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‘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.’
‘You’re still pretty,’ I told her. ‘And it’s never too late – I paint people who are in their seventies and eighties.’ I sipped my champagne. ‘So are you thinking of bidding for it?’
She sucked on her lower lip. ‘I’m not sure. How long does the process take?’ I explained. ‘Two hours is a long time to be sitting still.’ She frowned.
‘We have a break for coffee and a leg stretch. It’s not too arduous.’
‘Do you flatter people?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I hope you do, because look –’ She pinched the wedge of flesh beneath her chin, holding it daintily, like a tidbit. ‘Would you be able to do something about this?’
‘My portraits are truthful,’ I answered carefully. ‘But at the same time I want my sitters to be happy; so I’d paint you from the most flattering angle – and I’d do some sketches first to make sure you liked the composition.’
‘Well…’ She cocked her head to one side as she appraised Polly’s portrait again. ‘I’m going to have a think about it – but thanks.’
As she walked away, another woman in her mid-forties came up to me. She gave me an earnest smile. ‘I’m definitely going to bid for this. I love your style – realistic but with an edge.’
‘Thank you.’ I allowed myself to bask in the compliment for a moment. ‘And who would you want me to paint? Would it be you?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘It would be my father. You see, we never had his portrait painted.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And now we regret it.’ My spirits sank as I realised what was coming. ‘He died last year,’ the woman went on. ‘But we’ve got lots of photos, so you could do it from those.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t do posthumous portraits.’
‘Oh.’ The woman looked affronted. ‘Why not?’
‘Because, to me, a portrait is all about capturing the essence and spirit of a living person.’
‘Oh,’ she said again, crestfallen. ‘I see.’ She hesitated. ‘Would you perhaps make an exception?’
‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t. I’m sorry,’ I added impotently.
‘Well…’ She shrugged. ‘Then I guess that’s that.’
As the woman walked away I saw my mother go up the flight of steps at the side of the stage. She waited for the string trio to finish the Mozart sonata they were playing, then she went up to the podium and tapped the mike. The hubbub subsided as she smiled at the crowd then in her soft, low voice, thanked everyone for coming and exhorted us to be generous. As she reminded us all that our bids would save children’s lives, the irritation that I’d been feeling towards her was replaced by a sudden rush of pride. Next she expressed her gratitude to the donors and to her fellow committee members before introducing Tim Spiers, who took her place as she gracefully exited stage left.
He leaned an arm on the podium, peering at us benignly over his half-moon glasses. ‘We have some wonderful lots on offer tonight – and remember there’s no buyer’s premium to pay, which makes everything very affordable. So, without further ado, let’s start with the week at the fabulous Palazzo Barbarigo in Venice…’
An appreciative murmur arose as a photo of the palazzo was projected on to the two huge screens that had been placed on either side of the stage. ‘The palazzo overlooks the Grand Canal,’ Spiers explained as the slideshow image changed to an interior. ‘It’s one of Venice’s most splendid palazzos and has a stunning piano nobile, as you can see …It sleeps eight, is fully staffed, and in high season a week’s stay there costs ten thousand pounds. I’m now going to open the bidding at an incredibly low three thousand.’ He affected astonishment. ‘For a mere three thousand pounds, ladies and gentlemen, you could spend a week at one of Venice’s most glorious private palaces – the experience of a lifetime. So do I hear three thousand…?’ His eyes raked the room. ‘Three thousand pounds – anyone? Ah, thank you, sir. And three thousand five hundred… and four thousand… thank you – at the back there… five thousand…’
As the bidding proceeded a girl in her early twenties approached me and looked at the portrait of Polly. ‘She’s very pretty,’ she whispered.
I gazed at Polly’s heart-shaped face, framed by a helmet of rose-gold hair. ‘She is.’
‘Do I hear six thousand?’ we heard.
‘What if you have to paint someone who’s plain?’ the girl asked. ‘Or ugly, even? Is that difficult?’
‘It’s actually easier than painting someone who’s conventionally attractive,’ I answered softly, ‘because the features are more clearly defined.’
‘Seven thousand now – do I hear seven thousand pounds? Come on, everyone!’
The girl sipped her champagne. ‘And what happens if you don’t like the person you’re painting – could you still paint them then?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘Though I don’t suppose I’d enjoy the sittings very much.’ Suddenly I noticed the doors swing open and there was Chloë, in her vintage red trench coat, and behind her, Nate. ‘Luckily I’ve never had a sitter I disliked.’
