Love's Portrait

by Anna Larner

  “Okay, great. I’ll see what I can find out.” Molly moved to stand.

  “Please sit.” Evelyn leaned back in her chair and tilted her head, as if to study Molly. “Georgina and I didn’t really talk that much about the painting. As it happened our brief conversation turned to you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You see, I suggested that I would be asking you to work with her on this particular research, and I got the sense that, well, she seemed to hesitate at my suggestion, almost as if she was uncomfortable with the idea.”

  “Uncomfortable?”

  “Yes.” Evelyn’s eyes drifted up and down taking her in. It felt like she was being read, like a book. “Have you any idea why?”

  “No. We’ve never met before. I mean, she doesn’t know me—”

  “And there’s the point. We only get one chance to make a good first impression.” Molly opened her mouth to speak. Evelyn raised her hand. “I want you to learn from your encounter with Georgina Wright. I want you to practice exuding confidence, oozing capableness, embodying professionalism.”

  What the chuff? “I was trying to help her.”

  “When people come to a museum, they are not looking for help—one can get that anywhere. They are seeking authority.” Evelyn fixed both her stare and her next question with a pointed aim. “How old are you?”

  “How old? I’m twenty-six.” Molly had no idea where their conversation was headed but it was certainly a destination she had no wish to visit. She cast an eye at the door. Any possibility of escape seemed hopeless.

  Evelyn sat forward and perched on the edge of her seat. “Twenty-six. Yes, that’s what I thought. This is a pivotal time for you.”

  Molly swallowed. “It is?”

  “Yes. In my experience young curators’ careers diverge at just the stage you are at. They all have potential, Molly. It is not a question of background, or intelligence, or even work history.”

  Evelyn was looking her up and down again. Molly folded her arms, hoping they would somehow protect her from Evelyn’s scrutiny. Evelyn’s intense gaze broke and dispersed as she sat back in her chair.

  “The difference between mediocrity and superiority are two things. Poise and preparation.” Molly wondered whether she should be taking notes. “Give nothing away of your emotions, Molly, unruffled, shoulders back, chin lifted with a quiet certainty.” Molly lifted her chin slightly. “You will enter a room with a poise that suggests that no conversation or encounter will fluster you. And you should always know who you are talking to before you begin to speak.”

  Molly winced at the thought of how unprepared she would have seemed in front of Georgina Wright. No forms. No handshake. No—

  “Allow your preparation to anticipate the content of the discussion. For it is the detail of what you say that will mark you out and that will speak of your authority. Do you understand?”

  Molly sat staring at her hands tucked in her lap. “Yes.” She had never felt so humiliated.

  “Do not look so despondent. I am giving you a second chance to make a good impression for yourself and for the museum. You see, I still believe you can win Georgina over. I want you to do everything you can to secure the support of the Wright Foundation. I have absolute faith in you.”

  “But you just said she didn’t want to work with me.”

  “No, I said she seemed uncomfortable with the idea. Georgina left my office with my reassurance that there was no better person available to me right now than you.”

  Available to you? It was somehow always difficult to find the compliment in Evelyn’s praise.

  “So I’ll see you Monday. Come to my office, say mid-morning, with a plan. Goodnight.” Evelyn stood and opened her door.

  The meeting was over and so, Molly concluded, was her career.

  On returning home, Molly sat slumped at her kitchen table, nursing a glass of red wine. She gave a heavy sigh at the sight of her forgotten meeting notes. She opened the paper weight cum jar of peanut butter and stuck a spoon in, scooping out a large curl of salty comfort. She repeated this action several times, interspersing them with large mouthfuls of Malbec.

  Thank God she was home. Her day began crappy and ended even crappier. Yes, this was officially a crap day.

  She took another scoop of peanut butter. She could hear Evelyn. I still believe that you can win Georgina over. Maybe she didn’t want to win her over. Maybe she didn’t care. Who was she kidding—of course she cared. But about her job and the museum, certainly not about what Georgina Wright thought. No way. Who did she think she was? How dared she pass judgement like that?

  She kicked off her sandals and ran her hands down her legs. Smooth. Then what was she staring at?

  What’s more how dared that stuck-up woman make her feel so small, and in front of her boss? Who did that? What on earth did she say about her that gave Evelyn the impression that she was uncomfortable working with her? And why shouldn’t she fill in forms like everyone else? And she could keep her hotness to herself. No one at this table was impressed. No, sir. So she was beautiful. Big deal. And lots of women wore a suit really well. You just had to be tall and toned. Molly took a large mouthful of wine. And firm and strong and unyielding. She’d smiled, hadn’t she, when they collided? Oh my God. Stop. She was the enemy, and Molly would defeat her with her astonishing plan of brilliance. Once she had one of course.

  She reached into her bag for her laptop and typed in the words Josephine Brancaster, 1800s. At least, she’d meant to type that. Instead her fingers found the letters that formed the name Georgina Wright. She sat staring at the list of results.

  After eliminating those that suggested she played the ukulele or cared for endangered rhinos or taught at St. Joseph’s primary school, Molly found an entry that read: Georgina Wright, Senior Strategist, UK portfolio, Investment Manager, Staithe Street Investment Group. Money. She was certain that would be her.

