The Very Picture of You (7 page)

‘Yes?’

‘Well…’ I bit my lip. ‘What about
yours
?’

‘But… Roy and I got married in a register office, Ella. I wore that pale-blue silk trouser suit.’

‘I know – but what about when you got married… before?’ During the silence that followed I tried to imagine what my mother wore when she married my father in the early 1970s. A sweet, pin-tucked dress perhaps, Laura Ashley style, with a white velvet choker – or maybe something flowingly Bohemian by Ossie Clark. ‘It would probably fit Chloë,’ I went on. ‘But… maybe you didn’t keep it,’ I added weakly as the silence continued. Why
would
she have done, I now reflected, when she hadn’t even kept the wedding photos? I had a sudden vision of the dress billowing out of a dustbin. ‘Sorry,’ I said, as she still didn’t respond. ‘Obviously not a good idea – forget I suggested it.’

‘I have to go,’ Mum said smoothly. ‘There’s a beep in my ear – I think it’s Top Tents. We’ll speak again soon, darling.’

As she ended the call, I marvelled at my mother’s ability to blank things that she didn’t want to talk about. I’ll steer a conversation away from a no-go area, but my mother simply pretends that the conversation isn’t happening.

When I got home, I booked my minicab to Barnes then quickly packed up my paints, palette and my portable box easel. I took three new canvases out of the rack, unhooked my apron and put everything ready by the front door.

While I waited for the car I went to my computer and checked my e-mails. There was one from Mike Johns, MP, confirming his sitting for nine o clock on Thursday morning – his first for two months. I was looking forward to seeing him as he’s always great fun. There was some financial spam, which I deleted, and a weekly update on the number of visits to my official Facebook page. The last message was from Mrs Carr’s daughter, confirming that the first sitting with her mother would be on Monday, at Mrs Carr’s flat in Notting Hill.

Hearing a beep from outside I lifted the slats of the Venetian blind and saw a red Volvo from Fulham Cars pulling up. I gathered my things and went out.

‘I’ve driven you before, haven’t I?’ the driver asked as he put my things in the boot.

‘That’s right. I use your firm quite a bit.’

‘Can’t you drive then?’

‘I can. But I don’t have a car.’

As we drove up Waterford Road we passed the Wedding Shop. Seeing the china and cut glass in its windows I wondered how many guests Chloë and Nate would have. I speculated about where they’d go on honeymoon; but that only made me think about the woman that Nate had called ‘honey’. Now I tried to guess where he and Chloë would live. It suddenly struck me that they might move to New York, a prospect that only made me feel more depressed.

‘Shame,’ I heard the driver say as we idled at the lights at Fulham Broadway.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It’s a shame.’ He nodded to our right.

‘Oh. Yes,’ I said feelingly.

The railings at the junction were festooned with flowers. There were perhaps twenty bouquets tied to them, their cellophane icy in the sunlight. Some were fresh but most looked limp and lifeless, their leaves tinged with brown, their ribbons drifting in the breeze.

‘Poor kid,’ he murmured.

Tied to the top part of the railings was a large, laminated photo of a very pretty woman, a little younger than me, with short, blonde hair and a radiant smile.
Grace,
it said beneath.

‘The flowers keep coming,’ I observed softly.

The driver nodded. ‘There’re always new ones.’ Today there was also a big teddy bear on a bike; it was wearing blue cycling shorts, a silver helmet and a sensible hi-vis sash.

Two months on, the large yellow sign was still there.

Witness Appeal. Fatal accident, 20 Jan., 06.15. Can you help?

‘So they still don’t know what happened?’ I murmured.

‘No,’ replied the driver. ‘It happened very early – in the dark. One of our drivers said he saw a black BMW drive off, fast, but he never got the number and the CCTV wasn’t working properly – typical.’ He shook his head again. ‘It’s a shame.’ The lights changed and we drove away.

The rest of the journey passed quietly, apart from the stilted commands of the sat-nav as it coaxed us over Hammersmith Bridge towards Barnes.

Mrs Burke lived halfway down Castlenau, in one of the imposing Victorian houses that line the road. The cab swung through the lion-topped gateposts then the driver got out and opened the boot.

He handed me the easel. ‘You paint
me
one day?’

