Thank God for Mike Johns, I thought. A big bear of a man, he was always genial, cooperative and expressive – the perfect sitter. As I took out his canvas I was pleased to see that even in the painting’s semi-finished state, his amiability and warmth shone through.
Mike’s portrait had been commissioned by his constituency association to mark his fifteenth anniversary as their MP: he’d been elected very young, at twenty-six. He’d said he wanted to get the painting done well before the run-up to the general election began in earnest: so we’d had two sittings before Christmas, then the third early in the New Year. We’d scheduled another for 22 January but Mike had suddenly cancelled it the night before. In a strangely incoherent e-mail he’d put that he’d be in touch again ‘in due course’, but to my surprise I hadn’t heard from him in the intervening two months, which had surprised me, not least because he lives nearby, just on the other side of Fulham Broadway. Then last week he’d messaged me to ask if we could continue. I was glad, partly because it would mean I’d get the other half of my fee, but also because I liked Mike and enjoyed chatting to him.
We’d arranged for him to come early so that the sitting
wouldn’t eat into his working day. At five past eight the bell rang and I ran downstairs.
As I opened the door I had to stifle a gasp. In the nine weeks since I’d last seen him, Mike must have lost nearly three stone.
‘You’re looking trim,’ I said as he stepped inside. ‘Been pounding the treadmill?’ I added, although I already knew, from his noticeably subdued air, that his weight loss must be due to some kind of stress.
‘I
have
shed a few pounds,’ he replied vaguely. ‘A good thing too,’ he added with a stab at his usual bonhomie, but his strained demeanour gave him away. He was friendly, but there was a sadness about him now – an air of tragedy almost, I realised as I registered the dead look in his eyes. ‘Sorry about the early start,’ he said as we went up to the studio.
‘I don’t mind at all,’ I replied. ‘We can do all the remaining sessions at this time, if you like.’
Mike nodded then took off his jacket and put it on the sofa. He sat in the oak armchair that I use for sittings. ‘Back in the hot seat then,’ he said with forced joviality.
The morning light was sharp so I lowered the blinds on the Velux windows to soften it. As I put Mike’s canvas on the easel I realised that I was going to have to adjust the portrait. His torso was much slimmer, his face and neck thinner, the collar of his shirt visibly gaping. His hands looked less fleshy as he clasped them in his lap. He fiddled with his wedding ring, which was clearly loose.
I scraped a pebble of dried paint off the palette then squeezed some new colour out of the tubes, enjoying, as I always did, the oily scent of the linseed.
‘I forgot to wear the blue jumper,’ Mike said. ‘I’m sorry – it slipped my mind.’
‘Don’t worry.’ I mixed the colour with a palette knife, then selected a fine brush. ‘I’ll be working on your face today, but if you could wear it next time, that would be great.’
Now I looked at Mike, and began to paint; I looked at him again, then painted a little more. And so it went on, just looking and painting, looking and painting.
Mike usually chatted away, but today he was virtually silent. He directed his gaze towards me but avoided eye contact. His mouth and jaw were tight. Aware that I must have noticed the change in him, he suddenly confided that he was ‘a bit strung out’ with all the extra work he was doing in preparation for the general election.
I wondered if he was worried that he might lose his seat, but then remembered reading somewhere that he had a huge majority. I shaded a slight hollow into his left cheek. ‘Have you been away?’ I wondered whether that was why he’d been unable to sit for me lately.
He nodded. ‘I went to Bonn last month on a cross-party trip.’
I cleaned the brush in the pot of turps. ‘What was that for?’
‘We were looking at their tram system. I’m on a transport committee.’
I dipped the brush in the cobalt to make the flesh tone around his jaw a bit greyer. ‘Then please will you do what you can to help cyclists – it’s not easy on two wheels in this city.’
Mike nodded, then glanced away. Then I asked him
about his wife, a successful publisher in her late thirties.
He shifted on the chair. ‘Sarah’s fine. She’s incredibly busy though – as usual.’
I thinned the paint with a little turps. ‘I saw a photo of her in the business pages the other day – I can’t remember what the story was, but she looked terribly glamorous.’
