by Anna Larner
She scooped out a large spoonful of Nutella. She held the spoon in her mouth and mumbled, “Maybe I’m destined to be single. I should get a cat for company. Or a dog. Or a parrot, or a—”
Molly jumped at the burr of her phone from her bag. She stared suspiciously in the direction of the noise. Who called at ten o’clock on a Saturday night? She’d not long come off the phone from her mum. It was nobody. “Or an alpaca? Nope, garden too small.” The phone stopped burring. “A goldfish. Yes. That would work. What would I call it? Jaws? Moby Dick? FisheyMacFishface? Yes. That’s settled then.”
A beep sounded from within her bag, signalling that the caller had left a message. Molly dug to the bottom of her bag and felt for her phone.
Hi Molly, it’s Georgina. Georgina Wright.
Molly dropped the spoon and sat up straight. She moved the phone quickly to her other ear as if somehow she could concentrate more with that ear.
I’m sorry to call so late. I’ve only just got back to London. The trains were delayed. Anyway. I’m just ringing to thank you again for your work and your company last night and today. It, you, made a real difference. So anyway, I was wondering…
Molly held her breath.
Well, the thing is, each year my employer hosts an evening for important clients. Sometimes it’s the theatre or a gala evening, but this year it’s a reception and talk at the National Portrait Gallery. It includes dinner. It’s in a couple of weeks’ time. I’m obliged to go to these things. So I was wondering if you would like to be my guest for the night?
Was she asking her out? No, it was a work thing. Right?
Anyway, so I’ll leave it with you. Okay. Thanks again. Bye.
Molly pressed dial.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Georgina, it’s Molly.”
“Molly. Hi.”
“Sorry I missed your call. I was thinking of names for a goldfish I probably won’t buy.”
Georgina laughed. “Okay. And what did you settle on?”
“FisheyMacFishface.”
Georgina laughed even louder. “Perfect.”
“I thought so. And yes, please to being your guest at the do at the National Portrait Gallery. It’s without question my favourite museum and not just in London but anywhere. Thank you for inviting me.”
“That’s great. Thank you for coming with me.”
“I’m already really looking forward to it.”
“To be honest, I wasn’t, but I am now.”
She was? Play it cool. “So do you know what the talk will be on?” She could hear a rustle of paper.
“Cezanne. It’s by the curator of the temporary exhibition on Cezanne’s portraits, John Elderfield.”
“Really. Interesting. You know, I don’t know much about Cezanne. At least not his portraits. I’ll make sure I research for us.”
“Excellent. Well I’ll let you get back to your goldfish naming. I’ll send through the details about the evening. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, sleep well.” Molly listened for the phone to go silent.
In that moment, in her kitchen, at her table, Molly wanted to cry and sing and skip and dance and open her window, and not care who might hear her shout, Georgina Wright into the night.
Chapter Eighteen
The following fortnight went by in a blur. No sooner had the estate agents dropped off the keys to the house, than Evelyn had scheduled a date less than a week later for the transfer of George’s collection to the museum.
Dazed, Molly couldn’t quite believe that this important step had been achieved. She’d sent a text to Georgina to ask how she felt and if she was okay. She replied, Absolutely fine and really looking forward to seeing you.
Evelyn had been so utterly consumed on first hearing of the imminent receipt of George’s art, that she had not even blinked at Molly’s request to attend the evening at the National Portrait Gallery. Evelyn’s distracted words of advice—to take the opportunity to network and to mention in conversation the museum’s ambitious program and the strength of its collections—had done nothing to settle Molly’s nerves.
How quickly the day arrived for her to go to London. She couldn’t have felt less prepared or, for that matter, more excited.
Her heart raced as she stepped off the train and hurried along the platform at St. Pancras Station onto the escalator that led her down to the main concourse and towards the exit onto Euston Road. She stared up in wonder at the beautiful glazing and ironwork arches that formed the station roof. The renovated red-brick Victorian building was simply awesome. It was always thrilling to arrive in London.
