The Very Picture of You (27 page)

Poor man, I thought. ‘So… what did he say?’

She swallowed. ‘That he wants me to stay – that he can’t live without me. He said that I’m having a crisis, because of turning forty: so I said, “Yes, Victor, I
am
having a crisis because of turning forty – precisely – because I want to do
more
with my life.” Then he said that he would retire early so that we can spend more time together, travel, perhaps learn new languages, take on new challenges.’

‘Then… why don’t you take him up on that?’

‘Because I want to do these things on my
own
.’

I felt a pang for Victor. ‘I see.’

‘I only ever meant to be in England for a year or two. After that it was my plan to travel to South America, Africa, or Indonesia. I got no further than Barnes! And as my birthday has approached I’ve been feeling so… boxed
in
.’ I remembered how Celine had sat in the corner of the Knole sofa at the first sitting.
I am, as you say, boxed in.
‘So now I want to try and get back some of the freedom I had when I was a very young woman – before I am an old one.’

‘But… how will you do that? Will you get a job? Retrain?’

‘I do want to work, yes, but first I intend to find an apartment, then take things from there. I’ve already
started looking. I told Victor that, about a month ago.’ Celine looked at me. ‘So what does he do?’

I shrugged, taken aback. ‘I don’t know.’

‘
What
does Victor do?’ she demanded again.

‘I’ve… no idea.’

Celine was blinking at me furiously. ‘He commissions a
portrait
of me!’

‘But… it’s your birthday present.’

‘No! It
isn’t
. It’s a trap!’

‘A trap?’

She leaned towards me. ‘Can’t you
see
? He’s trying to fix my image in this house. He’s worried that I’ll leave, so he’s trying to pin me to the wall.’

I nodded slowly. ‘I understand…’

‘
That’s
why he’s so enthusiastic about the portrait.
That’s
why he wants to put it there – right
there…
’ Celine’s left index finger jabbed at the mirror. ‘At the very heart of this house, because I think he believes that it’ll work like magic – like
voodoo –
keeping me here, with
him
!’

‘Do you still… love Victor?’

Celine gave a despairing shrug. ‘I am very
fond
of him, but I don’t want to regret, when I’m on my death bed, in perhaps
another
forty years, that I chose to remain in my safe, comfy box, with my safe, comfy husband. There…’ She pressed the tissue to her eyes. ‘You asked me whether or not I am okay.
That
is the answer.’

I sighed. ‘You said you found the sittings frustrating – but I knew that wasn’t the real reason why you didn’t want to be painted. It was as though you were poised for flight.’

She nodded bleakly. ‘I was – I still
am…
’

I exhaled. ‘It’ll take a lot of courage to do what you say you want to do. You may find you don’t like it,
but that you can’t then go back because you’ve burned your—’

‘Bridges,’ she concluded. ‘I know. Well, I’ll take that risk. But seeing Victor get so excited about the portrait made me feel very upset. Then Marcelle phoned, so I told her about it, but she wasn’t
sympa
. So I decided to tell you.’ She reached for another tissue. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

‘No. I’m glad you have, because at least now I understand what’s been going on. But… what about counselling?’

‘I’ve suggested it to Victor. But he insists that we don’t have a problem. And the more I tell him that I want to leave, the more lavish his plans for my birthday become.’

‘I see…’

‘I don’t
want
a big, expensive party,’ Celine said bleakly. ‘I don’t
want
a diamond ring: I don’t even want to go to Venice – it’s such a romantic destination that it feels quite wrong. In fact, I don’t want to celebrate my birthday at
all
because I feel so unhappy and unsettled that I think it would be dishonest. But Victor’s been making all these arrangements as though nothing’s amiss. So I’ll be sitting there at the Dorchester, a month from now, feeling that I’m taking part in some lavish charade! I keep asking Victor to cancel it, but he refuses. So for weeks, the pressure has been building up inside me and I feel that I’m going to go…’ Her eyes widened. ‘
Boom!
’

‘I’m… sorry,’ I said again, impotently. ‘I wish I could say more than that, Celine – but I can’t.’

