Love's Portrait

by Anna Larner

  Georgina seemed to stand up straighter.

  Erica narrowed her eyes. “Yes, we used to date. We were quite the couple for a while. Couldn’t persuade her to settle in London. Quite the local girl. Isn’t that right, Molly?”

  Molly’s cheeks burned. She glanced at Georgina who had visibly flushed at the comment.

  “And, of course, as I’m sure you’ll understand, Georgina, I found Leicester…limiting. So anyway I won’t keep you. Please do let me know if I can be of any help at all.” With that Erica offered her business card.

  Georgina just looked at it. “I’m struggling to think why I might need it.”

  Erica’s mouth fell open. “Well of course, I wouldn’t want you to struggle.”

  “Well then,” Georgina said, her tone guarded. “Have a good evening.”

  Erica looked at Molly and back at Georgina. “Yes, you too. And Molly, it’s nice to see you looking so…” Molly held her breath waiting for the wounding insult. Erica’s eyes hovered over her outfit. “Happy.”

  “Thank you, Erica. Goodbye.” Whether or not Erica had wanted to say happy, Molly had definitely wanted to say goodbye. For Georgina was right—there was always something that should be said.

  Molly stood in silence as she watched Erica walk away.

  * * *

  Georgina whispered, “You okay?”

  “Yes. Thank you. I am, as a matter of fact.”

  Molly looked so proud, and if possible her smile seemed even brighter. “Good for you. Let’s go.”

  Georgina guided Molly along the Lerner Gallery and out into the cool of the stairwell and up the wide, low stone steps. Molly stopped halfway to admire the view of the ornate stonework and leaded windows.

  “It’s so grand, isn’t it?” Molly cast her gaze from the decorative ceiling to the worn stone floors. “It almost has a cathedral-like feel and is so different to the Lerner Gallery. Where are we heading exactly? And more to the point, what happens if we get caught?”

  “Don’t worry, we’re not trespassing.” Georgina glanced up the stairwell to the levels above. “The whole building has been hired for the evening.”

  “The whole building? Wow.”

  Georgina shrugged. “They’re a corporate partner. Third floor.”

  “You’re taking me to the loos?”

  Georgina laughed. “Somewhere with a slightly better view.”

  They climbed until they reached their destination.

  “Oh, you mean the restaurant?” Molly said, slightly out of breath. “My mum and I once tried to have afternoon tea, but it was so busy.”

  “Well, I confirm it’s not busy tonight.” Georgina led Molly into the elegant dining room which had closed for the night. The space was lit only at the entrance by the light of the landing. Not that it was dark. Light flooded in from the city itself, reflecting against the windows and sparkling in the polished surfaces and glinting against cutlery and glassware. The city spread out before them, illuminated in all her urban splendour. The rooftop restaurant of the National Portrait Gallery commanded one of the most captivating views of London.

  Molly went straight to the window. “I always make a point when I visit the museum of stopping for a moment just at the entrance to the restaurant to glimpse the view across the rooftops of Trafalgar Square.”

  Georgina joined Molly close at her side. There was only one view in that moment that captivated her.

  “And there’s Big Ben.” Molly glanced at Georgina. “I love that they’re restoring it.”

  Georgina dragged her gaze from Molly to look out to her city which had once been everything she needed and was in that moment a distraction from everything she wanted.

  Molly pointed into the distance. “And Whitehall and the London Eye. It’s such an awesome view.”

  The city’s lights rested on Molly’s cheeks before tangling themselves in her eyes.

  You’re so beautiful. Georgina stood utterly transfixed by the sight of Molly—the enchanting woman from the square, the woman who made her father’s death somehow tolerable, the woman who made her laugh, the woman she’d opened up to who had listened to her with such empathy, and the woman who in that moment she just wanted to kiss.

  “Does living in London ever become normal?” Molly turned to face Georgina again. “I imagine it never…” Molly’s words drifted away as she blinked into Georgina’s gaze, her lips falling slightly open.

