‘Excuse me,’ said Elizabeth ‘I was here first.’
Federico stepped aside ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise’.
I’m not going to be one of those women who become invisible as they age, thought Elizabeth. Not me. I look after myself. How dare he? And he looks vulgar and has a Northern accent.
‘I won’t be long’ said Elizabeth. But she was. The young man was obliged to twiddle his thumbs as Elizabeth tried to match a swatch of fabric.
‘Colour is so important, don’t you think?’ she told the sales-assistant, swishing back her mane of grey curls and fixing him with her piercing amber coloured eyes.
Federico sighed and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. What was that woman doing? She could see him waiting and he was only being polite, they had both arrived at the fabric counter at the same time. Twenty-two-year-old Federico eyed her critically. She was what could be described as ‘having worn well’ Her grey hair was thick and glossy and she had fine skin, although a little on the pink side. Her eyes were unusual almost amber in colour. She was trim but gave the appearance of being sleek and well fed. She was wearing a leather skirt that put him in mind of the former Prime Minister’s leather trousers that had been criticised for being so expensive. Was that jacket fur? Surely not real fur. Not these days. Silver fox perhaps?
Elizabeth was trying to exchange some fabric she had bought the week before and then changed her mind about. She did not at all like the idea of going all the way down to Customer Services and then back up again. She fluttered her eyelashes at the young sales assistant. Had she had a son or a nephew this young man would have been that age. The old magic was not working so well these days.
‘Oh, dear, my husband will be leaving the House of Lords very soon and I am supposed to be meeting him. Couldn’t I just do a swap?’
‘Perhaps if Madam would like to pick out another remnant we could do an exchange’
So Elizabeth made a leisurely search of the box next to the counter.
Federico had exactly one hour to get to the other side of town and collect his painting from the framer. If he left now without waiting for this woman to finish, he would have wasted all this time getting here and he’d only have to come back another day.
Maybe mother is right and I shouldn’t leave everything to the last minute. he thought.
His mind wandered off. He thought of Leonardo’s La Cena, the Last Supper. Federico’s new project would have all his friends in just such a composition. OK so Dali had done something similar but his painting would be different. Every generation would have its painting of dinner table with friends. All men. He was so absorbed in thought that he almost failed to notice that the dreadful woman had gone.
Ten minutes later Elizabeth was in a crowded carriage on the Jubilee line, displeased that she had been too late to get a seat and cursing the assistant who had failed to comply immediately with her wishes. She was looking forward to her supper, alone in front of the television with a glass of red wine.
Federico arrived just two minutes too late to retrieve his painting. Now I won’t be able to show it to Harry, he thought. That horrible woman in the shop held me up.
Elizabeth had opened her laptop and was pleased to see that there was a message on Marvellous Matches. She read the profile and it seemed promising. The man was mourning his Great Dane who had died of a heart condition, aged seven years old. Oh no, I couldn’t possibly have lived with a Great Dane.
‘Poor doggie’ she typed ‘I always make a fuss of the doggies of homeless people on the streets’
It turned out the man had another dog.
‘When he’s tired he lifts his legs like a dressage horse’
At least it’s not a horse Elizabeth thought and typed
‘Try giving him Rescue Remedy for tiredness.’ By 7pm she had fixed a date with the man whom she had already mentally christened Robert the Strong.
Later that same evening, Federico was explaining to Harry that he didn’t actually have the painting to show him but if he would like to come round to the studio he could show him other work, including the preliminary sketches for his new Last Supper. Harry was persuaded, enthralled by the way Federico talked of red dyes hidden in roots and bark of the least red-looking plants.
At the same moment Elizabeth was listening to Robert the Strong on the phone explaining that he hardly sees his nephew who is a disappointment. Elizabeth smiled and cradled her glass.
‘He’ll never amount to much now.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s an artist.’
Enough said, thought Elizabeth. Well, we don’t need to bother much about that.
‘Do you have other family?’
‘Not really. My brother died.’
‘Oh, so I suppose you must be like a father figure to your nephew ‘
‘In a manner of speaking’ and Robert the Strong, smiled at the idea, which was sure to please this woman who seemed to be so compassionate. ‘The boy still has his mother’ he reassured her.
By the end of that evening Federico had persuaded Harry into the portrait and into his bed. ‘I love Harry’ he wrote in his diary, ‘He is probably the love of my life’ and he decided that Harry was the special one who would have the key seat, next to the Master. The figure of the Master would have some features of his beloved art teacher, who had come to an unexpected and gory end at the hand of a boy he had taken into his home.
If it occurred to Elizabeth on their first date that her conquest of Robert the Strong was a little too rapid, the prospect of hand-crafted chocolates melted away any suspicion.
‘So, you’re no longer married Elizabeth?’
