Love's Portrait

by Anna Larner

  Molly nodded, biting at her lip.

  “And you didn’t think to warn me? After everything I’d told you about my mother, about what she’d done to me, to my father? How could you have thought that it was okay that she was invited?”

  “I didn’t think it was okay. I thought it was awful and so did Fran.”

  “Fran knew? Everyone knew?” Georgina’s eyes misted with fury.

  “Georgina.” Molly attempted to place a reassuring hand on Georgina’s arm but Georgina stiffened in response. Molly let go. “By the time we found out, the invitation had been sent. All we could do was hope your mother wouldn’t come.”

  Georgina gasped in disbelief. “No, Molly. That’s not all you could have done. You could have told me. You should have told me. How could you let me find out this way?”

  Molly looked down. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.” Georgina turned away from Molly. She looked back at the crowds in the annex, noticing the one person she didn’t want to see.

  Staring at her with her hand half raised in the suggestion of a wave was her mother. Wearing a billowing white chiffon dress, she was slimmer than Georgina remembered, taller even than the woman of her nightmares. And even from this distance, she appeared fragile, her willowy frame swaying as if blown with the bluster of the crowds.

  Georgina felt every muscle tense. Why are you here?

  “You don’t have to speak to her,” Molly said quickly. “I can explain that you prefer not to—Georgina, wait.”

  Georgina shook her head and drained her glass dry, then walked slowly towards her mother.

  “I remember these so well.” Her mother stood staring at the baptism of James Ambrose. She placed her hand delicately on the frame as if feeling for the threads of a heartbeat in the grains of wood. She frowned and her gaze drifted along the line of paintings. She walked a few steps to stand in front of The Hunt. “Such a depressing piece. Don’t you think? I always thought Josephine looks so sad in it. I remember suggesting many years ago to your father that we should gift it to this museum.” Her mother leaned in to read the label. “Yes, in 1985. And now here it is jostling its way back in again. If I’m not mistaken, it has replaced the beautiful watercolour of Josephine. Has it been stored? Is it here in the museum?” Her mother looked about her. “I would love to see it again.”

  Georgina could not believe that her mother was attempting to have a conversation with her as if they always talked and as if they’d never spent more than a day or so apart and as if she hadn’t ripped their family into pieces and crushed her father, and torn apart her heart.

  “You look well, Georgina, if perhaps a little tired,” her mother continued, seemingly with no shame. “I try to keep up with how you’re doing as best I can through friends. I hoped you might write.” Her mother pressed her lips together and for a moment looked down. When she looked up again she had reapplied her mask of cheer. “You’re doing well in banking, I believe? May I say, I was relieved when I heard you’d broken with tradition and not gone into the law. Such a combative career.”

  Her mother tucked a strand of fine grey hair behind her ear. Her eyes had a faded quality to them, as if light and laughter once filled them and all that remained was the suggestion that they were once there. The frown lines around her mouth betrayed a tendency to sadness. Powdery foundation concealed none of this, and rouged cheeks mocked her with the suggestion of youth and joy.

  Georgina had not allowed herself to imagine this moment, standing in front of her mother for the first time in so many years. She wished now that she had rehearsed it and that she had at her disposal a series of retorts to counter every possible attempt by her mother to make things right. For there was nothing her mother could say that could undo what had been done. Nothing.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Georgina’s every word pinched corset tight with suspicion. “No, let me guess, you have come to pick over my father’s belongings. Well, let me make this clear—you are divorced from him and from anything to do with us. I would have thought that was obvious. So I repeat, why are you here?”

  Her mother swallowed. “To see you. It is what your father wanted.”

  Georgina let out an incredulous burst of laughter. “Really? And you expect me to believe that?”

  “Of course not. In fact I’m relieved you are talking to me at all.”

  “Well your relief is short-lived. I want you to leave, and that really shouldn’t be a difficulty for you—leaving. After all you managed it so well.”

  “Georgina…” Her mother rested her hand on Georgina’s forearm. “Darling, please.”

