The Very Picture of You (26 page)

I began to read it. ‘Just more of the same. He says that he understands my reticence blah blah blah, but – oh, this is new – he refers to Mum. He says he hopes that she isn’t discouraging me from responding to him. He says he hopes that I’ll make my own decision, and that we’ll meet when he’s in London.’

‘Which will be when?’

‘A week on Sunday…’

‘Gosh – soon.’

‘Yes. But I
am
making my own decision about it,
which is that I’m having nothing to do with him. What does he expect after what he…
oh
.’

Polly looked at me. ‘What?’

I stared at the screen. ‘He’s spotted that I say on my website that my studio’s near to World’s End.’

‘He’s not planning on coming round, is he?’

‘No – he wouldn’t know the address – I don’t put it on the site. But he says that if he
doesn’t
hear from me he’s going to go to a café on the King’s Road every day of his stay. It’s called Café de la Paix, and he says that he’ll sit there between three and six on the Monday and Tuesday afternoons, and between nine and twelve on the Wednesday morning, in the hope that I’ll come. He says his flight back is at four on Wednesday afternoon.’

‘He’s certainly determined,’ said Polly.

‘He is.’

‘So…
will
you do that, Ella? Maybe you could?’ she added tentatively. ‘What do you think?’

I went to ‘Options’, then hit ‘Delete message’. ‘No.’

EIGHT

‘Haven’t seen you for a while,’ said the taxi driver three days later. He put my easel in the boot of his car. ‘You been okay?’

‘Erm… more or less. And you?’ I asked as I got in the back.

‘Can’t complain.’ He got behind the wheel. ‘So we’re off to Barnes again, are we?’

‘Yes – to the same address on Castelnau, please.’

He started the car and we drove away, passing the Harley Davison showroom, then the Wedding Shop with its displays of Wedgwood and Waterford. As we waited to turn left, I gazed into the window of Artiques with its weird selection of fossils, crystals, conch shells, bleached animal skulls, sunburst mirrors, and stuffed fish. On the walls were frames containing huge mounted butterflies with wings of yellow, orange and blue.

As we pulled up at the lights the driver nodded at the railings. ‘Lots more flowers.’

I glanced at the many new bouquets and at the two
pink balloons bobbing on their silver ribbons. ‘That’s because it’s her birthday today.’

The driver looked at me in his rear-view mirror. ‘How do you know?’

‘I was told – in fact, I’m painting her.’

‘Even though she died?’

‘Yes. I’m doing it from photos.’

‘Right… I suppose that’s easier.’

‘No – much harder.’

As we drove on I thought about how unhappy I was with Grace’s portrait. I spent most of the journey torturing myself with thoughts of how let down her family would feel when they saw it.

We turned into Celine’s drive. I got out with my stuff, paid the driver then pressed on the big brass bell. To my surprise the door was opened not by the housekeeper, but by Celine’s husband – a tall, silver-haired man in a city suit.

He beamed at me. ‘You must be Ella.’

‘I am, and you’re Mr Burke?’

‘Do call me Victor – how
nice
to meet you. Let me take that.’ He took the easel, tucked it under his arm then crossed the hall, pausing at the foot of the stairs. He put his hand on the newel post and looked up. ‘
Dar
-ling! Ella’s here to
paint
you.’ He turned to me. ‘She’ll be down in a tick.’

I followed Victor into the drawing room where the dustsheets were already in place. He put the easel down and I opened it up and positioned it in its usual place. ‘So how’s it going?’ Victor asked as I got out my palette and brushes. ‘Could I have a peek?’

‘Of course.’ I took the canvas out of the canvas carrier and put it on the easel.

Victor rested his hands on his hips. ‘Yes…’ He cocked his head to one side as he studied it. ‘It’s definitely Celine.’

‘We’ve only had two sittings, but the basic shapes are there, so now it’s a matter of building up her face.’

‘I do hope you’ll do her justice.’

‘I’ll do my best. The sittings are going well,’ I added disingenuously, then wondered if he had any idea what a nightmare his wife had been.

‘
Here
she is.’ Victor beamed at Celine as she came in. ‘Your picture’s
really
taking shape, darling.’

‘Good,’ she said absently. ‘Hello, Ella.’

‘Hi,’ I responded warmly. For all our difficulties, I had come to like Celine and was pleased to see her.

