I went out into the hall and a caterer told me that the bathroom was just at the top of the stairs. I walked up. As I pushed on the door I saw a big, claw-footed Victorian tub on the rim of which were Chloë’s shampoo and conditioner and some jewel-coloured glass tea-light holders. I tortured myself with visions of her and Nate having a candle-lit soak. Beside the basin, among Nate’s shaving things, were Chloë’s Cath Kidston wash-bag, a pink toothbrush and a big tub of Elizabeth Arden body cream.
I
should
have pleaded a migraine, I reflected miserably as I turned on the tap. I lifted my eyes to the mirror then looked away, unable to face myself. ‘I’m
not
in love,’ I whispered as I splashed water on my burning cheeks. ‘It
is
just a… crush – a silly, and completely inappropriate, crush.’ I felt ashamed to acknowledge it, even to myself; I certainly didn’t want anyone
else
to know about it. I resolved to keep my feelings concealed.
As I came out of the bathroom I saw that the door of the room next to it was ajar. Through the gap I could see Nate’s green jumper lying on a chair, one arm dangling over the side, as though exhausted. Without thinking, I pushed on the door then stood there looking
at the big sleigh bed, masochistically imagining Chloë and Nate spooned together in it, or lying face to face, their limbs plaited like rope.
On the chest of drawers I could see some photos in silver frames. I wanted to look at them – to know
more
about Nate, so, feeling like a trespasser, I went in.
There was a photo of a young couple – Nate’s parents, presumably – leaning against a stone wall, with Florence’s
Duomo
rising above the buildings behind them. There was a close-up of a young woman on her wedding day – I guessed that it must be Maria, Nate’s youngest sister, as he’d told me that she was the sister to whom he’s always been close. There was a photo of Nate as a boy of eight or nine, sitting on a sofa, cradling his dog like a baby. In a glass frame was a snap of Chloë and Nate at some black-tie dinner, her arm stretched around the back of his chair. I felt another stab of jealousy. The force of it took me aback.
I went out, pulled the door shut behind me, then ran downstairs.
The kitchen was very large with a big conservatory dining room, the glass of which was strung with little lights that twinkled in the gathering dusk. Everyone was finding their places at the trestle table that hugged the sides of the room.
I found my name – written in Chloë’s large, round hand – and was joined by a forty-ish woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and a slash of cyclamen lipstick.
‘Hi,’ she said, smiling warmly. ‘I’m Nate’s cousin, Honeysuckle.’
I returned her smile. ‘That’s a great name.’
‘Well my father adored Fats Waller so I’m “Honeysuckle Rose”, but everyone calls me Honey or Hon.’
I remembered my misunderstanding about ‘Honey’ on the night of Chloë’s party. I’d been furious at the idea that Nate might be two-timing Chloë: now some dark part of me
wanted
him to two-time her – with
me!
‘This is my husband, Doug.’ Honey indicated the sandy-haired man who was standing on my left.
I shook his outstretched hand. ‘I’m Ella – Chloë’s sister.’
‘I’ve
heard
about you,’ Doug said. ‘You’re painting Nate, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is he behaving himself in the sittings?’ Honey asked as we all sat down.
‘Of course he is.’ I saw Honey register my indignant tone. I felt my face flush. ‘I just mean… he keeps
very
still and he’s… nice.’
‘Oh, Nate’s a darling,’ Honey said as Doug poured us all some white wine. ‘We grew up together in New York, then my folks moved to London when I was twelve – hence my nearly English accent, but Nate and I always got on well, and now we work together.’
‘He’s told me a lot about you,’ I said. ‘Nice things,’ I added hastily. Then I remembered that Nate had said that Honey could be inquisitive. I’d have to be on my guard.
She smiled. ‘So… how long do the sittings take?’ I explained. ‘And how well did you know him at the start?’
‘I didn’t know him – I’d met him twice. But then, I don’t usually know my sitters before I paint them.’
Honey shook her head. ‘How weird – spending so
much time closeted with a stranger.’ She laughed. ‘It must be like being on a blind date!’
I nodded. ‘In some ways it is.’ Except that in Nate’s case there’d been no possibility of the encounter ever developing into anything more. I felt a burst of anger with Chloë: in asking me to paint Nate she had, albeit unwittingly, put before me a feast that I could never touch. I felt like Tantalus, neck-deep in water that he could never drink, grasping at fruit that was always just out of reach.
