The Very Picture of You. Isabel Wolff

They went to Quaglino’s to celebrate her promotion and came out engaged. They told Mum and Roy at the auction. Mum’s so thrilled, she’s offered to plan it all for them.’

      ‘She hasn’t got long then. Only – what? Three and a half months?’

      ‘True, but she has a tremendous talent for arranging things – it’s probably all the choreography she’s done.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Yikes! I must go.’ I shot to my feet. ‘I’ve got to get to Barnes for a sitting.’

      ‘Anyone of note?’ Polly asked as we went on to the landing.

      ‘Not really – she’s a French woman married to a Brit. Her husband’s commissioned me to paint her for her fortieth. He sounds quite a bit older – but he kept telling me how beautiful she is: I could hardly get him off the phone.’

      Polly heaved a sigh of deep longing. ‘I’d love to have someone appreciate me like that.’

      ‘Any progress in that area?’ I asked as we went downstairs.

      ‘I liked the photographer at the Toilet Duck shoot last week. He took my card – not that he’s phoned,’ she added balefully as I opened the cupboard and got out my parka. ‘What about you?’

      I thrust my arms into the sleeves. ‘Zilch – apart from a bit of flirting at the framer’s.’ I looked at the bare patch of wall where Polly’s portrait usually goes. ‘Shall I hang you up again before I go?’

      She nodded. ‘Please – I daren’t do anything practical until the shoot’s over; the tiniest scratch and I’ll lose the job; there’s two grand at stake and I’m short of cash.’

      I pulled the bubble wrap off the painting. ‘Me, too.’

      Polly leaned against the wall. ‘But you seem to be busy.’

      I lifted the portrait on to its hook. ‘Not busy enough – and my mortgage is huge.’ I straightened the bottom of the frame. ‘Perhaps I could offer to paint the chairman of the Halifax in return for a year off the payments.’

      ‘Maybe one of Camilla Parker Bowles’s friends will commission you.’

      I picked up my bag. ‘That would be great. I’ve just joined the Royal Society of Portrait Painters, so I’m on their website – and I’ve got a Facebook page now…’

      ‘That’s good. Then there’s that piece in The Times. I know you didn’t like it,’ Polly added hastily, ‘but it’s great publicity and it’s online. So…’ She opened the door. ‘Who knows what might come out of it?’

      I felt my gut flutter. ‘Who knows…?’

      There was a sharp wind blowing as I walked home so I pulled up my hood and shoved my hands into my pockets. As I cut across Eel Brook Common, with its bright stripe of daffodils, my mother phoned.

      ‘El-la?’ She sounded elated. ‘I’ve just had the final figures from last night. We raised eighty thousand pounds – five thousand more than our target, and a record for the Richmond branch of the charity.’

      ‘That’s wonderful, Mum – congratulations.’

      ‘So I just wanted to thank you again for the portrait.’ I resisted the urge to say that had I known who the sitter was to be I wouldn’t have offered it. ‘But how funny that you’re going to paint Nate.’

      ‘Yes… extremely amusing.’

      ‘It’ll give you an opportunity to get to know him before the wedding. I’ve just booked the church, by the way.’

      ‘Mum… they’ve been engaged less than twenty-four hours.’

      ‘I know – but July third’s not that far off! So I phoned the vicar at St Matthew’s first thing and by some miracle the two p.m. slot for that day had become free – apparently the groom had got cold feet.’

      ‘Oh dear.’

      There was a bewildered silence. ‘No, not “oh dear”, Ella – “oh great”! I didn’t think we’d find any churches in the area free at such short notice, let alone our own one.’

      ‘And where’s the reception going to be?’

      ‘At home. We’ll come out of the church then stroll down the lane to the house through a cloud of moon daisies.’

      ‘There aren’t any moon daisies in the lane, Mum.’

      ‘No – but there will be, because I’m going to plant some. Now we’ll need a large marquee,’ she went on. ‘Eighty feet by thirty feet, minimum: the garden’s just big enough – I paced it out this morning; I think we should have the “traditional” style, not the “frame” – it’s so much more attractive – and I’ll probably use the caterers from last night, although I’ll get a couple of other quotes…’

      ‘You’ve got the bit between your teeth then.’

      ‘I have – but most weddings take at least a year to plan: I’ve got less than four months to organise Chloë’s!’

      ‘Doesn’t she want to do any of it herself?’

      ‘No – she’s going to be very busy at work now that she’s been promoted, and it means that she can enjoy the run-up to her big day without all the stress. She’ll make the major decisions, of course, but I’ll have done all the legwork.’

      ‘Can I do anything?’

      ‘No – thanks, darling. Although… actually there is one thing. Chloë’s thinking about having a vintage wedding dress. Could you give her a hand on that front? I don’t even know who sells them.’

      ‘Sure. Steinberg & Tolkien’s gone now, hasn’t it, but there’s Circa, or Dolly Diamond, and I think there’s a good one down in Blackheath – or hang on, what about…?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Well…’ I bit my lip. ‘What about yours?’

      ‘But… Roy and I got married in a register office, Ella. I wore that pale-blue silk trouser suit.’

      ‘I know – but what about when you got married… before?’ During the silence that followed I tried to imagine what my mother wore when she married my father in the early 1970s. A sweet, pin-tucked dress perhaps, Laura Ashley style, with a white velvet choker – or maybe something flowingly Bohemian by Ossie Clark. ‘It would probably fit Chloë,’ I went on. ‘But… maybe you didn’t keep it,’ I added weakly as the silence continued. Why would she have done, I now reflected, when she hadn’t even kept the wedding photos? I had a sudden vision of the dress billowing out of a dustbin. ‘Sorry,’ I said, as she still didn’t respond. ‘Obviously not a good idea – forget I suggested it.’

      ‘I have to go,’ Mum said smoothly. ‘There’s a beep in my ear – I think it’s Top Tents. We’ll speak again soon, darling.’

      As she ended the call, I marvelled at my mother’s ability to blank things that she didn’t want to talk about. I’ll steer a conversation away from a no-go area, but my mother simply pretends that the conversation isn’t happening.

      When I got home, I booked my minicab to Barnes then quickly packed up my paints, palette and my portable box easel. I took three new canvases out of the rack, unhooked my apron and put everything ready by the front door.

      While I waited for the car I went to my computer and checked my e-mails. There was one from Mike Johns, MP, confirming his sitting for nine o clock on Thursday morning – his first for two months. I was looking forward to seeing him as he’s always great fun. There was some financial spam, which I deleted, and a weekly update on the number of visits to my official Facebook page. The last message was from Mrs Carr’s daughter, confirming that the first sitting with her mother would be on Monday, at Mrs Carr’s flat in Notting Hill.

      Hearing a beep