The Very Picture of You

‘It was hard…’ I had a sudden memory of my mother sitting at the kitchen table in our old flat, her head in her hands. She used to stay like that for a long time.

‘What did she do then?’ I heard Clare ask.

‘She decided that we’d move to London; once she’d recovered enough she began a new career as a ballet mistress.’ Clare looked at me enquiringly. ‘It’s something that older or injured dancers often do. They work with a company, refreshing the choreography or rehearsing particular roles: my mother did this with the Festival Ballet for some years, then with Ballet Rambert.’

‘Does she still do that?’

‘No – she’s more or less retired. She teaches one day a week at the English National Ballet school, otherwise she mostly does charity work; in fact she’s organised a big gala auction tonight for Save the Children, which is why I’m pushed for time as I have to be there but in here—’ I went over to the table and opened the folder – ‘are the photos of all my portraits. There are about fifty.’

‘So it’s your Facebook,’ Clare said with a smile. She sat on the sofa again and began to browse the images. ‘Fisherman…’ she murmured. ‘That one’s on your website, isn’t it? Ursula Sleeping… Emma, Polly’s Face…’ Clare gave me a puzzled look. ‘Why did you call this one Polly’s Face – given that it’s a portrait?’

‘Oh, because Polly’s my best friend – we’ve known each other since we were six; she’s a hand and foot model and was jokingly complaining that no one ever showed any interest in her face, so I said I’d paint it.’

‘Ah…’

I pointed to the next image. ‘That’s Baroness Hale – the first woman Law Lord; this is Sir Philip Watts, a former Chairman of Shell.’

Clare turned the page again. ‘And there’s the Duchess of Cornwall. She looks rather humorous.’

‘She is, and that’s the quality I most wanted people to see.’

‘And did the Prince like it?’

I gave a shrug. ‘He seemed to. He said nice things about it when he came to the unveiling at the National Portrait Gallery last month.’

Clare turned to the next photo. ‘And who’s this girl with the cropped hair?’

‘That’s my sister, Chloë. She works for an ethical PR agency called PRoud, so they handle anything to do with fair trade, green technology, organic food and farming – that kind of thing.’

Clare nodded thoughtfully. ‘She’s very like your mother.’

‘She is – she has her fair complexion and ballerina physique.’ Whereas I am dark and sturdy, I reflected balefully – more Paula Rego than Degas.

Clare peered at the painting. ‘But she looks so… sad – distressed, almost.’

I hesitated. ‘She was breaking up with someone – it was a difficult time; but she’s fine now,’ I went on firmly. Even if her new boyfriend’s vile, I didn’t add.

My phone was ringing. I answered it.

‘Where are you?’ Mum demanded softly. ‘It’s ten to seven – nearly everyone’s here.’

‘Oh, sorry, but I’m not quite finished.’ I glanced at Clare, who was still flicking through the portfolio.

‘You said you’d come early.’

‘I know – I’ll be there in twenty minutes, promise.’ I hung up. I looked at Clare. ‘I’m afraid I have to go now…’ I went to my work table and dipped some dirty brushes in the jar of turps.

‘Of course…’ she said, without looking up. ‘That’s the singer Cecilia Bartoli.’ She turned to the final image. ‘And who’s this friendly looking man with the bow tie?’

I pulled the brushes through a sheet of newspaper to squeeze out the paint. ‘That’s my father.’

‘Your father?’

‘Yes.’ I did my best to ignore the surprise in her voice. ‘Roy Graham. He’s an orthopaedic surgeon – semi-retired.’ I went to the sink, aware of Clare’s curious gaze on my back.

‘But in The Times—’

‘He plays a lot of golf…’ I rubbed washing-up liquid into the bristles. ‘At the Royal Mid-Surrey – it’s not far from where they live, in Richmond.’

‘In The Times it said that—’

‘He also plays bridge.’ I turned on the tap. ‘I’ve never played, but people say it’s fun once you get into it.’ I rinsed and dried the brushes, then laid them on my work table, ready for the next day. ‘Right…’ I looked at Clare, willing her to leave.

She put the tape recorder and notes into her bag then stood up. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking you this,’ she said. ‘But as it was in the newspaper, I assume you talk about it.’

My fingers trembled as I screwed the top back on a tube of titanium white. ‘Talk about what?’

‘Well… the article said that you were adopted when you were eight…’ Heat spilled into my face. ‘And that your name was changed—’

‘I don’t know where they got that.’ I untied my apron. ‘Now I really must—’

‘It said that your real father left when you were five.’