  Georgina hadn’t planned to kiss Molly right there and then. She just couldn’t not. It was as inevitable as the splash of rain on the windowsill that fell from the night sky above. She leaned down and placed her lips gently to Molly’s, and without hesitation Molly rested her palms on Georgina’s cheeks and kissed her. Georgina slipped her arms around Molly’s waist, drawing her in. It felt so right. Molly’s body matched close against hers, as if the separation of their bodies had been the wrong thing in the first place.

  Only a passing siren with its wailing brought Georgina back into the room. She found just enough will to step away from Molly at the sound of the soft scuff of feet on the landing announcing the arrival of the waiter with a tray of champagne and canapés.

  She found the breath to say, “Thank you, just at this table, please.”

  The waiter quickly placed the tray beside them. “Shall I lay things out?”

  Georgina shook her head. “We’ll be fine.”

  The waiter left, almost as if he had never arrived.

  Georgina gazed at Molly’s flushed cheeks and at her lips, moist and full with their edges smudged pink by their kiss. Was the room spinning for Molly too? “You okay?”

  Molly nodded. She was, it seemed, utterly lost for words.

  Georgina glanced at the tray. “I asked for extra pastries. Just in case.”

  Molly laughed and then quickly bit at her lip as if her laughter had freed emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. “Thank you—for all of this. It’s amazing.”

  “You’re welcome.” Georgina lifted two glasses of champagne and handed one to Molly. She then raised her glass. “To you, Molly.”

  Molly lifted her glass. “To us. And to the rooftops of London and the most magical evening anyone could wish for.”

  Georgina swallowed down the swell of joy catching in her throat. “Yes.”

  With a clink of their glasses, they drank their champagne, with the city lights sparkling against the windows like starlight in the falling rain.

  * * *

  Molly wasn’t certain whether she could feel her toes. Was she sitting there at all? Surely she was floating above everything and everyone. Her lips tingled and her neck felt warm. She placed her palm to her cheek, lightly, briefly, in the hope that the heat of her recent passion would cool sufficiently to get her through dinner. Surely she would give away to her fellow diners how ignited with passion she felt. Had they noticed already but were too polite to comment?

  She had tried, with some success, not to stare at Georgina seated opposite her but instead to valiantly concentrate on the thread of dinner conversation.

  She was seated between Mr. Oberon and Mr. de Clancy, who seemed content to talk over her. She found their discussions about investment trends and the continued mire of short selling and the future prospects of renewables beyond her knowledge or interest. She smiled in agreement when it seemed appropriate and frowned as a gesture of shared consternation when the need arose. But even if they had ventured onto topics Molly could have contributed to, she feared her brain could not hold a thought beyond You kissed me.

  “And do you work with Georgina?” Mrs. Oberon had said very little, so when she eventually spoke everyone seemed to listen. Molly couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or horrified that she’d been chosen as the focus of her attention.

  Molly quickly swallowed her mouthful of petit four and momentarily pressed her napkin lightly at her mouth. “We’re not colleagues, as such.” She dared not look at Georgina, for surely just the slightest glance would betray her feelings for all to see.
“That is, I don’t work for Staithe Street. I’m the curator of fine arts at the City Museum in Leicester. Georgina and I have been working together on a couple of projects.”

  A murmur of interest circled the table in response.

  “Oh, thank goodness, the prospect of a change of subject.” Mrs. Oberon smiled warmly at Molly. “There is only so much talk of money and politics that one can endure. So tell me, what did you think of the lecture?”

  Everyone looked at Molly.

  Georgina and Molly had followed their plan to sneak back into the talk in the hope that they would not be missed. They had caught the speaker’s last words.

  Bugger. She should have found time to research beforehand and been prepared. Evelyn had warned her, hadn’t she? And now all she could anticipate was letting Georgina down.

