The Very Picture of You (37 page)

‘I could – in charcoal, or crayon, or pen and ink.’

‘So what does that cost then?’

‘Well… perhaps we could barter? I used to do that when I first started out. I once painted my plumber in return for a boiler repair. So…’

‘All right then – I’ll give you some free cab rides – within central London, that is.’

‘Fair enough. And how many would you offer?’

‘Erm… would ten do it?’

‘Ten would be great.’ He could help me collect some of the portraits for the party. ‘It’s a deal.’

On the Saturday, the doctor colleague of Roy’s brought his daughter for her sitting; she was an intelligent-looking girl of ten with long, glossy dark hair; she said that she wanted to be a violinist. Her father stayed while I sketched her in red crayon on brown paper.

On the Tuesday I went back to Iris: her portrait was very nearly done: in it she looked distinguished and serene, and the background that she’d chosen added depth and interest to the composition.

And now, the wedding was only two days away.

On the Thursday afternoon I cycled over to the house to write out all the place cards. In the drive was
a big white van with
Pavillioned in Splendour
emblazoned on it; in the garden a team of men were slotting steel poles together and unrolling expanses of white canvas.

Roy came and stood next to me and we watched the tent rise up. ‘Well… it’s all happening,’ he said. ‘And Nate’s family have been arriving.’

I glanced at him. ‘When will you meet them?’

‘We’re going to have a quick drink with them tonight, tomorrow your mum and I will be very busy here all day; then we’ll have a quiet evening with Chloë – she wants to sleep in her old bedroom one last time.’

‘Of course – and how’s she feeling?’

Roy shrugged. ‘Absolutely fine.’

I turned and saw my mother walking towards us, shielding her eyes against the bright sunlight. She nodded at the men. ‘I hope they’re being careful with the plants.’

‘I’m watching them like a hawk,’ Roy assured her. ‘I’m not going to let anyone trample my aquilegias.’

‘I’m very worried about smoking,’ Mum said. ‘I just
know
that Gareth Jones will light up – he’s still on forty a day, according to Eleanor.’

‘Then I expect he will,’ I said.

‘As long as he doesn’t light up in church,’ Roy teased.

My mother ignored us as she considered the problem. ‘I think I’ll tell everyone that smoking
is
allowed – but after-dinner cigars only: I’ll get a big box of Romeo y Giulietta.’

Roy groaned. ‘That’s another five hundred quid I can kiss goodbye to then.’

Mum looked at him reproachfully. ‘Let’s not spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar.’

‘Tar being the operative word,’ he muttered.

Mum turned to me. ‘Ella, will you come and write the place cards now? I’ve got them all ready on the kitchen table.’

‘Sure.’ I followed her inside. Once there, she opened the box of gold-edged white cards, handed me the guest list, then I got out my calligraphy pen and set to work. ‘I feel like the official scribe.’

‘Well, it’s a great help that you’re doing this,’ she said. ‘But everything’s coming together very smoothly. We’ve got the rehearsal in the morning.’

‘Do you need me for that?’

‘No: it’s really so that the soprano can practise and so that Chloë and Nate can go through their paces. Then in the afternoon the caterers and I will lay the tables.’ She sucked on her lower lip. ‘I don’t suppose you could lend a hand with that, could you, Ella darling?’

‘No – I’m sorry, I can’t: Chloë’s coming to see the portrait.’

‘Oh, well then.’ Mum frowned. ‘But hasn’t she seen it yet?’

‘No – she insisted that she didn’t want to see it until it was finished so she’s coming to the studio at three.’

Mum smiled. ‘So it’ll be the moment of truth!’

At five past three the following afternoon the doorbell rang and I went quickly downstairs.

‘Ella!’ Chloë beamed at me then turned to the smartly dressed white-haired woman standing beside her. ‘This is Nate’s mother – Mrs Rossi. She said she’d like to see the portrait too – I hope that’s okay.’

‘Of course it is.’ I held out my hand and Nate’s mother took it. ‘Hello, Mrs Rossi.’

‘Please… call me Vittoria.’ Mrs Rossi sounded very
Italian, and was less frail than I’d imagined. She had pretty, mobile features and large greenish-grey eyes that reminded me of Nate’s.

‘Nate looks like you,’ I said as she stepped inside.

She nodded. ‘
Si
– more than his papà.’

‘My studio’s at the top of the house. I can bring the painting down, if you’d…’

‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I can go up.’ She followed Chloë and me up the stairs.