  She clicked on the summary and was directed to the profile of Georgina. Economics first degree from LSE. Early career for Citigroup bank. A brief flirtation with Schroders before developing her resume and reputation with Staithe Street. She was based out of London and was as formidable on paper as she was in person. Wow.

  Molly took a deep breath. Georgina somehow managed to make the tiny thumbnail photo look like a magazine advert. She was perfect. Her smile was warm and sincere, and she conveyed an effortless sense of poise and stature. There was something else. It was a natural confidence. Yes, that was it. Everything was safe in her capable hands. Stop thinking about her capable hands.

  Molly refilled her glass. Although, wait, did she look happier in this shot than when they’d met, or less tired, perhaps? Her eyes definitely had more light in them in this picture. Come to think of it, these were kind eyes that peculiarly didn’t match the behaviour of the woman she met that morning. But then, she’d just not long lost her father, hadn’t she? She must feel so sad. It might be why she was so cold. Yes, that made sense.

  Maybe she should cut her some slack. Could it have been that Evelyn had also misread her? Maybe Georgina hadn’t been uncomfortable with the thought of working with her at all. She would probably never know for sure.

  What she did know, however, was that she had to prepare a plan for the painting for Monday, and unless she wanted to be working on it all weekend, she needed to make a start.

  She stared one last time at Georgina Wright’s photo, pausing to wonder whether being that good-looking was a burden, before closing the page’s tab and typing Josephine Brancaster, 1800s.

  Chapter Four

  “Everything okay?” Fran cast a surprised glance to the clock and then to Molly.

  Molly yawned. “Yes.”

  “You’re early.”

  Molly slipped off her coat and hung it behind the door. “I’ve been awake since four worrying about the fact that apparently I’m at a pivotal point in my career, according to Evelyn.”

  “She’s right.”

  “Oh my God, don�
�t you start. Oh, is that…?” Molly spotted Georgina Wright’s painting leaning up against a chest of drawers. She lifted it to rest on top of her desk. “When did Evelyn call by?”

  “You’ve literally just missed her. She told me to tell you to bring your research plan for the portrait to her office at about eleven. That’s when Georgina could make it.”

  Molly’s chest tightened. “Georgina? What, she’ll be at the meeting?”

  Fran shrugged. “Looks like it.”

  “Oh.” Molly looked down and then gave a resolute shake of her head. “It’ll be fine.”

  “Fred told me you’d had a bit of a run in with her. Georgina, I mean.”

  Molly nodded. “Let’s put it this way—five minutes in her company does nothing for a girl’s ego. I just asked her to fill in a form so we could help her with her painting, and it was like I’d asked her to poke herself in the eye. She was so dismissive of me and colder than a hypothermic snowman. And if that wasn’t bad enough, my entire career hinges on me impressing her. How on earth am I supposed to do that?”

  “By being you,” Fran said with an affectionate tone. “And you’re not to worry about Georgina. My guess is she’s grieving for her father. They were very close.”

  “You know them?”

  “I went to school with George. He was a couple of years above me. There was a group of us that used to hang out. But of course we all moved away after school to different colleges and so forth. I think he worked in London in his twenties, and when he returned to Leicester he was engaged to be married. Sixty-two is no age to die. Although his own father died at about the same age, and his mother even younger, so I guess it’s a gene thing.” Fran sighed and shook her head. “I know his daughter less, of course. Quite a sad family situation really.”

  Molly leaned against her desk. “In what way?”

  “There was a messy divorce. Georgina’s mother, Lydia, cheated on George and then left and never came back. Artistic temperament and all that. Everything changed from that moment on. I remember him coming in to the museum one afternoon not long after the divorce. I think he just wanted someone to talk to. So we had a chat and a coffee. He was clearly very hurt and angry. It utterly devastated him, and he worked all hours to forget about everything, no doubt, and poor Georgina was packed off to boarding school.”

  “Blimey.”

  “In fact, the last time I heard about Lydia Wright, she was still in Paris. She’d been tipped as the next Georgia O’Keeffe.”

  “Okay, wow. I confess I’ve never heard of her.”

  “Her early work is collected and has some value, although she remains relatively unknown. I think she managed the odd show here and there, but it’s said she never fulfilled her potential, some say because of her unhappy marriage to George. Pretty sad all round. But to reassure you, I’ve always found Georgina under normal circumstances to be extremely polite, if a little reserved perhaps.”

  “Right. That’s a relief.”

  “Do you know what would also help to impress her?”

  “What, cutting her some slack?”

  “Being on time to the meeting.”

  Molly looked at the clock. She had just over two hours.

  “Bugger. Yes.” Molly cleared her throat. “Right, Josephine, let’s take a look at you.” With a sense of purpose Molly carefully peeled away the wrapping to reveal the full beauty of the delicate watercolour.

  Fran joined Molly at her side. “I’ve always loved this painting.” She brushed her hand along the edge of the frame.

  “You’ve seen this painting before?” Molly asked, intrigued. Fran seemed distracted. Molly touched her arm. “Fran? How do you know this work? It’s just…if the painting’s been brought in before, then that would be really helpful to know.”

