The Very Picture of You (13 page)

Polly smiled. ‘Well… it sounds like you had a really good chat.’

I laid the spoon in the saucer. ‘I was just trying to be extra friendly to make up for not having been terribly
simpatico
before.’

Polly gave me a quizzical look. ‘
Simpatico
?’

‘Yes. What’s the problem?’

‘Nothing. It’s just that you don’t usually use that word.’

‘Don’t I?’ I batted away a fly. ‘Anyway, Nate’s sisters have all long since had kids and they’ve been piling the pressure on him to get married – especially as his mother’s getting on. He said they’ve been driving him crazy about it.’

‘What a pain.’

‘That’s why he moved to London – to get away from them.’

‘Poor chap. So they must be thrilled about Chloë then.’

‘I guess they must be…’

‘Has she met them?’

‘Yes – she and Nate went to New York for the weekend about a month ago.’

‘And are his family all coming over for the wedding?’

‘I… don’t know.’

‘You could ask Chloë.’

‘Yes… I could.’

The idea of discussing Nate with Chloë made me flinch. I decided that this was only natural, because I regard the sittings as such private affairs.

‘So when are you seeing him next?’

‘On Saturday morning. I’ll get some croissants in for the break – we didn’t have a break last time because we were talking so much and forgot; or maybe I’ll get biscotti.’ I put my cup down. ‘What do you think?’

‘What do I think about what?’

‘Should I get croissants or biscotti? Biscotti,’ I said, before she could answer. ‘Or perhaps Florentines, in honour of his origins – as long as he’s not allergic to nuts,’ I added anxiously.

‘Ella?’ Polly put down her cup.

‘What?’

‘Erm… you seem to have really enjoyed the sitting with Nate.’

I felt my skin prickle. ‘I
did
… because I was just …happy that we’d cleared the air. It
was
a relief – as you say.
So
…’ I clapped my hands. ‘How was your date?’

‘Well…’ She sighed, wearily. ‘It
started
promisingly. I dropped Lola off at Ben’s, then I went to Islington to meet Jason. We had lunch at Frederick’s, during which we both talked about our work – he didn’t know that I do feet as well as hands, and I told him about the Step by Step Pedicure Guide I’m doing for
Woman’s Own.
He seemed quite interested in that, and at the
end of lunch he asked me if I’d like to go back to his place for coffee. I was feeling pretty mellow so I said yes, and as we strolled through Camden Passage he took my hand—’

‘He didn’t squeeze it, did he?’

‘No, no – I told him to be careful. Anyway, I felt really happy and hopeful, so we went to his flat, which is in a converted warehouse at the top of Peter Street, but
then
—’ She grimaced.

‘His wife came back?’

‘No – he’s single. It was
weirder
than that. We went into his studio and he pulled me on to the sofa and I thought he was going to kiss me, which I wouldn’t have minded. Instead, he asked me to take off my shoes. So I
did
. He gazed at my feet and said how beautiful they were, and he lifted them on to his lap and began to stroke them, which was nice, in a way, but
then
…’

‘Oh God – he tried to suck your toes.’

She pulled a face. ‘Not
quite
. He left the room and when he came back he was holding this pair of red patent-leather shoes with
eight
-inch heels, three-inch platforms with metal spikes round the sides, and black leather thonging right up to mid-high.’

‘So what did he want you to do – stand on him in them while he screamed for mercy?’

‘No.’ Polly shuddered. ‘He just asked me to put them on, very slowly, and then lace them up, very
slowly
…’

‘Uh huh.’

‘While he filmed me.’

‘Oh.’

Polly’s eyes were like tea-plates. ‘That’s
all
he wanted – to film me putting on those horrendous shoes!’

‘So…
did
you?’

‘And risk getting bunions and fallen arches? No way! My feet are paying the school fees. He
begged
me to do it, but I refused.’

‘You’d have ended up on YouTube if you had.’

‘Exactly. Or he could have sold the footage – ha ha – to some fetishist site. Anyway, I put my Hush Puppies back on and left.’

‘So… a bit disappointing then.’

‘It was. All I’d wanted was a cup of Nescafé and a cuddle.’ Polly rolled her eyes. ‘I get this
all
the time. The minute I tell a man I’m a foot model he goes all pervy on me. Anyway… so much for Mr Toilet Duck.’

‘There’ll be others, Pol.’

