One of the things Georgina dreaded most about her routine of returning to her father’s home on a Friday wasn’t the deafening emptiness that greeted her, echoing from ceiling to floor. No. It was the post that had defied the redirection request that spilled out across the entrance mat. For there seemed nothing crueller than the unexpected sight of letters addressed to Mr. George Wright. And then of course there were those letters addressed to her that demanded her attention and that reminded her of all that she was trying to forget.
Georgina dropped her weekend holdall onto the floor. Stifling the shiver that came every time she opened a letter relating to her father’s estate, she pulled open a brown envelope from the estate agent. The Finest of Country and Town had a plan—at least, that’s what their covering letter said. A vision befitting of a home of such stature, in such an envied position for business and pleasure. Georgina flicked through the glossy brochure they had attached. The text was complete but there were no pictures. Georgina had been clear on this. She wanted the house empty of her father’s belongings before marketing photos were taken.
The thought that her father’s belongings would be used to market his home felt intrusive and disrespectful and akin to an act of betrayal. Georgina hadn’t cared whether the estate agent minded or not. Given the commission they would earn, she doubted they would mind at all.
With a heavy heart she rested the brochure on her father’s chair. She could not avoid the inevitable. Very soon she would sell her father’s home and the memories formed within these walls would be dislocated and lost.
But then there was the museum, wasn’t there? Was this what his bequest meant to him? Was it the difference between remembered and forgotten, dignity and disorder? Just the thought of her father’s bequest upset her. She couldn’t shake off the sense that the Wright room was in every way the physical manifestation of her loss. The vibrant warmth and energy of her father’s life distilled away to black ink marking the dates of his birth and death. The collection of objects he cherished would soon become the sum of the man, when the individual aspects of her father were so much more.
A flash of yellow glinted from the square. Her heart caught at the sight of Molly bending in to Daisy May and placing belongings on to the back seat. Molly. A peculiar panic gripped Georgina. In that moment Molly seemed like the answer to everything, and she was no doubt leaving for home. She was leaving.
Without another thought, Georgina hurriedly texted, Do you have time to come over? Sometime soon? Now even? She pressed send before she had a chance to rethink or regret. She stood motionless, staring out towards Molly. Had she received her email? Please let her have caught her in time.
Wait, was Molly now looking in the direction of the house?
Georgina took a deep breath and stepped towards the window. She raised her hand tentatively, uncertain whether Molly could see. When Molly waved back, something in Georgina, something that had been tightly bound inside, unwound. Her heart surged with the sight of Molly walking across the square towards her.
She rushed into the hallway and gripped the cold round brass door handle, listening for Molly’s feet on the steps, and then, not waiting for Molly to knock, she opened the front door and with a mixture of relief and joy said, “Hi. Come in. Please.”
* * *
Georgina gestured into the hallway that stretched out behind her. “Thanks so much for coming over. It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too,” Molly said. “I promise you literally just beat me to it. I swear I was about to email and check in with you. So this is great. I mean really great.”
Molly stepped inside, utterly overwhelmed by the building she had admired from afar. “Wow.” She had always wondered what lay beyond its formal black door. She had daydreamed of Regency grandeur, imagining a long tiled hallway with corniced ceilings and ornate plaster mouldings. Perhaps a heavy hall mirror would hang on a brass chain against the wall, casting the light and one’s gaze along the hallway to the bottom of the stairs, to the fine spindles and curl of the banister.
And in one captivated glance, Molly realized that her imagination had been outdone by the imposing beauty of George Wright’s home. The octagon pattern of black and white tiles made Molly want to skip from one to the other. The tall ceilings made her dizzy, and the elegant staircase with its low wide steps begged her to dance up and down them.
The history of the house rushed at Molly to greet her. Was this how Josephine would have felt every time she walked through the door? Did her heart skip a beat? Did she dance on the steps with Edith, perhaps? Or had Josephine’s marriage changed everything, and they’d simply moved on from each other as time ceaselessly moved on with the future its only destination.
Molly gazed further along the hallway towards a marble bust of Thomas Cook which rested on a console table. A vase of lilies which bowed their heads as if in reverence of George’s passing had been placed next to the bust and lent the house a sober, contemplative feel.
Georgina nodded towards the lilies. “My father’s housekeeper leaves them.”
“They’re beautiful, and so is your father’s home.” Molly tilted her chin to the ceiling and her hungry gaze feasted upon every ornate feature.
“Yes,” Georgina said into the echo of the hall. “My father was very particular to maintain it.”
“He’s done an awesome job.” Molly’s compliment was met by Georgina’s warm smile that sent a soft flutter like the brush of the wings of butterflies all the way through her.
