The Very Picture of You (14 page)

‘I’m sorry, I’m a bit late,’ I heard Celine say. I glanced up. She was
very
late, but at least she was wearing the blue dress. ‘I see you’re all ready,’ she added pleasantly.

I resisted the temptation to tell her that I’d been ready for twenty minutes. I put the magazine back on the table then went over to the easel.

Celine sat in the chair, placed her bag at her feet then turned towards me. ‘I was sitting like this, wasn’t I?’

‘You were. But if you could just sit a little further back… you’re rather on the edge of your seat there: that’s great.’ As I picked up my brush we heard the ‘ker-plink’ of a text alert.

‘Sorry,’ Celine muttered as she leaned down and reached into her bag. She fished out the phone, read the
message and then, to my astonishment, began to text back. ‘I
just
have to reply…’ she murmured as she thumbed away. ‘Almost done…
et… voilà!
’ She put the phone back then resumed the pose.

I began to work. ‘I’m still doing the under-painting,’ I explained. ‘I’ll start to build up the detail next week, using thicker and thicker paint each time – we call that “thin to fat” – until – oh…’

We heard the synthesised jingle of Celine’s ring tone. She was rummaging in her bag.

‘Celine—’ I protested. But she’d taken the call.

‘
Oui?
’ She stood up. ‘
Oui, chéri, je t’entends…
’ she said softly, furtively almost. ‘
Bien sûr, chéri…
’As she left the room I flung silent curses at her. I wished I could glue her rear end to the seat.

Ten minutes later she returned. She dropped her mobile back in her bag then sat down. ‘Okay.’ She placed her hands in her lap. ‘
Now
we can start.’

‘Great,’ I said brightly. I loaded the brush again, looked at Celine, and began to delineate the left side of her face. I’d been working for three or four minutes when we heard the doorbell ring.

Celine stood up. ‘I’d better get that.’

‘Surely your housekeeper—’

‘She’s at the top of the house – I don’t want to derange her.’

‘Celine—’ I protested, but she was already halfway across the room. ‘You’re “deranging”
me
,’ I mouthed at her back. I heard her heels click across the hall then the front door was opened. There now followed a long and animated conversation, in English, about… I strained to listen – the church?
When Celine at last returned she blew out her lips in a dumb show of exasperation. ‘I’m sorry about that, but the Jehovah’s Witnesses are
very
persistent.’

I felt my jaw go slack. ‘You were talking to the Jehovah’s Witnesses?’

‘I was.’

‘For ten minutes?’

‘Yes. I wanted to make it
quite
clear that they were wasting their time. I told them that they
mustn’t
come here again. I don’t think they
will
,’ she added with voluptuous satisfaction. ‘So…’ She sat down. ‘Shall we carry on?’ I didn’t reply. ‘I’d like to continue the sitting,’ Celine added with an air of dignified patience, as though I had kept
her
waiting.

I lowered my brush. ‘I
can’t
.’

Celine stared at me. ‘Why not?’

‘Because “sitting” is the one thing you won’t
do
. You keep
getting up
, Celine; you keep taking phone calls and making phone calls, and sending texts and going to the front door – this happened last time, too. So I’m not going to continue until two things have happened – firstly that you’ve turned off your phone…’

Celine’s eyes widened. ‘I
have
to have it on. It could be important.’

‘The sittings are important.’

‘The caller could take offence.’

‘
I
could take offence. In fact, I
am
taking offence. Second thing, would you please
stay
in that chair. You’re only allowed to leave it if the house is on fire.’

Celine looked at me as though I’d slapped her. ‘
Don’t
tell me what I can and can’t do in my own home!’

I began to count to ten in my head. ‘Celine, if you
don’t give me your attention, then I’m not going to be able to paint you.’ She shrugged as though she couldn’t care less. ‘And I
want
to paint you – not least because your husband’s already paid me quite a lot of money to do so.’

‘I didn’t
ask
him to!’ Celine’s face had flushed. ‘I didn’t
want
to be painted. I
don’t
want to be!’

‘Well…’ She’d trumped me. ‘That’s pretty obvious. But… could you tell me why
not
?’