Victor turned to me. ‘So today’s what – the fourteenth of May? Celine’s birthday is on the twelfth of June.’

‘The portrait will be finished at least a week before,’ I reassured him.

‘Terrific. Now…’ He glanced around the room. ‘Where will it hang…?’

Celine’s face spasmed with alarm. ‘Not in
here
, Victor.’

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘It’s too…
public
.’

‘Oh, I don’t know…’ He was eyeing the space above the mantelpiece. ‘I’d rather like it to go there – instead of the mirror.’

Celine looked appalled. ‘Absolutely not! And if that’s what you’re planning, I won’t do any more sittings!’ Her vehemence took me aback. I wondered if there was about to be a full-scale row.

‘All right,
not
there,’ Victor placated her. ‘We can discuss it when it’s finished.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘But I’m
going to leave you both to it, as I’m running late…’ He straightened his yellow silk tie. ‘Bye, darling.’ He made to kiss Celine’s cheek, but she turned her head and he ended up kissing her ear. He gave a bemused shrug then turned to me. ‘Goodbye, Ella.
Very
nice to meet you.’

‘You too, Victor.’ He went out of the room then we heard his shoes snap across the hall, then the front door slammed.

Celine went over to the red velvet chair. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she muttered as she sat down.

‘Oh, don’t worry.’ I tied on my apron. ‘Your husband’s charming.’

She put her bag down on the floor. ‘He is.’

‘He’s obviously devoted to you.’

‘Yes,’ she said wearily.

I began to squeeze out the paint, mixing yellow ochre with cadmium red to make the base for the skin tone. ‘And he’s very good-looking.’

Celine heaved a regretful sigh. ‘That’s true. My husband is charming, devoted and good-looking: he’s hard-working, honourable and
very
generous. He’s wonderfully thoughtful,’ she added. ‘Oh – and he’s a marvellous father.’

I was reminded of Chloë’s recitation of Nate’s good qualities. ‘Well… then you’re very fortunate.’

Celine chewed on her lower lip. ‘Yes…’

‘And will you have a birthday party?’

She nodded. ‘Victor is giving me a dinner for forty friends.’

I thinned the paint. ‘How lovely – where will it be?’

‘At the Dorchester,’ she replied flatly.

‘How fantastic.’ I selected a medium-sized brush.

‘We’re then going to Venice for four days. He’s booked the Cipriani,’ she added without enthusiasm.

‘Lucky you!’

‘And for my present, he’s taking me to Graff, where I’m to choose a diamond ring – four carats.’

‘Good
God!
’ I wanted to laugh. ‘What an amazing husband you’ve got.’

Celine looked at me bleakly. ‘He
is
amazing. Yes.
But
…’ Suddenly her ring tone sounded. My heart sank as Celine fished her phone out of her bag, peered at the screen, then slid it open. ‘
Oui, chéri
?’ She stood up.

‘
Celine
,’ I mouthed. ‘
Please
…’

She flashed me an imploring smile. ‘This is
very
important.’ She resumed the call. ‘
Il faut que je te parle. Oui, chéri. Je t’écoute…
’

As I watched her walk to the door, whispering endearments, I suddenly realised what Celine’s situation must be. During the first two sittings I’d noticed that there was one caller to whom she expressed particular affection. The intense, covert nature of these conversations reminded me of how Chloë used to be when she was seeing Max. Celine was having an affair. That would explain why she didn’t want to be painted. Victor had commissioned a portrait of her, but she was in love with someone else. It would also explain her irritability with Victor.

After four or five minutes she returned, looking slightly flushed, as though the call had affected her. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said as she crossed the carpet. ‘I’ll put the phone on “answerphone”.’ She did so then returned it to her bag. ‘
Alors…
’ She sat down again. ‘Let’s continue.’

We chatted for a while, but Celine was clearly in an
agitated mood. In her eyes was a kind of anxious longing, and from time to time she would sigh.

My brush slapped across the canvas as I painted her dress – it was a pure mid-blue, like the blue of rosemary flowers. As I loaded the brush again I heard another deep sigh.

I looked up. ‘Are you okay, Celine?’