By now my heart was battering against my ribcage. ‘My real father is Roy Graham,’ I said quietly. ‘And that’s all there is to it.’ I hung my apron on its hook. ‘But thank you for coming.’ I opened the studio door. ‘If you could let yourself out…’

Clare gave me a puzzled smile. ‘Of course.’

As soon as she’d gone, I furiously rubbed at my paint-stained fingers with a turps-soaked rag then quickly washed my face and tidied my hair. I put on some black trousers and my green velvet coat and was about to go and unlock my bike when I remembered that the front light was broken. I groaned. I’d have to get the bus, or a cab – whichever turned up first. At least Chelsea Old Town Hall wasn’t far.

I ran up to the King’s Road and got to the stop just as a number 11 was pulling up, its windows blocks of yellow in the gathering dusk.

As we trundled over the bridge I reflected bitterly on Clare’s intrusiveness, yet she’d only repeated what she’d read in The Times. I felt a burst of renewed fury that something so intensely private was now online…

‘Would you please take that paragraph out,’ I’d asked the reporter, Hamish Watt, when I’d tracked him down an hour or so after I’d first seen the article. As I’d gripped the phone my knuckles were white. ‘I was horrified when I saw it – please remove it.’

‘No,’ he’d replied. ‘It’s part of the story.’

‘But you didn’t ask me about it,’ I’d protested. ‘When you interviewed me at the National Portrait Gallery last week you talked only about my work.’

‘Yes – but I already had some background about you – that your mother had been a dancer, for example. I also happened to know a bit about your family circumstances.’

‘How?’

There was a momentary hesitation. ‘I’m a journalist,’ he answered, as though that were sufficient explanation.

‘Please cut that bit out,’ I’d implored him again.

‘I can’t,’ he’d insisted. ‘And you were perfectly happy to be interviewed, weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed weakly. ‘But if I’d known what you were going to write I’d have refused. You said that the article would be about my painting, but a good third of it was very personal and I’m uncomfortable about that.’

‘Well, I’m sorry you’re unhappy,’ he’d said unctuously. ‘But as publicity is undoubtedly helpful to artists, I suggest you learn to take the rough with the smooth.’ With that, he’d hung up…

It would be on the Internet for ever, I now thought dismally – for anyone to see. Anyone at all… The thought of it made me feel sick. I’d simply have to find a way to deal with it, I reflected as we passed the World’s End pub.

My father is Roy Graham.

My father is Roy Graham and he’s a wonderful father.

I’ve got a father, thank you. His name is Roy Graham…

To distract myself I thought about work. I was starting a new portrait in the morning. Then on Thursday Mike Johns, MP, was coming for his fourth sitting – there’d been quite a gap since the last one as he said he’d been too busy; and yesterday I’d had that enquiry about painting a Mrs Carr – her daughter, Sophia, had contacted me through my website. Then there’d be the new commission from tonight – not that it was going to make me any money, I reflected regretfully as we passed Heal’s. I stood up and pressed the bell.

I got off the bus, crossed the road and followed a knot of smartly dressed people up the steps of the town hall. I walked down the black-and-white tiled corridor, showed my invitation, then pushed on the doors of the main hall, next to which was a large sign: Save The Children – Gala Auction.

The ornate blue-and-ochre room was already full, the stertorous chatter almost drowning out the string trio that was valiantly playing away on one side of the stage. Aproned waiters circulated with trays of canapés and drinks. The air was almost viscous with scent.

I picked up a programme and skim-read the introduction. Five million children at risk in Malawi… hunger in Kenya… continuing crisis in Zimbabwe… in desperate need of help… Then came the list of lots – twenty of which were in the Silent Auction, while the ten ‘star’ lots were to be auctioned live. These included a week in a Venetian palazzo, a luxury break at the Ritz, tickets for the first night of Swan Lake at Covent Garden with Carlos Acosta, a shopping trip to Harvey Nichols with Gok Wan, a dinner party for eight cooked by Gordon Ramsay and an evening dress designed by Maria Grachvogel. There was an electric guitar signed by Paul McCartney and a Chelsea FC shirt signed by the current squad. The final lot was A portrait commission by Gabriella Graham, kindly donated by the artist. As I looked at the crowd I wondered who I’d end up painting.

Suddenly I spotted Roy, waving. He walked towards me. ‘Ella-Bella!’ He placed a paternal kiss on my cheek.

Damn Clare, I thought. Here was my father.

‘Hello, Roy.’ I nodded at his daffodil-dotted bow tie. ‘Nice neckwear. Haven’t seen that one before, have I?’

‘It’s new – thought I’d christen it tonight in honour of the spring. Now, you need some fizz…’ He glanced around for a waiter.

