The Very Picture of You (12 page)

Nate nodded apprehensively, but I decided to ignore his discomfiture and simply focus on the task in hand. So I took in the shape of his head, the square of light that fell on his brow and the almost bluish shine to his hair; I registered the planes of his cheeks and the different textures and shades of his skin. There were two short lines above his nose, like a number eleven, and a small round scar, like a watermark, on the right side of his brow. His eyes, I realised, weren’t so much a mossy green as dark sage, with flecks of gold. Then I stared at him from either side, examining the angle of his jaw, the swell of his mouth, and the long, slender triangle of his nose.

Then I went back to the canvas, dipped my brush in the wash and, still looking at him, made my first mark.

I worked in silence, aware only of the shapes that flowed from the tip of my brush, and the sound of Nate’s gentle, steady breathing. I gazed at the lower part of his face. The runnel between lip and nose was very clearly defined. I was seized by the bewildering urge to place my fingertip in it.

As I dipped the brush in the wash again I heard a deep sigh.

I looked at Nate. ‘Are you okay?’

He shifted on the chair. ‘Well…’

‘Do you need a cushion?’

‘No. I’m… fine.’ I turned back to the canvas and carried on painting for a minute or two, then the chair creaked again and he exhaled wearily. ‘Are you sure you can’t do this from a photograph?’

‘I
could –
but it wouldn’t make for a good portrait.’

‘Why not?’

I ignored the edge in his tone. ‘Because a photo is only a snapshot of a single moment. But a portrait represents an accumulation of moments –
all
the moments of the sitter’s life. So although it might
look
like you, it wouldn’t show who you
are
, which is what I’ll be trying to do.’

‘I see,’ he said grimly.

I worked for four or five minutes; then I heard another pained sigh and the chair creaked again.

I lowered my brush. ‘You do seem a bit… uncomfortable, Nate.’

‘I…
am
.’

‘Then do let me get you a cushion.’

‘No. Thanks. My discomfort isn’t physical.’ His meaning lay between us, like a grenade.

‘Sitting for a portrait isn’t easy,’ I said, nervously. ‘It’s an… odd situation; there’s often a… tension.’

‘There is,’ Nate agreed. ‘Especially if the sitter feels that the artist doesn’t like him.’

My brush stopped in mid-stroke. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I think you do,’ he countered. ‘Because you haven’t exactly been…
simpatico
.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe you think I’m not good enough for your sister.’

‘No, that’s not…’ I faltered. ‘I mean… Chloë’s obviously happy with you, which is all that matters.’ My hand was shaking, making it hard to hold the brush.

‘In fact, you’ve been pretty hostile, right from the start.’

I wiped a little splash of blue off the corner of the canvas. ‘You know, Nate, I really don’t think this conversation is very helpful – especially as we have to spend another eleven and a half hours in each other’s company.’

‘It’s
because
we have to spend another eleven and a half hours in each other’s company that I think it
is
helpful,’ Nate shot back. ‘Because you say you’re going to show who I
am
in this portrait.’

‘Yes,’ I said weakly.

‘Well, I’m not happy about that – given your obvious negativity toward me. I see the portrait as a potential attack.’

I silently cursed Chloë for landing me with a commission that wasn’t just awkward – it was becoming downright embarrassing.

Nate shifted on the chair again. ‘You’ve clearly got a big problem with me. I don’t know why…’

I glared at him. ‘Don’t you?’

‘No. I don’t.’

‘Really?’

He gave me a challenging stare. ‘So you
do
have a problem with me. Would you mind telling me what it is?’ I dipped the brush in the wash again then turned back to the canvas. ‘If you’re going to paint me, then I need to know,’ I heard him say. ‘And if you don’t tell me, then I might just walk out and give Chloë the money for the wasted commission.’

I could hear the tick of the clock. ‘All right,’ I said quietly. ‘I
will
tell you – as you’ve pushed me to it.’ A part of me was glad to be able to get it off my chest. So I told him about the night of the party. ‘You didn’t see me, because I was on the other side of Chloë’s fence, locking my bike. But I heard you talking to someone – another woman – about Chloë. I didn’t
like
what I heard – and yes, it’s affected how I feel about you.
There
,’ I concluded. ‘Now you know.’