  “No.” Fran returned to her desk. “This is the first time to my knowledge this painting has been in the museum. I saw it at George’s, hanging with the other paintings in his sitting room.”

  “George Wright’s house?”

  Fran nodded. “Yes, now and then he would host soirées, intimate benefit suppers at his place. He would call such evenings his persuaders. I shall host a persuader, he would say, if the museum was trying to raise money or something like that.” Fran slipped her cardigan from her shoulders and absently folded it. “They always felt like such glamorous evenings, with the influential figures of the day.”

  “Sounds amazing.” Molly shared a smile with Fran. Molly imagined silver trays laden with champagne flutes sparkling in the light from chandeliers. She pictured men dressed in dinner suits congregating by the piano or mantelpiece, their sharp white shirts crisp and bright, like their wits. And she imagined women poised at the edges of the conversation, as if holding their breath, their fingers looped around the threads of pearls at their necks. The air would be heady with cigarette smoke, cologne, and ambition. “Although, you know, I think I would have found it a bit stressful, trying to say the right things to the right people. Evelyn would have been in her element.”

  Fran shook her head. “This was much before her time. The late eighties, it must have been.”

  Molly raised her eyebrows. “You’ve been at the museum that long?”

  “Not exactly. I began my career here. Then I worked in a few museums across the region, but somehow I always find myself back here, every time.”

  “Well, this is obviously where you belong.” Molly followed Fran’s gaze back to the painting. “So given what you’re saying, it’s not unreasonable to suppose that’s where this portrait has hung all this time, where it belonged, on George Wright’s wall.”

  “Yes, that would be my guess. You know…” Fran paused and frowned.

  “What?”

  “This painting always felt personal.”

  “Personal?”

  “Yes, to George, to the Wrights. I can’t quite pin down what I mean. All the other paintings felt like markers in the Wrights’ history. Whereas the portrait of Josephine…I don’t know. I wish I’d asked George about it now. I know that’s not much use to you.”

  “Not at all. It all helps create a context for the work.” Molly leaned over the painting. Her eyes traced the edges of the frame. The frame showed no obvious sign of problems such as mould growth or infestation. The varnish on the right hand edge had faded slightly, suggesting that it might have caught at least for part of the day a sliver of sunlight. The glass had served its purpose well, protecting the canvas from dirt, which in turn had helped keep the paint colours distinct and bright. The red of Josephine’s lips retained its evocative power and the dark of her eyes remained deep and true. The skin of her cheeks and neck had lost none of its radiance. The informal, almost sketchy style lent a sense of intimacy. It was like Molly was in the moment with the sitter looking just this way, holding the pose for the painter. She could follow the painter’s strokes, the caress of brush against canvas. There was no doubting this was a painting of effortless, timeless beauty. It certainly betrayed nothing of its years, suggested nothing of the triumph it had won over the rigours of passing time.

  Only the mount, discolouring slightly, caused Molly a little concern. “I think I’ll suggest we temporarily remove the frame so we can replace the mount. I’m worried it might have degraded.” Molly let out a sigh of relief. “Other than that, you’re in good shape, Josephine Brancaster. You’ve done your family proud.” Molly’s chest tightened again at the word family. Soon she would be face-to-face with Georgina Wright.

  “Sounds like a plan to me.” Fran gathered her things to leave. “Now, make sure you are completely ready. And then for God’s sake don’t be late. I’ll be in the storeroom if you need me.”

  Molly forced a nervous smile. “Wish me luck.”

  * * *

  “Come in, Molly,” Evelyn said at the sound of voices followed by polite knocking at the conference room door.

  Georgina glanced up in expectation. She stared at the handle waiting for it to turn.

  All weekend she�
��d worried about seeing Molly again. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so confronted, so exposed, and so off balance by the sight of someone. For there she was, the woman from the square, rushing down the stairs, her arms full of folders, her face full of welcome.

  And her name was Molly. Molly. She was real and standing just touching distance away. Every detail of her once imagined was brought to life, from the freckles across her nose, to the sound of her voice, to the way the light caught in her questioning eyes.

  With Molly’s gaze upon her, she’d panicked. And then, Molly spoke about art. She was an art curator. Did that mean she’d be like her mother? Everything in that moment felt at odds. She hadn’t known what to do or what to think. Where was her composure? Where were the defences that had always kept her so cool and so calm?

  What must Molly have thought? What must she be thinking now?

  The door opened and Marianne led the way, pushing the conference room door fully open and flat against the wall.

  “Thanks, Marianne. Morning, everyone,” Molly said, her expression one of total concentration as she carefully carried the wrapped portrait of Josephine to the far end of the table and rested it gently in place.

  Georgina stood. The weight of her chair pressed against her legs. She struggled to find her breath. Molly looked so natural and beautiful once again. Her denim pinafore dress and cream blazer couldn’t have suited her more.

  “Of course, you’ve met Molly before, Georgina,” Evelyn said, with a breezy tone that implied all is well.

  “Yes, indeed. Good morning,” Georgina said, hoping her cheeks were not as flushed as they felt.

  Molly held out her hand. “Good morning.”