The Very Picture of You (39 page)

Chloë looked at the vicar her eyes red-rimmed. ‘I’m not expecting you to approve of any of this,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m just trying to explain…’

Reverend Hughes’s brow furrowed. ‘So, you feel that your mother stopped you from being with Max.’

‘She
did.
’ Chloë’s eyes had filled again. ‘Because she persuaded me to end the relationship – and it broke my heart.’

‘How old were you then, Chloë?’ he asked her.

‘Twenty-seven – so, yes, more fool me for listening to her at that age. But I
trusted
her, and believed that she was acting only in my best interests.’

‘I
was
!’ Mum protested. ‘Of course I was.’

Chloë shook her head. ‘But last night I discovered something about my mother that made me realise that she hadn’t acted in my best interests at all.’

Mum blenched. ‘Whatever are you talking about?’

Chloë stared at her coldly then turned back to the vicar. ‘Over dinner, Mum and I had a row. She said, yet again, how happy she was about the wedding, and how thankful she was that I’d “seen the light” about my “awful relationship” with Max – and she was rude about him. I became very upset. But after she’d gone to bed, Dad tried to calm me down. And he told me where this obsessive attitude of my mother’s comes from. He said that it was because
she’d
had a long affair with a married man – Ella’s father, John.’ Mum looked at Roy, aghast. ‘Yet Mum’s always made out that she was his poor abandoned wife.’

Mum sank on to a chair. ‘What have you
done
, Roy?’ she whispered.

‘What have
you
done, Sue,’ he countered quietly, ‘in not being honest with us all these years? Ella learned it only very recently, from John, in an e-mail – he had no idea that she didn’t know. A few days ago, she told me.
And last night
I
told Chloë.’ He closed his eyes. ‘And now I wish I
hadn’t
.’

‘I’m
glad
you did,’ Chloë exclaimed.

Reverend Hughes heaved an exasperated sigh. ‘I still don’t understand why this should have such a bearing on
today
, Chloë.’

She looked at him desperately. ‘It’s because last night everything fell into place. I finally understood
why
my mother had been so relentlessly negative about Max – it was because my relationship with him reminded her of her own failed relationship with Ella’s father. She was transferring all her stored-up bitterness about John on to
him
.’

‘No!’ said Mum. ‘I was trying to protect you.’

‘I was an adult!’ Chloë retorted. ‘I didn’t
need
your protection, and now I realise how much damage your “protection” has done. Not just because you stopped me being with someone I loved, but because you’ve pushed and
pushed
for this wedding to happen.’ I saw Nate incline his head.

Mum sniffed. ‘You didn’t have to agree to it – did you?’

Chloë stared at her. ‘That’s true – but you’re
so
persuasive, and Nate’s a
nice
man, and I was desperate to try and forget Max and move on and so I allowed myself to get swept up by your plans, and I wish to God I
hadn’t
,’ Chloë wailed. ‘Because then there would have been enough time to avoid this…
mess
that I’m in now!’ She buried her face in her hands.

‘You’ve heard from Max again,’ Mum said quietly. ‘That’s what this is about.’ Chloë nodded. Mum’s lips compressed. ‘When?’

Chloë looked up, her cheeks shining with tears. ‘The night of the engagement party,’ she replied thickly. ‘He phoned me to tell me that he and Sylvia had finally separated.’ I realised that that was why Chloë had been so upset when she’d showed me out that night. ‘Max knew that I was engaged, but he desperately wanted to see me again before it was too late. So I did see him.’ Chloë looked at Nate. ‘It was when you were in Finland. We only talked,’ she added. ‘Nothing else.
But
…’ She twisted the hanky in her fingers. ‘Seeing Max again made me wish that I
could
be with him.’ So that’s when Chloë had had her ‘wobble’ I reflected. ‘I was dreadfully torn,’ she went on. ‘So I saw Max again: it was on that Sunday when you said that you’d bumped into Ella, Nate. I’d told you that I was going to see Mum and Dad – but I was with Max. I hated lying to you, but I knew that I had to see him just one more time, in order to decide. And I told him that it was too
late:
because I’d made a commitment to you.

‘You certainly
had
,’ Mum said.

Chloë ignored her. ‘I thought about all Nate’s good qualities,’ she went on. ‘I’d repeat them to myself over and over. I’d tell myself how lucky I was to be with him.’

