The Portrait of Molly Dean

by Katherine Kovacic

  ‘Good thing all that’s covered in your Ts and Cs then.’ I inject an extra note of sparkle into my voice.

  ‘The thing is, he wants the painting and I said I’d ask if the purchaser – you – if you’d consider allowing him …’ I hear the distinctive clink of ice on glass. This is early in the day for Rob, even for post-auction-celebration drinking. He’s still talking, platitudes interspersed with flattery, but I’m wondering why he’s so wound up over something that’s virtually a weekly occurrence in the auction world.

  ‘Huh?’ It takes me a moment to realise the cascade of words has dried up.

  ‘For somewhat more than you paid, of course.’

  He wants me to sell the portrait to his other bidder.

  ‘Fastest profit turnaround you’ve probably ever made!’ The polish is slipping from his voice, a wheedling tone creeping in. My silence is making him edgy. ‘He’s prepared to offer nine thou.’

  ‘Can’t Rob, not this time.’ Or any other time.

  ‘You already have a buyer? A client?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Perhaps if you ask them? Or I could?’

  ‘If I have a client, and I’m not saying I do, I would not be handing them to you on a platter.’

  ‘Of course, of course. It’s just this gentleman is really very keen.’

  ‘Rob, what’s really going on?’

  ‘Nothing! You’re a dealer, I have someone who wants to buy. I’m doing you a favour.’

  ‘Bullshit. Tell me what this is all about. You and I both know that one of the staff would usually deal with this sort of problem. Why are you so involved? More to the point, why are you so concerned?’

  Silence, then the sound of something (no doubt rare and expensive) being generously poured. A heavy sigh, no, a controlled exhalation. Rob is steadying himself. ‘This one was really aggressive, Alex, nasty, and not in an I’m-calling-my-lawyer way.’

  ‘What kind of nasty are we talking about then?’

  ‘The dark-alley-know-where-you-live kind.’ Typical Rob. Even when he’s scared shitless, he can’t help injecting a few theatrics into proceedings.

  ‘Come on. It was a phone call from a losing bidder who was pissed off. He was blowing off steam, that’s all. And if you’re really worried, you’ve got his name and address, so you can just send the police around.’

  ‘That’s the thing. I thought there was a chance it might come to that, but when I checked the buyer details the name was Julian Ashton.’

  ‘I see your point. That does seem rather improbable.’ Julian Ashton was an artist and art teacher who taught many famous Australian painters and was the first (officially) to paint en plein air in this country. He died in 1942.

  ‘So I checked the address – 8 Wahroongaa Crescent, Murrumbeena.’

  ‘Ah.’ The location of the Boyd family’s home and pottery studio between 1913 and 1964. A famous art family and a well-known address. ‘No chance the mystery man genuinely lives there, I suppose?’

  The hum of the open line is my only answer and, really, who am I kidding? This guy is obviously some kind of nutter and his liberal use of Australian art references in creating his buyer ID is a tribute to the oblivious idiots at Lane’s. Someone happily punched those details into a computer without even blinking.

  ‘What about the vendor? Was the sale above board? I mean, your underbidder isn’t claiming the painting’s a family heirloom sold without his knowledge, is he?’ I ask. Sometimes things get nasty when families argue over how to divvy up an estate.

  ‘No, I thought of that. But the painting was consigned for sale by the local Salvos op shop; someone left it outside their door with a bunch of other stuff. The op shop people thought it looked quite good and brought it to us for an opinion.’

  ‘Well then your underbidder has no claim. He’s out of luck.’ So am I. There’s no way I’ll ever find out where Molly’s portrait has been all these years.

  ‘Alex, please. Can’t you sell? Make this … this person go away?’

  I consider it. A $6000 profit in less than twenty-four hours has a lot of appeal. Any other painting and I would’ve agreed ten minutes ago, no questions asked, but I’ve already done a lot of work here and for some reason I want to see it through with Molly. Besides, I still think Rob isn’t giving me the full story. This person is trying to bully me into selling a painting and he’s used a fake name and address. At the very least I’d expect to be ripped off.

