The Very Picture of You (33 page)

‘You ran away,’ I murmured.

So it’s not hard to understand your mum’s bitterness towards me, or her determination to cut me out of her life. This, of course, suited Frances. She forbade me from telling Lydia about you, because she didn’t want Lydia contacting you in years to come, in case that should bring Sue back into our lives. So Lydia grew up knowing nothing about you, Ella. I wonder at what stage of your life you were told about her. Perhaps you’ve known for a long time.

‘A
very
long time – three weeks!’

Lydia found out about you a year ago. It was only then that Frances, knowing how very ill she was, at last told her the story. Lydia said nothing about it to me at the time, but a month or so after her mother had died, she told me that she wanted to find you. I felt a kind of euphoria, swiftly followed by dread, because I believed that you’d want nothing to do with me. Who could blame you, if you didn’t?

‘Who could blame me?’ I echoed dismally.

So I resumed the search. But none of the Gabriella Sharps that I found online were you, and so I assumed that your name had been changed. But without knowing what your name was, or what you did, it was impossible. So then I tried to trace you through your mum, but could find no reference to Sue Young and assumed that she used only her married name – a name I had no reason to know. And then I happened to click on an article in
The Times.
For a split second I was confused, because I thought I was looking at a photo of Lydia. Then I saw that it was you, and I was… overcome. Lydia was so excited that she wanted to e-mail you herself, there and then; but she quickly realised that she couldn’t do that until you and I had re-established contact. I warned her that this might very well not happen, but told her that I’d write to you, via your website. But when I sat down to do it, I found it impossible. The words just wouldn’t come.

I felt a pang of sympathy for him.

So Lydia said that I should go to London: she believed that you might agree to see me if you knew that I was close by. So I booked my trip then sent you my first message. There was no answer, so I e-mailed you again. As each message drew a blank, I’d tell Lydia that it wasn’t going to work. She then said that I should suggest a specific meeting place, near your studio, and she found the Café de la Paix online. So that’s where I waited – I waited right up to the very last minute, but you chose not to come. Lydia’s desperately sad about it, as am I.

‘As am I,’ I echoed.

Now I feel both better and worse – better for having at least tried to see you, and worse for being rejected. Ella, when I first got in touch with you I wrote that I wanted to ‘make amends’. Of course I can’t. All I can do is to tell you how sorry I am for all the pain and hurt I caused you: I only wish that I’d been able to say it to you face to face. With every loving wish, Your father, John

TEN

I read my father’s e-mail again and again. As I finally closed it, a wave of anger with my mother rose up, but then, to my surprise, quickly subsided, leaving only an intense pity for her that she’d felt she had to conceal her true place in my father’s life. Unhappy with the role she’d ended up with, she’d re-cast herself as the wronged wife, a part she’d played with such passionate sincerity that I’d never questioned it. I almost admired her for having maintained the illusion for so long. She’d achieved this, I reflected, not so much through lies – though I now knew that she had lied – as through evasion and deflection. She’d either refused to talk about her relationship with my father, on the basis that it was too painful for her to do so, or she’d cleverly equivocated, allowing false impressions to stand.

I realised that my mother had never used the words ‘husband’ or ‘wife’ but had constantly referred to Frances as ‘the other woman’ – which, in one sense of course Frances
was
. She’d also avoided giving direct answers,
responding instead with statements that weren’t exactly lies, but weren’t the truth. She’d suggested that what I’d innocently referred to as her ‘first marriage’ hadn’t taken place in church because my father wasn’t a ‘believer’, rather than admitting that they hadn’t been married at all. She’d never spoken to me of her ‘divorce’, but had let
me
refer to it without ever correcting me.

Now I understood how my father had been able to hide the emigration papers from her, because they would have been sent to his home address. I understood why there’d been no maintenance order, and no wedding photos – not, as my mother had claimed, because the photos had got lost, but because there’d been no wedding to take photos
of
. I also understood the real reason why we couldn’t take proper holidays with my father: because he’d been unable to get away from his wife and daughter for more than three days.