‘She’s just bought Delphi Press – to add to her empire,’ Mike added with a slightly bitter smile. Now I remembered him confiding that his wife’s career was all-consuming. I wondered again at the change in him; maybe she’d decided that she didn’t want children, and he did: or maybe they couldn’t have them and it was getting to him. Maybe, God forbid, he was ill.
Suddenly he heaved a sigh so deep, it was almost a groan.
I lowered my brush. ‘Mike,’ I said quietly. ‘Are you okay? I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you seem a bit—’
‘I’m… fine,’ he said brusquely. He cleared his throat. ‘As I say, I’m just a bit stressed… with polling day looming… and it’s particularly tense this time round.’
‘Of course. Would you like to have a coffee break now – if you’re tired?’ He shook his head. ‘Well… shall we just listen to the radio then?’ He nodded gratefully. So I found my paint-spattered tranny and switched it on.
Ra-di-o Two… It’s ten to nine. And if you’ve just joined us, you’re listening to me, Ken Bruce, taking you through the morning… Eric Clapton’s on tour – he’ll be playing the O2 next week, then he’ll be in Birmingham and Leeds…
The doorbell rang. As I ran down I heard a gentle guitar introduction, then Clapton’s voice.
Would you know my name
If I saw you in heaven
Will it be the same
If I saw you in heaven…
I opened the door. It was a courier with the new bank card I’d been expecting. As I signed for it, Clapton’s sad ballad drifted down the stairs.
Would you hold my hand
If I saw you in heaven
I went back up to the studio. ‘Sorry about that.’ I went to my desk and put the letter in a drawer.
I must be strong, and carry on
Because I know I don’t belong
Here in heaven…
I returned to the easel, picked up my brush, then looked at Mike…
…don’t belong
Here in heaven.
He was crying.
I turned the radio off. ‘Let’s stop,’ I murmured after a moment. ‘You’re… upset.’
‘No. No.’ He cleared his throat, struggling to compose
himself. ‘I’m fine – and the picture needs to be finished.’ He swallowed. ‘I’d like to continue.’
‘Are you sure?’
He nodded, then raised his head to resume the pose, and we continued in silence for another fifteen minutes or so, at the end of which Mike stood up. I wondered whether he’d come and look at the painting, as he usually does; but he just picked up his jacket and went out of the studio.
I followed him downstairs. ‘So just two more sittings now.’ I opened the front door. ‘And is the same time next week okay for you?’
‘That’ll be fine,’ he said absently. ‘See you then, Ella.’
‘Yes. See you then, Mike. I look forward to it.’
I watched him walk to his car. As I stood there, Mike lifted his hand, gave me a bleak smile, then got into his black BMW and drove slowly away.
‘Ella?’ said Chloë over the phone a few days later. ‘I need to ask you something.’
‘If it’s that you want me to be a bridesmaid, the answer’s no.’
‘Oh…’ She sounded disappointed. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m nearly seven years older and two stone heavier than you are – that’s why. I don’t fancy being a troll to your fairy.’
‘How about maid of honour then?’
‘No. See answer above.’
‘Actually, that wasn’t what I was going to ask you – Nate has a five-year-old niece who’s going to do the honours.’
‘That sounds perfect. So what did you want to ask?’ My insides were churning, because I knew.
‘I’d just like to set up the first sitting with Nate. I was half expecting you to get in touch about it,’ she reproached me.
‘Sorry, I’ve been working flat out,’ I lied.
‘Can we fix up some times now?’
‘Sure,’ I said breezily.
I rummaged on the table for my diary and found it under this month’s
Modern Painters.
I scribbled in Chloë’s suggested date.
‘So where are you going to paint him? His flat’s near to yours, if you want to paint him there.’
‘No – he’ll have to come to me.’ Disliking Nate, I preferred him to be on my ground.
‘That’s eleven a.m. next Friday then,’ said Chloë. ‘It’s Good Friday.’
‘So it is. I’ll get some hot cross buns in for the break.’
As I tossed the diary back on the table I remembered the girl at the auction asking me if I could paint someone I didn’t like. I was about to find out.
‘Nate will be a good sitter,’ I heard Chloë say.
‘I hope so.’ I sighed. ‘I’ve had some tricky ones lately.’
‘Really?’