‘That’s what worries me.’

‘No – your prince will come, bearing a nice comfy …glass slipper.’

‘I’d rather he came bearing a nice comfy Ugg! Anyway, Cinderella’s slippers weren’t glass – that’s a common misconception.’

‘Is it?’

‘In the earliest French versions of the legend she wore “
pantoufles de vair
” – v, a, i, r, – which were slippers of squirrel fur; by the time Charles Perrault was reading those early versions, that word was no longer in use; so it’s believed that he assumed “
vair
” to be a mis-translation of “
verre
” – v, e, double r, e – and therefore made Cinderella’s slippers in
his
version, glass.’

‘I see. You’re a mine of information on the foot front, Polly.’

She shrugged. ‘You pick these things up if you’re in the toe business.’ She looked at me. ‘So… any other news?’

‘No.’ I replied. ‘Actually…
yes
.’ I told her about my father’s e-mail.

Polly’s hand flew to her chest. ‘Your father contacted you?’ Her eyes were round with amazement. ‘Because of that piece in
The Times
?’

‘Yes – which is
exactly
what I was worried about.
That’s
why I tried to get that journalist to change it.’

‘I assumed it was because you thought it was too personal.’

‘I
did
think that; but my main worry was that if my father happened to see it he might get in touch – and now he
has.
’ I let out a sigh. ‘I still don’t know
how
Hamish Watt knew what he did. I never talk about it to anyone, nor does Chloë; and I know you wouldn’t discuss it.’

‘Not in a million years.’

‘But that wretched article is the reason for my father’s e-mail.’

‘Perhaps he was already looking for you.’

‘He said that the
Western Australian
had a profile of the Duchess of Cornwall in which it mentioned my portrait of her and put a link to the interview with me in
The Times
. That’s all that prompted his message – a chance sighting of me online. But I’ve deleted it.’

‘
Ella
…’ Polly’s face was a mask of dismay.

My heart sank. ‘
Don’t
look at me like that, Pol. I’ve had no contact with the man for more than three decades and I don’t want it now – I’ve told you that.’

‘I feel sorry for him.’

I put down my cup. ‘Why do you have to be on his side?’

‘I’m not,’ she protested quietly. ‘I’m on yours, but I just feel… well, you
know
what I feel, Ella.’

I shrugged. ‘He said he’d like to “make amends”, but what he really wants is to make himself feel better about what he did. Why should I help him do that?’

‘Because… you may deeply regret it in the future if you don’t.’

‘I’ll take that risk.’

‘And
maybe
…’ Polly looked at me apprehensively. ‘Maybe there’s another side to the story: maybe, somehow, it’s not as bad as you think.’

‘No.’ I felt a rush of indignation. ‘It was just an awful betrayal. My mother adored him – he was the love of her life. She said she did everything she could to make him happy, and I believe her. But in September 1979 he deserted us, and we never heard of him again – until now.’

‘Okay. What he did was heartless. But he’s going to be in
London –
perhaps even close by.’ I had an image of my father walking towards me. Would I recognise him? I didn’t even have a photograph of him. I remembered that his hair was dark, like mine – it would be grey now, perhaps even white. He might not
have
much hair. He might be thinner than he was when I knew him, or heavier. His face might be very lined.

‘Wouldn’t it be good to
meet
him,’ Polly was saying, ‘if only once? Just to talk to him, and find a bit of… closure.’

‘I don’t need “closure”, thank you – I’m
fine
.’

‘But there must be things you’d like to ask him.’

‘Oh, there
are
. I’d like to ask him why his marriage vows meant so little to him and how he could abandon
my mother when she loved him so much. I’d like to ask him how he could bring himself to leave his only child, and why he didn’t, at the very least, try and explain it to me, or even say goodbye.’

‘So you didn’t know that he was… going?’

‘No.’ I searched my memory. ‘He just stopped being …
around.
I kept asking my mother where he was, and she simply wouldn’t answer – but then she must have been in turmoil, not least because she’d just had her fall. Eventually my grandmother told me that I was going to have to be brave, because my father had gone away and wouldn’t be returning. I was convinced she was wrong. So I sat in the window of our flat on Moss Side and looked out for him. I sat there for weeks, but he didn’t come. And I began to connect his leaving with my mother’s accident, and I came to believe that my father must have left because Mum couldn’t dance any more…’

‘You told me you didn’t remember much about your father, but you obviously do,’ Polly observed quietly.