Nate was staring at me. ‘You listened to my private conversation?’

‘No – because it
wasn’t
private, given that you were having it on a mobile phone in the street. I couldn’t help hearing it, and I wish I hadn’t, because it was pretty upsetting.’

Puzzlement furrowed Nate’s brow. ‘So…
what
did you hear?’

I heaved a sigh. ‘You said that you didn’t want to go to Chloë’s party – but that you felt you couldn’t get out of it because she’d been going on and on about it – as though she’d pestered you.’

‘Well…’ Nate turned up his palms. ‘She
did
. She
must have phoned me ten times a day about it. It got to be pretty annoying.’

I ignored this. ‘
Then
I heard you making arrangements to go and see this woman, who you kept calling “honey”, later that night. That didn’t exactly endear you to me either.’

‘Ah…’ He put his head on one side.

‘But what really got up my nose was the fact that you were
discussing
Chloë with this other woman – and in disparaging terms!’ My face was suddenly burning with retrospective indignation. ‘You reassured her that Chloë was “nothing special”.’

Nate was nodding slowly. ‘I
remember
this conversation now – and I
did
say that, yes.’

The man was brazen! ‘So I heard
all
that,’ I said, ‘then, lo and behold, a few minutes later I see you greet Chloë warmly and tell her how much you’ve been looking forward to her party. At which point I decided that you were a cynical, disingenuous, hypocritical,
two
-faced, two-
timing
…’

‘Creep?’ said Nate helpfully.

‘
Yes
. And to be frank, I hoped that Chloë wouldn’t be seeing too much more of you, but now she’s engaged to you and she’s paid a lot of money for me to paint you, which for
her
sake is what I intend to
do.
’ My heart was pounding. ‘And having answered your question, I suggest we now get
on
with the sitting – if only to minimise the time that we have to spend together!’

I picked up my brush and began stabbing at the canvas with it.

I could hear Nate sucking on his lower lip. ‘So you heard me talking to “honey”?’

‘Yes.’ I picked a bristle off the canvas. ‘I did. And I
don’t
like men who date two women at a time – especially if one of the women is my sister!’

‘I see. You didn’t
tell
Chloë any of this, did you?’

‘No. Don’t
worry
,’ I said. ‘Your secret is safe. I
was
tempted to tell her, but couldn’t bring myself to rain on her parade – so I didn’t.’

‘Well, that’s a shame,’ he said, with irritating calm. ‘Because if you
had
done then you would have found out from Chloë that the woman I called “honey” is my first cousin.’

I looked at him. ‘Then you appear to have an unhealthily close relationship with her.’

‘Her name is Honeysuckle, but everyone calls her “Honey” or “Hon”.’

My mouth had suddenly dried to the texture of felt. ‘But… you had keys to her place. You said that you were going to let yourself in, so it sounded as if she was your—’

‘I
do
have keys,’ he interrupted. ‘Not to her “place”, but to her office –
our
office – because Honey’s also my boss. She’s CEO of the firm I work for, Blake Investments, which was set up twenty years ago by her father, Ted Blake, who’s married to my mom’s younger sister, Alessandra.’

I tried to swallow. ‘I see…’

‘And the reason
why
I was going to go and see Honey was because when I was on the way to Putney she’d called me on my cell to ask me to go back to the office – a problem had blown up with an acquisition that we were handling. I didn’t want to disappoint Chloë, so I told Honey I was going to a party but promised I’d
come back afterwards. I said I’d let myself in because the security guy leaves at eight – and that’s what I did. I returned to the office at nine, and Honey and I worked until two in the morning and got it all sorted.’ He looked at me. ‘Happy now?’

My cheeks were burning. ‘
No –
because you were
rude
about Chloë. You’d made out that it was a chore to have to go to her party.’

‘That’s true – because, although Honey’s great, she can be very inquisitive, so I was talking it down.’

‘Okay.’ His smug tone infuriated me. ‘But you didn’t have to tell her that Chloë was “nothing special” did you?’

‘Well… the minute she thinks I
am
seeing “someone special” – as she invariably puts it – I never hear the
end
of it. Worse, she tells her mom, who then tells
mine
. The next thing I know,
all
my sisters are phoning me, demanding information.’

