All My Sins Remembered. Rosie Thomas

can’t paint you in those terrible clothes,’ Pilgrim announced after a few minutes.

      ‘Why not?’ Grace was indignant. She was pleased with her Reville & Rossiter silk.

      ‘They make you look like virgin sacrifices.’

      ‘Isn’t that the idea of débutante dresses?’ Clio retaliated.

      Pilgrim was delighted. ‘Oh yes, of course. But I still can’t paint you in them. What have you got on underneath?’

      The teacups and iced cake were suddenly incongruous. Grace rose to the challenge, determined not to reveal that she was not constantly answering such questions.

      She recited, ‘Underskirt, with panniers stitched into it to give extra fullness to the skirt. Two petticoats beneath that, one stiffened, one not. Silk stockings. Silk chemise and knickers.’

      Clio said, when Pilgrim looked at her in turn. ‘The same, in less luxurious versions.’

      ‘Good. We’ll try the chemises, then. You can go behind the screen, if you wish.’

      They didn’t dare look at one another. A moment ago they had been sipping tea. Evidently Pilgrim thought nothing of leaping straight from conventional to alarming behaviour. They felt embarrassed by their own inexperience, and unwilling to reveal that they were shocked.

      Pilgrim read every scruple in their faces. He was lazily excited by their similarity, and by the small shades of difference. He saw their rivalry, too, and counted it out for himself like currency. He would use it later, to make his purchases.

      ‘I am a painter,’ he told them patiently. ‘I am used to working with female models, clothed and unclothed. I am also a designer of theatre sets and costumes and I have dressed ballerinas and actresses. I have seen women’s legs before this afternoon.’

      They went behind the screen and emerged again with their heads up, daring him and each other. Pilgrim’s interest quickened.

      He studied them, sitting side by side on the divan. ‘Good skin,’ he said at last. ‘I like the light and the dark.’ He touched Clio’s white shoulder and stroked Grace’s hair. They shivered, although it was warm in the studio.

      ‘The hair is too formal.’

      As deftly as a ladies’ maid, he took out the pins and combs. Hair fell down in thick, dark waves over the pale skin.

      ‘Good. Much better.’

      He twisted Clio’s hair loosely again to reveal her neck and jaw and secured it with a single comb. He left Grace’s luxuriantly loose, blurring the family likeness. A pleasing series of opposites and contrasts was beginning to present itself. He found that he was surprisingly eager to begin work on the portrait.

      ‘Lean against each other,’ he commanded. Their shoulders touched. He put his finger to each cheek and turned their heads away. He liked the dynamic contradiction of the pose. With a casual gesture, almost an afterthought, he pulled the strap of Grace’s camisole off her shoulder to reveal the top of one of her breasts. At once the memory of her mother’s innocent portrait came back to her, and her nervous apprehension forced its way out of her as a choked giggle.