The following fortnight went by in a blur. No sooner had the estate agents dropped off the keys to the house, than Evelyn had scheduled a date less than a week later for the transfer of George’s collection to the museum.
Dazed, Molly couldn’t quite believe that this important step had been achieved. She’d sent a text to Georgina to ask how she felt and if she was okay. She replied, Absolutely fine and really looking forward to seeing you.
Evelyn had been so utterly consumed on first hearing of the imminent receipt of George’s art, that she had not even blinked at Molly’s request to attend the evening at the National Portrait Gallery. Evelyn’s distracted words of advice—to take the opportunity to network and to mention in conversation the museum’s ambitious program and the strength of its collections—had done nothing to settle Molly’s nerves.
How quickly the day arrived for her to go to London. She couldn’t have felt less prepared or, for that matter, more excited.
Her heart raced as she stepped off the train and hurried along the platform at St. Pancras Station onto the escalator that led her down to the main concourse and towards the exit onto Euston Road. She stared up in wonder at the beautiful glazing and ironwork arches that formed the station roof. The renovated red-brick Victorian building was simply awesome. It was always thrilling to arrive in London.
The air was a heady blend of diesel, food, and coffee. People gathered on the concourse in groups talking loudly and urgently in languages she half recognized. Others knocked past her, hurrying in a purposeful, intense way with their eyes fixed beyond to their direction of travel. And she was part of the hustle and bustle and energy that bristled in the air.
The large round station clock reminded her that time was tight. The train had been delayed by fifteen minutes. It was six o’clock. If she didn’t loiter, she should be okay. But there was so much to see and so much to catch her eye and delay her.
But she was determined not to be late. Not today. Not for Georgina.
When she emerged from the station, a fine mist of rain dampened her hair and cheeks, and the lights of passing traffic lit the dew sparkling on her glasses. She half ran towards a waiting black cab and climbed in.
“Where to, love?” The cab driver turned off his light.
“National Portrait Gallery, please. I’m going to a function there.” Molly’s heart all but burst with pride.
“Right you are, then.” The driver weaved his way through the streets, past wobbling cyclists and hissing buses. The reflection of streetlights streamed up and over the shiny black bonnet in a riotous river of colour.
The closer she got to the gallery, the faster the beat of her heart. Would she say the right things to the right people? Could she make Georgina proud? Would people wonder why she had been invited? Would Georgina regret inviting her—the local girl, so out of place in London and so out of place in Georgina Wright’s life? Why on earth was she there?
By the time the taxi drew up outside the gallery, Molly could hardly catch her breath. Attempts to deep breathe were faltered by the sight of the imposing Portland stone facade looming up with its inset pillars and arches so synonymous with the iconography of London. The setting, in every way the heart of cultural power, never failed to send chills right through to her core. She leaned forward as the taxi braked to a halt and paid her fare.
“Ta, darlin’. Have a good one.”
“Thank you. I hope to.”
She opened the door, struggling at first to find the handle. As she stepped onto the street, she looked up to see through the drizzle of rain a figure walking with an umbrella towards her. Georgina?
“Molly, hi,” Georgina said, with a warm confidence to her voice. “I’m so sorry—what awful weather to have to contend with.”
“Hi. It’s okay. Thanks for meeting me and indeed for getting wet for me.” Did I just say that? Molly let out an embarrassed giggle. “I’ve been in your company for literally a second and I’ve already lowered the tone.”
Georgina laughed and leaned in to Molly’s ear. “It’s my pleasure. Let’s go inside.”
Molly tucked in close to Georgina, her shoulder pressing against Georgina’s side. They hurried up the steps under the entrance’s arched doorway adorned with a heraldic coat of arms.
When they reached the porch, Georgina shook the rain from the brolly and, closing it, said, “After you.” She held her arm out towards a revolving door.
There were two things in life Molly hated above all things. Injustice and revolving doors. Georgina must have seen her hesitate as she quickly opened the side door. “Just as quick,” she kindly said.
“I literally have nightmares about them. In one, it won’t stop, and I am left like a hamster on a wheel for hours running in circles.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yes, I know. And in the other—”
“I’m sorry, one moment. Jeremy, hi.” Georgina shook the hand of a tall man in a sharp suit with hair so immaculate it looked like it was sprayed on. His floral cologne engulfed them in an aroma of wild flowers.
