petitioned Guy for divorce. And you’d think that she and Loden had done him enoughharm,’ Iris added wearily. ‘But then it all became truly heartbreaking for that poor man because—’
Iris looked up. The front door was being opened, there was a grunt as it banged shut, then footsteps and there was Sophia, clutching four bulging green carrier bags, her face pink with exertion.
‘I’m pooped!’ She smiled at us benignly. ‘I carried this lot back from Ken High Street. Still, the exercise is good for me.’ She nodded at the easel. ‘So how are you two getting along?’
‘Oh… fine,’ Iris replied. She glanced at her watch. ‘But you’re early, Sophia. It’s a quarter to four.’
‘I know, but I’d got everything you needed – except the Parma ham: there was no Parma ham , Mum – so I thought I’d head back. But don’t let me disturb you. I’ll put all this away.’ She disappeared and now we heard cupboards being opened and banged shut.
Iris gave me a rueful smile. ‘Well… I think this is a good moment for us to stop.’
I nodded reluctantly then clipped the canvas into the canvas carrier. ‘So I’ll see you next time, Iris.’ I collapsed the legs of the easel.
‘It will have to be after Easter,’ Iris said. ‘I’m staying with my other daughter, Mary, for a week.’ I got my diary out of my bag.
As we were making a date, Sophia came back. ‘Will you need me to be here again?’ she asked. ‘I can be, if you want.’
‘That’s kind, darling,’ Iris replied. ‘But now that Ella and I know each other, we can just carry on from where we’ve left off.’
I nodded. Sophia handed me my coat and I put it on. ‘I’ve enjoyed the sitting, Iris.’
‘I have too,’ she replied. ‘ Very much. So until next time…’
I smiled my goodbye then picked everything up.
Sophia held the door open for me. ‘Can I give you a hand?’ she asked good-naturedly.
‘I’ll be fine, thanks.’ I hitched my canvas bag a little higher on to my shoulder. ‘Bye, Sophia…’
‘Bye, Ella.’ The door shut behind me.
I clanked down in the lift then went out on to Kensington Church Street and hailed a cab. As I sat in the back, my mind was full of Guy Lennox and the beautiful Edith and Peter Loden, and the two little girls, the nanny and the dog: they felt almost as real to me as if I’d known them myself. Soon we were passing Glebe Place and I craned my neck to look down it, wondering which house Lennox had lived in.
Suddenly the driver’s intercom came on. ‘Did you say Umbria Place, miss?’
‘Yes – it’s next to the Gasworks.’
‘I know it – we’ll be there in three minutes, if the traffic keeps moving.’
I rummaged in my bag for my purse. Seeing my phone, I now remembered the unread e-mail from my website. So I went to the inbox and opened it, and as I began to read it the story of Guy Lennox evaporated. A jolt ran down my spine.
Dear Ella, My name is John Sharp…
FOUR
On the morning of Good Friday I prepared for my first sitting with Nate. I got out the canvas, which I’d primed with a cream emulsion base a few days before. I cleaned the brushes and laid them neatly on my work table. I put the oak chair in place and, behind it, the folding screen that I sometimes use as a background. I mixed some burnt sienna with turps to make the thin wash. Then, still with half an hour before Nate was due, I got out my mother’s portrait: I simply wanted to look at it and to think about the e-mail which I’d now read so many times that it was seared on my mind.
Dear Ella, My name is John Sharp, and I am your father.
I shook my head. ‘I’ve got a father, thanks.’
I hope you’ll forgive me for contacting you…
‘Shouldn’t that be for not contacting me?’ I said angrily.
It must be a bit of a shock.
‘It certainly is!’
…but I came across an interview with you on The Times website.
I exhaled, sharply. ‘Just what I’d dreaded.’ I silently cursed the
Iris looked up. The front door was being opened, there was a grunt as it banged shut, then footsteps and there was Sophia, clutching four bulging green carrier bags, her face pink with exertion.
‘I’m pooped!’ She smiled at us benignly. ‘I carried this lot back from Ken High Street. Still, the exercise is good for me.’ She nodded at the easel. ‘So how are you two getting along?’
‘Oh… fine,’ Iris replied. She glanced at her watch. ‘But you’re early, Sophia. It’s a quarter to four.’
‘I know, but I’d got everything you needed – except the Parma ham: there was no Parma ham , Mum – so I thought I’d head back. But don’t let me disturb you. I’ll put all this away.’ She disappeared and now we heard cupboards being opened and banged shut.
Iris gave me a rueful smile. ‘Well… I think this is a good moment for us to stop.’
I nodded reluctantly then clipped the canvas into the canvas carrier. ‘So I’ll see you next time, Iris.’ I collapsed the legs of the easel.
‘It will have to be after Easter,’ Iris said. ‘I’m staying with my other daughter, Mary, for a week.’ I got my diary out of my bag.
As we were making a date, Sophia came back. ‘Will you need me to be here again?’ she asked. ‘I can be, if you want.’
‘That’s kind, darling,’ Iris replied. ‘But now that Ella and I know each other, we can just carry on from where we’ve left off.’
I nodded. Sophia handed me my coat and I put it on. ‘I’ve enjoyed the sitting, Iris.’
‘I have too,’ she replied. ‘ Very much. So until next time…’
I smiled my goodbye then picked everything up.
Sophia held the door open for me. ‘Can I give you a hand?’ she asked good-naturedly.
‘I’ll be fine, thanks.’ I hitched my canvas bag a little higher on to my shoulder. ‘Bye, Sophia…’
‘Bye, Ella.’ The door shut behind me.
I clanked down in the lift then went out on to Kensington Church Street and hailed a cab. As I sat in the back, my mind was full of Guy Lennox and the beautiful Edith and Peter Loden, and the two little girls, the nanny and the dog: they felt almost as real to me as if I’d known them myself. Soon we were passing Glebe Place and I craned my neck to look down it, wondering which house Lennox had lived in.
Suddenly the driver’s intercom came on. ‘Did you say Umbria Place, miss?’
‘Yes – it’s next to the Gasworks.’
‘I know it – we’ll be there in three minutes, if the traffic keeps moving.’
I rummaged in my bag for my purse. Seeing my phone, I now remembered the unread e-mail from my website. So I went to the inbox and opened it, and as I began to read it the story of Guy Lennox evaporated. A jolt ran down my spine.
Dear Ella, My name is John Sharp…
FOUR
On the morning of Good Friday I prepared for my first sitting with Nate. I got out the canvas, which I’d primed with a cream emulsion base a few days before. I cleaned the brushes and laid them neatly on my work table. I put the oak chair in place and, behind it, the folding screen that I sometimes use as a background. I mixed some burnt sienna with turps to make the thin wash. Then, still with half an hour before Nate was due, I got out my mother’s portrait: I simply wanted to look at it and to think about the e-mail which I’d now read so many times that it was seared on my mind.
Dear Ella, My name is John Sharp, and I am your father.
I shook my head. ‘I’ve got a father, thanks.’
I hope you’ll forgive me for contacting you…
‘Shouldn’t that be for not contacting me?’ I said angrily.
It must be a bit of a shock.
‘It certainly is!’
…but I came across an interview with you on The Times website.
I exhaled, sharply. ‘Just what I’d dreaded.’ I silently cursed the
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