  ‘I don’t want anything to do with this, Rob. It stinks. I know I don’t have to remind you not to give out any of my details, dealer or not.’ I wait. ‘Do I?’

  ‘Sure, no, of course not. You know I’d always get your approval before I told anyone anything, Alex.’

  ‘Of course.’ Yeah, right.

  1930

  Molly couldn’t remember when she’d first met Colin. Perhaps it was at an exhibition opening or a poetry reading, but more likely she had arrived at a gathering as a friend of a friend and there he was. It didn’t really matter, because the moment Molly realised there was something special about Colin was the evening she noticed he wasn’t there, and the room was duller without him.

  By the time she was standing on the doorstep of Colin’s Yarra Grove home, finger on the doorbell, Molly had put aside all the problems of her current life and was solely focused on the weekend ahead. She’d promised herself that tonight she would try to make herself more agreeable to the women, if only to show she was above their pettiness.

  The door opened with a flourish.

  As usual, Colin Colahan’s lean frame seemed to vibrate with an intense energy. His blonde hair was pushed back as though he’d dragged his hands through it a dozen times, and reading glasses dangled drunkenly from the pocket of his jacket. Molly glanced at his hands, speckled with scarlet and green, as he reached out and drew her over the threshold.

  ‘Molly darling, every time I see you wearing that scarf, I think you should wear it more often! The gold tones bring out the fiery flecks in your eyes.’ Colin didn’t mean to flirt, but what woman, Molly wondered, could resist a man who not only noticed her clothes, hair and perfume, but commented on them in a way that was always complimentary?

  ‘Come in, come in! You’re first to arrive, so you can help me get the drinks sorted.’ He closed the door behind her. ‘Now let me say hello properly.’ He lent down and softly, his lips found hers. Colin smoothed his thumb across Molly’s cheek and his hand came to rest gently cradling the nape of her neck. Molly breathed in his scent, an exotic mix of cologne and paint, and felt like she had come home.

  After a few moments, they eased apart. Colin picked up her discarded case and bag and whisked them away to the bedroom before following Molly through to the lounge, a large room somewhat overfilled with an assortment of comfortable chairs, two sofas and a well-stocked cocktail cabinet and drinks trolley. Everything a group of artists needed. An eclectic mix of paintings adorned the maroon walls, some by Colin, some painted by other members of his circle. Currently the prime spot above the fireplace held a large landscape, a study in light and shade clearly the work of Colin’s mentor, Max Meldrum.

  ‘Who’s coming tonight, Colin?’ Molly fluffed up an already plump cushion and aligned an alabaster ashtray more precisely with the edge of the end table.

  Colin stepped forward and folded his arms around her, pulling her in close. ‘Just the usual crowd. I know a couple of the women bristle around you, but you mustn’t let them upset you. Lena thinks you’re lovely, Polly and Alma wouldn’t hurt a fly and as for Betty, well … Let’s just say she has a rather large axe to grind and doesn’t care who’s in the line of fire!’

  ‘You’re mixing your metaphors,’ she mumbled into his chest.

  ‘Things can’t be too worrisome if you’re correcting my grammar.’ Colin leaned back in the embrace and searched Molly
’s face. ‘No frown lines, Molly darling. I haven’t finished your portrait yet. Besides,’ he moved his face closer to hers, ‘this is just a few hours. We have the whole weekend to ourselves. And I don’t plan on painting all the time.’

  Molly was under no illusions about her relationship with Colin. She knew it was unlikely to lead to anything permanent, but it was certainly enjoyable. There was no doubt in Molly’s mind that Colin loved her, it was just his idea of love and relationships was not exactly conventional; after all, he was still legally married to Vi. And as for Mireille Wilkinson, well, everyone except Mireille’s husband knew the stories about Colin and Mireille were not just torrid rumours that could be ignored. But Molly was sure that particular dalliance would burn hot and fast. Colin and Molly were close friends and occasional lovers, and it suited her perfectly. Being a wife was not part of Molly Dean’s plan; she had a career to build and fully intended to become famous. It was only a matter of time.