‘I’d love some. It’s been a long day.’

Roy got me a glass of champagne and handed it to me with an appraising glance. ‘So, how’s our Number One Girl?’

I smiled at the familiar, affectionate appellation. ‘I’m fine, thanks. Sorry I’m late.’

‘Your mum was getting slightly twitchy, but then this is a big event. Ah, here she comes…’

My mother was gliding through the crowd towards us, her slender frame swathed in amethyst chiffon, her ash-blonde hair swept into a perfect French pleat.

She held out her arms to me. ‘El-la.’ Her tone suggested a reproach rather than a greeting. ‘I’d almost given up on you, darling.’ As she kissed me I inhaled the familiar scent of her Fracas. ‘Now, I need you to be on hand to talk to people about the portrait commission. We’ve put the easel over there, look, in the presentation area, and I’ve made you a label so that people will know who you are.’ She opened her mauve satin clutch, took out a laminated name badge and had already pinned it to my lapel before I could protest about the mark it might leave on the velvet. ‘I’m hoping the portrait will fetch a high price. We’re aiming to raise seventy-five thousand pounds tonight.’

‘Well, fingers crossed.’ I adjusted the badge. ‘But you’ve got some great items.’

‘And all donated,’ she said wonderingly. ‘We haven’t had to buy anything. Everyone’s been so generous.’

‘Only because you’re so persuasive,’ said Roy. ‘I often think you could persuade the rain not to fall, Sue, I really do.’

Mum gave him an indulgent smile. ‘I’m just focused and well organised. I know how I want things to be.’

‘You’re formidable,’ Roy said amiably, ‘in both the English and the French meaning of that word.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to you, Sue – and to a successful event.’

I sipped my champagne then nodded at the empty podium. ‘So who’s wielding the gavel?’

Mum adjusted her pashmina. ‘Tim Spiers. He’s ex-Christie’s and brilliant at cajoling people into parting with their cash – having said which, I’ve instructed the waiters to keep topping up the glasses.’

Roy laughed. ‘That’s right – get the punters pissed.’

‘No – just in a good mood,’ Mum corrected him. ‘Then they’re much more, well, biddable,’ she concluded wryly. ‘But if things are a bit slow…’ she lowered her voice ‘…then I’d like us to do a little strategic bidding.’

My heart sank. ‘I’d rather not.’

Mum gave me one of her ‘disappointed’ looks. ‘It’s just to get things going – you wouldn’t have to buy anything, Ella.’

‘But… if no one outbids me, I might. These are expensive lots, Mum, and I’ve a huge mortgage – it’s too risky.’

‘You’re donating a portrait,’ said Roy. ‘That’s more than enough.’ Too right, I thought crossly. ‘I’ll do some bidding, Sue,’ he added. ‘Up to a limit, though.’

Mum laid her palm on his cheek – a typical gesture. ‘Thank you. I’m sure Chloë will bid too.’

I glanced around the crowd. ‘Where is Chloë?’

‘She’s on her way,’ Roy replied. ‘With Nate.’

A groan escaped me.

Mum shook her head. ‘I don’t know why you have to be like that, Ella. Nate’s delightful.’

‘Really?’ I sipped my champagne again. ‘Can’t say I’d noticed.’

‘You hardly know him,’ she retorted quietly.

‘That’s true. I’ve only met him once.’ But that one time had been more than enough. It had been at a drinks party that Chloë had given last November…

‘Any special reason for having it?’ I’d asked her over the phone after I’d opened the elegant invitation.

‘It’s because I haven’t had a party for so long – I’ve neglected my friends. It’s also because I’m feeling a lot more cheerful at the moment, because…’ She drew in her breath. ‘Ella… I’ve met someone.’

Relief flooded through me. ‘That’s great. So… what’s he like?’

‘He’s thirty-six,’ she’d replied. ‘Tall with very short black hair, and lovely green eyes.’

To my surprise I had to suppress a pang of envy. ‘He sounds gorgeous.’

‘He is – and he’s not married.’

‘Well… that’s good.’

‘Oh, and he’s from New York. He’s been in London about a year.’

‘And what does this paragon do?’

‘He’s in private equity.’

‘So he can stand you dinner then.’

‘Yes – but I like to pay for things too.’

‘So are you… an item?’

‘Sort of – we’ve been on five dates. But he said he’s looking forward to the party, so that’s a good sign. I know you’re going to love him,’ she added happily.

So, a fortnight later, I’d cycled over to Putney, through a veil of fog. And I was locking up my bike outside Chloë’s flat at the end of Askill Drive when I heard a taxi pull up just around the corner in Keswick Road. As the door clicked open I could hear the passenger talking on his mobile. Although he spoke softly his voice somehow carried through the mist and darkness.