I smiled. ‘Maybe I will.’

I rang the bell and the door was opened by a woman in her late fifties who said she was the housekeeper.

‘Mrs Burke will be down shortly,’ she said, as I stepped inside. The hall was large and square, with a marble-tiled floor and large architectural prints in black and gold frames. On the sideboard was a big stone jug with branches of early cherry blossom.

The housekeeper asked me to wait in the study, to our right. It had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, an antique Chesterfield that gleamed like a conker, and a big mahogany desk on which were ranged several family photos in silver frames. I looked at these. There were two of Mrs Burke on her own, a few of the couple’s son from babyhood to teens, and three of her with a man I assumed to be her husband. He was patrician-looking, with a proud, proprietorial expression, and, as I’d imagined, he was at least a decade older than his wife. She had large grey eyes, a long, perfectly straight nose and a curtain of dark hair that fell in waves from a high forehead. She
was
beautiful. I began to make imaginary marks on the canvas to define her cheeks and jawline.

The appointment had been for eleven, but by twenty past I was still waiting. I went into the hall to try and find out what was happening. Hearing a creak on the stairs I looked up to see Mrs Burke coming down. She
was slim and petite, and wore a pink silk shirtwaister that was cinched in by a very wide, black patent-leather belt. I felt a flash of annoyance that she didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said flatly as she reached the bottom step. ‘I was on the phone. So…’ She gave me a restrained smile. ‘You’re here to paint me.’

‘Yes,’ I said, taken aback by her clear lack of enthusiasm. ‘Your husband said it’s to celebrate your birthday.’

‘It is.’ She heaved an anxious sigh. ‘If hitting the big “Four O” is a cause for “celebration”.’

‘Well, forty’s still young.’

‘Is it?’ she said flatly. ‘I only know that it’s when life is supposed to
begin.
So…’ She drew her breath through her teeth. ‘We’d better get on with it then.’ You’d have thought she was steeling herself for root-canal treatment.

‘Mrs Burke—’

‘Please.’ She held up a hand. ‘Celine.’

‘Celine, we can’t start until you’ve chosen the size of canvas. I’ve brought along three…’ I nodded at them, propped against the skirting board. ‘If you know where the portrait’s going to hang, that’ll help you decide.’

She stared at them. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’ She turned to me. ‘My husband’s sprung this on me – I would
never
have thought of having myself painted.’

‘Well… a portrait’s a nice thing to have. And it’ll be treasured for generations. Think of the
Mona Lisa
,’ I added cheerfully.

Celine gave a Gallic shrug then pointed to the smallest canvas. ‘That one is more than big enough.’

I picked it up. ‘Now we need to choose the background – somewhere where you’ll feel relaxed and comfortable.’

She blew out her cheeks. ‘In the drawing room then, I suppose. This way…’

I followed her across the hall into a large yellow-papered room with a cream carpet and French windows that led on to a long walled garden, at the end of which a huge red camellia was in extravagant flower.

I glanced around the room. ‘This will be fine. The colour’s very appealing, and the light’s lovely.’

On our left was an antique Knole sofa in a dark-green damask. The sides were very high, almost straight, and were secured to the back with thickly twisted gold cord, like a hawser. Celine sat on the left-hand side of it then smoothed her dress over her knees. ‘I shall sit here…’

I studied her for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, but that won’t look right.’

Her face clouded. ‘You said I should feel comfortable – this
is
.’

‘But the high sides make you look… boxed in.’

‘Oh.’ She turned to look at them. ‘I see. Yes… I am, as you say, boxed in. That is perfectly true.’ She stood up then looked around. ‘So where
should
I sit?’ she added petulantly.

‘Perhaps here…?’ To the left of the fireplace was a mahogany chair with ornately carved arms and a red velvet seat. Celine sat in it while I moved back a few feet to appraise the composition. ‘If you could just turn this way,’ I asked her. ‘And lift your head a little? Now look at me…’

She shook her head. ‘Who would have thought that sitting could be such hard work?’

‘Well, it’s a joint effort in which we’re both aiming to get the best possible portrait of you.’ Celine shrugged
as though this was a matter of sublime indifference to her. I held up my hands, framing her head and shoulders between my thumbs and forefingers. ‘It’s going to be great,’ I said happily. ‘Now we just have to decide what you’re going to wear.’