‘Going once,’ we heard the auctioneer say. ‘At eight thousand pounds. Going twice…’ His eyes swept across us, then, with a flick of his wrist he tapped the podium. ‘Sold to the lady in the black dress there.’ I glanced over at Mum. She looked reasonably happy with the result. ‘On to lot two now,’ said Spiers. ‘An evening gown by Maria Grachvogel, who designs dresses for some of the world’s most glamorous women – Cate Blanchett, for example, and Angelina Jolie. Whoever wins this lot will receive a personal consultation and fitting with Maria Grachvogel herself. So I’m going to start the bidding at a very modest five hundred pounds. Thank you, madam – the lady in pale blue there – and seven hundred and fifty?’ He scrutinised us all. ‘Seven hundred and fifty pounds is still a snip – thank you, sir. So do I hear one thousand now?’ He pointed to a woman in lime green who’d raised her hand. ‘It’s with you, madam. At one thousand two hundred and fifty? Yes – and one thousand five hundred …thank you. Will anyone give me two thousand?’
I glanced to my right. Chloë was making her way around the room, leading Nate by the hand.
I know you’re going to love him, Ella…
She’d been wrong about that. I loathed the man. I watched her as she spotted Roy and waved.
‘Is that two thousand pounds there?’ The auctioneer was pointing at Chloë. ‘The young woman at the back in the scarlet raincoat?’
Chloë froze; then with a stricken expression she shook her head, mouthed sorry at Spiers, then looked at Nate with horrified amusement.
‘So still at one thousand five hundred then – but do I hear two thousand? There was a pause then I saw my mother raise her hand. ‘Thank you, Sue,’ the auctioneer said. ‘The bid’s with our organiser, Sue Graham, now at two thousand pounds.’ Mum’s face was taut with tension. ‘Will anyone give me two thousand two hundred? Thank you – the lady in the pink dress.’ Mum’s features relaxed as she was outbid. ‘So at two thousand two hundred pounds… going once… twice and…’ The gavel landed with a ‘crack’. ‘Sold to the lady in pink here – well done, everyone,’ he added jovially. ‘On we go to lot three.’
As the bidding for the weekend at the Ritz got underway I saw Chloë greet Mum and Roy. Mum smiled warmly at Nate, then as Chloë leaned closer to say something to her, Mum clapped her hands in delight then turned and whispered in Roy’s ear. I wondered what they were talking about.
‘So for three thousand pounds now…’ Tim Spiers was saying. ‘A weekend at the Ritz in one of their deluxe suites – what a treat. Thank you, sir – it’s with the man with the yellow tie there. Going once… twice… and…’ He rapped the podium. ‘Sold! You have got yourself a bargain,’ Spiers said to the man amiably. ‘If you’d like to go the registration desk to arrange payment, thank you. Now to the dinner party for eight, cooked by Gordon Ramsay himself – well worth all the shouting and swearing. Let’s start with a very modest eight hundred pounds – to include wine, incidentally…’
The sound of the auction faded as I silently observed Chloë and Nate. Chloë seemed to do most of the talking while Nate just nodded now and again, absorbing her conversation, rather than responding to it. I saw him look at his phone and wondered if the woman he’d promised to meet that night was still in his life.
‘Now for the portrait,’ I heard the auctioneer say, and as my picture of Polly was projected on to the screens he indicated me with a sweep of his hand. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Gabriella Graham is an outstanding young artist.’ I felt a warmth suffuse my face. ‘You’ve probably seen media coverage of the lovely painting she did of the Duchess of Cornwall which was commissioned by the National Portrait Gallery for its permanent collection. Now you too have the chance to be immortalised by Ella. So I’m going to open the bidding at all pitifully low – two thousand pounds. Do I hear two thousand?’ Spiers looked at us over his spectacles. ‘No? Well, let me tell you that Ella’s portraits usually command between six and twelve thousand pounds, depending on the size and composition. So who’ll give me a trifling two thousand? Thank you, madam!’ He beamed at the woman in the turquoise dress who’d spoken to me earlier. ‘And two thousand five hundred?’ I heard Spiers say. ‘Just two and a half thousand – anyone?’ He smiled indulgently. ‘Come on, folks. Let’s see some bidding now! Thank you, Sue.’ My mother’s hand had gone up. ‘So it’s with Sue Graham now at two thousand five hundred pounds… and three thousand – the lady in turquoise again. Who’ll offer me four thousand?’ I was startled. That was a big jump. ‘Four thousand pounds?’ There was silence. ‘No takers?’ he said with mock incredulity. I felt a pang of disappointment tinged with embarrassment that no one thought it worth that much. Suddenly Spiers’ face lit up. ‘Thank you, young lady!’ He grinned. ‘I hope you mean it this time!’