Georgina cleared her throat. “So, welcome. If you have time—”
“I have time.” She’d answered too quickly, hadn’t she? She should have pretended to check her diary at least.
Georgina laughed and blushed.
Yes, she’d definitely answered too quickly.
“Great. Well then, can I offer you a coffee—or we could even risk a glass of something dusty from my father’s cellar?”
Molly hesitated. A glass of wine? Okay. Why not? But what if she got drunk? I mustn’t get drunk.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Molly,” Georgina quickly said. “Of course, you’re driving. Coffee it is.”
“I could leave Daisy May and take a taxi home. I always try to park her under a street light just in case she doesn’t start. Although I’m not sure how she feels about being top lit.”
Georgina laughed again. “Excellent. Come with me and choose the wine you fancy.”
Molly followed Georgina into the basement. “This is so impressive.” Molly’s gaze fell upon racks custom built into the cellar’s arches and filled with bottles of wine. “Oh, a temperature gauge. This place totally appeals to the geek in me.”
“My father would be pleased to hear that. He was serious about his wine. Wine and work were absolutely his two loves. So we have a dilemma. There are a couple of whites which are cold although not fridge chilled. Let’s grab them anyway. Here.”
Molly took the bottles Georgina handed her.
“And there are loads of reds. Shall I just pick a couple at random?”
“Yes.” Molly laughed. “Random is good.”
“Okay, I’m not going to go for anything too old. I’m afraid I’m yet to be convinced all things improve with age. Of course, I know you’re about to disagree.” A teasing smile played on Georgina’s lips.
Molly hugged the wine bottles against her chest, dreading the thought that she might drop them. “No, I think you’re right. The worst mistake anyone can make is to assume something has value simply because it’s old. I work on the basis that a thing’s value actually comes from what it means to someone.”
Georgina was bending, trying to pick out a bottle from the many confronting her. Molly looked fixedly at the concrete floor determined not to let her gaze wander to somewhere it politely shouldn’t.
Georgina stood up with two bottles in her arms. “Yes, that makes sense. Value, even in my work, is determined by opinion, and those opinions shift with often questionable rationale.” Georgina rested against a rack for a moment. “I am constantly forced to restate positions to those seeking to shift them. Fixing opinions is quite frankly tiring.”
Molly felt the bottles slipping and lifted her knee to hitch the bottles back into her arms. “Oops,” she said. “Okay, all safe again.”
“I’m sorry I’ve strayed on to work and kept you in the cellar. Let’s go, please, after you. The sitting room’s on the left.”
Molly led the way up the stairs. “No, it’s okay, I’m interested in what you were saying.” Everything about Georgina fascinated her. She looked back briefly over her shoulder as she asked, “So what do you do exactly?” Molly braced herself for Georgina to talk about profit margins and capital growth.
“I’m one of a team of people working to develop investment strategies which have strict ethical criteria.” Reaching the hallway, Georgina held the sitting room door open for Molly. “More and more investors want their money to do good while earning them a profit. So we wouldn’t, for example, recommend companies to invest in who deal in arms or are known to damage the environment—that sort of thing. I’m quite strict, which doesn’t always go down well.”
“What you do sounds amazing.”
Georgina rested the bottles of red wine on a small side table by an armchair, and Molly carefully handed Georgina the white wine.
“Thanks. One sec, I’ll just put these in the fridge. Make yourself at home.”
The last thing Molly had expected was mention of ethics when it came to investment banking. Were their values more closely aligned than she had even dared hope for?
“Bottle opener?” Georgina returned and began searching in the sideboard drawers. “I hate awful corks. Thank God for screw tops.”
The surface of the dark wood sideboard was adorned with a beautiful blue ware vase accompanied by two fine Spode figurines of a boy and girl at play. Molly suppressed the impolite urge to touch their smooth cold surfaces and feel their delicate soft weight in her hands. The painting hanging above the sideboard stole Molly’s attention from the china. She moved to stand in front of it to take a closer look. It was a detailed pencil sketch of the square, which seemed to have been composed through the sitting room window.
“It was drawn by my great-grandfather’s brother Hugo a few months before he was called to the front, where he died.”
“Goodness, that’s heartbreaking.”
“I know. It makes you see the sketch differently knowing that, doesn’t it?”
“Yep, the life story behind the painting adds a whole new dimension, as you and I know.”
Georgina nodded and Molly followed Georgina’s gaze across to the far side of the sitting room and the wall which featured the Wright family paintings from the 1800s. Molly’s heart caught at the sight of the empty space where Edith’s painting of Josephine once hung.