‘I know you can’t. But I’m glad I’ve told you.’ She sighed. ‘And now we’d better get on.’ She stood up, went to the mantelpiece, and checked her reflection in the mirror. Then she returned to the chair. ‘I must let you do your job.’

‘Okay…’ I went back to the easel and picked up my palette and brush.

Then Celine lifted her head, and resumed the pose.

As I waited for Mike Johns to arrive three days later, I thought about Celine. Our conversation had been going round and round in my head. Now I understood why she hadn’t wanted to be painted and why she just wouldn’t sit still. I toyed with the idea of painting an open window into her portrait, or a mounted butterfly in a gold frame.

Since then I’d spent much of the time working on the picture of Grace – I had it on the easel now; and though it was almost finished I could see that it still wasn’t
her.
It caught a good likeness but conveyed little sense of who Grace had been. Now I bitterly regretted having accepted the commission, and imagined the disappointment of her family and friends.

Remembering the anguished conversation that I’d had with Mike about Grace, I decided I’d put her painting away before he arrived, and I was about to take it off the easel when the phone rang.

I picked up. ‘Hello?’

‘
What
do you think of personalised champagne labels?’

My mother had clearly recovered from the emotional upset of the previous week and was once again fully focused on the wedding preparations. But
I
had not recovered and felt a bewildered distrust of her that was seeping into my soul like damp.

‘Don’t you think it would be nice?’ I heard her say.

‘I’ve no idea,’ I answered. ‘I didn’t know that you could personalise them.’

‘You can – and I think it would be rather fun for the
bottles to say “Chloë and Nate” with the date of the wedding. But Chloë’s not keen – so I thought I’d discuss it with you.’

‘Why? It’s not
my
wedding – it’s hers; so if Chloë doesn’t like personalised champagne labels then I suggest you don’t
get
them.’

‘All right,’ Mum said. ‘No need to snap.’

‘I didn’t snap – I just told you what I think. And if you don’t want my opinion about something, then don’t ask me.’

There was a frosty silence. ‘Ella – I hope you’re not upset about the wedding.’ I bristled at my mother’s solicitous tone. ‘You’ve been
quite
tetchy at times, darling, so it’s crossed my mind that, as you’re a few years older than Chloë, you might not be entirely hap—’

‘Of course I’m happy for her! As happy as I possibly
could
be,’ I added more truthfully. ‘But… I’m still trying to get my head round what you told me about my father and about Lydia, and so I’m
not
in the mood to discuss wedding trivia!’

‘Of course… I’m sorry, darling.’ I heard my mother sigh. ‘I should show more understanding, because it
is
hard for you. I always knew it would be. Which is precisely why I protected you from it for so long.’

‘You protected me?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘You call concealing things of such huge personal significance, “protecting”?’

‘I
do
. I’m not even sure that they
are
that significant. John and his daughter are, of course, your relatives, but they’re relative
strangers
in that you don’t know them.’

‘Thanks to you, I
don’t
know them – that’s right!’

‘Thanks to
him
!’ she flung back. I heard her inhale, as though trying to calm herself. ‘Ella,’ she went on quietly, ‘John and his daughter are
not
in your life. They live nine thousand miles and eight time zones away. Forget about them.’

‘How
can
I, when they’re my own flesh and blood? And isn’t blood supposed to be—’

‘Blood is
not
thicker than water,’ she interjected. ‘If it were, your father could
never
have done what he did!’ I had to acknowledge the inescapable truth of this. ‘Nor could Roy have done what
he
did,’ Mum added with an air of triumph, ‘which was to treat you as though you were
his
. He’s never made the slightest difference between you and Chloë. You do realise that, don’t you?’

I exhaled. ‘Of course I do. He’s been lovely to me.’
How’s our Number One Girl?
‘I’ve never said otherwise, but—’

‘Ella, I’m very worried,’ I heard Mum say. ‘Because you told me that you
weren’t
going to contact John, but now I feel you’re wavering. So let me say that
were
you to do so it would be very hard for Roy – I hope you’ve thought about that.’

‘I have – of course I have, but… I’m
not
going to discuss it now.’ I suddenly remembered what Polly had said. ‘I just hope to God you haven’t concealed anything
else
!’ During the affronted silence that followed I glanced out of the window and saw Mike’s car pulling up. ‘But my sitter’s here – I must go.’