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t,’ I heard him say. He was American. Realising that this could be Chloë’s new man I found myself tuning in to his conversation. ‘I really can’t,’ he reiterated as the cab door slammed shut. ‘Because I’ve just gotten to Putney for a drinks party, that’s why…’ So it was him. ‘No… I don’t want to go.’ I felt my insides twist. ‘But I’m here now, honey, and so… just some girl,’ he added as the cab drove away. ‘No, no… she’s nothing special,’ he added quietly. By now my face was aflame. ‘I can’t get out of it,’ he protested. ‘Because I promised, that’s why – and she’s been going on and on about it.’ My hands shook as I unclipped my front light. ‘Okay, honey – I’ll come over later. Yes… that is a promise. No… I’ll let myself in… You too, honey…’

I stood there, filled with dismay, expecting the wretch to come round the corner and walk up Chloë’s path; and I was just wondering what to do when I realised that he was going in the opposite direction, his footsteps snapping across the pavement then becoming fainter and fainter…

So it wasn’t him. I exhaled with relief. I went up to Chloë’s front door and rang the bell.

‘Ella!’ she exclaimed as she opened it. She looked lovely in a black crêpe shift that used to be Mum’s, with a short necklace of over-sized pearls. ‘I’m glad you’re the first,’ she said quickly, ‘I’ve just poured the champagne, but if you could give me a hand with the eats that would be…’ I was aware of steps behind me as Chloë’s gaze strayed over my shoulder. Her face lit up like a firework. ‘Nate!’

I turned to see a tall, well-dressed man coming up the path.

‘Hi, Chloë.’ As I recognised his voice my heart sank. ‘I just went completely the wrong way – I was halfway down Keswick Road before I realised. I shoulda used my sat-nav,’ he added with a laugh.

‘Well, it is foggy,’ she responded gaily. I stepped past her into the house so that she wouldn’t see my face. ‘It’s so nice that you’re here, Nate,’ I heard her say.

‘Oh, I’ve been looking forward to it.’ As I glanced at him I tried not to show my contempt.

Chloë drew him inside; then, still holding his hand, she grabbed mine so that the three of us were suddenly linked, awkwardly, as we stood there in the hallway. ‘Ella,’ she said happily, ‘this is Nate.’ She turned to him. ‘Nate, this is my sister, Ella.’

He was just as Chloë had described. He had very short dark hair that receded slightly above a high forehead, and eyes that were a pure mossy green. He had a sensuous mouth with a tiny indentation at each corner, and a long, straight nose that had a slender bridge, as though someone had pinched it.

‘Great to meet you, Ella.’ He was clearly unaware that I’d overheard his conversation. I gave him a cold smile and saw him register the slight. ‘Erm…’ He nodded at my head. ‘That’s a nice helmet you’ve got there.’

‘Oh.’ I’d been too distracted to remove it. I unclipped it while Chloë relieved Nate of his coat.

She folded it over her arm. ‘I’ll just put this on my bed.’ She put her hand on the banister. ‘But have a glass of champagne, Nate – the kitchen’s through there. Ella will show you.’

‘No – I… need to come up too.’ Turning my back on Nate, I followed Chloë upstairs.

We crossed the landing and went into Chloë’s bedroom. She half-closed the door then put her finger to her lips. ‘So what do you think?’ She laid Nate’s charcoal cashmere coat on her bed then turned to me eagerly. ‘Isn’t he attractive?’

I took off my cycling jacket. ‘He is.’

‘And he’s really… decent. I think I’ve landed on my feet.’

I fought the urge to tell Chloë that she’d almost certainly landed flat on her face.

I put my jacket and helmet down, then went over to the large gilded wall mirror. I opened my bag. ‘So how did you meet him?’ My hand shook as I pulled a comb through my fog-dampened hair.

Chloë came and stood next to me. ‘Playing tennis.’ As she checked her own appearance I was momentarily distracted by the physical difference between us – Chloë with the alabaster paleness of my mother, next to me, with my olive skin, brown hair and dark eyes. ‘Do you remember telling me that I should try and go out more – maybe play tennis?’ I nodded. ‘Well, I took your advice, and booked some lessons at the Harbour Club.’ Chloë licked her ring finger then ran it over her left eyebrow. ‘Nate was on the next court; and I had to retrieve my ball from behind his baseline a few times…’

I put the comb back in my bag. ‘Really?’

‘So of course I said sorry. Then I saw him in the café afterwards and I apologised again…’

I snapped my bag shut.