Speaking just above a whisper Georgina said, “What do you think happened to her?”
“Edith?”
“Yes.”
“I want to think she went on to love again and lived to a ripe old age campaigning against every human wrong.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“I don’t know.” Molly could not help but turn away dejected by the thought of what they knew about Edith and Josephine, and by the reality of everything they would never know.
In the hope of lifting the mood from reflection to something a little more joyful, Molly said, “I love your father’s furniture. It’s properly gorgeous, and it couldn’t suit the room more.”
Georgina had become distracted again by the hunt for a bottle opener. She scratched her head, frowning and glancing around the room said, “Yes, he had good taste.”
A luxurious red velvet sofa adorned with a decorative throw over one arm and three large overstuffed cushions graced one side of the room. Even the piles of magazines heavy upon it could not diminish its impact. Opposite the sofa, a rich brown leather armchair was positioned by the fireplace to capture the view of the square. The sumptuous furnishings spoke of style and dignity.
The glint of the glass chandelier caught her eye and she stared up at the ornate ceiling rose from which the chandelier hung and instantly thought of Fran and of the parties she described. The room reminded Molly of a grande dame all dressed up in velvet with her jewellery heavy upon her and her talk of days gone by, better days when men were men and wars were real, and she’d danced with the duke all night long and never once tired, upright in his arms.
“This room makes me want to dance.” Molly twirled round with her arms out wide and her gaze catching at the beautiful cornices that framed the ceiling like trims of icing on a cake.
“Let’s just say it doesn’t have that effect on me.” Georgina sounded decidedly unamused. It was like the music stopped. “I may have to nip out and get us some wine after all. Sorry.”
“Oh no, wait—there’s a chance I have a corkscrew thing on a key ring.” Molly rummaged in her bag. “Yes, here you go. Okay, so I know it’s in the shape of a penguin, but you use its wings like this to lift the cork out. It’s very effective.”
Georgina smiled. Molly loved that she could make her smile.
“You’re a lifesaver. Please have a seat. I’m afraid I’ve buried the sofa under a weight of my father’s law journals.” Georgina moved the sales brochure from her father’s chair.
Molly’s heart caught and ached at the sight of the brochure. The house would soon be sold, and the Wright room up and running, and Georgina would be gone with no reason to return.
“You okay?” Georgina asked, frowning a little with her question.
“Yes, although it doesn’t seem very fair that I have the only seat. I have an idea. Here.” Molly proceeded to tug the throw from the sofa. Holding one edge, she flung it into the air for it to spread itself wide and come to rest flat on the floor. She grabbed the cushions, scattering them across the throw. “Ta-da. A picnic. Not that I’m presuming you’re going to feed me.”
“We could eat. I could order in?”
We could? “Yes, I’d love that.”
“Done. What sort of thing do you like?”
“I’m not fussy honestly—there is literally nothing I don’t like.”
“Easy to please, eh?” Georgina said with a teasing tone.
“Nope. Just greedy.”
“How about pizza then? It may be simpler to eat as we’re picnicking.” Smiling, Georgina shook her head. “Right, I need to get us plates, glasses, and napkins.”
“Okey-dokey. While you do that, I’ll order the pizza. I was thinking anchovy, capers, black olives, and red onion, on a margherita base.”
“I’m thinking easy on the capers, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Gotcha,” Molly said. “On reflection, I think you’re right. When I had that combo the other day, it was a little bit salty, and when I say a little bit salty, I’m pretty sure I would have been less thirsty crossing the Gobi Desert.” Molly’s cheeks tingled as Georgina smiled warmly back at her, with amusement dancing in the light of her eyes.
By the time the pizza had arrived it was six thirty and they were halfway through their first bottle of wine.
“Cheers, Molly Goode. Thank you for joining me this evening for this most magnificent picnic.”
“Cheers to you too.” Molly raised her wine glass in the air to glisten in the light from the chandelier. She sat on the throw with her legs crossed, chatting happily away, sharing stories and laughing. Georgina sat on the edge of the throw with her back resting against her father’s armchair with her long legs sprawled out in front of her. She couldn’t have looked more relaxed and more different from the woman Molly had first met, who had stood in the foyer so cold and aloof. Was Georgina’s grief easing just a little? Had her broken heart begun to heal?
While they’d waited for the pizza, Georgina had changed from her work clothes into jeans and a figure-hugging grey T-shirt. She’d apologized that it was her sports T-shirt. Molly hadn’t minded. Not one bit.