I wasn’t going to tell her about Mike – I felt a growing concern for him and wondered what had happened to make him so unhappy.
‘So how are your sitters being tricky?’ Chloë persisted. I described Celine’s behaviour. ‘How odd,’ said Chloë. ‘It’s as though she’s trying to sabotage the portrait.’
‘Exactly. And when we finally got to start, she took two
more
calls then went to the front door and spoke to her builder for fifteen minutes. The woman’s a nightmare.’
‘Well, Nate will be very good. He’s not that keen on it all either, as you know. But at least he’ll behave well during the sittings.’
‘In that case, we should be able to get away with five
rather than the usual six.’ The thought cheered me. ‘Or even four.’
‘Please don’t cut corners,’ I heard Chloë say. ‘I’ve paid a lot for this portrait, Ella. I want it to be… wonderful.’
‘Of… course you do.’ I felt a wave of shame. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do a good job, in at least six sittings –
more
if they’re needed,’ I added recklessly.
‘And please make it truthful, not just attractive. I want the portrait to
reveal
something about Nate.’
‘It will do,’ I assured her, then wondered
what
– that he was cynical and untrustworthy, probably. Convinced that my negativity about him would show, I now regretted the commission even more and wished I could get out of it. I fiddled with a paintbrush. ‘I saw the engagement announcement in
The Times
, by the way.’ Seeing it in black and white had depressed me…
Mr Nathan Roberto Rossi to Miss Chloë Susan Graham.
Chloë snorted. ‘Mum also put it in the
Telegraph
, the
Independent and
the
Guardian
! I told her it was over the top, but she said she “didn’t want anyone to miss it”.’ I immediately suspected that what Mum really intended was for
Max
not to miss it.
‘She is
amazing
, though,’ Chloë went on. ‘She’s already booked the church, the photographer, the video man, the caterers, the florist
and
the marquee – or Raj tent, rather. She’s now decided on a Moghul pavilion – she says it’s the most elegant way to dine under canvas.’
‘Is it going to be a sit-down affair then?’
‘Yes. I told Mum that finger food would be fine, but she insists we do it “properly” with a traditional, waitered wedding breakfast – poor Dad. He keeps joking
that it’s a good job he’s an orthopaedic surgeon as he knows where to get more arms and legs.’
I smiled. ‘And Mum said you wanted a vintage wedding dress.’
‘If I can find one that’s perfect for me, yes.’
While Chloë chatted about her preferred style I went to my computer and, with the phone still clamped to my ear, found three specialist websites. I clicked on the first, the Vintage Wedding-Dress Store.
‘There’s a wonderful fifties dress here,’ I said to her. ‘Guipure lace top with a billowy silk skirt – it’s called “Gina”.’ I told Chloë the name of the site so that she could find it. ‘There’s also a thirties one called “Greta” – see it? That column of ivory satin – but it’s got a very low back.’
‘Oh yes… It’s lovely, but I’m not sure I’d want to show that much flesh.’
‘That sixties one would suit you – “Jackie”: it’s a twelve though, so you’d have to take it right in, which might ruin it.’
‘I can’t see it. Hang on a mo’…’
While I waited for Chloë to find it, I clicked on my e-mails. There were three new ones including a request for my bank account details, an advert for ‘bedding bargains’ from ‘Dreamz’ and some offers from Top Table. I deleted them all.
‘
Here’s
a gorgeous dress,’ Chloë said. ‘It’s called “Giselle”.’
I navigated back to the site. The dress was ballerina style with dense layers of silk tulle below a fitted satin bodice that spangled with sequins. ‘It
is
gorgeous. You’ll look just like Mum in her dancing days.’
‘It’s perfect,’ Chloë breathed. ‘And I know it would suit me –
but
…’ She was making little clicking noises.
‘It might be inauspicious to wear a wedding dress called “Giselle” – don’t you think?’
‘Oh… because she has such bad luck in the husband department, you mean?’
‘Exactly – Albrecht’s such a cad, two-timing the poor girl like that. I hope Nate isn’t going to do that to
me
,’ she snorted. ‘Otherwise I might have to kill myself, like Giselle does.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said faintly. ‘After all, he’s asked you to marry him.’
‘That’s… true. Anyway, if you see any really great dresses, let me know.’