at them from every angle and to see the relationship between each part of their face. Above all, I need to see the way the light bounces off their features, because that’s what will give me the form and the proportions. Painting is all about seeing the light. So I work only from life, and I ask for six two-hour sittings.’
Clare’s green eyes widened. ‘That’s a big commitment – for you both.’
‘It is. But then a portrait is a significant undertaking, in which the painter and sitter are working together – there’s a complicity.’
She held the microphone a little closer. ‘And do your sitters open up to you?’ I didn’t reply. ‘I mean, there you are, on your own with them, for hours at a time. Do they confide in you?’
‘Well…’ I didn’t like to say that my sitters confide the most extraordinary things. ‘They do sometimes talk about their marriages or their relationships,’ I answered carefully. ‘They’ll even tell me about their tragedies, and their regrets. But I regard what happens during the sittings as not just confidential, but almost sacrosanct.’
‘It’s a bit like a confessional then?’ Clare suggested teasingly.
‘In a way it is. A portrait sitting is a very special space. It has an… intimacy: painting another human being is an act of intimacy.’
‘So… have you ever fallen in love with any of your sitters?’
I smiled. ‘Well, I did once fall in love with a dachshund that someone wanted in the picture, but I’ve never fallen for a human sitter, no.’ I didn’t add that as most of my male subjects were married they were, in any case, off-limits. I thought of the mess that Chloë had got herself into…
‘Is there any kind of person you particularly enjoy painting?’ Clare asked.
I was silent for a moment while I considered the question. ‘I suppose I’m drawn to people who are a little bit dark – who haven’t had happy-ever-after sort of lives. I like painting people who I feel are… complex.’
‘Why do you think that is?’
‘I… find it more interesting – to see that fight going on in the face between the conflicting parts of someone’s personality.’ I glanced at the clock. It was half past six. I had to go. ‘But… do you have enough material now?’
Clare nodded. ‘Yes, plenty.’ She lifted off her headphones, then smoothed down her hair. ‘But could I have a quick look at your work?’
‘Sure.’ I suppressed a sigh. ‘I’ll get my portfolio.’
As I fetched the heavy black folder from the other side of the studio, Clare walked over to my big studio easel and studied the canvas standing on it. ‘Who’s this?’
‘That’s my mother.’ I heaved the portfolio on to the table then came and stood next to her. ‘She popped by this morning so I did a bit more. It’s for her sixtieth birthday later this year.’
‘She’s beautiful.’
I looked at my mother’s round blue eyes with their large, exposed lids beneath perfectly arching eyebrows, at her sculpted cheekbones and her aquiline nose, and at her left hand resting elegantly against her breastbone. Her skin was lined, but time had otherwise been kind. ‘It’s almost finished.’
Clare cocked her head to one side. ‘She has… poise.’
‘She was a ballet dancer.’
‘Ah.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I remember now, it said so in that article about you.’ She looked at me. ‘And was she successful?’
‘Yes – she was with the English National Ballet, then with the Northern Ballet Theatre in Manchester – this was in the seventies. That’s her, actually, on the wall, over there…’
Clare followed my gaze to a framed poster of a ballerina in a full-length white tutu and bridal veil. ‘Giselle,’ Clare murmured. ‘How lovely… It’s such a touching story, isn’t it – innocence betrayed…’
‘It was my mother’s favourite role – that was in ’79. Sadly, she had to retire just a few months later.’
‘Why?’ Clare asked. ‘Because of having children?’
‘No – I was nearly five by then. It was because she was injured.’
‘In rehearsal?’
I shook my head. ‘At home. She fell, breaking her ankle.’
Clare’s brow pleated in sympathy. ‘How terrible.’ She looked at the portrait again, as if seeking signs of that disappointment in my mother’s face.
‘It was hard…’ I had a sudden memory of my mother sitting at the kitchen table in our old flat, her head in her hands. She used to stay like that for a long time.
‘What did she do then?’ I heard Clare ask.
‘She decided that we’d move to London; once she’d recovered enough she began a new career as a ballet mistress.’ Clare looked at me enquiringly. ‘It’s something that older or injured dancers often do. They work with a company, refreshing the choreography or rehearsing particular roles: my mother did this with the Festival Ballet for some years, then with Ballet Rambert.’
‘Does she still do that?’
‘No – she’s more or less retired. She teaches one day a week at the English National Ballet school, otherwise she mostly does charity work; in fact she’s organised a big gala auction tonight for Save the Children, which is why I’m pushed for time as I have to be there but in here—’ I went over to the table and opened the folder – ‘are the photos of all my portraits. There are about fifty.’
‘So it’s your Facebook,’ Clare said with a smile. She sat on the sofa again and began to browse the images. ‘Fisherman…’ she murmured. ‘That one’s on your website, isn’t it? Ursula Sleeping… Emma, Polly’s Face…’ Clare gave me a puzzled look. ‘Why did you call this one Polly’s Face – given that it’s a portrait?’
‘Oh, because Polly’s my best friend – we’ve known each other since we were six; she’s a hand and foot model and was jokingly complaining that no one ever showed any interest in her face, so I said I’d paint it.’
‘Ah…’
I pointed to the next image. ‘That’s Baroness Hale – the first woman Law Lord; this is Sir Philip Watts, a former Chairman of Shell.’
Clare turned the page again. ‘And there’s the Duchess of Cornwall. She looks rather humorous.’
‘She is, and that’s the quality I most wanted people to see.’
‘And did the Prince like it?’
I gave a shrug. ‘He seemed to. He said nice things about it when he came to the unveiling at the National Portrait Gallery last month.’
Clare turned to the next photo. ‘And who’s this girl with the cropped hair?’
‘That’s