  She took a deep breath. “I always greatly value a new perspective on an artist.” She gripped her napkin. “And to see together…for the first time”—Molly scrambled to call to mind the blurb from the programme—“over fifty of Cezanne’s portraits, provides a real insight.” The silence in response was clearly an expectation of more. “Indeed, I always wonder what the artist would have thought, seeing works that they completed on a separate, individual basis and at different periods in their life brought together all at once.”

  Molly’s observation was met with a general rumble of accord.

  Buoyed by their response, Molly continued, “I’m certainly very aware that as curators we have the privilege and responsibility of creating new meaning by the choices we make when we bring work together within one exhibition. What we omit and what we add, even the order of display, changes the discourse and ultimately the understanding.” Molly took a quick sip of her espresso. Was she making any sense? To her horror, she caught the eye of Erica seated at the table with the speaker who was holding court. Molly quickly looked away.

  “It’s so easy, isn’t it,” Mrs. Oberon said, “to imagine that when you visit an exhibition that you are somehow having a direct experience with the artist, but you have reminded us, Molly, that everything is mediated and edited for us.”

  “But what if the artist explains their work and approach? A self-curated exhibition,” Mrs. de Clancy asked, her tone without judgement and her expression one of genuine enquiry. She looked at Mrs. Oberon and then at Molly.

  “That’s an excellent question.” Molly smoothed her napkin flat. A calm of sorts returned as she deliberated upon her reply. “You would think that would help. But in truth, here is where we meet not so much a problem, more the essence of things. If we consider that art is created and belongs in a visual realm, then the moment we try—and that includes the artist—to define it with language, we dislocate it from where it belongs and infect it with the bias that comes with words, and with thought, even.”

  Mrs. Oberon leaned forward. “So you are saying art is beyond definition?”

  Molly took another sip of her espresso. “We need definition so we can share our experience of art with each other. And there is no question that knowledge can add more to an experience. But then we are adding, colouring over the work with what we know. So yes, I am saying art is beyond definition if we are to get close to experiencing it in its purest form.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. de Clancy was nodding. “I do love it when a piece of art leaves me speechless. Words would certainly spoil those precious moments. Hairs on the back of the neck kind of thing.”

  “Can I add a twist?” Molly risked a glance to Georgina. She was smiling as if amused and Molly hoped not entirely regretting inviting her.

  “Yes. Twist away.” Mrs. Oberon’s eyes shone.

  “I’m afraid it is impossible to look at something without defining it.” Molly shrugged.

  “How intriguing,” Mrs. Oberon said. “And is this because of the way we see?”

  “Yes. When we look at something, we instantly try to recognize it and to understand what it is. When we seek to understand something, a piece of art for example, we compare it with what we’ve seen before, and to what we know. In other words, it is inescapable that we will try to define an art piece just by the act of looking at it.”

  Mrs. Oberon held both hands aloft as if surrendering. “So let me get this straight. Not only is art beyond definition, but we are incapable of not defining it.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Therefore art will always be remote to us, and that is what I think makes it so magical.”

  “Goodness, what an intriguing evening. Thank you for your company tonight, Molly. I must make a point of visiting your museum.” Mrs. Oberon stood, and with that so did everyone at their table. “What a wonderful evening, Georgina, as always.” Mrs. Oberon held Georgina by both hands. “And please thank Martin and the team.”

  “Of course. Let me walk you to the door.” Georgina turned to Molly and whispered, “I won’t be a moment.”

  Molly sat back in her seat staring at the tables emptying around her and enveloped in the heady air of conversation and the drifting sound of laughter and heartfelt farewells.

  It was an evening she couldn’t have imagined and one that, if she could wish it, would never end.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Georgina returned to the Weldon Gallery she found Molly alone exploring portraits of Regency era reformers and staring up at large paintings depicting parliaments and reformation committees at work. The tables had already been cleared and lay empty but for their tablecloths and floral centrepieces. A clink of glasses could be heard being carried away down the corridor.

