‘Ella?’
‘Oh,
hi
, Pol. I’m so glad it’s you.’ I clamped the phone to my shoulder and began vigorously wiping the table.
‘You sound out of breath. What are you doing?’
‘I’m getting ready for Nate’s second coming.’
‘His what?’
‘His second
sitting
, I mean. Nate’s coming for his second sitting, so I’m just… tidying up.’
‘I see… and what did you decide about the refreshments – biscotti or Florentines?’
‘Hobnobs, actually.’ I walloped the sofa cushions to get out the dust. ‘I wonder if he likes them?’
‘Ella, he’s American – he probably doesn’t know what a Hobnob
is
.’
‘That’s true.’ I put
John Singer Sargent: Late Portraits
back on the bookshelf. ‘In that case I might be better off with chocolate digestives – or I’ve got some Penguins. Perhaps I should have made cupcakes.’ I glanced at the clock. ‘I
could
make some now – there’s just time.’
There was an odd silence. ‘Ella?’ said Polly.
I chucked an empty paint tube into the bin. ‘Yes?’
‘Ella…?’
I scooped some old sketches off the floor. ‘What?’
‘Erm… you don’t…?’
‘
What
?’ I repeated.
‘Nothing.’ I heard Polly exhale. ‘It’s okay.’
‘Then in that case I’m going to go – I’m busy, Pol.’
‘
Wait!
I phoned you for a reason. Do you remember Ginny Parks from primary school?’
‘I do.’ I began tidying my work table, putting the brushes into the pots. ‘In fact I was thinking about her just the other day. She was very annoying, with short brown hair, and pink glasses.’
‘Well, she’s very attractive now with long, blonde hair and contact lenses.’
‘So… is that why you’ve phoned? To tell me that Ginny Parks’s looks have improved since we were six?’
‘No. I’m phoning because yesterday she befriended me on Facebook and I’ve just read her profile: it says that she’s a solicitor…’
‘Jolly good…’ I suddenly noticed that the windows were dirty. I went to the sink and rinsed a sponge.
‘…for a City law firm.’
‘Marvellous…’
‘Specialising in commercial litigation…’
‘
Super
.’ I began to clean the glass.
‘And that she’s “in a relationship” with Hamish Watt.’
My hand stopped in mid-wipe. ‘That jerk who interviewed me?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘So
that’s
how he knew what he did.’ Through the window I could see a plane tracking across the blue vault, leaving a bright, snowy contrail. ‘Ginny was always asking me about my father. I used to hate it. And now… this is strange, Polly, but I’ve just realised that in a funny roundabout sort of way… she’s
reunited
me with him.’ I felt goose bumps rise up on my arms.
‘Reunited?’ Polly echoed. ‘So does that mean that you’ve decided to—’
‘No, no – it
doesn’t
.’ I heard a frustrated sigh. ‘Sorry, Polly, but can we please
close
the subject? There’s nothing more to say. My father, after three decades of neglect, has decided to get in touch.
I’ve
decided not to respond. The
End
.’
There was silence for a moment. ‘Sorry, Ella… I didn’t mean to be interfering.’
‘It’s okay, Pol. I know you mean well – but now I’m going to draw a line under it. But thanks for telling me about Ginny.’ I glanced at the clock again. ‘I’ve only got an hour until Nate gets here, so I’m going to say
ciao
.’
‘“Ciao”?’ I heard her say as I hung up.
I finished tidying up, got the coffee things ready, then showered and dressed, did my hair, put on a little make-up and, with a few minutes to spare, went online to look at the news. Then, just out of curiosity, I Googled ‘John Sharp, Architect, Western Australia’. Nothing came up, except a link to the Australian Architect’s Association, which I clicked on, but his name wasn’t
there. Then, in an online architectural magazine I found a reference to a John Sharp who, in 1986, had designed a primary school in Busselton. I guessed that it was him, but as I could find no other references to anything he’d built, I presumed that he hadn’t practised in Australia for very long. And I was about to do a further search to find out what he
had
gone on to do when I remembered that I wasn’t interested and stopped.
Instead I went to my Facebook page. In the last week I’d acquired two more fans, one of them a boy that I’d taught at Heatherly’s. He’d left a friendly message on the Wall, so I replied in kind, and all this set me thinking about Heatherley’s, then about Guy Lennox, who’d also studied there, nearly a century ago; I thought about how Lennox had fallen for someone that he’d painted. I imagined him standing at his easel, gazing at Edith, falling more and more hopelessly in love with each stroke of his brush.