I stole a glance at Nate, sitting on the other side of the conservatory, next to Chloë. I tried to work out what had happened between us this morning; then I told myself that there was nothing
to
work out. Seeing me become upset, he’d instinctively comforted me. That was
all
there was to it. And yet…
Now Nate’s friend James came and sat next to me with his wife Kay: I already knew that James worked in London, for Citibank, had been at high school with Nate, and was to be his best man. James and Honey clearly knew each other, so as they struck up a conversation I chatted to Kay, who told me that she was doing a part-time art history degree.
The caterers brought in our starters but I was too stressed to eat. As I picked at my smoked trout, I wondered how soon I’d be able to leave. My dinner companions were very pleasant, but it was an effort to make small talk with them in my present mood: thankfully they seemed interested in portraiture, so at least I didn’t have to scrape the mental barrel for things to say.
‘Is there anyone you
wouldn’t
want to paint?’ Kay asked me.
I lowered my fork. ‘I find young children difficult, because their expressions are so fleeting. And I
don’t
like painting women who’ve had plastic surgery – it’s difficult to deal with because it never looks… right. Last year I painted this fifty-something woman who’d clearly had her eyelids lifted; it just looked as though two stun grenades had gone off in her sockets. But I’m currently painting a woman of eighty-three who’s had nothing done and is still very beautiful.’ I hoped that I’d soon be able to start painting Iris again, not least because I longed to hear what had happened to Guy Lennox – his tragic story had got under my skin.
Now Kay began talking about self-portraits – about Rembrandt’s, Francis Bacon’s and Lucian Freud’s. ‘And there’s a self-portrait by Dürer that I adore,’ she added. ‘It’s
so
sexy.’
‘You mean the Christ-like one?’ I said. ‘With the long, curling hair?’
‘Yes –
that
one – he’s
gorgeous
.’ She giggled. ‘I had a massive crush on him when I was a teenager because of that picture!’
I smiled in recognition. ‘Me too. It was as though he was
real –
not a two-dimensional image of himself that he’d painted five centuries before.’
‘So will Nate look as “real” as that?’ Honey asked. ‘With women swooning over him hundreds of years hence?’
I smiled. ‘I’d like to think so. But I’m certainly ambitious for his portrait.’
‘Ambitious?’ Honey echoed. ‘In what way?’
‘In that a competent portrait just catches a likeness, and a good portrait reveals aspects of the sitter’s
character. But a
great
portrait will show something about the sitter that they didn’t even know themselves. That’s what I hope to achieve with Nate’s.’
Doug raised his glass to me. ‘Then here’s to a great portrait of Nate. He’ll have to have an official unveiling for it.’
‘Terrific idea,’ Honey said. ‘We’ll all come and see it – but I know it’ll be gorgeous, because he is.’ At that she caught Nate’s eye and blew him a kiss.
Nate smiled back at Honey, then, as she turned to say something to Doug, Nate let his gaze rest, just for a few moments, on me. I flashed him a brief smile then looked away, my face aflame. He’s just checking that I’m okay, I told myself firmly.
‘Don’t forget that little scar on his head.’ I looked at Honey. ‘One of his sisters dropped him when he was a baby,’ she added. ‘I think it was Valentina.’
‘No.’ I lowered my glass. ‘It was Maria.’
Surprise flickered across Honey’s features. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because Nate told me that Maria dropped him when he was four months old. She was six and had lifted him out of his cot because she wanted to cuddle him. They rushed him to hospital and Maria was so upset that they had to buy her a big doll to make her stop crying. He said that she still can’t bear to talk about it.’
Honey nodded, slowly. ‘I’d… forgotten.’
As our plates were taken away, Honey reminisced about Nate’s father, Roberto. ‘Uncle Rob knew so many famous pianists,’ she said to Kay. ‘He worked with Ashkenazy, Horowitz, Martha Argerich and Alfred Brendel; and he was a terrific pianist himself – he used
to give recitals in a local church, Saint Thomas Aquinas.’
‘It was St Vincent de Paul,’ I corrected her without thinking.
Honey looked at me in surprise. ‘Was it?’
‘Yes. At least… that’s what Nate told me.’
‘Then… that must be right. You obviously take in what he says.’
‘I… always take in what my sitters say; in order to paint them I have to get to know them. Don’t I?’ I added, then wished that I hadn’t.
Nate had stood up and was chinking his glass. I assumed that he was about to make a speech, but he simply asked if some of us would pick up our wine glasses and swap places for dessert and coffee. Doug moved round, as did Kay and a few moments later Mum came over and sat in Kay’s chair. As I introduced her to everyone I realised that, like me, she’d had too much to drink.
