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something about Nate.’

      ‘It will do,’ I assured her, then wondered what – that he was cynical and untrustworthy, probably. Convinced that my negativity about him would show, I now regretted the commission even more and wished I could get out of it. I fiddled with a paintbrush. ‘I saw the engagement announcement in The Times, by the way.’ Seeing it in black and white had depressed me…

      Mr Nathan Roberto Rossi to Miss Chloë Susan Graham.

      Chloë snorted. ‘Mum also put it in the Telegraph, the Independent and the Guardian! I told her it was over the top, but she said she “didn’t want anyone to miss it”.’ I immediately suspected that what Mum really intended was for Max not to miss it.

      ‘She is amazing, though,’ Chloë went on. ‘She’s already booked the church, the photographer, the video man, the caterers, the florist and the marquee – or Raj tent, rather. She’s now decided on a Moghul pavilion – she says it’s the most elegant way to dine under canvas.’

      ‘Is it going to be a sit-down affair then?’

      ‘Yes. I told Mum that finger food would be fine, but she insists we do it “properly” with a traditional, waitered wedding breakfast – poor Dad. He keeps joking that it’s a good job he’s an orthopaedic surgeon as he knows where to get more arms and legs.’

      I smiled. ‘And Mum said you wanted a vintage wedding dress.’

      ‘If I can find one that’s perfect for me, yes.’

      While Chloë chatted about her preferred style I went to my computer and, with the phone still clamped to my ear, found three specialist websites. I clicked on the first, the Vintage Wedding-Dress Store.

      ‘There’s a wonderful fifties dress here,’ I said to her. ‘Guipure lace top with a billowy silk skirt – it’s called “Gina”.’ I told Chloë the name of the site so that she could find it. ‘There’s also a thirties one called “Greta” – see it? That column of ivory satin – but it’s got a very low back.’

      ‘Oh yes… It’s lovely, but I’m not sure I’d want to show that much flesh.’

      ‘That sixties one would suit you – “Jackie”: it’s a twelve though, so you’d have to take it right in, which might ruin it.’

      ‘I can’t see it. Hang on a mo’…’

      While I waited for Chloë to find it, I clicked on my e-mails. 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.

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