Drnnnnngggggg.
I started at the sound of the bell, then quickly checked my appearance in the wall mirror and ran downstairs.
I opened the door and there was Nate, smiling at me self-consciously, as though he was still amused by the idea that we had declared a truce. ‘Hi, Ella.’
‘Hi,’ I said happily.
As Nate came in, he kissed me on the cheek – a gesture of peace, I assumed. He smelt deliciously of vetiver and lime.
‘So… how did you get here?’
‘I walked – it’s only ten minutes. We’re almost neighbours,’ he added as he took off his jacket.
‘Let me take that. Oh, good – you remembered to wear the green jumper.’
‘Does that get me a gold star?’
‘It does. It’s a pain when my sitters forget to put on what they’re being painted in.’
Nate followed me upstairs. ‘So… how’s your week been?’
‘Oh… not bad.’ I pulled the bedroom door to. ‘Though it’s felt a bit long for some reason. Anyway…’ We were in the light and space of the studio. ‘Here we are again.’ I tied on my apron then nodded at the chair. ‘Get posing!’
Nate laughed then sat down. ‘I’ll try.’
I pulled my hair through a yellow scrunchie then picked up my palette. As Nate lifted his head and gazed at me, I felt a sudden voltage: I told myself that this was just an artistic frisson because I was excited about the portrait.
I stood behind the easel. ‘Here’s looking at you then.’
I began to study Nate’s face, the landscape of which was already so familiar that I could have painted him from memory. I looked at his nose, then his eyes – his lashes were very dark and his right lid was a little more exposed than his left; I studied his forehead and wondered how he’d got that small round scar. His hair was cut close to his head and grew down in front of his ears in a shape that tapered to a point, like the outline of India.
Nate was smiling. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been looked at quite so closely by
anyone
– not even my mom.’
I held up a pencil and squinted at him as I measured the distance between his lower lip and his chin. ‘Well,… that’s my job. Basically, I stare at people for a living.’
‘That must feel pretty weird.’
‘It does.’ I put the pencil down and picked up a brush.
‘It makes me feel a bit predatory – like a stalker almost – especially when my sitters tell me that I’ve “captured” them.’ I began to mix the wash.
‘Well… I hope you’ll capture me.’
Nate had said it matter-of-factly, but I felt my face flush. ‘I’ll try to,’ I faltered. ‘I mean… I just want my sitters to be happy.’
‘And are they?’
‘Usually. If they’re not, they’re too nice to say.’
‘Do you ever stay in touch with them?’
‘Yes – a few have become friends.’
‘So you’ve painted them into your life.’
I smiled at the idea, then reflected that Nate was already in my life. He’s going to be my brother-in-law, I reminded myself. He’s marrying Chloë. My sister is going to be his
wife
. ‘So… how’s the wedding shaping up?’ I asked brightly.
‘Well… the answer is
fast.
’ Nate drew the breath through his teeth. ‘Your mom’s efficiency is awesome, if not… downright terrifying.’
I dipped my brush in the turps, aware that he hadn’t exactly paid my mother a compliment. ‘Well, to be fair to her, three and a half months isn’t long.’
Nate blinked. ‘Not long at all.’
‘But then a short engagement’s romantic,’ I pointed out. ‘And it’s nice that you’re getting married on Chloë’s birthday.’
‘That was your mom’s idea too.’
‘Really?’ I smiled to myself at her manipulation.
Nate nodded. ‘Chloë and I had only gotten engaged a few hours before. We’d vaguely mentioned October, but then your mom suddenly said why didn’t we get
married on Chloë’s birthday as it fell on a Saturday: Chloë looked so thrilled I felt I couldn’t say no – not that I
wanted
to say no,’ he added hastily. ‘I was just… taken aback.’
‘It’ll make it easier to remember your wedding anniversary.’
‘That’s true. And, as your mom pointed out, it’s the Fourth of July weekend, so that will make it easier for people coming from the States as the Monday’s a holiday, so…’ He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘July third’s…
great
.’
‘And will your sisters be there?’ I imagined them, in a gang, outside the church, with fistfuls of rice.
Nate nodded. ‘There’s no
way
they’d miss it: they’ll all be standing there, telling me what to do.’