Elizabeth paused
‘Ah you men!’
‘Did he not treat you right?
‘I am so easily taken advantage of — ‘
Her amber eyes flashed brilliant in the dim café interior. Then, as if an after-thought and you?
‘My second wife died. Jane had been ill for some time but despite the efforts of the best doctors in Harley Street, she didn’t make it.’
The promise of a trip to the Opera chased away thoughts of inquiring further.
Ah, no need to write to Gloria in Milan. 5-star hotel for me, just enough time to check out the shops, thought Elizabeth on her sofa contemplating the details of her upcoming trip to Milan with Robert the Strong. He was paying all expenses. She drooled over pictures of ciabatta filled to overflowing with cream cheese, raw ham and crunchy lettuce, or brown crusted pizzas with scarlet tomato sauce, and the delicate Milanese risotto with its golden saffron, or octopus, breaded cutlets, the red lettuce they call Chioggia with shavings of parmesan or finely grated pepper, the moistest of chocolate cakes or the lightest of lemon tarts.
Federico worked and worked, biting into his peanut butter sandwiches and continuing to work. Now the figure of Harry had been joined by other friends, Tom, Matthew, Carl, and his friend Rose imagined as a boy. Osman, the refugee, had taken up lodgings in one corner of the studio and had provided two more friends whose portraits were now at the table.
Wearily Federico answered the phone as he saw his mother’s number come up.
‘Have you heard from your uncle Rob?’ she said
‘No, I’ve been busy. Is he OK?’
‘He’s fine. He’s off to Milan with his new girlfriend.’
‘New girlfriend, eh. That’s not taken him long. Does she know what happened to Belinda and Jane?’
‘I doubt it or she wouldn’t be going to Milan with him.’
‘Ah, Milano! Milano!’
‘How’s the Last Supper?’
‘Just four more portraits to go. I think you have just given me an idea.’
At last, The Last Supper was finished and was declared a triumph by Federico’s artist friends. Soon it was on display in a gallery above a pub in Bethnal Green. His mother arranged a rare family meal with his uncle Rob, as she was hoping that she could take her brother along to the gallery and he could put Federico in touch with rich patrons. She was curious to meet Elizabeth. Federico had long suspected his uncle of homophobia and was equally determined not to let the painting go to anyone recommended by his uncle. He had never shared with his mother that he suspected his uncle of hastening the deaths of two wives which seemed to come just as Robert was beginning to tire of them. Federico worried what might happen if Robert recognised himself in the picture in the seat where, in the Leonardo, Judas was sitting. Nevertheless, he too was curious to meet Elizabeth.
‘They don’t want to come to Bethnal Green’ his mother told Federico
‘That’s good but whyever not?’
‘Turns out Elizabeth has rarely travelled out of Kensington. I’ll explain to them how fashionable Shoreditch now is.’
Robert and Elizabeth didn’t need too much persuading to come to Shoreditch but they did not go so far as to include Federico and his mother in their restaurant dinner. Throughout the visit they showed no interest in Harry, nor paid enough attention to the painting to notice that Robert featured in it. As he recognised Elizabeth as the woman who had so annoyed him in the fabric department, Federico looked across at his mother and raised his eyebrows. Federico always felt that his mother was too gentle with her brother, who had never done anything to help his penniless sister. Three years before Robert had even written an infamous letter suggesting that if Federico would give up his dream of becoming an artist and take up engineering, he would make him an allowance.
Perhaps they should not have agreed to go for a coffee.
‘I’m a self-made man’ Robert was telling Elizabeth.
‘No, you’re not,’ said Federico. ‘You inherited everything from my grandfather, who cut my mother out of his will because she married my father’
Silence reigned for a long moment.
‘Federico!’ remonstrated his mother. Harry giggled before Elizabeth succeeded in changing the subject.
Later Robert rose to have a word with the barman and Elizabeth went to the ladies.
‘What were you thinking of, Federico ?’
‘Well, it’s true and have you never thought how strange it is that my uncle lost two wives just as he was getting tired of them?’
It was clear from the ensuing silence that she had. ‘I should warn Elizabeth, perhaps.
“Noooo!” chorused Federico and Harry, so that when just before the end of the evening, when his mother brought Robert’s two wives into the conversation, Federico placed a finger on his lips to beseech her silence. She smiled at her son and nodded.
by Margot Wilson
Margot Wilson lives and writes in South East London, where she reflects on a long life, much of it spent reading in French and English. She loves art but does not paint or sculpt herself. Her garden has a white rose in it to remember her Yorkshire heritage and as a political activist she enjoys observing other peoples’ gardens and having doorstep conversations. Her work has been published in Dear Damsels and in Aayo Magazine (Losing a Farmhouse).
Aayo Magazine 