Molly was always late, or at least that’s how it always felt. So much so she had taken to rushing as her default speed of travel. Hurry, hurry. As she all but ran down the stairs, sparks of excitement tingled on her skin at the thought that someone had brought a painting to the museum. She liked to try to imagine what the work could be and the story it would tell and to anticipate who might be waiting for her.
As she reached the final few steps, she could see a tall elegant woman holding a bubble wrapped painting at her side striding confidently across the foyer towards the reception. Whatever Molly had expected, it wasn’t her. The woman glanced over at her, and if she was not mistaken, she saw a glimpse of recognition in the woman’s eyes. Had they met before?
Molly skidded to a stop in front of the reception desk.
“Hi, Fred.” Molly dumped a pile of folders onto the reception desk before resting her palm on her chest to catch her breath. “Can you give these to Fran? She’ll be down a little later for them. And hello there.” Molly turned to the visitor. “How can I…help?” She hadn’t meant to stare. She just found she couldn’t look away.
The woman was somewhere in her late twenties, early thirties perhaps. Her chestnut hair was shaped into a loose bob. One ear was exposed, and she’d tucked a loop of hair behind it in a manner that was informal and yet precise. Her long face with balanced, refined features had a noble quality to it that suggested a hereditary ease to her beauty. Her tailored dark grey suit hugged every inch of her perfectly toned body. Everything was in exquisite order. Was she real? It was almost impossible not to reach out and touch her.
Molly quickly closed her mouth. What must this woman think of her? Staring and all but drooling like a fool. She needed to say something. Quickly.
Molly stumbled over her words to continue, “I have had one of those days. I was late, for starters.” Molly shook her head. “I don’t know about you, but I find that starts the day all wrong. And then I had an awful meeting. Oh my God. Oh, and to top it all, I sat on Fran, my colleague’s, sandwich.” Fred laughed. “It’s not funny. Well, okay, it’s a little bit funny. And I’d woken up to birds singing, and it had been such a beautiful morning. And the church across the way from me seemed to glow. Really, it was in every way a daybreak to match Monet’s Rouen Cathedral captured in the morning light.”
The woman visibly tensed. She stared intently at Molly without betraying a flicker of expression. “I’m not familiar with the work.” In an instant the coldness of the woman’s reply frosted their chat to brittle fragments.
“Oh, I’m sure you’d like it,” Molly said. “He was such a wonderful painter—”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but will this take long?” The woman directed this question at Fred. “It’s just I was hoping that someone at the museum could take a look at my painting today.”
Molly said, “Well, that someone would be me. I’m the fine art curator here.” Molly thought it best to try and manage a smile of sorts.
The woman looked down at the painting by her side before returning a concerned look at Molly. She couldn’t have gripped the painting any tighter.
Stifling a rising sense of offence, Molly explained, “We don’t, as a rule, I’m afraid, simply take objects from the public.” The woman’s cheeks flushed at the phrase the public. “You will need to complete an object entry form. This is standard procedure across all museums to help us to properly assess your offer or request—”
The woman shook her head. “I’m not offering you anything. I just need someone who knows what they’re looking at to assist with ascertaining the provenance of this work.”
Someone who knows what they’re looking at? Well, frosty knickers, how about someone with a masters in art history and curating. How about top of their class. How about you stick that up…“Oh no, of course, I’m not presuming that you’re offering this work to the museum. It’s just the object entry form is the first stage for all inquiries of this type.” Molly looked at Fred for support. Fred looked at her blankly, prompting her to ask, “Could I have an object entry form, please, Fred?”
Fred rummaged around and then Molly joined in, leaning over the reception desk, her bottom in the air, her feet just touching the floor.
Molly tried to focus on finding the form rather than on her awareness that the woman was once again staring at her. What was it about her that the woman was finding so curious? The scrutiny was unnerving. Maybe her summer dress looked out of place in September. Oh my God. Had she remembered to shave her legs?