  Georgina roughly pulled her arm away. “I’m not your darling, and if you don’t leave, I will.”

  “Wait—I have a letter. You need to see it.”

  “No, Mother. I don’t need to do anything. And as for letters from you, I would have thought it was obvious how little they mean to me.” Georgina watched her mother step back a little. She suppressed the sensation of guilt and hurt with the knowledge that her last emotional punch had struck hard.

  With a voice clearly winded by their exchange, her mother said, “It’s not from me. It’s from your father to me.” She reached into her handbag.

  “For the last time, I don’t believe anything you say. I am not interested.” Georgina walked out of the annex and into the foyer. She spotted Evelyn in deep conversation with Molly and Fran. Molly and Fran both had their arms crossed defensively, as Evelyn, noticeably more flustered than usual, held their attention. They hadn’t seen her, so this was her opportunity to leave. She glanced at her watch. She could catch the nine thirty. In an hour and a half she could be back in London where she belonged.

  She risked a last look behind her. Thankfully her mother had not tried to follow. Instead she was chatting with the chairman. She showed no signs of leaving.

  Georgina headed for the exit only to slow to a stop at half hearing Evelyn’s instructions to Molly.

  “I need you to smooth things over with Georgina. We need you, Molly, more than ever. If we lose Georgina, then we are sure to lose Lydia Wright’s potential influence and support as well. Is that understood?”

  “What is understood is that I have been used by this museum in the most deplorable fashion.” Georgina’s voice had a chilling calmness to it.

  All three women turned around in unison. All three jaws dropped.

  “Georgina—” Molly reached out only for Georgina to step out of reach.

  “It’s so obvious now. I’ve been such a fool. Send in your sweet curator to soften me up. What better Trojan horse than Molly. Was that it, Evelyn?”

  Taken aback, Evelyn said, “Really, Georgina, please—”

  “And you.” Georgina directed her glare at Molly so that it would penetrate right through to her heart. “It was all about your career, wasn’t it? And that’s why you left the other day—because I said no to your career plan to display Josephine’s portrait for maximum effect—I wouldn’t play your game.”

  Like a hawk spying prey, Evelyn turned her head and fixed a steely gaze on Molly, who folded her arms ever more tightly in response.

  Without pausing for breath, Georgina continued, “It was staring me right in the face that you were using me, but I didn’t see it.”

  Molly shook her head, her face creased with evident hurt and confusion. “No, that’s not right.”

  “And do you know why I didn’t see it? Because I genuinely cared for you.” Georgina swallowed down the anger choking at her throat. “You let me think…We even…I trusted you.”

  “That’s quite enough.” Fran stepped forward blocking Molly from Georgina’s fury. “I think it’s best you go home, Georgina.” Fran looked beyond Georgina to the annex.

  “Don’t worry, I intend to.” Georgina turned to see her mother standing watching them. She quickly looked back, this time her attention fixed squarely on Evelyn. “You’re welcome to my mother, Evelyn. Let’s hope the infamous Lydia Wright can replace th
e lost patronage of the Wright Foundation.”

  Evelyn’s neck prickled and flushed pink.

  Georgina left, without looking back.

  * * *

  The ceiling spun and the walls rose up to suffocate Molly. She tried to fix on something real, something to hold on to, to stop her falling any further into the blank abyss of shock. She pinched at her leg hoping to feel the sting of pain, for all sensation had become dull and muted. She could hear but couldn’t hear. She could feel but couldn’t feel.

  “Molly? You okay? Molly?” Molly looked down at Fran’s hand holding hers tight. “It was just the shock of seeing her mum again.” Fran squeezed at her hand. “After all these years. It was shock talking, that’s all. She didn’t mean the things she said. Molly?”

  “She did, though,” Molly said. “She clearly meant every word.”

  “And so do I when I tell you this,” Evelyn said, with a tone of voice that was so chilling the cold of it brought Molly back into the room with a start.

  Molly swallowed. She thought she might be sick. She risked a glance at Evelyn. Evelyn’s neck was pink but her face had drained to ashen grey. Her eyes had grown darker than the December night outside.