My mother had inverted the love triangle with tremendous subtlety and, at times, audacity.

That would have been cosy, wouldn’t it – the daughters of the wife and the mistress being playmates! Would
you
have wanted that, Ella…?

I marvelled at her mental complexity: or perhaps she’d convinced herself that she
had
been married to my father, and this is what had enabled her to carry on the charade with such vehement commitment.

I
was
the wounded party! I was!

As I went wearily down the stairs to bed, I thought about my mother’s apparent familiarity with the frustrations of being a mistress. It was here, I now realised, that she’d nearly slipped up. She would often warn Chloë that married men ‘never’ leave their wives. Yet this
was an odd thing for her to say, given that she, supposedly,
had
been left. Most of all, I understood why Mum had had it in for Max – not because he’d betrayed his wife, but because he’d stayed with his wife, just as John had chosen to stay with his.

He’d tell me about the lovely house we’d buy, the holidays we’d have and the life we’d lead – when all the time…

This I realised was the real reason why my mother had always been so censorious about adultery – because it hadn’t worked out for
her
. Or was her indignation simply part of the performance, because it strengthened the impression that she herself had been a wronged wife?

As I got into bed, I tried to work out what I felt about my father. The fact that he hadn’t been married to my mother didn’t make what he’d done any less inexcusable. He’d had two families and had abandoned one of them – and that would never change. But I now realised that Polly had been right: there
had
been another side to the story. My father hadn’t left us in a cold, calculated way, but in a blind panic. He was a weak man who’d got himself in a mess. And he
had
tried to keep in touch – that he hadn’t was one of my mother’s few overt lies, but it was a lie that had been essential to the case she’d built against him.

As I turned out the light I thought of my father’s letters going out, then coming back to him, like boomerangs. Then I went to sleep and dreamed of my mother, in her long white tutu and bridal veil.

When I woke the next morning to the sound of my mother’s voice I thought I was still dreaming.

‘Ella?’ I heard her say. ‘
El
-la…?’ I’d slept fitfully and was so exhausted that I half-expected to see her standing by my bed. ‘
Please
pick up, Ella – I need to talk to you.’

I threw off the duvet then stumbled downstairs, clutching the handrail. As I picked up the phone the answerphone clicked off, the red light flashing angrily.

‘Thank goodness,’ said Mum. ‘I was worried that you weren’t there. Ella? Answer me –
are
you there?’

‘Yes. I am…’ Fury welled up inside me as I remembered her lies and her deception. I wanted to challenge her about it there and then, but every instinct told me to wait. I bit my lip. ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’

‘Chloë’s driving me
mad
.’

‘In what way?’

‘She’s being
so
interfering.’

‘Why shouldn’t she interfere – it’s
her
wedding.’

‘Yes – but I can’t have her trying to alter everything at this late stage. She’s unhappy with the cake – she wants it to have forget-me-nots on it to match the ones on her dress, not pink roses.’

‘Has it been iced yet?’

‘No – but it means having to phone the cake shop to change the order when I’m already
so
busy. Then she’s being difficult about the menus – she now says that she doesn’t want
pot au chocolat
, she wants a tower of profiteroles.’

‘Well, why not? Or would you have to get planning permission for it?’

‘Don’t be facetious, Ella. Worse, she won’t make up her mind about the hymns, which means that we can’t get the Orders of Service printed – oh, one good thing
though – she
has
now chosen your reading: it’s “The Good Morrow” by John Donne.’

‘Right…’ I reached for a pen and scribbled it down on a scrap of paper.

‘Then she wants to change the crockery that we’re hiring – I’d ordered the thin, plain white with a fluted edge, but now she wants the pale blue with the gold rim. She’s suddenly become terribly demanding.’

‘Well, that must be hard.’

‘It’s infuriating – although in
one
way it’s a good sign that she’s now so involved; between you and me, I think she had a little wobble a while ago – but then, brides often get jittery before the big day.’

‘You would know.’

