The Very Picture of You

‘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!’