The Very Picture of You. Isabel Wolff

worry – I won’t forget,’ I said. He had an interesting, craggy sort of face.

      Mrs Carr’s flat was in a mansion block in a narrow street close to Notting Hill Gate. I paid the driver, got out of the cab, then he handed me my equipment. To my left was an antique shop, and to the right a primary school. I could hear children’s voices and laughter and the sound of a ball being kicked about. I pressed the bell for flat 9 and after a moment heard Mrs Carr’s daughter, Sophia, over the intercom.

      ‘Hi, Ella.’ The door buzzed open and I pushed on it. ‘Take the lift to the third floor.’

      The interior of the Edwardian building was cold, its walls still clad in the original Art Nouveau tiles in a fluid pattern of green and maroon. I stepped into the antiquated lift and rattled up to the third floor where it stopped with a sonorous ‘clunk’. As I pulled back the grille I could see Sophia waiting for me at the very end of the semi-lit corridor. Mid-fifties, she was dressed youthfully in jeans and a brown suede jacket, her fair hair scraped into a ponytail.

      ‘It’s nice to see you again, Ella.’ As I walked towards her she looked at the equipment. ‘But that’s a lot to lug about.’ She stepped forward. ‘Let me help you.’

      ‘Oh – thanks. It’s not heavy,’ I added as she took the easel. ‘Just a bit awkward.’

      ‘Thanks for coming to us,’ she said as I followed her inside. She shut the door. ‘It makes it so much easier for my mother.’

      ‘That’s fine.’ I didn’t add that I like painting people in their own homes: it gives me important insights into who they are – their taste, how much comfort they prefer and how tidy they like these things; I can tell, from the number of family photos, how sentimental they are and, if there are invitations to be seen, how social. All this gives me a head start on my subjects before painting even begins.

      ‘Mum’s in the sitting room,’ Sophia said. ‘I’ll introduce you, then leave you to it while I do a bit of shopping for her.’

      I followed her down the hallway.

      The sitting room was large with two green wing-back chairs, a lemon-yellow chaise longue and a cream-coloured sofa. A large green-and-yellow Persian rug covered most of the darkly varnished parquet-tiled floor.

      Mrs Carr was standing by the far window. She was tall and very slim, but slightly stooped, and she leaned on a stick. Her hair was tinted a pale caramel colour and was set in soft layered waves. In profile her nose was Roman, and her eyes, when she turned to look at me, were a remarkable dark blue, almost navy.

      Sophia put the easel down. ‘Mummy?’ She’d raised her voice. ‘This is Ella.’

      ‘Hello, Mrs Carr.’ I extended a hand.

      She took it in her left one. Her fingers felt as cool and smooth as vellum. As she smiled, her face creased into dozens of little lines and folds. ‘How nice to meet you.’

      Sophia took my parka. ‘Can I get you a cup of coffee, Ella?’

      ‘Oh, no thanks.’

      ‘What about you, Mummy? Do you want some coffee?’

      Mrs Carr shook her head, then went over to the sofa and sat down, leaning her stick against the arm.

      Sophia waved to her. ‘I’ll be back around four – four, Mummy! Ok-ay?’

      ‘That’s fine, darling. No need to shout…’ As we heard Sophia’s retreating steps Mrs Carr looked at me, then shrugged. ‘She thinks I’m deaf,’ she said wonderingly. The front door slammed, creating a slight reverberation.

      I took a closer look at the room. One wall was lined with books; the others bore an assortment of prints and paintings that hung, in attractive chaos, from the picture rail. I opened my bag. ‘Have you lived here long, Mrs Carr?’

      She held up her hand. ‘Please call me Iris – we’ll be spending quite a lot of time together, after all.’

      ‘I will then – thanks.’

      ‘But to answer your question – fifteen years. I moved here after my husband died. We’d lived not far away, in Holland Street. The house was too big and too sad for me on my own; but I wanted to stay in this area as I have many friends here.’

      I opened up the easel. ‘And do you have any other children?’

      Iris nodded. ‘My younger one, Mary, lives in Sussex. Sophia’s just down the road in Brook Green; but they’re both very good to me. This portrait was their idea – rather a nice one, I think.’

      ‘And have you ever been painted before?’

      Iris hesitated. ‘Yes. A long time ago…’ She half-closed her eyes as if revisiting the memory. ‘But… the girls suddenly said that they wanted a picture of me. I did wonder whether I wanted to be painted at this age – but I have to accept the fact that my face is now an old face.’

      ‘It’s also a beautiful one.’

      She smiled. ‘You’re being kind.’

      ‘Not really – it’s true.’ I felt that Iris and I were going to get on well. ‘So… I’ll just get everything ready.’ I got out the paints and my palette. I tied on my apron and spread a dustsheet around the easel. ‘And did you have a career, Iris?’

      She exhaled. ‘Ralph was in the Foreign Office, so that was my career, being a diplomatic wife – dutifully flying the flag in various parts of the globe.’

      ‘Sounds exciting – so where did you live?’

      ‘In Yugoslavia, Egypt and Iran – this was before the revolution – and in India and Chile. Our last posting was in Paris, which was lovely.’ As Iris talked I studied her face, seeing how it moved, and where the light fell upon her features.

      I got out my pad and a stump of charcoal. ‘It sounds like a wonderful life.’

      ‘It was – in most ways.’

      I sat in the wing-backed chair nearest Iris, looked at her, and began to make rapid marks: ‘I’m just doing a preliminary sketch.’ The charcoal squeaked across the paper. ‘And do you come from a diplomatic background yourself?’

      ‘No. My stepfather was in the City. So are you going to paint me sitting here?’

      ‘Yes.’ I lowered the sketchpad. ‘If you’re happy there.’

      ‘I’m perfectly happy. And is the light satisfactory?’

      ‘It’s lovely.’ I glanced at the window, through which I could see the dome of the Coronet Cinema and behind it a patch of pale sky. ‘There’s a lot of high cloud today, which is good because it eliminates strong shadows.’ I carried on drawing, then turned the pad round to show Iris what I’d done. ‘I’m going to paint you like this, in a three-quarters position.’

      She peered at it. ‘Will my hands be in the picture?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘In that case I’ll wear one or two rings.’

      ‘Please do – I love painting jewellery.’ I wiped a smudge of charcoal off my thumb.

      ‘And what about my clothes?’ Iris asked. ‘Sophia told me that you like to have some say in what your sitters wear.’

      ‘I do – if they don’t object.’ I thought of Celine.

      ‘I don’t object in the slightest.’

      ‘You’re very easy to work with,’ I said gratefully.

      Iris looked puzzled. ‘Why shouldn’t I be? You’re going to deliver me up to posterity – the least I can do is to cooperate. My daughters say that your portraits are so vibrant that one almost expects the people in them to climb out of the frames.’

      ‘Thank you – what