Free The Very Picture of You by Isabel Wolff

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 himabout 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 composehimself. ‘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