‘So… how many sisters… have you got?’

‘Five – all older.’

‘Oh.’ Now I vaguely remembered Chloë saying that Nate came from a big family.

‘Plus, I’d only known Chloë for a couple of months, so I wasn’t
ready
to talk about it to Honey.’

‘Well… this all sounds perfectly plausible, but—’

‘It isn’t just plausible, Ella,’ he interrupted firmly. ‘It’s
true.
’ Nate emitted an amused snort, then folded his arms. ‘So, on the basis of that one overheard conversation you decided that I was seeing another woman while dating Chloë, who I spoke about
to
this other woman in disrespectful, if not downright contemptuous, terms. That’s it, in a nutshell, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. But that’s how it
sounded
,’ I countered helplessly.

Nate sucked on his lower lip again. ‘The way it may have sounded was quite different from the way it
was.
’

‘Well… I’m… very glad to know that. And I’m …sorry…’ I faltered, ‘if I
have
been, yes, a bit cool with you.’

‘Cool?’ Nate was shaking his head. ‘You were arctic, Ella.’

‘Okay, but that… coldness, was based on what I
now
understand to be a
mis
understanding.’ My face was aflame. ‘But I am perfectly happy to accept that you are
not…
’

‘…a cynical, disingenuous, hypocritical, two-faced, two-timing creep?’ Nate suggested pleasantly.

‘Exactly.’

‘Well I’m glad we’ve established
that
.’

‘Me too,’ I said sheepishly. I picked up my brush. ‘So
now
will you let me paint you?’

Nate unfolded his arms then smiled at me. ‘Yes.’

‘So you got the wrong end of the stick?’ Polly said on the Tuesday after Easter. We were having coffee in her small garden. As the sun was out, she was wearing one of her many pairs of white cotton gloves.

‘I got
completely
the wrong end.’ I cringed at the memory. ‘I feel awful.’

‘Don’t – it’s easy to see why you thought what you did.’ Polly nodded at the cafetière. ‘Would you mind?’

‘Oh, sure.’ I pushed the plunger down to spare Polly’s hands, then poured her a cup.

‘Thanks.’ She reached for the milk. ‘So what did you think of Nate after that?’

‘Erm… Nice. Very. Yes.’

Polly smiled. ‘That’s great. After all, he’s going to be your brother-in-law so it must be a relief to find that you like him after all.’ I tried to stifle the feeling that I’d been happier when I
dis
liked him. ‘So – is he attractive?’

‘He
is
.’ I filled my cup. ‘Definitely. I can’t… deny it.’

Polly gave me a puzzled look. ‘Why would you want to?’

‘Erm… No reason. He’s, as I say… very attractive.’

‘Lucky Chloë,’ Polly sighed.

‘Yes…’

‘So what’s his background?’

‘Italian – his parents were from Florence but emigrated to New York in the early fifties.’

Polly sipped her coffee. ‘Why would anyone want to leave
Florence
?’

‘That’s what I asked him – it was because jobs were hard to come by, post-war. He said he was a surprise baby – his mother was forty-five when she had him; she’s eighty-one now and a bit frail. His father died ten years ago and he’s got five older sisters – Maria, Livia, Valentina, Federica
and
… oh yes, Simonetta.’

‘I see,’ said Polly slowly. ‘So why hasn’t
he
got an Italian name?’

‘Because he was named after the taxi driver who delivered him. He arrived three weeks early and his father, who worked for Steinway, was in Philadelphia at the time taking a new concert grand to the Academy of Music there – not that he was a delivery man or anything; he was a master tuner, and a wonderful pianist himself, apparently. He used to give
very
good recitals at a local church.’

Polly was looking at me. ‘Really?’

‘Oh yes.’ I stirred my coffee. ‘Anyway, he was in Philadelphia,’ I went on, ‘and so Nate’s mother, realising that the baby was starting, phoned for an ambulance but it didn’t come. So she got in a cab but didn’t make it as far as the hospital. Nate was born
in
the taxi with the help of the driver, whose name was Nathan. So Mrs Rossi promised that she’d name her son after him. He came to Nate’s baptism and gave him a pair of silver cufflinks that Nate still wears. Isn’t that nice?’