I nodded. ‘And I’ve been remembering more and more since he got in touch…’

One two three, up in the air…
Why
was
that such a clear memory? I wondered now. How could I remember it at all, given how young I would have been? And why did my mother’s white-and-red skirt stand out in my mind?

Polly laid her hand on my arm. ‘I
wish
you’d see him, Ella.’

‘No.’ I pursed my lips. ‘He’s left it too late. He should have contacted me years ago.’

‘He didn’t know where you
were
.’

‘True – but he could have traced Mum. He could have
made enquiries through English National Ballet or at the Northern Ballet Theatre. He could have put out all sorts of leads. Okay, he wouldn’t have known that she was no longer Sue Young – that was her maiden name and the name she danced under. But if he’d been determined enough, he could have found her, and if he
had
done, he’d have found me.’

‘Well… maybe he
did
contact her.’

‘He didn’t. There’s been nothing from him all these years. Then, one day, he comes across me online and with two clicks of the mouse he’s in touch. It’s been too
easy
for him, Polly – so it doesn’t
mean
much.’

‘I can understand why you feel like that, but perhaps he felt he
couldn’t
contact your mother after what he’d done.’

‘That
is
possible. Maybe he felt too ashamed – he
should
have done; especially as he left her with no money.’

Polly’s eyes widened. ‘Surely she got something after they divorced?’

‘I don’t think she did.’

‘Then she must have had a useless solicitor.’

‘Maybe, but wives didn’t get such a good deal then – the law’s changed.’

‘And was he well off?’

‘I’ve no idea. He was an architect – whether successful or not, I don’t know.’

‘So how long were your parents married?’

I shrugged. ‘Five or six years?’

‘Surely he had to pay maintenance?’

‘I haven’t a clue. I do remember Mum swearing that she’d never take a penny from him after what he’d done; she was very bitter, and still is. So I’m not about
to open a can of worms by telling her that he’s been in touch with me, let alone that he’s coming to London.’

‘Couldn’t you see him, but not say anything to her?’

I hesitated. ‘I have wondered about that… but it’s too big a thing to conceal, and telling her might be incredibly disruptive – it could spoil Chloë’s wedding.’

‘And will you mention it to Chloë?’

‘No – I can’t take the chance, in case she tells Mum. Not that Chloë ever thinks about my father,’ I added. ‘As far as she’s concerned, my father’s Roy: and that’s another thing – I want to protect
his
feelings.’

‘But he’d be happy for you.’

‘No – he’d be upset.’

‘I think he’d understand. He’d support you,’ Polly went on. ‘I know he would. He loves you, Ella…’

Polly was pushing this too far. I stood up. ‘I’d better go, Pol. I’ve got stuff to do… canvases to prime – that kind of thing.’

‘Okay,’ she said wearily as we went into the hall. ‘But there’s a bit of time until your father comes…’ She looked at me earnestly. ‘I hope you’ll change your mind, Ella. I hope you’ll see him.’

I shook my head. ‘Well I won’t.’

In any case I
couldn’t
change my mind, I reflected as I went over to Barnes the next morning: I’d double deleted my father’s message. I had no record of him. He’d gone. As the cab swung into Celine’s drive I decided to forget that he’d ever been in touch.

I paid the driver, rang the bell and the housekeeper let me in and once again asked me to wait in the study; I told her that I’d prefer to set everything up to save time.
So she showed me into the drawing room and put down some dustsheets while I unfolded the easel and put the chair into position; then I mixed the yellow ochre wash, put the canvas out and waited. I glanced at the mantelpiece, on which, amongst the bits of antique silver, were a number of formal-looking invitations. On the glass coffee table was a copy of
Hello!
so I flicked through it. Amongst the ads I saw Clive Owen’s face being stroked by Polly’s hands; I’d know her fingers anywhere. As I turned to the next page I was surprised to find myself staring at a photo of Max. He had a champagne glass in his hand and was standing next to his wife,
best-selling crime writer Sylvia Shaw at the launch of her latest novel,
Dead Right. Max looked smarter than I remembered him – his face clean shaven, his collar-length fair hair now short; but the photo did nothing for Sylvia, whose angular features seemed to jostle together, like a late Picasso. She’d be interesting to paint, I reflected.