  “I’m sorry, that took longer than I thought.” Georgina rested her hand lightly on Molly’s back. “Estelle Oberon insisted on asking me about our work together. I explained briefly about the Wright Community Room and Gallery and of course about Edith’s painting. She was quite clearly fascinated. She wanted to know how long you had worked at the museum and then I realized I didn’t know. And then I got caught with the de Clancys.” Georgina paused to catch her breath. “Sorry—I ran up the stairs. I didn’t mean to neglect you by leaving you so long.”

  “That’s really sweet of you,” Molly said with a smile that reassured Georgina all was well. “But there was no need to worry. I have been enjoying the company of kick-arse reformers. Oh, and to answer Mrs. Oberon’s question, I’ve been at the museum about nine months now.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yep. I guess I’m the new girl keen to make a good impression.” Molly rolled her eyes.

  “Well, if Estelle Oberon’s interest is anything to go by, you have made quite an impression indeed.”

  Molly beamed a smile. “She seems lovely.”

  “Yes, she is. And kind and generous to boot. The Oberons support a lot of very good causes, particularly surrounding health and education. Estelle in her own right has done a lot of work around supporting young people, particularly from disadvantaged backgrounds, and raising their self-esteem. I’ve done some mentoring as part of one of her campaigns.”

  “Really? I love that you’ve done that.” Molly stroked Georgina’s sleeve and she played for a moment with the cuff before catching the tips of Georgina’s fingers. “I love everything about you in fact.”

  Georgina’s heart caught at Molly’s words and at the sensation of her fingertips, so warm and soft. “Likewise. Having you by my side tonight, and over the last few months knowing you were there…” An urge to cry choked at Georgina’s throat.

  Molly rested her palm briefly on Georgina’s cheek. “I’ve loved every minute of our time together. Really, I have. And as for our research into Edith’s painting, it’s just been so captivating, hasn’t it? And it feels so important. And being here amongst Josephine’s and Edith’s contemporaries, how amazing is this?”

  “Yes, it’s awesome.” Georgina looked around the room with its silk wallpapered walls laden with portraits with soft pink faces staring out from the depths of oil paint gloom. “I guess they got bored painting this poor fella.” Georgina stared at a half-finished portrait
of a kindly looking old man.

  Molly laughed. “That’s William Wilberforce.”

  “Really?” Georgina leaned in to look at the plaque next to the painting and read, “Parliamentary leader of the abolition movement. 1759 to 1833. Oh, he died the same year as Josephine and William married.”

  “Yes, and I remember reading that he lived just long enough to hear that the Abolition Act of 1833 had gone through.”

  “He looks quite a softy. Not exactly the face of an ardent campaigner against slavery.” Georgina leaned in again to finish reading the plaque. “It says that he was well liked. Then I imagine Josephine and Edith would have been in awe of him.”

  “Maybe.” Molly tilted her head and frowned.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “It’s just…do you remember Edith’s logbook?”

  “The one with Edith’s passionate entry about painting Josephine?”

  “Yes. Well in there was also a rhyme she’d written, maybe a poem or a hymn, I don’t know. I can’t recall the exact title—something about defiance—but it definitely had an angry tone. Anyway, it was about campaigning. I remember it because by the side of it was a cartoon of a man who looked like Wilberforce with the exception of a less than flattering large nose. By the side of the cartoon were the initials WW. It was the piece of evidence that led me to think that Edith could draw.”

  “Wow. Okay.”

  “According to the rhyme, Edith wasn’t keen on him at all.” Molly tapped the side of the frame. “It makes me question whether the man didn’t quite live up to the figure that history has us remember.”

  May 1832

  Chambers of Brancaster and Lane Solicitors

  “They’re lighting the new lamps this September, on City Walk. The corporation has finally decided. Just imagine—it will be so pretty, the trees lit in the soft glow of lamplight as if Christmas is every day.”

  Josephine turned from the window to face Edith. “That’s good news indeed. It will be much safer, one hopes, to enjoy an evening walk.”