The air was a heady blend of diesel, food, and coffee. People gathered on the concourse in groups talking loudly and urgently in languages she half recognized. Others knocked past her, hurrying in a purposeful, intense way with their eyes fixed beyond to their direction of travel. And she was part of the hustle and bustle and energy that bristled in the air.
The large round station clock reminded her that time was tight. The train had been delayed by fifteen minutes. It was six o’clock. If she didn’t loiter, she should be okay. But there was so much to see and so much to catch her eye and delay her.
But she was determined not to be late. Not today. Not for Georgina.
When she emerged from the station, a fine mist of rain dampened her hair and cheeks, and the lights of passing traffic lit the dew sparkling on her glasses. She half ran towards a waiting black cab and climbed in.
“Where to, love?” The cab driver turned off his light.
“National Portrait Gallery, please. I’m going to a function there.” Molly’s heart all but burst with pride.
“Right you are, then.” The driver weaved his way through the streets, past wobbling cyclists and hissing buses. The reflection of streetlights streamed up and over the shiny black bonnet in a riotous river of colour.
The closer she got to the gallery, the faster the beat of her heart. Would she say the right things to the right people? Could she make Georgina proud? Would people wonder why she had been invited? Would Georgina regret inviting her—the local girl, so out of place in London and so out of place in Georgina Wright’s life? Why on earth was she there?
By the time the taxi drew up outside the gallery, Molly could hardly catch her breath. Attempts to deep breathe were faltered by the sight of the imposing Portland stone facade looming up with its inset pillars and arches so synonymous with the iconography of London. The setting, in every way the heart of cultural power, never failed to send chills right through to her core. She leaned forward as the taxi braked to a halt and paid her fare.
“Ta, darlin’. Have a good one.”
“Thank you. I hope to.”
She opened the door, struggling at first to find the handle. As she stepped onto the street, she looked up to see through the drizzle of rain a figure walking with an umbrella towards her. Georgina?
“Molly, hi,” Georgina said, with a warm confidence to her voice. “I’m so sorry—what awful weather to have to contend with.”
“Hi. It’s okay. Thanks for meeting me and indeed for getting wet for me.” Did I just say that? Molly let out an embarrassed giggle. “I’ve been in your company for literally a second and I’ve already lowered the tone.”
Georgina laughed and leaned in to Molly’s ear. “It’s my pleasure. Let’s go inside.”
Molly tucked in close to Georgina, her shoulder pressing against Georgina’s side. They hurried up the steps under the entrance’s arched doorway adorned with a heraldic coat of arms.
When they reached the porch, Georgina shook the rain from the brolly and, closing it, said, “After you.” She held her arm out towards a revolving door.
There were two things in life Molly hated above all things. Injustice and revolving doors. Georgina must have seen her hesitate as she quickly opened the side door. “Just as quick,” she kindly said.
“I literally have nightmares about them. In one, it won’t stop, and I am left like a hamster on a w
heel for hours running in circles.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yes, I know. And in the other—”
“I’m sorry, one moment. Jeremy, hi.” Georgina shook the hand of a tall man in a sharp suit with hair so immaculate it looked like it was sprayed on. His floral cologne engulfed them in an aroma of wild flowers.
“Georgina. Hello.” Jeremy’s cheeks flushed pink. Clearly, not just women felt the impact of Georgina Wright.
“The Oberons are running late. I would like us to wait for them. Please let the speaker know,” Georgina said without dropping a beat. “I would also like a quick word with the de Clancys this evening, if you can wrestle them free from Martin.”
And with a nod the man was gone.
“Sorry, Molly. You were saying?”
Molly’s heart sank. Soon the reception would draw Georgina completely from her and she would be left standing in a corner with just a glass of warm white wine and a wilting crudité for company.