The vicar frowned. ‘But you said that to me only
yesterday
, Chloë. After the rehearsal.’

Chloë looked at him desperately. ‘I
did
. But there was a big problem that I didn’t
know
about. Because the thing is that…’ Suddenly the door opened and Nate’s mother came in, with James and Honey. ‘You see, the thing is…’ She turned up her palms. ‘That Nate doesn’t love me.’

Mum gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Of course Nate loves you. He asked you to marry him.’

‘No.’ Chloë shook her head. ‘I asked
him
. We were in Quaglino’s, celebrating my promotion – we’d had a bottle of champagne, and I suddenly said, “Why don’t we get married?” I said it as a kind of joke – we’d only known each other four months – but to my surprise Nate said, “Okay – why don’t we?” Then that night, at the auction, we told you about it, Mum, and before we knew what was happening you’d not only set the date, you’d made half the arrangements. You’ve controlled this wedding, Mum – you’ve controlled the whole show!’

‘Why
shouldn’t
you get married?’ Mum countered. ‘You’re twenty-nine – Nate’s nearly thirty-
seven
! And love isn’t everything at the start of a marriage. Love
grows
.’

‘That’s what I told myself.’ Chloë sniffed. ‘But I knew that I didn’t feel for Nate a fraction of what I’d ever felt for Max.’

‘How
can
you say such hurtful things in front of Nate?’ Mum demanded.

‘Because I know I’m
not
hurting him,’ Chloë replied. ‘And that’s not just because, as I say, Nate doesn’t love me.’ She swallowed. ‘It’s because I know that he loves someone
else
. And I had no idea until yesterday afternoon; it was only then that I realised that Nate loves …’ She gave a bewildered little laugh. ‘Nate loves…’

‘Ella,’ Vittoria said. ‘Nate loves Ella.’ She looked at him. ‘Don’t you, Nate?
Tu ami
Ella?’ Nate didn’t answer. My cheeks burned as everyone turned their gaze on me. ‘I saw it,’ Vittoria went on; ‘I saw it in the
ritratto
– the portrait; it’s there, Nate, in your eyes, in the way that
you’re gazing at Ella as she paints you. I saw it at once. And I could see that Chloë had seen it too – but then it’s quite
unmistakable –
no one could have missed it.’
I
had missed it, I realised. Still Nate didn’t respond. ‘And I felt very sad for Chloë,’ Vittoria continued. ‘I felt sad for you, too, Nate, because I knew it would be a
disaster
for you to marry Chloë when you were clearly in love with her sister. But I couldn’t say so, because it was too late.’ She shrugged. ‘But you
do
love Ella.’

Mum turned to me. ‘What have you done, Ella?’ she demanded coldly. ‘Were you so jealous of Chloë, that you had to use the sittings to try and—’

‘Ella’s done nothing,’ Nate said sharply. It was the first time he’d spoken and we all turned to him. ‘All she did was to paint me, and talk to me,’ he said. ‘But yes… we got on… well.’

Mum gave Nate a basilisk stare. ‘Then
why
did you go ahead with the wedding if it’s
Ella
that you love?’

‘Because… I’m not a flake,’ Nate answered. ‘I wasn’t about to cancel my wedding on the basis that I’d spent a total of fifteen hours with Ella – especially as I had no real idea what
she
thought of
me
!’

A silence fell, then Honey gave a little cough. ‘She’s nuts about you, sweetie.’ We all looked at Honey. ‘I didn’t
tell
you that,’ Honey went on. ‘I didn’t feel that I could, given that you were about to marry Chloë. But I saw it at the engagement party – in the close attention that she’d paid to everything you’d ever said to her; and in the little glances that she’d throw you.’ I felt my pulse race. ‘And I felt so sorry for her.’ Honey turned to me. ‘But I don’t feel sorry for you now, Ella, because I think that everything’s going to be all right.’

‘Well…’ said Reverend Hughes. ‘I assume that the upshot of this discussion is that Chloë and Nate are
not
now to be married.’

‘That’s right,’ said Chloë quietly. ‘Isn’t it, Nate?’ She turned to look at him, and he nodded.

Mum’s face crumpled. ‘There are one hundred and eighty-
nine
people out there.’ It was the ‘nine’ that seemed to bother her.

Roy straightened his shoulders. ‘Then we need to tell them what’s happening.’