Molly bit into her pizza. Don’t stare at her. She must concentrate on something else—something at least vaguely professional. She fixed her gaze instead across to the far wall and to the Wright family paintings, working her way from left to right. “I see what you were saying about the order being odd, and that by right Edith’s watercolour of Josephine should be first. Not only that, there’s something else that’s odd. We have Josephine’s wedding portrait to William, 1833.”
“Yep,” Georgina said. “And then the next is the christening portrait of their second child James, completed in 1838.”
Molly moved to stand with the painting of James’s christening. “So why no painting of the christening of their daughter?” Molly leaned forward to read the inscription, then looked back at Georgina. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”
Georgina shrugged. “Lost, maybe?”
“Maybe.” Molly sighed. Every time she discovered something new or puzzling relating to either Josephine or Edith, it raised questions with no answers. And even when they did have answers of sorts, they didn’t feel completely right. Molly returned to sit on the throw. “You know, even though I remember these paintings from the photos you sent me, they almost look different.” Molly met Georgina’s questioning gaze. “And for some reason, it’s funny—all through our research, I never thought of Josephine as a mum.”
“How do you think of her?” Georgina sat staring at the portrait of Josephine’s wedding day.
“I suppose I think of her as Edith’s partner.”
“Me too. Can I be honest and say I’m struggling to get past the fact that Josephine gave up Edith to marry William Wright. It feels like such a betrayal.” Georgina took another slug of wine tinting the edges of her mouth red.
“Oh, okay.”
“Why do people say they love someone and then betray them?” Georgina turned fully to face Molly. Her expression seemed so serious and earnest. “Why do people do that? And then why would anyone trust love at all?”
Molly’s chest tightened at the intensity of Georgina’s unexpected question. She gripped the stem of her wine glass. “Surely not everyone’s like that.”
“Yes, but enough people.”
Molly delicately said, “Yes, but equally enough people don’t.”
“And it’s the people you least expect it from.” Georgina drained her wine glass dry.
Molly didn’t know what to say. Was Georgina speaking from personal experience? Was this about her parents, or had someone cheated on her?
“I’m sorry Molly—I’m rambling, and I’m being maudlin. It’s the wine talking. And tiredness. Booze and fatigue equals nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense. It’s how you feel.” Molly shrugged. “Perhaps I should go home and let you get some rest.”
“No, really, I’m fine. Unless you want to go?”
Molly shook her head. “No. I’m having a lovely time. Thank you.”
Georgina’s tired eyes shone. “Good. Me too.”
Molly lay down on the throw, tucked her cushion under her head, and stared up to the ceiling at the glinting chandelier. “If I lived here, I would do this every night. Lie here looking up and letting all my worries dissolve into the sparkling light.”
Without another word Georgina moved across and lay next to Molly, and they fell silent staring up at the ceiling together.
Georgina’s arm rested next to Molly’s. Oh my God. It was pure agony for Molly for their bodies to be so close. It was sugar on her lips that she couldn’t lick. It was the tickling tear she couldn’t wipe away. It was the empty water glass on a sun-drenched day. It was everything she wanted and nothing she could have.
Fantasies hot and urgent rushed in to torture her. In her fantasy Georgina was leaning over kissing her, moving her body on top of hers with her hair falling against her cheek and neck. Why? Why? What was Georgina thinking, to lie so close? But that was just it. Georgina wasn’t thinking anything, was she? It was just her being sexually frustrated and a complete fool.
Molly sat up, resettling herself to sit on her cushion. She needed to distract herself. She needed to think of something to say. She stared across at the paintings once again. She cleared her throat and asked, “It must be hard to see your family’s artwork leave this house after so many years.”
Georgina turned onto her side and leaned up on her elbow with her head resting in her palm. “Yes and no. We had no choice, of course, but to address my father’s inheritance tax bill, and gifting his artworks helped with that. But for me”—Georgina sat up and turned herself to face Molly—“it was more that when my father first mentioned his wish to see his art and the foundation’s collection on public display, I simply agreed with his decision. It made sense. The collection should be enjoyed by many, and in any case, there’d be simply no point to me inheriting it.”
No point? “In what way? I’m sorry—I’m being nosy. It’s none of my business.”
“That’s okay. In truth, art’s not really my thing, and in any case I just can’t envisage myself…” Georgina looked down.
“Please, like I said, you don’t have to explain.”
“I don’t know how much you’ve sensed…”
Molly held her breath. Just a moment ago she’d sensed quite a lot.
Georgina said quietly, “It’s just, well, I’m gay.”