Celine sighed. ‘Oh… I don’t know… I just… feel…’

I put down my brush. ‘Are you worried that the portrait won’t flatter you?’ She didn’t answer. ‘You’re very attractive, Celine, and that’s how you’re going to look, because I’ll simply be painting what I see – a beautiful woman.’

‘Of forty.’ She looked stricken. ‘I’m going to be
forty.
’ For a moment I thought she was going to cry.

‘Forty’s not
old.
’ Was
this
what it was all about? Some neurosis about her age? ‘You don’t even
look
forty. You look younger than I do.’

Celine peered at me. ‘How old
are
you?’

‘Thirty-five.’

‘And are you married?’

‘No.’

‘You have kids?’ I shook my head. Celine looked at me sadly. ‘So you’ve never married or had children?’

I tried not to bridle at her air of sympathy. ‘I haven’t – but I’m perfectly happy – there are many ways to live.’ Celine nodded slowly, her expression mournful almost. ‘But look, Celine, can we please talk about you. It would help if I knew
why
you don’t want to be painted.’

She exhaled. ‘I don’t…
know.
It’s hard to explain… I just… can’t… I don’t…’ She gave a defeated shrug. Whatever the reason, she wasn’t going to say.

‘Being painted
isn’t
easy,’ I offered. ‘For the painter, the sitting’s an absorbing, intense experience, but for the sitter it can be frustrating because they basically have to sit there staring at the same piece of wall. Is that why you seem so…
restless
?’

She blinked slowly. ‘Yes. I find it a strain,’ she said. ‘Just sitting here… that’s the reason. Exactly.’

‘Well, you’ll find it a lot easier if we chat. But we can only do that if you ignore the front door, and if you turn off your phone.’

She took her mobile out of her bag. ‘I
won’t
turn it off…’ She began pressing the buttons again and my heart sank. ‘But I
will
put it on “answer” and “silent”.’ I closed my eyes in relief. ‘And I promise
not
to get up – unless I see flames.’

‘
Thank
you.’

Celine placed the phone in her lap then resumed the pose. Desperate to establish some kind of rapport, I began chatting to her. I asked her which part of France she came from, and she told me that the family home was in Fontainebleu near Paris. Then I asked her what her husband did.

‘He’s Chairman of Sunrise Insurance. That’s how we met. I wanted to work in London for a year or two – I’d studied English at university – so I got a job in the department that Victor was then running. We married when I was twenty-three; I had Philippe not long afterwards… and…’ She shrugged. ‘Here I still am.’

‘You said Philippe’s at boarding school. Does he enjoy it?’

‘He loves it,’ she said flatly. ‘He was very keen to go, so he left his day school and went to Stowe to do his A levels.’

‘So he’s what – sixteen?’

‘Yes – and already
very
independent. He hardly comes home.’ Celine looked at me balefully. ‘Life passes
so
fast. Yesterday I was pushing him down to Barnes pond in his buggy to feed the ducks. Today he’s a teenager with an iPod and a laptop; tomorrow he’ll have a job and a flat; the day after that he’ll have his own children and then… But you’ve never been married.’

I suppressed an irritated sigh. ‘That’s right.’

‘But you have someone.’

‘No.’ I squeezed a little manganese violet on to the palette. ‘My last relationship ended more than a year ago.’

‘Who was he?’

‘A sculptor called David. He was quite a bit older than me.’

‘By how much?’

‘Eleven years.’

Celine looked at me intently. ‘So
you
ended it?’

‘Yes – though not because of that – it was because…’

‘Because
what
?’ It was as though my answer somehow mattered to her.

I didn’t want to discuss my private life, nor did I wish to alienate Celine now that she was being cooperative. ‘I’d been with him for two years,’ I explained. ‘We got on well, but it just felt too, I don’t know – comfortable – too…’

‘
Safe
?’

I looked at Celine. ‘Yes. He was very nice – but I wanted to feel…
more
; I may never find that, but at least I have hope.’

Celine nodded thoughtfully. ‘But there’s someone you like now.’

I began to outline her bottom lip. ‘No. There isn’t.’

‘There
is
,’ she insisted. ‘There’s someone you’re very attracted to – I can see it in your face.’ I felt my skin prickle. ‘I can sense it – I’m very intuitive.’