After I’d ended the call I had to take a moment to calm myself. I splashed cold water on my cheeks then went to the mirror. As I looked at my reflection I imagined Lydia’s face transposed on to it.

Drrrrrrnnnnggggggg!

I went downstairs and opened the door. ‘Hi, Mike.’ I was relieved to see that he looked a little less sombre than he had done previously. ‘Congratulations, by the way.’

‘On what?’ He touched his chest. ‘Finally remembering to wear the blue jumper?’

‘No – though I
am
glad about that. I meant on the election – you increased your majority, didn’t you?’

‘Yes – that was a huge relief. It’s been a tough time,’ he added. As I followed him into the studio I saw Mike register the picture of Grace, still standing on the easel. He was staring at it.

‘I’ll just put that away,’ I said breezily; I wished I’d done it before he got here. I quickly put it in the canvas rack then got out Mike’s painting. ‘Here’s yours…’ I placed it on the easel then quickly tied on my apron while Mike put his briefcase down by the sofa; then he sat in the chair. ‘Right…’ I smiled at him. ‘This is our final sitting, so let’s just go for it.’

I began to paint Mike’s jumper, then I worked on his hair, blending a touch of grey into the sideburns; then adding some blue into the texture of his jaw. And all the time we chatted about the election and about how fraught it had been.

‘But I’m glad to be part of the coalition,’ he said.

‘You’ve got a government job?’

‘Yes – I was made a junior transport minister.’

‘How brilliant.’

I asked Mike what he thought about Boris’s bikes, and about the proposed reintroduction of the Routemaster bus. And so the time passed.

I worked intently, enjoying the scent of the paint and the
linseed. Then it came to the moment when I put in the very last thing I ever add to a portrait – the light in the eyes. That’s when I feel like Pygmalion, having life breathed into his statue; because it’s that little flick of white in each pupil that finally – ‘ping!’ – brings a portrait
alive.

‘There.’ I took a few steps back. The touch of titanium white in Mike’s pupils had given his portrait vitality. I put down my brush. ‘We’re done.’

Mike got to his feet then came and stood beside me as we studied his canvas. ‘That’s me,’ he said wonderingly. It was as though he was seeing the portrait for the first time.

‘I hope your constituency association like it,’ I said. ‘Above all, I hope you do.’

‘I… do like it – but I look so
thin
.’ It was as though he hadn’t realised how much weight he’d shed.

I nodded. ‘That was quite a challenge. Your weight loss changed so many things about you: it altered the planes of your face. I was worried that you’d appear less friendly than before, but I think you still look very approachable and warm and…’

‘Sad,’ he said.

I gazed at the portrait. ‘You do look a bit – thoughtful, perhaps.’

‘I look sad,’ he insisted softly. ‘That’s what everyone will say.’

My heart sank. He was unhappy with the picture. ‘If you’re concerned about it, Mike, there are things I can do. I can tweak the corners of the eyes and mouth – less than a millimetre would lift your expression: but I painted what I saw. And you
did
look pretty serious a lot of the time.’

I now saw in the painting the air of tragedy that I’d noticed in Mike. I’d tried to avoid it but it had crept in. ‘It’ll need at least a month to dry,’ I pointed out. ‘Then I’ll take it to be framed but—’

‘Could I see it?’ he asked.

‘The frame? Well… I go to Graham and Stone on the King’s Road; I was going to suggest that you go and look at their mouldings – I could come with you, if you’d like –’

Mike was shaking his head. ‘I meant could I see the painting that was on the easel when I got here.’

‘Oh. Sure…’ I kicked myself again for not having put it away before he arrived. If only Mum hadn’t distracted me with her maddening phone call.

I took Mike’s canvas down and laid it on the floor, face up, so that it wouldn’t drip. Then I went to the rack, lifted out the painting of Grace and put it on the easel.

Beautiful, sparkling, funny, warm…

None of those qualities were evident, I realised dismally.

Happy, loyal, brave, strong…

All I’d done was to replicate her features.