The Very Picture of You Read Online Free PDF Page B

pinned large photos of the Venetian palazzo and the Ritz and next to these was a Royal Opera House poster for Swan Lake , flanked by two pendant pairs of pink ballet shoes. The guitar was mounted on a stand, and next to it the Chelsea FC shirt with its graffiti of famous signatures.
    As I stood beside the portrait a dark-haired woman in a turquoise dress approached me. She glanced at my name badge. ‘So you’re the artist.’ I nodded. The woman gazed at the painting. ‘And who’s she?’
    ‘My friend Polly. She’s lent it to us tonight as an example of my work.’
    ‘I’ve always wanted to have my portrait done,’ the woman said. ‘But when I was young and pretty I didn’thave the money and now that I do have the money I feel it’s too late.’
    ‘You’re still pretty,’ I told her. ‘And it’s never too late – I paint people who are in their seventies and eighties.’ I sipped my champagne. ‘So are you thinking of bidding for it?’
    She sucked on her lower lip. ‘I’m not sure. How long does the process take?’ I explained. ‘Two hours is a long time to be sitting still.’ She frowned.
    ‘We have a break for coffee and a leg stretch. It’s not too arduous.’
    ‘Do you flatter people?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I hope you do, because look –’ She pinched the wedge of flesh beneath her chin, holding it daintily, like a tidbit. ‘Would you be able to do something about this?’
    ‘My portraits are truthful,’ I answered carefully. ‘But at the same time I want my sitters to be happy; so I’d paint you from the most flattering angle – and I’d do some sketches first to make sure you liked the composition.’
    ‘Well…’ She cocked her head to one side as she appraised Polly’s portrait again. ‘I’m going to have a think about it – but thanks.’
    As she walked away, another woman in her mid-forties came up to me. She gave me an earnest smile. ‘I’m definitely going to bid for this. I love your style – realistic but with an edge .’
    ‘Thank you.’ I allowed myself to bask in the compliment for a moment. ‘And who would you want me to paint? Would it be you?’
    ‘No,’ she replied. ‘It would be my father. You see, we never had his portrait painted.’

    ‘Uh-huh.’
    ‘And now we regret it.’ My spirits sank as I realised what was coming. ‘He died last year,’ the woman went on. ‘But we’ve got lots of photos, so you could do it from those.’
    I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t do posthumous portraits.’
    ‘Oh.’ The woman looked affronted. ‘Why not?’
    ‘Because, to me, a portrait is all about capturing the essence and spirit of a living person.’
    ‘Oh,’ she said again, crestfallen. ‘I see.’ She hesitated. ‘Would you perhaps make an exception?’
    ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t. I’m sorry,’ I added impotently.
    ‘Well…’ She shrugged. ‘Then I guess that’s that.’
    As the woman walked away I saw my mother go up the flight of steps at the side of the stage. She waited for the string trio to finish the Mozart sonata they were playing, then she went up to the podium and tapped the mike. The hubbub subsided as she smiled at the crowd then in her soft, low voice, thanked everyone for coming and exhorted us to be generous. As she reminded us all that our bids would save children’s lives, the irritation that I’d been feeling towards her was replaced by a sudden rush of pride. Next she expressed her gratitude to the donors and to her fellow committee members before introducing Tim Spiers, who took her place as she gracefully exited stage left.
    He leaned an arm on the podium, peering at us benignly over his half-moon glasses. ‘We have some wonderful lots on offer tonight – and remember there’s no buyer’s premium to pay, which makes everything very affordable. So, without further ado, let’s start with the week at the fabulous Palazzo Barbarigo in Venice…’
    An appreciative murmur arose as a photo of the palazzo