  Evelyn had lowered her voice but her words impacted with all the force of a shout. “There will be no further discussion tonight on what has just happened. You will return to the Wright room and fulfil your duties. Then come to my office first thing Monday morning.” Evelyn pinched at her brow and sighed. “I have no choice but to update the chairman. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Molly, how serious this is.”

  Fran shook her head. “Evelyn—”

  Evelyn raised her hand. “Don’t even try, Fran. Professional lines have clearly been crossed. Let’s just hope we can rescue this evening.” Evelyn stuck her chin out with her chest rising in defiance. She resurrected a smile from what were no doubt the ashes of her aspirations for the night.

  Molly stood and watched Evelyn return to the Wright room. Fran was still holding her hand.

  “Well, that could have gone better,” Fran said, deadpan. “She’s got some nerve making you a scapegoat when she invited Lydia in the first place.”

  Molly nodded, wiping away a stray tear. “She’s going to sack me, isn’t she? I undermined her and acted unprofessionally with such an important stakeholder.”

  “Look, let’s just wait and see. She has the weekend to calm down, and on a plus note, she hasn’t fired you yet.” Fran shrugged.

  “Only because she needs me to work tonight.”

  “Well then, you have the rest of the evening to make amends. Impress her with your schmoozing talents. In fact if you can face it, you could start with her.” Fran nodded in the direction of Lydia Wright who seemed far more interested in Molly and Fran than Evelyn and the chairman, who were trying to engage her in conversation.

  Molly shook her head. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “Her daughter hates me and I think I’m going to puke.”

  Fran pinched at Molly’s cheeks. “Nonsense on both accounts. And Georgina doesn’t hate you. That kind of impassioned fury doesn’t come from hate. Anyway being on the wrong side of Georgina means at least for tonight you and Lydia Wright have a lot in common. Go on, before she loses interest.” Fran placed her hand on Molly’s back, shoving her lightly towards the annex.

  Lydia had drifted away from Evelyn and the chairman, content it seemed to wander around the exhibition alone. She was not exactly what Molly was expecting. For some reason the name Lydia Wright had conjured an image of a woman who sought attention and coveted the limelight and who always found an opportunity to strike a pose whether a pose was required or not, or someone who might cause a scene without a thought or care. But this woman was quietly taking everything in. If anything you would not notice her other than to remark perhaps on her tall elegance and a certain foreignness of dress.

  Lydia Wright had paused at the French doors to take in Little Eve when Molly plucked up the courage to say hello.

  “Good evening, Ms. Wright. I’m—”

  “Molly Goode. I heard your speech.”

  “Oh, of course.” Molly’s cheeks stung with embarrassment.

  Lydia extended her hand. Her fingers were long and elegant like Georgina’s. Molly shook it and gave a polite smile. She then glanced to Fran who gestured for her to continue.

  “I hope you are enjoying your evening,” Molly said, hoping her voice betrayed none of her uncertainty.

  “Very much. And you?”

  Having watched Lydia endure Georgina’s shock and anger, Molly doubted that Lydia was enjoying her evening very much. She was likely enjoying her evening as much as Molly, which was not at all.

  “Uh-huh,” Molly said. “It’s certainly a…memorable evening.” Molly knew that Lydia had seen Georgina shouting at her, so was she being kind by not mentioning it, or playing with her? What kind of woman was Lydia Wright—kind or cruel or neither?

  Lydia turned to the bronze figure of Little Eve resting on the plinth at her side. “I remember George and I went to see this work at the Tate. That would have been…oh, I don’t know, mid-nineties, maybe. We couldn’t see it at first in the public galleries, and so when we enquired, we were told it was on display in the members’ room. George complained and reminded them in strong terms that it was a loan from a public foundation for public good. If I remember correctly, it was then loaned on by the Tate for a touring exhibition, and I’m not certain it was on permanent display again. It’s good to see it here.”