“Georgina. Hello.” Jeremy’s cheeks flushed pink. Clearly, not just women felt the impact of Georgina Wright.
“The Oberons are running late. I would like us to wait for them. Please let the speaker know,” Georgina said without dropping a beat. “I would also like a quick word with the de Clancys this evening, if you can wrestle them free from Martin.”
And with a nod the man was gone.
“Sorry, Molly. You were saying?”
Molly’s heart sank. Soon the reception would draw Georgina completely from her and she would be left standing in a corner with just a glass of warm white wine and a wilting crudité for company.
Molly shook her head. “Oh no, you don’t want to hear my silly stories.” She shrugged her coat from her shoulders, and before both arms were released from their sleeves, a young man was at her side offering to hang it up for her. “Thank you.” The man headed towards what she hoped was the cloakroom with both their coats and Georgina’s brolly.
“You look beautiful,” Georgina said.
Molly turned to find Georgina smiling at her. She looked down at her sleeveless little black dress and adjusted the large bow of the bright yellow scarf tied at the side of her neck. “Do I look like a sunflower?”
Georgina laughed. “Not at all. You look very arty. In other words, like you belong. You are perfect.”
Perfect? “You look beautiful too.” Molly’s cheeks tingled with the exchange of compliments that meant so much.
“Thank you. In truth, I’ve come from work. I figured a suit’s a suit.”
A suit’s a suit? Did she not know how hot she looked? Everything about Georgina was tailored and refined, as usual. A crisp white shirt set off her blue pinstriped jacket and trousers cut to perfection and worn with an upright ease. She was quite simply dreamy.
“Let’s find the reception.” Georgina glanced around the space. “We’re in the Lerner Gallery for drinks and to take in the modern artwork, and then of course we have the lecture followed by the Cezanne exhibition.”
Molly walked by Georgina’s side. “I’m really excited, although please forgive my lack of preparation as work has been hectic.”
“Forgiven. And dinner, I am led to understand, will be in the Weldon Galleries.”
Molly slowed to ask, “The Weldon Galleries?”
“Yes. I take it from your wow expression that’s impressive.”
“Have you never been?”
“Nope.”
“It’s an awesome gallery with this beautiful silk wallpaper, but they’re also the Regency galleries. We’ll be dining in the company of reformers and abolitionists. The very people Edith and Josephine campaigned with. I think we can safely say they would have approved.”
“Excellent. Meant to be, then?”
Molly nodded. “Yes.” Everything about being with Georgina felt meant to be.
“Georgina, the Oberons have arrived.” Jeremy reappeared gesturing discreetly to an elderly couple who were looking around, rather lost.
“I understand if you have to leave to mingle,” Molly said, trying her best to sound self-sufficient and nonchalant. “To network.”
“Thank you. Although ask anyone who works with me—I am not usually one for small talk. I’ve been client manager for the Oberons and the de Clancys for several years now. I brought them with me from Schroders. They have put a lot of trust in me, so to ignore them would be unforgivable.”
“Absolutely.”
“As for others”—Georgina glanced around the room—“I’m pretty sure I’ll be more successful at engaging with them with you by my side.”
Molly felt a pinch of hurt. Was that the only reason she invited her? She wanted someone arty by her side to be able to quote art to impress her clients?
“And particularly here.” Molly looked down.
“Particularly anywhere,” Georgina said with a quiet certainty to her voice.
Molly looked up at the sensation of Georgina’s hand resting softly on her arm.
“So if you can bear it at all, Molly Goode, I shall leave your side as little as possible.”
Delight and relief surged within her, spilling over into a smile at her lips. “I think I can just about bear it.”
“Phew. I’ll say hello to the Oberons, and then I’ll grab us both a drink. Champagne?”
“Definitely.” Molly laughed with Georgina and saw her joy reflected back in Georgina’s eyes.
“I won’t be a moment.”
In that instant, it almost seemed as if Georgina would kiss her, as a lover kisses—goodbye for now.
But Georgina looked away to the Oberons and Molly quickly gathered herself to say, “Go.”
Georgina greeted the Oberons with genuine warmth and affection, and their faces lit up. Molly felt so proud to be in the company—no, the guest—of someone who could have that effect on another human being.