‘Nate was a good sitter,’ I said to Vittoria as we reached the first landing. ‘He kept very still.’

‘Ah… well, he is a good boy.’

We went into the studio. Vittoria smiled appreciatively at the paintings on the wall.

‘How was the rehearsal?’ I asked Chloë.

‘Fine. I think it’ll all go very well tomorrow. Are you happy with your reading?’

‘Yes. I’ve been practising.’

‘That’s good.
So
…’ She clapped her hands together, beaming. ‘Let’s see the portrait!’ She turned to Vittoria. ‘It’s very exciting.’

‘It is exciting,’ Vittoria agreed.

I went to the rack, took out Nate’s canvas and placed it on the easel.

Chloë and her future mother-in-law stood in front of the portrait, side by side.

In the silence that followed, I was aware of the soft roar of the traffic, and of the distant wail of a siren. After a few seconds had passed I began to think it would be nice if they said something. Of course, coming from Florence Vittoria would have high standards, I reasoned; but while I wouldn’t claim to be up there with Raphael
or Leonardo, I was pretty sure that I’d done a good job. But Vittoria and Chloë’s continuing silence seemed only to confirm that they were disappointed. My heart sank.

Vittoria put her head on one side as she studied the picture. ‘
Piacevole
,’ she said at last. ‘Pleasant’, I silently translated. She thinks the portrait is ‘pleasant’. ‘
Molto piacevole
,’ Vittoria added as she studied it. ‘Very pleasant’. Great, I thought. ‘
È un buon ritratto
– a good portrait.
Brava
, Ella,’ she concluded, and smiled at me.

I looked at Chloë’s profile as she contemplated the painting. ‘I agree with Vittoria,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s a… good portrait. Very good,’ she added firmly. ‘So… thank you, Ella. But… we have to go now.’

‘Won’t you have some tea?’

‘Oh. No…’ Chloë said. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have time – I need to take Vittoria back to her hotel, then I have to collect things from my flat and drive over to Richmond – and of course I want to have an early night tonight; But…
thank
you,’ she said again, with this stiff, dignified air, which wasn’t like Chloë at all. It was wedding nerves I told myself. She turned to go.

‘Aren’t you going to
take
the portrait?’ I asked her. ‘I thought you were going to give it to Nate tomorrow.’

Chloë glanced at the painting again, then coloured. ‘Oh… no. I think I’ll… wait.’

‘Until it’s been framed?’ I said.

‘Yes. Yes… that’s right.’

‘Fair enough.’ We went down the stairs. ‘So…’ I opened the front door then smiled my goodbyes. ‘I’ll see you both tomorrow.’

‘
A domani
,’ Vittoria replied. She reached for my hand and squeezed it – as if to console me, it occurred to me;
then she smiled brightly. ‘
Brava
, Ella. So nice to meet you –
arrivederci
.’

‘
Arrivederci
,’ I said. Then they left.

The next morning I woke early and lay in bed feeling not just depressed at the thought that this was Nate’s wedding day – but weighed down – as though someone had left a pile of bricks on my chest. I tried to distract myself by working – I finished the drawing of the doctor’s daughter; then I sent Chloë a ‘Happy birthday’ text; then I looked at Nate’s portrait again, still standing on the easel. ‘
Piacevole
’, I murmured balefully. Vittoria’s verdict depressed me, and Chloë’s response had been barely more enthusiastic.

I showered, did my hair and make-up and, having scrubbed the last traces of paint off my hands, I polished my nails then got dressed.

At 12.45 I heard Polly beep her horn – she’d offered to drive me to the wedding. I ran downstairs, opened the door then waved as she parked her silver Golf.

She got out then opened the hatchback so that I could put my hat on the shelf. ‘Great dress,’ she said, with a glance at my fitted silk shift with its deep ruffle across the front. ‘I love lime green.’

‘Well… it’s suitably bright and joyous.’ Not that I felt either. ‘You look lovely, Pol.’ She was wearing a pink linen suit with flat silver sandals through which her toes, lacquered with candy pink polish, showed to perfection. I smiled at Lola, sitting in the back in a sky-blue linen dress, her long, fair hair twisted into a bun. ‘You look very grown up, Lola.’

‘Eleven
is
quite grown up,’ she pointed out gravely.

I went back into the house to fetch my bag and the book of poems. I locked up then, mindful of my tight seams, I lowered myself carefully on to the front seat of Polly’s car.