Molly’s heart skipped a beat with uncontrollable joy. “That’s great news.” That’s great news? Georgina looked up. What possessed her to say that? “I mean, great news you felt you could tell me. And as it happens, I’m gay too. Want to risk more wine?” Before Georgina could reply, Molly scrambled from the floor, grabbed both glasses, and refilled them. “Here you go. So cheers to that.” Molly drank down her glass until the fumes of the peppery red overwhelmed her and made her cough.
Georgina laughed. “Cheers. So you’re not dating anyone at the moment then?”
“Nope. I am officially clueless when it comes to dating. Come to think of it, that might explain why I’ve been single for a year now. But despite everything, I still hold out hope that I will one day meet the one.” Could she ask Georgina the same question? Was Georgina looking for her one too? Oh, bugger it, why not. “How about you? Oh, and by the way, being gay doesn’t mean you won’t start a family and have lots of little Wrights running around to inherit the Wright dynasty, if that’s what you were implying a moment ago.”
Georgina shook her head and looked at the floor once more. “I know. It’s not that. It’s, frankly, I’m not great with emotions.” Molly heard the sad blankness in Georgina’s reply. “I struggle to let people in, and that’s not great for relationships. To be honest, I try not to think about it. Work and—funnily enough—wine help with the not thinking.” She took a large mouthful of wine as if to underline her point.
Okay. No more questions. “Understood, no thinking. Let’s change the subject.” The last thing Molly wanted to do was change the subject.
“I’m surprised you find dating hard. You seem very open.” Georgina tilted her head and stared at Molly. Clearly Georgina didn’t want their chat to stray too far from them either.
“Yep, I inherited my friendly gene from my mum. Honestly when I was a kid, we couldn’t actually make it down the street without my mum stopping and chatting to someone. I remember this one time we had ten people for Sunday lunch. I only knew half of them. My poor dad just stood confused, carving the chicken as thinly as he could. They were so trusting. Looking back, I thank them that they helped me to see the good in people first, you know?”
Georgina nodded. “I’m thankful that I don’t seem to possess any of my mother’s genes.” She moved once more to rest with her back against her father’s chair and sat hugging her knees to her chest.
Molly didn’t say anything. After all, what could she say to that?
“I’m sorry—I’ve managed to make you feel uncomfortable again. I seem to have a gift for it. Georgina Wright. Skills: investment banking and mood devastation.”
“I’m not devastated. Actually I’m very comfortable.” Molly returned to lying on her back. “Apparently, you’re meant to tuck your shoulder blades under to lie properly.”
“You do yoga?”
“Well, remember you once asked me whether I ran?”
Georgina laughed. It was a proper full wholehearted laugh. Had talking helped?
“I went to one class,” Molly said. “We got to the pelvic floor exercises, and well, let’s just say I embarrassed myself. I couldn’t go back.”
Georgina was wiping at her eyes and smiling broadly. “All that clenching and releasing, eh?”
“Uh-huh.” Molly burst into laughter, joined again by Georgina.
It was nearing midnight before they managed to say anything without laughing and when the second bottle of wine ran out. Molly reluctantly moved to leave. “I should go home. That is, if I can stand.”
“Here, I’ve got you.” Georgina pulled Molly up from the floor and their bodies pressed unsteadily together. “I’ll call you a taxi.”
Molly stood at the window with Georgina waiting for the headlights of the taxi.
“The square’s so quiet, isn’t it?” Georgina looked out to Daisy May. “Daisy May will sleep well.”
“My sense is that she’s a fitful sleeper given that she’s not great first thing.”
“I know how she feels. I’ll be lucky to get a few hours.”
“Really?” Molly wanted to ask why, but then it was late, and she’d pried enough, hadn’t she? “Well, you’ve got Daisy May to keep you company. Oh, headlights.”
At the door Molly pulled on her coat.
“Let me pay for your taxi. I’m the one who plied you with alcohol and kept you up this late.”
“And I’m the one who hasn’t minded one bit. So thank you, but no thank you.” Georgina was standing so close that she could feel the heat of Georgina’s body against hers. She looked up into Georgina’s eyes, and if her own eyes could speak she wished they would say, You can kiss me if you want.
“Goodnight, Molly.”
“Goodnight.” Molly opened the door. Oh, bugger it. She turned quickly and leaned up and kissed Georgina on the cheek. And with that she skipped down the steps and climbed into the taxi.
Molly woke the next morning with excitement bubbling over into laughter. What a night it had been and how crazy that she couldn’t even remember the journey home or taking off her coat or shoes. She glanced at her phone resting at her side and her heart flooded with delight as she recalled the email she had sent from her bed to Georgina, saying, I had a fabulous evening. Thank you. And how could she ever forget that Georgina had replied, Me too X