With exquisite happiness, Molly casually wandered around the Lerner Gallery. She paused briefly at each contemporary portrait of a famous face hung against the stark white walls. The sitters stared back at her spotlighted, as if in shock by the glare of the track lighting above. The painted out arches that divided each viewing space ensured that the clean lines of now remained crisp and uncluttered by the architecture of then, unfettered by the tangled past.
In one corner of the space dedicated to self-portraits, Molly’s attention was drawn to a painting of a woman at an easel. The woman wore an artist’s smock and had her hair gathered loosely under a headscarf. Behind her was a sleeping child, tucked up in a wicker chair. It was entitled “Artiste, Mere, Femme.” Molly leaned in closer to read the signature. Lydia Wright?
“One out of three may be correct.” Georgina handed Molly her drink and a small plate of nibbles. “Here. I bring champagne and a pastry filled with something herby and lovely. Although I have no idea what it is.” She stared with a blank expression at the painting. “My mother painted it.”
“Then…is that you?” Molly studied Georgina to compare the child Georgina and the woman in front of her, so impressive, so grown up.
Georgina glumly nodded. “I suspect it will be the closest you’ll get to meeting my mother. The painting was done at the villa in the south of France. When they divorced, my mother got the villa and my father the art. I was the only one left with nothing.”
Molly didn’t quite know what to say. She tentatively suggested, “The painting has a real sense of place. It has a distinctly French feel about it.”
“I rather think it has a pretentious feel. But then everything about her was a pretence after all.”
Georgina looked so sad. That was it. She would never mention Lydia Wright again.
“Look, the Queen, over there.” Molly pointed to the far corner of the room.
Georgina turned away from the painting and Molly stole the last pastry from Georgina’s plate. She shrugged at Georgina’s amused if indignant expression. “Snooze, you lose. I’m pretty sure the herby loveliness is lambs lettuce spiked with chervil.”
“And I’m pretty sure I’m never taking my eye off my plate again.”
“Very wise.” Molly could see the light had returned to Georgina’s eyes. The next half an hour or so with Cezanne would surely snuff it out again. “Do you think your clients would notice if we skipped the talk?”
“More to the point, would you mind? You said you were excited by it.”
“I can see it another time. And we can always sneak in for the end.”
“Then I have an idea. Just a sec.” Georgina moved towards the other side of the gallery and began speaking to one of the staff who looked across at Molly before seeming to agree to something.
“Molly. Molly Goode? I thought it was you.”
Molly turned round, straight into the puzzled face of Erica Bell. Erica was dressed all in black. She looked like a night burglar. All she lacked was a mask and a bag marked swag. Her hair was slicked back and her lips pinched in a shade of lipstick no doubt called Deadly Red.
“Erica?”
Erica laughed. “You’ve gone quite pale. Do you need to sit?”
For some reason Erica carried on laughing. Molly had no idea what was so funny. Erica obviously felt no shame or guilt or anything, it would seem.
“So what on earth brings you to London on a Wednesday evening? Has your little museum loaned something? How sweet.”
“No.”
“Oh, that makes more sense, after all space on these walls is quite in demand. Have you seen Tracey’s latest?”
“Tracey Emin? Her ‘Death Mask’? Very briefly, yes.”
“And what did you think? I’ve just told her she’s quite the genius.”
“She’s here tonight?” Molly looked at the few remaining people as they made their way into the lecture theatre.
“Yes, somewhere. I’m not sure how long she’ll stay for. She nipped out for a fag, but in fact it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s gone. Ooh, is that Georgina Wright? Now she’s an elusive one. She’s taken over as head of the Wright Foundation. It never hurts to make an ally of a funder. And of course her mother is Lydia Wright, tortured nearly famous artist and influencer in the art world even today. We had a go at wooing the dashing Georgina Wright a few months back. I even had a colleague attend her father’s funeral. To no avail.” Erica waved in Georgina’s direction.
“Funny you should say that…” Molly paused as Georgina returned to her.
Erica held out her hand. “Georgina Wright? Erica Bell, of Bell and Co. We deal out of St. James’s. May I say how sorry I was to learn of your father’s death. In fact I believe you recently met a colleague of mine at your father’s funeral.”
Georgina shook Erica’s hand. “I can’t say I remember.”
Molly leaned slightly into Georgina and whispered, “My ex.”
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.