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that he was ‘a bit strung out’ with all the extra work he was doing in preparation for the general election.

      I wondered if he was worried that he might lose his seat, but then remembered reading somewhere that he had a huge majority. I shaded a slight hollow into his left cheek. ‘Have you been away?’ I wondered whether that was why he’d been unable to sit for me lately.

      He nodded. ‘I went to Bonn last month on a cross-party trip.’

      I cleaned the brush in the pot of turps. ‘What was that for?’

      ‘We were looking at their tram system. I’m on a transport committee.’

      I dipped the brush in the cobalt to make the flesh tone around his jaw a bit greyer. ‘Then please will you do what you can to help cyclists – it’s not easy on two wheels in this city.’

      Mike nodded, then glanced away. Then I asked him about his wife, a successful publisher in her late thirties.

      He shifted on the chair. ‘Sarah’s fine. She’s incredibly busy though – as usual.’

      I thinned the paint with a little turps. ‘I saw a photo of her in the business pages the other day – I can’t remember what the story was, but she looked terribly glamorous.’

      ‘She’s just bought Delphi Press – to add to her empire,’ Mike added with a slightly bitter smile. Now I remembered him confiding that his wife’s career was all-consuming. I wondered again at the change in him; maybe she’d decided that she didn’t want children, and he did: or maybe they couldn’t have them and it was getting to him. Maybe, God forbid, he was ill.

      Suddenly he heaved a sigh so deep, it was almost a groan.

      I lowered my brush. ‘Mike,’ I said quietly. ‘Are you okay? I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you seem a bit—’

      ‘I’m… fine,’ he said brusquely. He cleared his throat. ‘As I say, I’m just a bit stressed… with polling day looming… and it’s particularly tense this time round.’

      ‘Of course. Would you like to have a coffee break now – if you’re tired?’ He shook his head. ‘Well… shall we just listen to the radio then?’ He nodded gratefully. So I found my paint-spattered tranny and switched it on.

      Ra-di-o Two… It’s ten to nine. And if you’ve just joined us, you’re listening to me, Ken Bruce, taking you through the morning… Eric Clapton’s on tour – he’ll be playing the O2 next week, then he’ll be in Birmingham and Leeds…

      The doorbell rang. As I ran down I heard a gentle guitar introduction, then Clapton’s voice.

      Would you know my name

      If I saw you in heaven

      Will it be the same

      If I saw you in heaven…

      I opened the door. It was a courier with the new bank card I’d been expecting. As I signed for it, Clapton’s sad ballad drifted down the stairs.

      Would you hold my hand

      If I saw you in heaven

      I went back up to the studio. ‘Sorry about that.’ I went to my desk and put the letter in a drawer.

      I must be strong, and carry on

      Because I know I don’t belong

      Here in heaven…

      I returned to the easel, picked up my brush, then looked at Mike…

      …don’t belong

      Here in heaven.

      He was crying.

      I turned the radio off. ‘Let’s stop,’ I murmured after a moment. ‘You’re… upset.’

      ‘No. No.’ He cleared his throat, struggling to compose himself. ‘I’m fine – and the picture needs to be finished.’ He swallowed. ‘I’d like to continue.’

      ‘Are you sure?’

      He nodded, then raised his head to resume the pose, and we continued in silence for another fifteen minutes or so, at the end of which Mike stood up. I wondered whether he’d come and look at the painting, as he usually does; but he just picked up his jacket and went out of the studio.

      I followed him downstairs. ‘So just two more sittings now.’ I opened the front door. ‘And is the same time next week okay for you?’

      ‘That’ll be fine,’ he said absently. ‘See you then, Ella.’

      ‘Yes. See you then, Mike. I look forward to it.’

      I watched him walk to his car. As I stood there, Mike lifted his hand, gave me a bleak smile, then got into his black BMW and drove slowly away.

       THREE

      ‘Ella?’ said Chloë over the phone a few days later. ‘I need to ask you something.’

      ‘If it’s that you want me to be a bridesmaid, the answer’s no.’

      ‘Oh…’ She sounded disappointed. ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because I’m nearly seven years older and two stone heavier than you are – that’s why. I don’t fancy being a troll to your fairy.’

      ‘How about maid of honour then?’

      ‘No. See answer above.’

      ‘Actually, that wasn’t what I was going to ask you – Nate has a five-year-old niece who’s going to do the honours.’

      ‘That sounds perfect. So what did you want to ask?’ My insides were churning, because I knew.

      ‘I’d just like to set up the first sitting with Nate. I was half expecting you to get in touch about it,’ she reproached me.

      ‘Sorry, I’ve been working flat out,’ I lied.

      ‘Can we fix up some times now?’

      ‘Sure,’ I said breezily.

      I rummaged on the table for my diary and found it under this month’s Modern Painters. I scribbled in Chloë’s suggested date.

      ‘So where are you going to paint him? His flat’s near to yours, if you want to paint him there.’

      ‘No – he’ll have to come to me.’ Disliking Nate, I preferred him to be on my ground.

      ‘That’s eleven a.m. next Friday then,’ said Chloë. ‘It’s Good Friday.’

      ‘So it is. I’ll get some hot cross buns in for the break.’

      As I tossed the diary back on the table I remembered the girl at the auction asking me if I could paint someone I didn’t like. I was about to find out.

      ‘Nate will be a good sitter,’ I heard Chloë say.

      ‘I hope so.’ I sighed. ‘I’ve had some tricky ones lately.’

      ‘Really?’

      I wasn’t going to tell her about Mike – I felt a growing concern for him and wondered what had happened to make him so unhappy.

      ‘So how are your sitters being tricky?’ Chloë persisted. I described Celine’s behaviour. ‘How odd,’ said Chloë. ‘It’s as though she’s trying to sabotage the portrait.’

      ‘Exactly. And when we finally got to start, she took two more calls then went to the front door and spoke to her builder for fifteen minutes. The woman’s a nightmare.’

      ‘Well, Nate will be very good. He’s not that keen on it all either, as you know. But at least he’ll behave well during the sittings.’

      ‘In that case, we should be able to get away with five rather than the usual six.’ The thought cheered me. ‘Or even four.’

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