Molly sat at her kitchen table poking spaghetti bolognese around her plate. She was finding it hard to focus on her tea, in fact, on anything other than Edith. She kept imagining how hard it would have been to love another woman at that time. To feel obliged to hide true love underneath the pretence of romantic friendship or passionate comradeship. How narrow your choices, if they felt like choices at all.
What would Georgina think of her findings? When should she tell her? She looked at her watch. It was nine o’clock. Was it too late to send an email?
The tang of the ragu sauce tingled at her mouth. Georgina wouldn’t be obliged to reply tonight, would she? Molly reached across for her laptop and opened her email. She scrolled down to their correspondence from just over a fortnight ago and hovered her cursor over Georgina’s name. It brought up the empty outline of a person. Molly felt a twinge of disappointment that she could not see Georgina’s face. When had she started to need to see her face? This was not good. She must keep a grip on her feelings before she embarrassed herself and everyone else.
Keep it professional. Taking a deep breath she began to type.
Dear Georgina,
As agreed, I have returned to the records office and conducted further research of archives related to both Edith Hewitt and Josephine Wright. I am pleased to inform you that I have been able to identify the painter of Josephine’s portrait as Edith Hewitt. A number of preliminary sketches for the work were found within a scrapbook. I was further able to corroborate Edith as the artist by a passage in a logbook entry.
I am really pleased to give you this news and I look forward to discussing this and other matters on Friday.
With kind regards,
Molly
Molly reread the words to ensure they spoke of detached professionalism. With a final check, she pressed send. Her heart fluttered with the thought of Georgina reading her message and thinking of her, if only for the briefest of moments. Oh, for God’s sake. That’s enough. She’d done what she needed to do, and Georgina would likely not even respond, as she was seeing her in a few days anyway.
Molly stared at the inbox. She hit refresh. Nothing. She waited another minute and pressed refresh again. Still nothing.
Standing with a self-recriminating shake of the head, she firmly shut the laptop with the same determination as someone keeping a lid on something wild that might escape.
She picked up her dinner plate and went to the sink, where she filled a bowl with soapy water. “Yeah, it’s official you’re the saddest loser—”
Her phone beeped from deep within her bag. She turned off the tap. It was a work email notification. She looked at her laptop. She had intended to count to one hundred but barely managed five before she rushed back to her seat and opened her mail.
That’s great news. Thanks! G
Molly looked at the brief reply. There was no Hi Molly. Look forward to seeing you Friday, Molly. I really fancy you, how about a date, Molly? Nope. And why would there be? She pushed the chair from under her, grabbed a wine glass, and reached into the fridge for a bottle of Sauvignon blanc. She’d just turned off the kitchen light to head into the sitting room to drown her irrational disappointment in something trashy on the television when her phone beeped again and her laptop screen lit up.
Molly peered back into the kitchen and glared at the screen suspiciously. Nope, she would not look. It was not from Georgina. Was it? No, of course it wasn’t. She’d given her reply. Hadn’t she?
Molly glanced into the sitting room and then back at the laptop. Oh, for goodness’ sake, just look.
Molly sat at the kitchen table in the dark. She blinked several times at the message she’d received.
May I ask a favour? Friday is looking horrendous and it is unlikely that I’ll make it back to Leicester until late evening. I checked the RO’s website and they are open Saturday mornings. Would there be any chance at all that we could meet then? I would love to see the sketches and talk more. Completely understand of course if this is asking too much.
She would love to talk more? It would be specifically about the matter in hand though, right? Yes, and then their conversation no doubt would turn from the painting to the Wright room. And then that conversation in time would be complete. There would be no more reason for them to meet and nothing else to be said.
How could replying to an email make her feel so happy and yet so sad?
Dear Georgina,
Yes, Saturday should be fine. Would ten thirty suit? And shall I meet you there?
Molly
Molly quickly pressed send this time, resisting the urge to second-guess every word.
Georgina’s reply was pretty much instant: Yes. Great!
Instant and brief.
Should she reply? But there was nothing left to be said. The plan had been made. In the light from her laptop, Molly rummaged in her bag for her diary and found her pencil and marked Georgina Wright RO 10.30am in Saturday’s entry.
She sat back in her chair tapping at the diary’s page and staring at the hypnotic blink of the cursor. Mists of daydreams about Saturday drifted in to cloud the reality of the moment. Georgina would be waiting outside the records office, and Molly would rush up to her and hug her and say I’ve missed you. And Georgina’s reply would be a kiss. A perfect kiss from perfect lips…
The tap dripped a series of short plinks into the washing-up bowl, rudely bringing Molly back to the here and now. She looked down at her diary to find that she had doodled a heart around Georgina’s name.