me – I would never have thought of having myself painted.’
‘Well… a portrait’s a nice thing to have. And it’ll be treasured for generations. Think of the Mona Lisa,’ I added cheerfully.
Celine gave a Gallic shrug then pointed to the smallest canvas. ‘That one is more than big enough.’
I picked it up. ‘Now we need to choose the background – somewhere where you’ll feel relaxed and comfortable.’
She blew out her cheeks. ‘In the drawing room then, I suppose. This way…’
I followed her across the hall into a large yellow-papered room with a cream carpet and French windows that led on to a long walled garden, at the end of which a huge red camellia was in extravagant flower.
I glanced around the room. ‘This will be fine. The colour’s very appealing, and the light’s lovely.’
On our left was an antique Knole sofa in a dark-green damask. The sides were very high, almost straight, and were secured to the back with thickly twisted gold cord, like a hawser. Celine sat on the left-hand side of it then smoothed her dress over her knees. ‘I shall sit here…’
I studied her for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, but that won’t look right.’
Her face clouded. ‘You said I should feel comfortable – this is.’
‘But the high sides make you look… boxed in.’
‘Oh.’ She turned to look at them. ‘I see. Yes… I am, as you say, boxed in. That is perfectly true.’ She stood up then looked around. ‘So where should I sit?’ she added petulantly.
‘Perhaps here…?’ To the left of the fireplace was a mahogany chair with ornately carved arms and a red velvet seat. Celine sat in it while I moved back a few feet to appraise the composition. ‘If you could just turn this way,’ I asked her. ‘And lift your head a little? Now look at me…’
She shook her head. ‘Who would have thought that sitting could be such hard work?’
‘Well, it’s a joint effort in which we’re both aiming to get the best possible portrait of you.’ Celine shrugged as though this was a matter of sublime indifference to her. I held up my hands, framing her head and shoulders between my thumbs and forefingers. ‘It’s going to be great,’ I said happily. ‘Now we just have to decide what you’re going to wear.’
Her face fell. ‘I’m going to wear this—’ She indicated her outfit.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said as I considered it. ‘But it won’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because the belt’s so big and shiny that it will dominate the picture. If you could wear something a little plainer…’
‘Are you saying I have to change?’
‘Well… it would be better if you did, yes.’ She exhaled irritably. ‘Could I help you to choose? That’s what I usually do when I paint people in their homes.’
‘I see,’ she snapped. ‘So you control the whole show.’
I bit my lip. ‘I don’t mean to be controlling,’ I replied quietly. ‘But the choice of outfit is very important because it affects the composition so much – I did explain that to your husband.’
‘Oh.’ Celine was rubbing her fingertips together, impatiently, as if sifting flour. ‘He forgot to tell me – he’s away this week.’ She stood up. ‘All right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘You’d better come.’
I followed her across the room and up the stairs into the master bedroom, the far wall of which was taken up by an enormous fitted wardrobe. Celine slid open the middle section then stood there, staring at the garments. ‘I don’t know what to wear.’
‘Could I look?’
She nodded. As I began to pull out a few things her mobile phone rang. She looked at the screen, answered in French, then left the room, talking rapidly in a confidential manner. It was more than ten minutes until she returned.
Struggling to hide my irritation, I showed her a pale-green linen suit. ‘This would look wonderful.’
Celine chewed on her lower lip. ‘I no longer wear that.’
‘Would you – just for the portrait?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t like myself in it.’
‘O-kay, then… what about this?’ I showed her an oyster satin dress by Christian Dior.
Celine pursed her mouth. ‘It’s not a good fit.’ Now she began pulling things out herself: ‘Not that,’ she muttered. ‘No… not that either… this is horrible …that’s much too small… this is so uncomfortable…’ Why did she keep all these things if she didn’t even like them? She turned to me. ‘Can’t I wear what I’m wearing?’
I began to count to ten in my head. ‘The belt will wreck the composition,’ I reiterated quietly. ‘It will draw all the attention away from your face. And it’s not really flattering,’ I added, then instantly regretted it.
Celine’s face had darkened. ‘Are you saying I look fat?’
‘No, no,’ I replied as she studied her reflection in the cheval mirror. ‘You’re very slim. And you’re really attractive,’ I added impotently. ‘Your husband said so and he was right.’
I’d hoped this last remark might mollify her, but to my surprise her expression hardened. ‘I adore this belt. It’s Prada,’ she added, as though I could have cared less whether she’d got it in Primark.
By now I was struggling to maintain my composure. ‘It won’t look… good,’ I tried again. ‘It’ll just be a big block of black.’
‘Well…’ Celine folded her arms. ‘I’m going to wear it and that’s all there is to it.’
I was about to pretend that I needed the loo so that I could take five minutes to calm myself down – or quite possibly cry – when Celine’s mobile phone rang again. She left the room and had another long, intense-sounding conversation which drifted across the landing in snatches.
‘Oui, chéri… je veux te voir aussi… bientôt, chéri.’
By now I’d decided to admit defeat and was just working out how best to minimise the monstrous belt when Celine returned. To my surprise her mood seemed to have lightened. Now she took out a simple linen shift in powder blue, then held it against her.
‘What about this?’
I could have wept with relief. ‘That will look great.’
The next morning, as I waited for Mike Johns to arrive for his sitting I looked at Celine’s portrait – so far no more than a few preliminary marks in yellow ochre. She was the trickiest sitter I’d ever had – obstructive, unreasonable, and entirely lacking in enthusiasm.
Her