There was an icy silence. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, only that you’ve been a bride
twice
,’ I said innocently. ‘So you would know.’

‘I can’t
bear
wrangling with her,’ Mum went on smoothly. ‘Chloë and I often rub each other up the wrong way – I suppose because in some ways we’re rather alike.’

‘Oh, you are.’ I suddenly realised how much Chloë’s life had mirrored Mum’s.

‘Anyway, I hope she’ll calm down and leave everything to me, otherwise the wedding will be a disaster.’

‘I’m sure it won’t be.’ I glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘But I have to go.’

I quickly ended the call, realising that if I didn’t do so I’d be opening the door to Nate in my nightie. A part of me
wanted
to open the door to him in my nightie. A part of me wanted to open the door to him stark naked, pull him inside and hold myself to him.

I went upstairs and had a cool shower, after which I didn’t blow-dry my hair – I left it damp and unbrushed, my face bare of make-up. I put on a shapeless shift in a bilious shade of custard and a pair of hideous sandals that gave me fat calves. I wanted to make myself look, and feel, plain and frumpy in order to extinguish any sparks that had ever flared between Nate and me. But as I placed his canvas on the easel I felt the sparks glow.

It was as if the portrait
was
Nate – as though there’d somehow been a fusion of person and picture. I kissed the tip of my finger then placed it gently on his painted mouth. I stroked his cheek then touched his hair. I suddenly decided that I wouldn’t give the portrait to Chloë – I’d keep it, like Goya kept his portrait of the Duchess of Alba because he’d fallen in love with her and wouldn’t part with it.

Drrrrrrnnnnnggggg!

I took a deep breath, walked slowly downstairs, then opened the front door. There Nate was, in jeans and a pale-blue Polo shirt, the green jumper slung around his shoulders. I gave him the kind of neutral smile that I’d give the plumber or the postman. ‘Hi there.’

He smiled warmly in return and I felt my stomach flip-flop. ‘You look great,’ he said as he came in.

‘No I don’t.’

He looked taken aback. ‘You do: it’s a – nice dress.’

‘It
isn’t
,’ I protested. ‘The colour’s vile and it’s completely shapeless.’

Nate gave a bewildered shrug. ‘Then why are you wearing it?’

‘Because…’ I could hardly tell him the truth. ‘Because I’m going to be painting in it, so it doesn’t matter.’

‘Well… I guess that makes sense.’ We went upstairs
into the space and light of the studio. I adjusted the blinds, rearranged the screen then tied on my apron. Nate pulled on the jumper then came over to the easel and looked at the canvas. ‘You’ve done a lot more to it since I was last here.’

‘I have – but only because time’s getting short now. In fact this is the penultimate sitting,’ I added cheerfully, as though I didn’t mind that the portrait process was almost over.

‘And will the last one be next Saturday?’

I twisted my hair into a scrunchie. ‘The Saturday after, if that’s okay, as I have to go to Chichester.’ I told Nate about the silver wedding portrait commission. ‘They need it very quickly. It’s an emergency,’ I added seriously.

Nate smiled. ‘Do you charge more for emergency portraits?’

‘I do. I have a twenty-four hour call-out, with an 0800 number.’

‘And a blue flashing light on your easel?’

‘Of course. And a siren.’ I felt myself smile. ‘Anyway…’ I took the lid off the jar of turps. ‘Today I’m going to be working on your eyes, so I’m just going to stare right into them, if that’s okay.’

‘Be my guest.’

I went over to Nate, put my hands on my knees, and gazed into his eyes. I was so close to him that I could see my reflection in his pupils and, behind me, the square of the window, its sides curved across the convexity of his cornea.

Nate gave me a suspicious glance. ‘What are you muttering?’

‘I’m counting your lashes. Now you’ve distracted me I’ll have to start
all
over again. Right…’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘One, two, three, four…’ I could smell the scent of Nate’s vetiver and the faint tang of his sweat.

He smiled and his laughter lines deepened into small creases. ‘I can see myself,’ he said. ‘In
your
eyes.’