‘Am I okay?’ she repeated after a few moments. ‘Well… I suppose it depends on what you mean by “okay”.’ I swapped the brush I’d been using for a finer one and began to outline her mouth. ‘I am in good health,’ she went on. ‘I’m not hungry or cold. I have comfortable accommodation, and clothes on my back,
but
…’ Her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I am
not
okay.’

‘Celine…’

She fumbled in her sleeve then pressed a tissue to her face. ‘Excuse me,’ she murmured.

‘Don’t… worry.’ I lowered my brush. ‘We’ll wait until you feel… better.’

She pursed her lips. ‘I am not
going
to feel better. I shall only feel worse.’

‘Well… is there anything
I
can do?’

‘No.’ She swallowed. ‘Thank you.’ She balled the tissue in her hand, clenching it so hard that her knuckles were white.

I wanted to ask Celine what the matter was, but didn’t feel that I could. In any case, I reflected, she was unlikely to tell me. I dipped the brush in the jar of turps and stirred it around.

‘I want to leave my husband.’ I glanced at Celine. She looked at me desperately. ‘I want to leave Victor,’
she reiterated fervently. ‘I’ve wanted to leave him for a long time, but now it’s all coming to a head, because of my birthday.’ She dragged the tissue under her left eye. ‘It’s very difficult.’

‘Well… is there… anyone you can talk to about it?’

She swallowed, painfully. ‘I
have
just been talking about it – to my friend. That’s why the call was so important.’

‘I see.’

‘And this friend of mine – Marcel…’ Her boyfriend, I decided. She sighed with frustration. ‘…I
love
Marcel.’ So I was right. ‘But…’ Celine’s voice had fractured with emotion, ‘…she will not
support
me!’

‘Ah.’
Marcelle
.

She sniffed. ‘Marcelle thinks I’m… “insane”. She told me so when I saw her in Paris last week, and she said it again just now. She says that if I leave Victor I will never, ever find a man who will be as good to me as he has been.’

‘He does seem… very nice.’

‘He
is.
He’s a wonderful husband. I know that I am
lucky
to have what I have, and that to be discontented in
any
way is horribly ungrateful – and
yet
…’ Celine’s mouth quivered. ‘I am
so
unhappy.’

‘Why?’

Celine looked at me, her eyes wet-lashed. ‘Isn’t life supposed to
begin
at forty?’ I remembered her saying this, with an odd bitterness, the first time we’d met. ‘Well, I feel that
my
life is going to
end
at forty.’

‘Why… should it?’

‘Because…’ She sniffed again, then tugged another tissue out of her bag. ‘I’ve been with Victor since I was twenty-two. I’d known him for only a few months when
I got pregnant. It was an accident,’ she went on. ‘I had
no
desire to have a baby at that stage of my life. But I couldn’t bring myself to…
not
have it, and Victor was thrilled. He vowed to make me and our baby
very
happy and I suppose I got carried away by his enthusiasm and his optimism.’ Celine pressed the tissue to her eyes again. ‘So we got married and four months later I had Philippe; then not long after that Victor bought this house…’ Celine’s eyes had filled again. ‘Which is where I’ve been ever since!’ She bit her lip. ‘But now I need to
leave
.’

‘Does Victor know?’

‘Yes – but he refuses to discuss it.’

‘Well… he clearly adores you.’

She gave a weary sigh. ‘He does. But he is
so
much older than me.’

‘Does that matter? After so long?’

‘In some ways it doesn’t.’ She let out her breath. ‘But the fact is, I got married too
young
. So whenever I meet a woman like you who has waited a long time to settle down I feel so…
envious
.’

‘Envious?’ I repeated. ‘I thought you felt sorry for me.’

Celine looked at me in bewilderment. ‘
No.
Because women like you have had years of fun – changing lovers, changing jobs, changing apartments, changing cities, changing your very
selves
– and then you can
still
marry and have children – while I have led just the same existence, for seventeen years. Much of it has been taken up with Philippe, who of course I adore, but he will soon be making his own way in the world. So now I want to live a
different
sort of life.’

‘I see…’

She blew her nose then looked at me desolately. ‘There’s no one else – in case you thought that.’

‘No, no.’

‘I’ve
never
had an affair.’ Celine had said this not with pride, but with regret. ‘I wish I
had
done,’ she added. ‘Then I might feel less discontented now. But I’ve told Victor that I’m unhappy and that it’s my wish to leave.’