  “We’re really excited and proud to have such a prestigious work on display here.” Molly stared at the biblical figure of Eve sculpted with her arms folded across her chest and her face bowed and turned away in a physical expression of embarrassment and shame.

  She should say something professional. It was about the details, that’s what Evelyn always told her, Please remember the details. “This piece was inspired by the larger original 1881 model.” Lydia’s face seemed to brighten with interest. “If you look closely, you can see Rodin’s signature just at her left foot. The name of the foundry—Alexis Rudier, Paris—is on the base.”

  Lydia leaned in. “Yes, how interesting,” she said. “Tell me then, what do you think of Rodin?”

  “I enjoy his work very much,” Molly said. “I love that he captures the human form in such a sensual way. You almost expect the cast materials, whether bronze or even marble, to give way with your touch, like flesh. I have such respect for how he seemed to master the materials and evoke the human form so beautifully.”

  Lydia smiled. “Then you must visit the Musée Rodin in Paris. The museums in Paris are my lifeblood. I live right in the heart of the city—I can feel it beat.” Lydia rested her hand momentarily against her heart. “I spend my summer in the south but always seem to return to Paris as the seasons change, as it seems to suit my winter mood.”

  “I have visited the museum, although it was a long time ago.” Molly hadn’t meant to be enjoying her conversation with Lydia quite so much. It made her feel strange. But then the whole evening had been strange, and nothing about it felt real. Or was it that everything about it was too real, too raw?

  “It’s always good to return to a museum and to see its collection again,” Lydia said. “An artwork must be seen several times over the course of one’s life to be truly appreciated. We miss so much at first sight.” Lydia’s attention was drawn past Molly to the Wright family portraits at the far wall behind them. “It is like seeing old friends again and returning to the comfort of the familiar.”

  Molly turned in the direction of the paintings, as they came in and out of view as people paused before them, reading the labels and moving on.

  Lydia sighed. “You know, I think she is sadder than I remember her.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “In The Hunt. Josephine. I was only saying a moment ago to my daughter what an upsetting painting I thought it was.”

  Mo
lly’s heart squeezed at the mention of Josephine. “Yes. She looks so forlorn.”

  Lydia said, her eyes narrowing, “I always wondered why.”

  Had Molly any right to tell Lydia the possible reason? That grief following the death of a love had likely left its indelible mark, casting her expression in the shade of eternal sorrow. But no. This was not the narrative for the Wright room, and that couldn’t have been made clearer. Molly closed her eyes, pushing away thoughts of Georgina which badgered with every breath. Don’t think about her. You can’t, not here, not now.

  “I guess we’ll never know for sure,” Molly suggested, swallowing down the nausea pressing at her throat. She glanced away from the paintings. Fran was nowhere to be seen. She caught Evelyn’s eye and a terrible rush of self-consciousness made her stomach drop. Was Evelyn pleased she was talking to Lydia, or horrified? Molly couldn’t tell.

  “There was another portrait of Josephine,” Lydia said. “It was a watercolour.”

  Molly turned quickly back to Lydia at the mention of Edith’s painting. Lydia was frowning as if trying to remember a detail.

  “Sketchy,” Lydia continued. “Yes, of the moment, I would say. It was a charming work. I even wondered whether it might have been displayed?” Lydia looked at Molly as if she would naturally provide the answer.

  Feeling flustered, Molly quickly explained, “The pieces chosen for this exhibition have been guided by the bequest and the final decisions have rested with Evelyn Fox.”

  Lydia raised her eyebrows. “Not you?”

  Molly shook her head. “I was part of a team who brought the bequeathed items together. I then helped with their installation in this room.”

  “I see. And the watercolour? Did you come across it?”

  “I’m sorry, but you’d need to speak with Georgina—”

  Lydia gave out a pained laugh. “I’ve spent the last eighteen years trying to speak to my daughter.”

  “I’m sorry,” Molly said, looking down.

  “Thank you, that’s kind of you to say. And thank you for taking the time to talk to me. I imagine you’ve heard all kinds of things about me.”