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.’
‘Sure. But I’d better go, Chloë – I’ve got a sitting.’
‘And I’ve got some press packs to check – but I’ll tell Nate that he’s got a date with you on Friday.’
A date with Nate, I thought dismally as I hung up.
I ordered the cab then began to get my things together for the sitting with Mrs Carr. Her daughter had already specified the size of canvas, so I took out the one that I’d primed, checked that it was properly stretched, then put my canvas bag and easel by the front door. I was just reaching for my coat when the phone rang.
I picked it up. ‘Ella? This is Alison from the Royal Society of Portrait Painters. Do you remember we spoke before Christmas – when you were first elected?’
‘Of course I do. Hi.’
‘Well, I’ve just had an enquiry about you.’
‘Really?’ My spirits lifted at the possibility of another commission. ‘Who’s it from?’ Through the window I could see the cab pulling up.
‘It’s slightly unusual in that it’s for a posthumous portrait.’
My euphoria evaporated. ‘I’m afraid I don’t do them. I find the idea too sad.’
‘Oh, I didn’t realise that you felt like that – I’ll make a note. Some of our members do do them, but we’ll put on your page that you don’t. Not that these requests arise all that often, but it’s good to know the position. Anyway, I’m sure there’ll be other enquiries about you before long.’
‘Fingers crossed…’
‘So I’ll be in touch again sometime.’
‘Great. Erm… Alison, do you mind if I ask you…?’
‘Yes?’
‘Just out of curiosity – who was it from? This enquiry?’
‘It was from the family of a girl who was knocked off her bike and killed.’ I felt goose bumps stipple my arms. ‘It happened two months ago,’ Alison went on. ‘At Fulham Broadway. In fact, there’s been a bit about it in the press because the police still don’t know what caused the accident – or who, rather.’
I thought of the black BMW speeding away. ‘I live near there,’ I said quietly. ‘I’ve seen where it happened…’
‘There’ll be a memorial service in early September, at the school where she taught – she was a primary teacher. Her parents have decided to commission a portrait of her for it.’
‘Grace. Her name was Grace.’
‘That’s right. It’s terribly sad. Anyway, her family realise that any painting’s going to take time, so her uncle called me to discuss it. He said that they’d been looking at our artists and had particularly liked your work – plus the fact that you’re a similar age to Grace.’
‘I see…’
‘In fact, they’re very keen for you to do it.’
‘Ah.’
‘But I’ll tell him that you can’t, shall I?’
‘No… I mean, yes. Tell him… that…’
‘That you paint only from life?’ Alison suggested.
‘Yes… But please say I’m sorry. And give them my condolences.’
‘I will.’
From outside I heard the impatient beeping of the cab’s horn so I said goodbye, locked up, then went out to the car. It was the red Volvo again; the driver put my easel and canvas in the boot while I climbed into the back.
He sat behind the wheel then looked at me in the mirror. ‘Where to this time?’
I gave him the address and we set off.
‘So who are you painting today?’ he asked me as we drove through Earl’s Court.
‘An elderly lady.’
‘Lots of wrinkles then,’ he laughed.
‘Yes – and lots of character. I like painting old people. I love looking at paintings of old people too.’ I thought of Rembrandt’s tender and dignified portraits of the elderly.
‘You’re going to paint me, one day – don’t forget now!’
‘Don’t 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