‘Then we had a coffee – and that’s how it started. So I have you to thank,’ she added happily. My heart sank. ‘It’s still early days – but he’s keen.’

I looked at her. ‘How do you know?’

‘Well… because he calls me a lot and because…’ She gave me a puzzled smile. ‘Why do you ask?’

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Chloë that Nate was in fact a disingenuous, two-timing creep. But then, reflected behind us on the wall I saw my portrait of her, her face so thin, and almost rigid with distress; her blue eyes blazing with pain and regret.

‘Why do you ask?’ she repeated.

As I looked at Chloë’s happy, hopeful expression I knew I couldn’t tell her. ‘No reason.’ I exhaled. ‘I was just… wondering.’

‘Ella?’ Chloë was peering at me. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m… fine.’ I went to the corner basin and washed my hands. ‘Actually, a van jumped the lights by the bridge and nearly knocked me off. I’m still feeling shaken,’ I lied as I dried them.

‘I knew something was up. I wish you didn’t cycle – and in fog like this it’s crazy. You’ve got to be careful.’

I laid my hand on Chloë’s arm. ‘So have you.’

‘What do you mean?’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t cycle.’

I shook my head. ‘I mean be careful…’ I tapped the left side of my chest. ‘Here.’

‘Oh.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘I see. Don’t worry, Ella. I’m not about to make another… well, mistake, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nate’s free of complications, thank God.’ My stomach lurched. ‘But he’ll be wondering what we’re doing.’ She opened the door. ‘Let’s go and talk to him.’

This was the last thing I wanted to do, not least because I didn’t think I’d be able to hide my hostility; and I was just wondering how I could get out of it when the bell rang, so I said I’d do door duty, then I offered to heat up the canapés, then I went round with a tray of drinks, by which time Chloë’s flat was heaving, and in this way I managed to avoid Nate. As I left, pleading an early start, I glanced at him as he chatted to someone in the sitting room and hoped that his romance with Chloë wouldn’t last. Having overheard what I had done, it didn’t seem likely.

So my heart sank when Chloë phoned me three days later to say that Nate was taking her to Paris for the weekend in early December. Then just before Christmas they gave a dinner party at his flat; Chloë wanted me to be there, but I said I was busy. In January they invited me to the theatre with them but I made some excuse. Then last month Mum asked us all to Sunday lunch, but I told Chloë I’d be away.

‘What a shame,’ she’d said. ‘That’s three times you’ve been unable to meet up with us, Ella. Nate will think you don’t like him,’ she added with a good-natured laugh.

‘Oh, that’s not true,’ I lied…

‘Well, I like Nate,’ I heard Mum say above the pre-auction chatter ‘Nate’s attractive and charming.’ Her voice dropped to a near whisper. ‘And we should all just be thankful that he makes Chloë so happy after…’ Her mouth pursed.

‘Max,’ said Roy helpfully.

I nodded. ‘Max was a bit of a mistake.’

‘Max was a disaster,’ Mum hissed. ‘I told Chloë,’ she went on quietly. ‘I told her that it would never work out, and I was right. These situations bring nothing but heartbreak,’ she added with sudden bitterness, and I knew that she was thinking of her own heartbreak three decades ago.

‘Anyway, Chloë’s fine now,’ said Roy evenly. ‘So let’s change the subject, shall we? We’re at a party.’

‘Of course,’ Mum murmured, collecting herself. ‘And I must circulate. Roy, would you go and see how the Silent Auction’s going? Ella, you need to go and stand next to the easel, but do make the portrait commission sound enticing, won’t you? I want to get the highest possible price for every item.’

‘Sure,’ I responded wearily. I hated having to do a hard sell – even for a good cause. I made my way through the crowd.

The easel was standing between two long tables on which the information about all the star lots was displayed. The Maria Grachvogel gown was draped on to a silver mannequin next to a life-size cut-out of Gordon Ramsay. On a green baize-covered screen were pinned large photos of the Venetian palazzo and the Ritz and next to these was a Royal Opera House poster for Swan Lake, flanked by two pendant pairs of pink ballet shoes. The guitar was mounted on a stand, and next to it the Chelsea FC shirt with its graffiti of famous signatures.

As I stood beside the portrait a dark-haired woman in a turquoise dress approached me. She glanced at my name badge. ‘So you’re the artist.’ I nodded. The woman gazed at the painting. ‘And who’s she?’

‘My friend Polly. She’s lent it to us tonight as an example of my work.’

‘I’ve always wanted to have my portrait done,’ the woman said. ‘But when I was young and pretty I didn’t have the money and now that I do have the money I feel it’s too late.’