The Very Picture of You

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?’