‘I’m sure you are.’ I wiped the brush. ‘But you’re mistaken.’

The rest of the sitting passed uneventfully. Celine’s mobile buzzed a couple of times, but she just glanced at the screen. The doorbell rang again, but she let her housekeeper answer. She seemed to have resigned herself to the portrait at last.

At five past one we finished. Celine stood up and came to see what I’d done.

‘As I say, these are just the basic shapes,’ I explained. ‘But as I say, from next time I’ll start to define your features. So…’ I clipped the portrait into the canvas carrier. ‘Same time next week?’

‘That’ll be fine – and do you need a taxi now?’

‘I’ve booked one for one-fifteen.’

It arrived on the dot. I put my easel and the spare canvases in the boot, and placed the portrait on the seat beside me. Then we set off. As we drove over Hammersmith Bridge, the river glinted like sheet metal in the sunlight.

There’s someone you like.

Celine was wrong. I wondered what colours I’d use to paint Nate’s eyes…

I can see it in your face.

Cerulean blue with raw sienna…

I can sense it.

With a touch of yellow cadmium light.

The journey seemed to pass quickly – I looked at my e-mails as we sped along. There was one from Mum asking me whether, as I’d painted Cecilia Bartoli, I might approach her to sing at Chloë’s wedding. I texted a one-word reply.
No!!!
There was an e-mail from Clare, the radio journalist, with the date and time that her documentary was to be broadcast. As I scribbled it into my diary I became aware that the cab hadn’t moved for a while.

‘
What
the eff?’ the driver said. I looked up. He was gripping the wheel, staring ahead. ‘Look at this!’ We were close to Fulham Broadway, where the traffic on our side of the road was at a standstill.

‘Is there a football match on?’ I asked him.

‘No. There’s a dead bus – up there, look: it’s blocking both lanes.’

We crawled towards the lights and, amid a cacophony of blaring horns, watched them go red, then green, then red again.

I got my purse out of my bag. ‘I’ll walk home from here. It’s not far.’

The driver turned his head. ‘Will you manage with all your stuff?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ I passed him the fare. ‘It’s not that heavy, just a bit awkward.’

‘Well, mind yourself as you get out.’

I quickly retrieved my easel and the canvases from the boot. Then I walked the two hundred yards or so to the pedestrian crossing. The yellow sign was still there,
and there were more bouquets, one of them still with its price tag. As I pressed the button on the ‘wait’ box I looked at the photo of Grace. It was the first time I’d seen it close up. Her face was alight with a kind of surprised happiness, as though she’d just been told some wonderful news. And now, beneath the photo, I saw a laminated note:

Dedicated to the Life of Grace Clarke

Beautiful, sparkling, funny, warm, happy, loyal, brave, strong, cyclist, determined, thoughtful, cool, snappy dresser, teacher, fizzing, unique, kind, reliable, Nutella, big heart, sensitive, friendly, Lake District, bright, energy, gardener, sympathetic, Three Peaks, Gracie, patient, children, green, Tic-Tacs, adventurer, open, mint tea, inspiring, sunny, caring, hugs, joyous, salsa, surfer, snow-boarder, colleague, cousin, niece, aunt, sister, daughter, grand-daughter, Miss Clarke, best friend in the world, our darling, loved by all.

At the periphery of my vision I had been aware of the green man appearing, then disappearing, then appearing again with his jaunty emerald stride. Now I looked up, and saw that the red man was showing but it didn’t matter because the cars weren’t moving. So I crossed the road, lost in thought.

I walked home, unlocked the front door, went to my desk, opened my address book, found the number I wanted and dialled. It rang three times then picked up.

‘Royal Society of Portrait Painters – Alison speaking.’

‘Alison, it’s Ella Graham here.’

‘Hi, Ella. What can I do for you?’

‘Well… you remember the commission that you phoned me about before Easter? The one for the portrait of the cyclist… Grace?’

‘Of course I remember. I did tell the family that you didn’t feel it was something you could do.’

‘I
did
feel like that. But could you please tell them that I’ve changed my mind?’

FIVE

On Saturday morning I decided to give the studio a quick clean before Nate arrived. At half past nine the phone rang. I instantly knew that it must be him, phoning to cancel.

I picked up the handset. ‘Hello?’