The twenty-five paintings are all on the white-painted walls; most of them collected with the help of Rafael, whose red crayon portrait hangs next to that of David Walliams. There are pictures of P. D. James, Cecilia Bartoli, and, courtesy of the National Portrait Gallery, the Duchess of Cornwall. The biggest painting is the one of the Berger family, which takes up most of the back wall. There are portraits of Polly and Lola, of Roy and Mum, Celine, Mike, Chloë, and a dozen more. Surrounded by their faces, I feel that the party has already begun.The gallery assistant, a pretty dark-haired woman called Lucy, is pouring the wine – just in time, as my first guest is arriving. Iris stands framed in the doorway, leaning lightly on her stick; she is wearing her blue suit and her lapis beads. I cross the pale wooden floor and greet her with a kiss.‘Many happy returns, Ella,’ she says. ‘And many congratulations!’‘Thank you, Iris. I’m glad you’re the first – this was your idea, remember.’‘I do.’ She looks around.