Molly shook her head. “Oh no, you don’t want to hear my silly stories.” She shrugged her coat from her shoulders, and before both arms were released from their sleeves, a young man was at her side offering to hang it up for her. “Thank you.” The man headed towards what she hoped was the cloakroom with both their coats and Georgina’s brolly.
“You look beautiful,” Georgina said.
Molly turned to find Georgina smiling at her. She looked down at her sleeveless little black dress and adjusted the large bow of the bright yellow scarf tied at the side of her neck. “Do I look like a sunflower?”
Georgina laughed. “Not at all. You look very arty. In other words, like you belong. You are perfect.”
Perfect? “You look beautiful too.” Molly’s cheeks tingled with the exchange of compliments that meant so much.
“Thank you. In truth, I’ve come from work. I figured a suit’s a suit.”
A suit’s a suit? Did she not know how hot she looked? Everything about Georgina was tailored and refined, as usual. A crisp white shirt set off her blue pinstriped jacket and trousers cut to perfection and worn with an upright ease. She was quite simply dreamy.
“Let’s find the reception.” Georgina glanced around the space. “We’re in the Lerner Gallery for drinks and to take in the modern artwork, and then of course we have the lecture followed by the Cezanne exhibition.”
Molly walked by Georgina’s side. “I’m really excited, although please forgive my lack of preparation as work has been hectic.”
“Forgiven. And dinner, I am led to understand, will be in the Weldon Galleries.”
Molly slowed to ask, “The Weldon Galleries?”
“Yes. I take it from your wow expression that’s impressive.”
“Have you never been?”
“Nope.”
“It’s an awesome gallery with this beautiful silk wallpaper, but they’re also the Regency galleries. We’ll be dining in the company of reformers and abolitionists. The very people Edith and Josephine campaigned with. I think we can safely say they would have approved.”
“Excellent. Meant to be, then?”
Molly nodded. “Yes.” Everything about being with Georgina felt meant to be.
“Georgina, the Oberons have arrived.” Jeremy reappeared gesturing discreetly to an elderly couple who were looking around, rather lost.
“I understand if you have to leave to mingle,” Molly said, trying her best to sound self-sufficient and nonchalant. “To network.”
“Thank you. Although ask anyone who works with me—I am not usually one for small talk. I’ve been client manager for the Oberons and the de Clancys for several years now. I brought them with me from Schroders. They have put a lot of trust in me, so to ignore them would be unforgivable.”
“Absolutely.”
“As for others”—Georgina glanced around the room—“I’m pretty sure I’ll be more successful at engaging with them with you by my side.”
Molly felt a pinch of hurt. Was that the only reason she invited her? She wanted someone arty by her side to be able to quote art to impress her clients?
“And particularly here.” Molly looked down.
“Particularly anywhere,” Georgina said with a quiet certainty to her voice.
Molly looked up at the sensation of Georgina’s hand resting softly on her arm.
“So if you can bear it at all, Molly Goode, I shall leave your side as little as possible.”
Delight and relief surged within her, spilling over into a smile at her lips. “I think I can just about bear it.”
“Phew. I’ll say hello to the Oberons, and then I’ll grab us both a drink. Champagne?”
“Definitely.” Molly laughed with Georgina and saw her joy reflected back in Georgina’s eyes.
“I won’t be a moment.”
In that instant, it almost seemed as if Georgina would kiss her, as a lover kisses—goodbye for now.
But Georgina looked away to the Oberons and Molly quickly gathered herself to say, “Go.”
Georgina greeted the Oberons with genuine warmth and affection, and their faces lit up. Molly felt so proud to be in the company—no, the guest—of someone who could have that effect on another human being.
With exquisite happiness, Molly casually wandered around the Lerner Gallery. She paused briefly at each contemporary portrait of a famous face hung against the stark white walls. The sitters stared back at her spotlighted, as if in shock by the glare of the track lighting above. The painted out arches that divided each viewing space ensured that the clean lines of now remained crisp and uncluttered by the architecture of then, unfettered by the tangled past.