He spoke to Reverend Hughes, then we all went back into the church, where by now Katarina had finished
Panis Angelicus
and was halfway through Rossini’s ‘
Stabat Mater
’. The organist brought the piece to an end then Katarina returned to the front pew, her face pink with exertion from her unexpectedly lengthy recital.

The vicar cleared his throat. ‘We’re sorry to have kept you all waiting,’ he said. ‘But we’ve been having a very important conversation, the conclusion of which is that Chloë and Nate have decided that they’re
not,
after all, to get married.’ There were whispered exclamations as everyone reacted to this news. ‘They both recognise that marriage is too profound a commitment to make where there are doubts,’ the Reverend went on. ‘However, Roy has asked me to point out that today is Chloë’s birthday, and he hopes you’ll all come back to the house, as planned, and celebrate that instead.’

Everyone was shifting in their pews, some were laughing, out of shock. ‘What
happened
?’ Polly whispered as everyone stood up to leave. ‘Did Chloë just get cold feet? But what a disaster,’ she added.

‘No it’s not a disaster,’ I said, as my spirits soared.

As I walked out of the church into the bright sunshine Vittoria approached me. She touched my arm. ‘
Now
I can tell you what I
really
think of your portrait of Nate,’ she said quietly. ‘I think that it is…
fantastico!
’ I wanted to kiss her, but simply gave her a grateful smile. I glanced at Honey, and wanted to kiss her too. Then I looked at Nate, and felt my heart expand. But I left him to walk to the house with Honey and James, who looked disappointed not to be making his speech. My mother walked beside Roy, doing her best to retain an air of dignity, but her face was a mask of shock and dismay.

When we reached the house Mum didn’t come into the garden with everyone else – instead she opened the front door and went in, closing it behind her: through the hall window I saw her walk slowly upstairs, leaning on the handrail.

I went into the tent where Roy was pouring the champagne. Next to him the ice swan was dripping into its tray. Then I went into the kitchen to help the bemused-looking caterers. Chloë was standing by the French windows, next to the trolley on which was the five-tiered wedding cake. She gazed at the guests milling in and out of the tent, then she went to the dresser and picked up the phone. As she began to dial, I knew who she was calling. And I knew too why she’d chosen the forget-me-not-scattered dress: because she’d been drawn to its story of a love that had been ruptured and then restored.

EPILOGUE

15 September 2010

I am at the Eastcote Gallery, on the King’s Road, putting the finishing touches to my exhibition, which will open in five minutes’ time. The twenty-five paintings are all on the white-painted walls; most of them collected with the help of Rafael, whose red crayon portrait hangs next to that of David Walliams. There are pictures of P. D. James, Cecilia Bartoli, and, courtesy of the National Portrait Gallery, the Duchess of Cornwall. The biggest painting is the one of the Berger family, which takes up most of the back wall. There are portraits of Polly and Lola, of Roy and Mum, Celine, Mike, Chloë, and a dozen more. Surrounded by their faces, I feel that the party has already begun.

The gallery assistant, a pretty dark-haired woman called Lucy, is pouring the wine – just in time, as my first guest is arriving. Iris stands framed in the doorway, leaning lightly on her stick; she is wearing her blue suit
and her lapis beads. I cross the pale wooden floor and greet her with a kiss.

‘Many happy returns, Ella,’ she says. ‘And many congratulations!’

‘Thank you, Iris. I’m glad you’re the first – this was your idea, remember.’

‘I do.’ She looks around. ‘What lovely paintings – I shall enjoy looking at them and meeting the people behind them.’

‘You’re over there, on the other side of that screen.’ I take Iris to her portrait, which I collected from the framer only yesterday.

As we study it, Iris tilts her head. ‘I like it. I feel that it’s… me. I loved being painted,’ she goes on. ‘It made me really think about who I
am,
and how I’ve lived my life. And I didn’t cry, did I?’

‘No.
I
did though.’

‘You did,’ says Iris thoughtfully. ‘I’m glad that in our later sittings you chose to tell me why.’

Lucy brings us both a glass of wine. She looks at Iris, then at the canvas. ‘It’s a lovely likeness – and you look very distinguished.’

‘Thank you,’ Iris says.

‘But what’s this?’ Lucy points to the corner of a painting that is included in the background of the portrait.

‘That,’ says Iris, ‘is a fragment of a picture of my sister and me when we were children.’