The Very Picture of You. Isabel Wolff

I do – don’t be silly, Ella – but the point is—’

      I suddenly twigged. ‘You want me to do it again.’ I thought of how distressed Chloë had been at the time. She’d broken up with Max shortly after I’d started painting it. I’d urged her to wait, but she’d refused. She’d insisted that she wanted me to paint her in that state, so that she would never forget how much she’d felt for him. ‘You know, Chloë,’ I said, ‘it probably would be good to do another portrait of you now that—’

      ‘Ella,’ she interrupted. ‘That’s not why I bid. Because it isn’t me you’re going to paint.’

      ‘No?’

      ‘It’s Nate.’

      My heart sank. And now here he was. I gave him a thin smile. ‘Erm… apparently it’s you I’m to paint, Nate.’

      He looked at Chloë in confusion.

      ‘Yes, you,’ she confirmed happily.

      ‘Oh… Well…’ He was clearly as dismayed as I was. ‘I don’t know whether I want Ella to paint me. In fact I don’t want her to – I mean, I don’t want anyone to paint me.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Chloë, it’s not my kinda thing, so I’m going to have to say thanks – it’s very sweet – but no thanks.’

      Chloë gave him a teasing smile. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed to refuse, because the portrait’s to be a present from me to you – a very special one.’

      ‘His birthday present?’ I asked her.

      ‘No.’ Chloë smiled delightedly. ‘His wedding present.’ She slipped her arm through Nate’s. ‘We’re engaged!’

       TWO

      ‘I will be keeping the sittings to a minimum,’ I said to Polly grimly the following morning as we sat in her bedroom overlooking Parsons Green. I’d taken her portrait, carefully bubble-wrapped, back to her flat. ‘I am not relishing the prospect of spending twelve hours with that creep in order to paint his face – or rather his two faces. I’ll paint him as Janus,’ I added darkly.

      Polly’s nail file paused in mid-stroke. ‘So I take it you still don’t like him?’

      I shuddered with distaste. ‘I thoroughly dislike him – and I don’t trust him.’ I went and sat on the window seat. ‘I told you how he behaved before her party.’

      ‘Hmm.’ Polly scrutinised the tip of her left index finger then began filing it again, the rasp of the emery board masking the drone of morning traffic.

      ‘He was very disparaging about Chloë – plus it was obvious that he was already in a relationship with the woman he was on the phone to. So for those two very good reasons I have taken against him.’

      Polly shifted on the bed. ‘Fair enough, although – let’s assume he was in a relationship with this other woman…’

      ‘He was.’

      ‘But at that stage he hadn’t known Chloë long – so he was hedging his bets.’ She shrugged. ‘Lots of men do that.’

      ‘Well… okay. Not that it’s any excuse.’

      ‘Or it could be that he was only pretending that he wasn’t keen on Chloë in order to protect the other woman’s feelings.’ Polly blew on her fingertips. ‘I’d hardly condemn him for that.’

      ‘But if he’d wanted to protect the other woman’s feelings then he shouldn’t have told her about Chloë’s party at all. He should have lied.’

      Polly looked at me. ‘Now you’re saying you don’t trust him because he didn’t lie?’

      ‘Yes. No… but… what if that other woman’s still on the scene?’

      She began to file her thumbnail. ‘As he and Chloë are engaged, I doubt it.’

      ‘But it’s not that long ago, so she could be – and he’s clearly duplicitous. I don’t want Chloë having her heart broken again. It was bad enough last time.’

      Polly reached for the tub of hand cream on her bedside table. ‘Ella – how old is Chloë now?’

      ‘She’s… nearly twenty-nine.’

      ‘Exactly – oh…’ She grimaced as she tried to twist off the lid. ‘Open this for me, would you?’ She leaned forward and handed me the pot. ‘I daren’t snag a nail – I’m working tomorrow.’

      ‘What’s the job?’ I asked as I unscrewed it.

      ‘A day’s shoot for a feature film. My hands are going to double for Keira Knightley’s – I have to put them up to her face, like this.’ Polly held her palms to her cheeks. ‘I’ll be kneeling behind her and won’t be able to see, so I hope I don’t stick my fingers up her nose. I did that to Liz Hurley once. It was embarrassing.’

      ‘I can imagine.’ I handed Polly the opened tub.

      She scooped out a blob of cream and dabbed it on her knuckles. ‘Chloë’s got to make her own mistakes.’

      ‘Of course: the trouble is she makes such bad ones – like getting involved with a married man. The first thing she ever knew about Max was that he was someone else’s husband.’

      ‘Remind me how she met him?’

      ‘Chloë and I had gone into Waterstone’s on the King’s Road; we saw that Sylvia Shaw was signing copies of her new book and, as Chloë had liked her first two, we decided to stay. While Chloë was queuing to have her copy signed, she started chatting to this man – I could see she really liked him – who said that he was Sylvia Shaw’s husband. So that’s how it started – right under his wife’s nose!’

      ‘And his wife never found out?’

      ‘No. Chloë said that she was too absorbed in her writing to notice. But Chloë was crazy about him. Do you remember the state she got herself in when it finally ended?’ Polly nodded grimly. ‘She went down to seven stone. And what she did to her hair?’

      ‘It was a bit… severe.’

      ‘It was savage. She looked as though she’d been in some… war.’

      Polly stroked cream on to her other hand. ‘That was a year and a half ago,’ she pointed out calmly. ‘Chloë’s on an even keel again now.’

      ‘I hope so – but she’s always been fragile. She’s not like Mum, who has this core of steel.’

      ‘That’s ballerinas for you,’ Polly said simply. ‘They have to learn to dance through the agony, don’t they, whether they’ve got a broken toenail or a broken heart. Damn…’ She peered at her left hand then reached for the magnifying glass on the bedside table and examined it through that. ‘I’ve got a freckle.’ How did that happen?’ she wailed. ‘I use factor 50 on my hands all year round – my rear end gets more UV than they do. Where’s my Fade Out?’

      Polly went over to her dressing table and rummaged amongst all the hand creams, nail polishes and jars of cotton-wool puffs. ‘I can’t afford to have any blemishes,’ she muttered. She lifted up a framed photo of her daughter, and my god-daughter, Lola. ‘Here it is…’ She sat down on the bed again then held out the pot for me to open. ‘I know you’ve always looked out for Chloë.’

      I loosened the lid and passed the pot back to her. ‘Well, she’s a lot younger than me, so yes… I have.’

      ‘That’s nice; but now you should just… let go.’ Polly looked at me. ‘As I’ve known you since we were six, I feel I can say that.’ She began to massage the skin lightener on to the offending brown mark. ‘Chloë’s got over Max enough now to be able to marry Nate – just be happy for her.’

      ‘I’d be thrilled if Nate