Her face fell. ‘I’m going to wear
this
—’ She indicated her outfit.

‘It’s lovely,’ I said as I considered it. ‘But it won’t work.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the belt’s so big and shiny that it will dominate the picture. If you could wear something a little plainer…’

‘Are you saying I have to change?’

‘Well… it would be better if you did, yes.’ She exhaled irritably. ‘Could I help you to choose? That’s what I usually do when I paint people in their homes.’

‘I see,’ she snapped. ‘So you control the whole show.’

I bit my lip. ‘I don’t mean to be controlling,’ I replied quietly. ‘But the choice of outfit is very important because it affects the composition so much – I did explain that to your husband.’

‘Oh.’ Celine was rubbing her fingertips together, impatiently, as if sifting flour. ‘He forgot to tell me – he’s away this week.’ She stood up. ‘All right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘You’d better come.’

I followed her across the room and up the stairs into the master bedroom, the far wall of which was taken up by an enormous fitted wardrobe. Celine slid open the middle section then stood there, staring at the garments. ‘I don’t know
what
to wear.’

‘Could
I
look?’

She nodded. As I began to pull out a few things her mobile phone rang. She looked at the screen, answered in French, then left the room, talking rapidly in a confidential manner. It was more than ten minutes until she returned.

Struggling to hide my irritation, I showed her a pale-green linen suit. ‘This would look wonderful.’

Celine chewed on her lower lip. ‘I no longer wear that.’

‘
Would
you – just for the portrait?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t like myself in it.’

‘O-kay, then… what about this?’ I showed her an oyster satin dress by Christian Dior.

Celine pursed her mouth. ‘It’s not a good fit.’ Now she began pulling things out herself: ‘Not that,’ she muttered. ‘No… not that either… this is horrible …that’s much too small… this is
so
uncomfortable…’ Why did she keep all these things if she didn’t even like them? She turned to me. ‘
Can’t
I wear what I’m wearing?’

I began to count to ten in my head. ‘The belt will wreck the composition,’ I reiterated quietly. ‘It will draw all the attention away from your face. And it’s not really flattering,’ I added, then instantly regretted it.

Celine’s face had darkened. ‘Are you saying I look fat?’

‘No, no,’ I replied as she studied her reflection in the cheval mirror. ‘You’re very slim. And you’re really attractive,’ I added impotently. ‘Your husband said so and he was right.’

I’d hoped this last remark might mollify her, but to my surprise her expression hardened. ‘I adore this belt.
It’s Prada,’ she added, as though I could have cared less whether she’d got it in Primark.

By now I was struggling to maintain my composure. ‘It won’t look… good,’ I tried again. ‘It’ll just be a big block of black.’

‘Well…’ Celine folded her arms. ‘I’m going to wear it and that’s all there is to it.’

I was about to pretend that I needed the loo so that I could take five minutes to calm myself down – or quite possibly cry – when Celine’s mobile phone rang again. She left the room and had another long, intense-sounding conversation which drifted across the landing in snatches.

‘
Oui, chéri… je veux te voir aussi… bientôt, chéri.
’

By now I’d decided to admit defeat and was just working out how best to minimise the monstrous belt when Celine returned. To my surprise her mood seemed to have lightened. Now she took out a simple linen shift in powder blue, then held it against her.

‘What about this?’

I could have wept with relief. ‘That will look
great.
’

The next morning, as I waited for Mike Johns to arrive for his sitting I looked at Celine’s portrait – so far no more than a few preliminary marks in yellow ochre. She was the trickiest sitter I’d ever had – obstructive, unreasonable, and entirely lacking in enthusiasm.

Her attitude struck me as bizarre. Most people give themselves up to the sittings, recognising that to be painted is a rather special thing. But for Celine it was clearly something to be endured, not enjoyed. I wondered why this should be.

I once had to paint a successful businessman whose
company had commissioned the portrait for their board-room. During the sittings he kept glancing at his watch, as though to let me know that he was an extremely busy and important man whose time was very precious. But when I at last started to paint Celine she told me that she didn’t work, and that now that her son was at boarding school she led a ‘leisured’ sort of life. So her negativity can’t have been because she didn’t have time.