She pulled on her driving gloves. ‘Gorgeous day for it,’ she remarked as we drove away.

As we went through Putney I told Polly about Chloë and Vittoria’s visit.

‘I bet they loved the portrait,’ she said.

‘Erm… I don’t think they did.’

Polly glanced at me. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, Chloë said that it was very good.’

‘Then that’s
fine
. I’m sure it’s wonderful,’ she added loyally.

‘But Nate’s mother just said that it was
piacevole
– i.e. “nice” – as though she thought I hadn’t done him justice.’

Polly put on her indicator. ‘Look, Ella – she’s his
mum
; she’d probably have said that if Michelangelo himself had painted him.’

‘You’ve got a point there. I’m being over-sensitive.’

‘That’s okay – you’re an artist.’

The traffic was surprisingly light, so we got to Richmond in good time. Polly parked outside the house, swapped her driving gloves for a pair of white lace ones, then we all got out. She opened the boot and passed me my hat.

‘Let’s have a quick look in the garden,’ I said.

The tent looked magnificent, the canvas a pristine white, the ‘ceiling’ a lining of pale calico that spangled with tiny mirrors. The poles were swathed in cream voile and laced with long coils of summer jasmine. Bone china and lead crystal gleamed on the linen-covered tables on each of which was a huge centrepiece of belladonna lilies.

Polly gave a low whistle. ‘It’s spectacular – isn’t it, Lola?’

Lola nodded. ‘So many flowers…’

In front of each place setting was a gold-tasselled menu, and a silk mesh bag of pink and white sugared almonds. I wondered if Chloë and Nate would smash a glass.

Through the open side of the tent I saw four uniformed caterers crossing the lawn, carrying a huge ice sculpture of a swan, anxiously supervised by my mother. They came into the tent and lowered it on to the large side table from which the drinks were to be served.

Mum looked up and saw us. ‘Polly!’ she exclaimed softly. ‘And Lola –
you’ve
grown since I last saw you. And what a terrific outfit, Ella – you all look beautiful.’

‘So do you, Sue,’ said Polly. ‘But it’s all…
wonderful
.’

‘Thank you,’ Mum gave Polly a gratified smile. ‘I must say I think the intensive planning’s paid off.’

‘I thought you’d be helping Chloë get dressed,’ I remarked to her.

Mum gave an odd little laugh. ‘She said she didn’t want me to. But as she’s got her hairdresser and a make-up artist with her, I thought I’d leave them to it and get on with things here. But I’ll walk to the church with Chloë and Roy.’

I glanced at my watch. ‘I think
we’d
better go.’

‘We’ll see you there,’ Polly said to Mum.

I put on my hat and we walked up the road to St Matthew’s. Nate was standing outside, looking so handsome in his morning suit and grey waistcoat that my heart contracted. As he saw me he smiled, and my heart flooded with longing. I walked up to him and congratulated him, then introduced Polly and Lola.

‘Great to meet you,’ he said to them. ‘This is my best man, James,’ he added as James appeared.

I smiled at him. ‘I hear you’ve written a great speech.’

‘Oh, it’s a humdinger.’ He clapped his hands. ‘I’m looking forward to it – after all, you’ve made me wait long enough for this day, pal,’ he joshed Nate. Nate gave him a good-natured grin.

‘You’re certainly going to have a big audience,’ I said to James.

He nodded. ‘There’s gonna be a huge crowd.’

By now that crowd was beginning to materialise as the guests rounded the corner in knots of two and three, then congregated by the porch. A woman with a cam corder and a big black bag slung over her shoulder was filming us while a man in a cream suit snapped away with an SLR.

‘Shall we go in now?’ I said to Polly.

‘Let’s.’

As we entered the church we could hear the organist playing ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’. I spotted Honeysuckle, wearing a black-and-white houndstooth suit and wide-brimmed black hat, chatting to Kay, who was in a blue-and-white floral patterned dress. I smiled at them and hoped that they’d both forgotten my rather intense behaviour at the engagement party. Honey’s husband Doug, who was an usher, handed Polly, Lola and I our Orders of Service, then we walked to the front of the church.

There were posies of sweet peas tied to the end of each pew; but as I saw the flowers on the altar I caught my breath – a tumbling mass of peonies, agapanthus, viburnum and tuberose – the overpowering scent of which brought to mind my mother’s Fracas.

‘Where should Lola and I sit, Ella?’ Polly whispered.