‘It’s going to be a big wedding then.’
‘It looks like it. The guest list seems to be…
huge
, but…’ He shook his head.
‘But what?’
‘The idea of making such private vows in front of so many people…’
‘Oh… you’ll be fine: all you have to do is stand there and say “I do”.
Then I decided that I didn’t want to talk about the wedding any more, so I steered the conversation to Florence and New York – we talked about the Uffizi gallery and the Frick; I asked Nate about his childhood, and he told me some more about growing up in Brooklyn with his sisters, about how he’d got the scar on his brow, and about the dog that he’d had when he was a boy. Then we discussed films and plays we’d both seen, books we’d read, and suddenly Nate was getting to his feet.
‘Do you need to stretch your legs?’ I asked him.
‘No…’
‘Let’s have a break anyway.’ I put down my brush. ‘It must be at least an hour since we started.’
Puzzlement furrowed Nate’s brow, then he nodded at the clock on the wall behind me. ‘Ella. It’s been two and a half.’
‘It can’t be.’ I looked. It was. ‘I had
no
idea…’
‘Well, we were talking a lot – like last time.’
‘Even so…’ I turned back to him. ‘
How
can it be five to one?’
Nate smiled. ‘Maybe we hit a time warp, or got sucked down a wormhole?’
‘That’s the only credible explanation.’ I put my palette on the worktable. My hand ached from holding it for so long. ‘Why didn’t you
say
something? You must have been desperate for a break.’
‘No – I was… happy.’
‘But you haven’t even had a cup of coffee – let alone a Hobnob.’
‘A what?’
‘They’re biscuits. Fancy one now?’
Nate shook his head. ‘Thanks, but I’m meeting Chloë for lunch.’
I felt a piercing sensation, as though someone had plunged a skewer into my chest. I smiled. ‘Please give her my love. Tell her I’ll call her soon. So…’ I untied my apron and hung it up. ‘Is next Saturday okay?’
‘That’ll be fine.’
Nate came over to look at the canvas. He was standing so close to me that I could almost feel the warmth of his body. ‘It’s still in the early stages,’ I said as we looked
at the broad lines and massed areas of flat colour. ‘But I’ve got down the basic structure of your face, and from next week you’ll see yourself begin to…’
‘Emerge?’
‘Yes. Each time you’ll recognise a little more of yourself until we get, well… the whole picture of you. Or as I see you.’
‘I wonder what you’ll make of me.’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know – I’m still working you out. But you’re a good sitter.’
‘That’s because I’m enjoying it.’
I glanced at him. ‘That’s… great.’
He shifted his weight then turned back to the unfinished painting. ‘It’s funny to think that I was dreading these sessions. Now, well… I’m looking forward to them.’
I felt a bewildering burst of euphoria. ‘Me too.’
We went downstairs and I unhooked Nate’s jacket, then opened the door. I turned to him. ‘So I’ll see you next week then. Ten-thirty again?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll be here.’
I waited for him to leave, but for some reason he was still standing there, just looking at me intently. My heart did a swallow dive.
‘Ella?’ Nate murmured after a few moments.
‘Hm?’ Suddenly his eyes didn’t look as green as they had done. They looked quite dark.
‘Ella?’ he repeated gently.
‘Yes?’
‘Could I have my coat?’
‘
Oh
.’ I was still holding it – hugging it almost. ‘Sorry…’ I laughed. ‘Here you go.’
Nate slipped the jacket on then leaned forward and
kissed me on the cheek. ‘
Ciao
, Ella.’ He walked out of the house, then turned, smiling. ‘See you.’
‘See you,’ I echoed.
I closed the door then leaned against it, listening to his fading footsteps.
There’s someone you like…
‘Yes,’ I murmured.
You’re very attracted to him.
‘I am.’
I can see it in your face.
‘But he’s engaged to my sister.’
My euphoria gave way to dismay.
I wasn’t falling for Nate, I reasoned as I lay in bed the following morning. It was just a crush – a silly, no, in the circumstances,
insane
– infatuation. If I simply ignored it, it would soon pass. Once, when my mother was having yet another go at Chloë about Max, she’d told her that she
shouldn’t
have fallen in love with him. Chloë had retorted that she hadn’t chosen to fall in love with him. ‘You
could
have chosen not to!’ Mum had flung back.