The Very Picture of You

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.’