‘So how are the wedding plans going?’ James asked her pleasantly.
‘
Fine
,’ she answered with a smile. ‘We’re sending the ’vitations out next week. That’s going to be quite a job as we’ve got a
huge
cast list.’
‘I… think you mean guest list,’ Honey suggested.
Mum looked puzzled. ‘Isn’t that what I said?’
‘Will there be any Italian elements?’ Honey asked her.
‘Yes. The soprano’s going to sing some Rossini and I’m thinking of releasing a pair of doves outside the church, to add a bit of
drama
.’
‘Not that one wants
too
much drama at a wedding,’ Kay cautioned.
Mum heaved a tipsy sigh. ‘That’s true. It’s a pity we’re not Catholic, like Nate, otherwise he and Chloë could have had a Nuptial Mass – they’re rather beautiful; but we’ll
definitely
have those little bags of sugared almonds and I
do
want Chloë and Nate to smash a glass.’
I had another sip of wine. ‘What’s that about?’
‘During the reception, the bride and groom smash a glass,’ Honey explained. ‘The number of fragments denotes the number of years that they’ll be happily married – like in a Jewish wedding.’
‘That’s right,’ said Mum, as Chloë now joined us. ‘Hello, darling.’ Chloë sat down next to her. ‘We’re talking about the wedding, and I was
just
saying that I want you and Nate to smash a glass. I’ve
also
been wondering about confessi.’
‘Confessi?’ Chloë smiled. ‘What have you got to confess, Mum? Come on – out with it!’
‘Confe
tti,
’ Mum corrected herself with a laugh. ‘I’m trying to make up my mind between delphinium petals and hydrangea –
not
an easy decision.’
Honey, clearly bored with the minutiae of the wedding preparations, was reminiscing about Nate. ‘He had this dog, Chopsy,’ she said to James. ‘He was one
ugly
little mutt, but Nate adored him.’
‘He wasn’t ugly,’ I protested. ‘He looked very sweet. And he wasn’t a mutt – he was a pedigree Border terrier.’
‘Really?’ said Honey. ‘Actually… you’re
right
. I’d completely forgotten.’ She gave a bewildered laugh. ‘But how would
you
know what Nate’s dog looked like?’
My heart stopped. I could hardly admit that I’d snooped in Nate’s bedroom. ‘Nate described him to me,’ I replied truthfully. ‘I have a vivid image of him.’
Honey nodded. ‘Ah.’
Now as our coffee arrived Nate came and sat in the chair next to Honey’s. I hardly dared look at him in case my face betrayed my emotions. I pressed my knees against the underside of the table to stop them trembling. And I thought how weird it was, that in the studio I could stare at him uninhibitedly – brazenly, even – but here I hardly dared throw him a glance.
Honey laid her hand on Nate’s arm. I envied her the easy familiarity with which she was able to do this. ‘I was just telling everyone about Chopsy,’ she told him.
Nate grinned. ‘He was a
great
little dog.’
‘Why was he called Chopsy?’ Chloë asked him. ‘Was it because he liked chops?’
‘No, it was short for Chopin,’ I explained. ‘Nate’s dad got him from a rescue centre. He’d come in half starved, with cigarette burns on his legs – Chopsy, that is – not Nate’s dad. He lived to fourteen, though he might have been as much as sixteen, as they weren’t sure how old he was when they first got him.’
‘Oh,’ said Chloë. ‘I didn’t know that.’
I was suddenly aware of Honey’s gaze, shrewd and knowing. ‘Well…’ I stood up. ‘I’d better get back.’ I blew Mum a kiss then turned to Nate. ‘Thanks, Nate,’ I said pleasantly. ‘It’s been
lovely
.’ He pushed back his chair, as if to show me out, but Chloë was already on her feet.
‘I’ll come up with you, Ella.’
‘Okay…’ I lifted my hand to everyone. ‘I’ll see you all at the wedding.’
Mum smiled. ‘Not long now.’
I followed Chloë up the stairs. ‘What a great evening,’
I said as we went into the hall. ‘I really enjoyed myself,’ I lied.
She handed me my coat and I put it on then picked up my bag. ‘Ella…?’ As I saw Chloë’s tortured expression my heart plunged. She knew. How could she
not
know when I’d jabbered on about Nate and his father and his dog like that? So much for concealing my feelings – I’d drunk too much and had displayed them for all to see. ‘Ella…?’ Chloë said again.