  Tonight’s dinner would likely be tense on occasion, but nothing she hadn’t been through before. It never ceased to amaze Molly that, in a supposedly bohemian environment, the women frowned at her refusal to cook, clean and chatter. She felt their disapproving looks when she sat and talked with the men, loudly voicing her opinions, but she tried not to let it bother her. Among the men was where the power lay, so that was where she wanted to be, and her relationship with Colin meant she was accepted without question.

  The others began arriving within the hour. Mervyn and Lena Skipper were first as usual, with Percy Leason and his wife, Belle, pushing through the door behind them. Alma Figuerola and Betty Roland were next, with the artist couple John Farmer and Polly Hurry turning up a few minutes later. Fritz Hart and Norman Lewis were the last to arrive, already engaged in a passionate debate about the role of philosophic thought in operatic libretto. It looked like it was going to be a long but interesting night. Molly had briefly entertained the idea of taking coats and hats as people arrived, but then decided it might make her seem too much like lady of the manor. Instead, she positioned herself near the drinks trolley, gin and tonic in hand, ready to either pour cocktails or make small talk as Colin’s friends filtered in.

  As was usual, once everyone had a glass of something alcoholic in their hand, the artists sauntered into Colin’s studio, keen to see what he was working on and to discuss their own current projects. Lena made a quick check in the kitchen to see what the woman who ‘did’ for Colin had prepared, then returned to the lounge, where Betty and Mervyn were arguing about whether the script of a stage play such as Betty’s The Touch of Silk could be altered to suit the format of a talking movie, while Fritz railed against the demise of classical music. Molly, almost engulfed by the deep cushions on the chair she had chosen, sat back and watched as the conversations flew to and fro. It didn’t escape her that Lena moved to sit between Mervyn and Betty on the sofa, leaning into her husband and placing a proprietorial hand on his knee. Molly turned her gaze to Norman, who was the recipient of Fritz’s diatribe. She could almost see him cogitating, preparing a pithy response for the moment when Fritz must finally pause to sip his drink or, at the very least, breathe.

  In this house, with its revolving cast of artists, writers and intellectuals, Molly felt like she belonged. It didn’t matter if some of them – Betty in particular, if Molly was honest – didn’t like her; in her heart, Molly knew these were her people, her real family. For the most part she had been welcomed into their circle, and she could always hold up her end of a conversation, no matter how esoteric or avant-garde the subject. But she realised that she was still perceived as Colin’s friend, the teacher, or, worse still, the girl who wants to be a writer but had so far made only minimal headway. Lost in her own thoughts now, Molly paid scant attention to the people around her as groups formed, broke apart and reformed somewhere else in the Yarra Grove house.

  ‘Molly dear.’ Colin planted a casual kiss on the top of her head and Molly blinked as he stepped back and came into focus. They were the only ones in the lounge. ‘Where were you? We’re ready to eat and neither Lena nor Belle could get a response out of you. Come on.’ He held out a hand and pulled her up and out of the chair, then wrapped an arm around her shoulder, steering her toward the dining room and the sound of conversational parry and thrust, interspersed with the clink of cutlery on china. A couple of steps before the door she stopped, forcing Colin to stop with her. ‘What? Come on, before John and Merv eat our share.’

  ‘I just …’ Molly hesitated. ‘I’ve just decided something, that’s all.’

  Colin looked at her, waiting.

  ‘I’ve always enjoyed teaching, but it’s simply not the same anymore. It’s not enough. I think the time is right for me to give up the classroom and really make a go of writing.’

