at me intently. ‘I will tell you the story, Ella – because you’re an artist and I believe you’ll understand.’ Understand what, I wondered. What could the sad story behind the painting be? It now occurred to me, with an anxious pang, that the girls might not have survived the war – or perhaps something awful had happened to the nanny. Now I wasn’t sure that I wanted to hear the story, but Iris was beginning.

‘I bought the painting in May 1960,’ she said. ‘We were in Yugoslavia then – our first posting; but I’d come home with Sophia, who was then three, to have my second child, Mary. There were good hospitals in Belgrade, but I decided to have the baby in London so that my mother could help me. Also, she was widowed by then and I wanted to take the opportunity to spend some time with her; so I went to stay with her for three months.’

I studied Iris, and drew in the curve of her right cheek.

‘My mother’s house was in Bayswater. She’d spent most of her married life in Mayfair but, as I say, my stepfather lost everything after the war.’ I wondered about Iris’s own father. ‘The week before the baby was due I took Sophia out in her pushchair. We had an ice cream in Whiteleys then walked slowly up Westbourne Grove: and I was just passing a small antique shop when I glanced in the window and saw that painting. I remember stopping dead and staring at it: I was completely taken with it – as you have been today. Sophia turned round and squawked at me to go on, so I did. But I couldn’t get the picture out of my mind. So, a few minutes later I turned back and pushed on the door.

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