In one corner of the space dedicated to self-portraits, Molly’s attention was drawn to a painting of a woman at an easel. The woman wore an artist’s smock and had her hair gathered loosely under a headscarf. Behind her was a sleeping child, tucked up in a wicker chair. It was entitled “Artiste, Mere, Femme.” Molly leaned in closer to read the signature. Lydia Wright?
“One out of three may be correct.” Georgina handed Molly her drink and a small plate of nibbles. “Here. I bring champagne and a pastry filled with something herby and lovely. Although I have no idea what it is.” She stared with a blank expression at the painting. “My mother painted it.”
“Then…is that you?” Molly studied Georgina to compare the child Georgina and the woman in front of her, so impressive, so grown up.
Georgina glumly nodded. “I suspect it will be the closest you’ll get to meeting my mother. The painting was done at the villa in the south of France. When they divorced, my mother got the villa and my father the art. I was the only one left with nothing.”
Molly didn’t quite know what to say. She tentatively suggested, “The painting has a real sense of place. It has a distinctly French feel about it.”
“I rather think it has a pretentious feel. But then everything about her was a pretence after all.”
Georgina looked so sad. That was it. She would never mention Lydia Wright again.
“Look, the Queen, over there.” Molly pointed to the far corner of the room.
Georgina turned away from the painting and Molly stole the last pastry from Georgina’s plate. She shrugged at Georgina’s amused if indignant expression. “Snooze, you lose. I’m pretty sure the herby loveliness is lambs lettuce spiked with chervil.”
“And I’m pretty sure I’m never taking my eye off my plate again.”
“Very wise.” Molly could see the light had returned to Georgina’s eyes. The next half an hour or so with Cezanne would surely snuff it out again. “Do you think your clients would notice if we skipped the talk?”
“More to the point, would you mind? You said you were excited by it.”
“I can see it another time. And we can always sneak in for the end.”
“Then I have an idea. Just a sec.” Georgina moved towards the other side of the gallery and began speaking to one of the staff who looked across at Molly before seeming to agree to som
ething.
“Molly. Molly Goode? I thought it was you.”
Molly turned round, straight into the puzzled face of Erica Bell. Erica was dressed all in black. She looked like a night burglar. All she lacked was a mask and a bag marked swag. Her hair was slicked back and her lips pinched in a shade of lipstick no doubt called Deadly Red.
“Erica?”
Erica laughed. “You’ve gone quite pale. Do you need to sit?”
For some reason Erica carried on laughing. Molly had no idea what was so funny. Erica obviously felt no shame or guilt or anything, it would seem.
“So what on earth brings you to London on a Wednesday evening? Has your little museum loaned something? How sweet.”
“No.”
“Oh, that makes more sense, after all space on these walls is quite in demand. Have you seen Tracey’s latest?”
“Tracey Emin? Her ‘Death Mask’? Very briefly, yes.”
“And what did you think? I’ve just told her she’s quite the genius.”
“She’s here tonight?” Molly looked at the few remaining people as they made their way into the lecture theatre.
“Yes, somewhere. I’m not sure how long she’ll stay for. She nipped out for a fag, but in fact it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s gone. Ooh, is that Georgina Wright? Now she’s an elusive one. She’s taken over as head of the Wright Foundation. It never hurts to make an ally of a funder. And of course her mother is Lydia Wright, tortured nearly famous artist and influencer in the art world even today. We had a go at wooing the dashing Georgina Wright a few months back. I even had a colleague attend her father’s funeral. To no avail.” Erica waved in Georgina’s direction.
“Funny you should say that…” Molly paused as Georgina returned to her.
Erica held out her hand. “Georgina Wright? Erica Bell, of Bell and Co. We deal out of St. James’s. May I say how sorry I was to learn of your father’s death. In fact I believe you recently met a colleague of mine at your father’s funeral.”
Georgina shook Erica’s hand. “I can’t say I remember.”
Molly leaned slightly into Georgina and whispered, “My ex.”