  Colin frowned and was about to reply when Fritz appeared in the doorway. ‘For goodness sake you two! What are you doing out here? Whatever it is, there’s plenty of time for it later. Now, we eat.’ And he dragged them forward toward the brighter light and waiting diners. Molly wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but in the moment they passed through the door, she thought she caught an odd expression on the face of one of the people seated at the table. When she looked again it was gone, but for an instant she’d felt as though a wave of pure malice had washed over her. She laughed. It was definitely time to put her overactive imagination to better use and start writing. For the rest of the evening, Molly resolved to forget everything that was troubling her and focus on having a good time.

  #xa0;

  It was well past noon the next day when Colin and Molly finally emerged from the bedroom. For her part, Molly was feeling rather under the weather, and she thought Colin didn’t look much better. But he was keen to get on with painting her portrait, so after tea and toast Colin quickly herded her into the studio, setting her back in the pose she had occupied three or four times already over the past few weeks. His brushes were ready and it took him only a few moments to mix up the colours he’d need and adjust the blinds so the light was exactly as he wanted it. Colin gave Molly a smile.

  ‘If you can hold the pose for half an hour or so, I should be far enough along that I can let you go and I’ll just crack on.’ With that he loaded up his brush, bent his head to the canvas and didn’t speak a word for the next hour. Colin looked at her of course, but only with an eye to resolving an artistic conundrum. Molly was acutely aware that she may as well have been the proverbial Grecian urn.

  ‘Tilt your chin a little more toward the right.’

  Colin poked his head around the easel to study her again. It was only Molly’s second stint as an artist’s model, and she was still finding it hard to hold her pose. Focusing on the delicate cornices of the high ceiling, she tried to keep her brain busy.

  ‘Don’t look up! Just straight ahead. Hang on.’ Dropping his palette with a clatter, Colin strode across to the wide north windows and adjusted the muslin, immediately softening the light. With a grunt of satisfaction, he got back to work.

  ‘I rather thought, with all the women you paint, you’d be able to dash this off in no time at all.’ Molly arched an eyebrow.

  ‘Relax your face.’ Colin added a minute dab of paint to the portrait. ‘You my dear, are different from the usual sort of women who sit for me, and it is your otherness that I am determined to lay down in paint.’ He paused to stare at the canvas. ‘Tonalism is perfect to capture your energy. The soft blurring of line and colour suggest perpetual motion – and you’re virtually never still. I’ve got your gorgeous eyes sparkling from the depths of the canvas, but what I really want to capture,’ he made another gentle stroke, ‘is what’s in your heart. All that hunger and yearning and … and … drive. And I’m not there yet.’

  Molly sat silent and still, staring at the back of the easel. ‘Speaking of yearning, I’ve been thinking …’ she began.

  ‘Mmmm.’ Colin had a spare paintbrus
h in his mouth.

  ‘Teaching is all very well, and the children at the Opportunity School all try so very hard …’

  Colin let the silence stretch. He stepped back from the canvas, squinted and then lunged forward again, his brush like a sword, attacking the subject.

  ‘I know if I buckle back down to teaching, they’ll offer me a promotion soon.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ He altered his inflection to convey enthusiasm.

  ‘But as I was trying to tell you last night, I think now is the time for me to chuck teaching in and really push on with my writing and journalism.’

  There was silence again, broken only by the soft whisk of bristles on canvas. Finally, Colin took the brush from his mouth.

  ‘Molly darling, that’s a huge step.’

  ‘But I’ve had a few things published now!’

  ‘I know, and they’re brilliant. But a few articles and one poem in a tiny subscription pamphlet is still a long way from making headlines at The Argus.’ He began to wipe his brushes. Molly had long since abandoned her pose, and it was clear they’d get no more done today. ‘You should keep up the teaching while you work on the writing. It would be madness to throw away a solid career – and source of income – on a whim!’

  Molly froze then slowly turned to stare at him. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a couple of degrees. Abandoning his defensive position behind the canvas, Colin opened his arms and strode across the room, enveloping Molly in a hug. She stood immobile and tense in his embrace.