I followed his gaze and to my surprise saw that this remark had been directed at Chloë, who was nodding enthusiastically. So she was bidding in order to help Mum. ‘Do I hear four thousand five hundred now?’ Spiers demanded. ‘Yes, madam.’ The woman in turquoise had come back in. ‘And who will give me five thousand pounds for the chance to be painted by Ella Graham? You’ll be getting not just a portrait but an heirloom. Thank you! And it’s the young woman in the red raincoat again.’ I stared at Chloë – why was she still bidding? ‘It’s with you at five thousand pounds now.’ I held my breath. ‘And five thousand five hundred? Yes? Now it’s back with the lady in turquoise.’ Chloë was off the hook – thank God. ‘So at five thousand five hundred pounds – to the lady in the turquoise dress there – going once… twice… and… SIX thousand!’ Spiers shouted. He beamed at Chloë then held out his right hand to her. ‘The bid’s back with the lady in the red coat, at six thousand pounds now! Any advance on six K?’ This was crazy. Chloë couldn’t spare six thousand – she probably didn’t have six thousand. Now I felt furious with Mum for asking her to bid. ‘So at six thousand pounds – still with the young woman in red,’ Spiers continued. ‘Going once… twice…’ He looked enquiringly at the woman in the turquoise dress, but to my dismay she shook her head. The gavel landed with a ‘crack’, like a gun firing. ‘Sold!’
I expected Chloë to look appalled; instead she looked thrilled. She made her way through the crowd towards me, leaving Nate with Mum and Roy.
‘So what do you think?’ She was smiling triumphantly.
‘What do I think? I think it’s insane. Why didn’t you stop when you had the chance?’
‘I didn’t want to,’ she protested. ‘I decided I was going to get it – and I did!’
I stared at her. ‘Chloë – how much champagne have you had?’
She laughed. ‘I had some at lunchtime, but I’m not drunk. Why do you assume I am?’
‘Because you’ve just paid six thousand pounds for something you could have had for free. What on earth were you doing?’
‘Well… today I was made a director of PRoud – with a thirty per cent pay rise.’ So that was what Mum had been looking so thrilled about. ‘And I’ve just had a tax rebate – plus I want to support the charity.’
‘That’s very generous of you,’ I told her. ‘But it was at five and a half grand, which was already a good price, plus I’ve done a portrait of you, remember?’
‘Of course I do – don’t be silly, Ella – but the point is—’
I suddenly twigged. ‘You want me to do it again.’ I thought of how distressed Chloë had been at the time. She’d broken up with Max shortly after I’d started painting it. I’d urged her to wait, but she’d refused. She’d insisted that she wanted me to paint her in that state, so that she would never forget how much she’d felt for him. ‘You know, Chloë,’ I said, ‘it probably would be good to do another portrait of you now that—’
‘Ella,’ she interrupted. ‘That’s not why I bid. Because it isn’t me you’re going to paint.’
‘No?’
‘It’s Nate.’
My heart sank. And now here he was. I gave him a thin smile. ‘Erm… apparently it’s you I’m to paint, Nate.’
He looked at Chloë in confusion.
‘Yes, you,’ she confirmed happily.
‘Oh… Well…’ He was clearly as dismayed as I was. ‘I don’t know whether I want Ella to paint me. In fact I don’t want her to – I mean, I don’t want anyone to paint me.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Chloë, it’s not my kinda thing, so I’m going to have to say thanks – it’s very sweet – but no thanks.’
Chloë gave him a teasing smile. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed to refuse, because the portrait’s to be a present from me to you – a very special one.’
‘His birthday present?’ I asked her.
‘No.’ Chloë smiled delightedly. ‘His wedding present.’ She slipped her arm through Nate’s. ‘We’re engaged!’
TWO
‘I will be keeping the sittings to a minimum,’ I said to Polly grimly the following morning as we sat in her bedroom overlooking Parsons Green. I’d taken her portrait, carefully bubble-wrapped, back to her flat. ‘I am not relishing the prospect of spending twelve hours with that creep in order to paint his face – or rather his two faces. I’ll paint him as Janus,’ I added darkly.
Polly’s nail file paused in mid-stroke. ‘So I take it you still don’t like him?’
I shuddered with distaste. ‘I thoroughly dislike him – and I don’t trust him.’ I went and sat on the window seat. ‘I told you how he behaved before her party.’
‘Hmm.’ Polly scrutinised the tip of her left index finger then began filing it again, the rasp of the emery board masking the drone of morning traffic.
‘He was very disparaging about Chloë – plus it was obvious that he was already in a relationship with the woman he was on the phone to. So for those two very good reasons I have taken against him.’
Polly shifted on the bed. ‘Fair enough, although – let’s assume he was in a relationship with this other woman…’
‘He was.’
‘But at that stage he hadn’t known Chloë long – so he was hedging his bets.’ She shrugged. ‘Lots of men do that.’
‘Well… okay. Not that it’s any excuse.’
‘Or it could be that he was only pretending that he wasn’t keen on Chloë in order to protect the other woman’s feelings.’ Polly blew on her fingertips. ‘I’d hardly condemn him for that.’
‘But if he’d wanted to protect the other woman’s feelings then he shouldn’t have told her about Chloë’s party at all. He should have lied.’
Polly looked at me. ‘Now you’re saying you don’t trust him because he didn’t lie?’
‘Yes. No… but… what if that other woman’s still on the scene?’
She began to file her thumbnail. ‘As he and Chloë are engaged, I doubt it.’
