The Very Picture of You by Isabel Wolff Page A

for that day had become free – apparently the groom had got cold feet.’
    ‘Oh dear.’
    There was a bewildered silence. ‘No, not “oh dear”, Ella – “oh great ”! I didn’t think we’d find any churches in the area free at such short notice, let alone our own one.’
    ‘And where’s the reception going to be?’
    ‘At home. We’ll come out of the church then stroll down the lane to the house through a cloud of moon daisies.’
    ‘There aren’t any moon daisies in the lane, Mum.’
    ‘No – but there will be, because I’m going to plant some. Now we’ll need a large marquee,’ she went on. ‘Eighty feet by thirty feet, minimum: the garden’s just big enough – I paced it out this morning; I think we should have the “traditional” style, not the “frame” – it’s so much more attractive – and I’ll probably use the caterers from last night, although I’ll get a couple of other quotes…’
    ‘You’ve got the bit between your teeth then.’
    ‘I have – but most weddings take at least a year to plan: I’ve got less than four months to organise Chloë’s!’
    ‘Doesn’t she want to do any of it herself?’
    ‘No – she’s going to be very busy at work now that she’s been promoted, and it means that she can enjoy the run-up to her big day without all the stress. She’ll make the major decisions, of course, but I’ll have done all the legwork.’
    ‘Can I do anything?’
    ‘No – thanks, darling. Although… actually there is one thing. Chloë’s thinking about having a vintage wedding dress. Could you give her a hand on that front? I don’t even know who sells them.’
    ‘Sure. Steinberg & Tolkien’s gone now, hasn’t it, but there’s Circa, or Dolly Diamond, and I think there’s a good one down in Blackheath – or hang on, what about …?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Well…’ I bit my lip. ‘What about yours ?’
    ‘But… Roy and I got married in a register office, Ella. I wore that pale-blue silk trouser suit.’
    ‘I know – but what about when you got married… before?’ During the silence that followed I tried to imagine what my mother wore when she married my father in the early 1970s. A sweet, pin-tucked dress perhaps, Laura Ashley style, with a white velvet choker – or maybe something flowingly Bohemian by Ossie Clark. ‘It would probably fit Chloë,’ I went on. ‘But… maybe you didn’t keep it,’ I added weakly as the silence continued. Why would she have done, I now reflected, when she hadn’t even kept the wedding photos? I had a sudden vision of the dress billowing out of a dustbin. ‘Sorry,’ I said, as she still didn’t respond. ‘Obviously not a good idea – forget I suggested it.’
    ‘I have to go,’ Mum said smoothly. ‘There’s a beep in my ear – I think it’s Top Tents. We’ll speak again soon, darling.’
    As she ended the call, I marvelled at my mother’s ability to blank things that she didn’t want to talk about. I’ll steer a conversation away from a no-go area, but my mother simply pretends that the conversation isn’t happening.

    When I got home, I booked my minicab to Barnes then quickly packed up my paints, palette and my portable box easel. I took three new canvases out of the rack, unhooked my apron and put everything ready by the front door.
    While I waited for the car I went to my computer and checked my e-mails. There was one from Mike Johns, MP, confirming his sitting for nine o clock on Thursday morning – his first for two months. I was looking forward to seeing him as he’s always great fun. There was some financial spam, which I deleted, and a weekly update on the number of visits to my official Facebook page. The last message was from Mrs Carr’s daughter, confirming that the first sitting with her mother would be on Monday, at Mrs Carr’s flat in Notting Hill.
    Hearing a beep from outside I lifted the slats of the Venetian blind and saw a red Volvo from Fulham Cars pulling up. I gathered my