“I’m sorry, we appear to have run out of forms.” Slightly breathless, Molly leaned yet further forward. “I’ll ask Fred to pop upstairs and photocopy some.”
“Look, please don’t bother,” the woman said, with unguarded frustration. “Is Evelyn Fox available? A little later today perhaps?”
“Evelyn?” Molly quickly slipped down from the desk and turned to face the woman once again. “I’ll need to check with her secretary, but Evelyn doesn’t tend to get involved at this stage—”
“On balance I think it’s best I make an appointment with Evelyn myself. Thank you for your time.”
Utterly confused, Molly simply nodded in reply. She watched the upright figure of the most baffling woman in the world walk towards the sliding doors that led outside. How could someone so beautiful be so cold?
“Georgina!”
Molly turned at Evelyn’s voice to see her quickly walking towards the door, her arms wide in a gesture of evident surprise and welcome.
Georgina—where had she heard that name? Molly watched as Evelyn air-kissed Georgina’s cheeks. Was that…? “You don’t suppose that’s Georgina Wright, do you, Fred?”
Fred blurted out, “Georgina Wright—that’s it. Yes, I thought I recognized her face.”
“You’ve met her before?” Molly asked, intrigued.
“Not exactly. There was a drinks reception about a year ago. She accompanied her father. I remember now, she seemed uncomfortable, like she wanted to leave before she got here.”
Molly stared at Georgina, watching as the striking woman stiffened with Evelyn’s embrace. Georgina seemed to be explaining something to Evelyn.
“Have you ever wanted to be able to lip read?” Molly strained to hear what Georgina and Evelyn were discussing.
“Never had the need. I can hear my wife’s dulcet tones from two streets away.”
“Right.” Molly nodded, half listening to Fred, half not.
Her heart began to race as Georgina and Evelyn were both looking at the painting. Should she have made an exception and just taken the painting for assessment, as it was Georgina Wright? But then, how was she to know it was her? The woman hadn’t given her name. Although, was that because she hadn’t introduced herself? She should have introduced herself. She should have shaken her hand. But then there was nothing about the woman’s demeanour that invited a handshake or, for that matter, conversation at all.
Evelyn cast Molly a look. It wasn’t a good look.
Molly looked away, pretending not to notice as Evelyn led Georgina past reception up the stairs, no doubt to her office with the fresh air and the light and the cultural oeuvre she was certain would impress Georgina Wright.
“You okay, Molly?” Fred asked. “It’s just, you’ve gone quite pale.”
“What? Yes, I’m fine. Absolutely. I’ll ask Fran to bring you some forms when she collects the files.”
Molly lingered in reception, giving them plenty of time to have reached Evelyn’s office. Ten minutes later she climbed the stairs, still consumed in thought as to why Evelyn seemed so cross with her. As she rounded the corner into the corridor, she collided straight into a hurrying Georgina Wright. Their bodies met with a bump. Molly’s soft curves pressed momentarily against Georgina’s firm frame.
“I’m sorry,” Molly said, breathing heavily. “My fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” She then moved in the same direction at the same time as Georgina. “Oops.” Molly giggled. She risked a glance at Georgina’s face. She thought she saw her smile, but then it had passed so quickly she couldn’t be sure.
“After you,” Georgina said, without emotion or expression.
“Thanks.”
Molly stepped aside, and then without another word, Georgina Wright was gone.
* * *
“First impressions, Molly. We only have one chance to make a first impression.” Evelyn was standing with her back to Molly looking out the window. Her corner office commanded views of both the square and the front of the museum, enabling her to survey all around her like a captain at the helm of an ocean liner.
Evelyn had called Molly in to her office just as she was leaving for home. Molly had only just put on her coat and was endeavouring to slip an arm out but every time Evelyn turned around Molly froze in her seat. She felt in every way trapped.
Molly glanced at the painting resting on Evelyn’s desk. She recognized it as the painting Georgina Wright had brought to the museum. It had been partially unwrapped. She could just make out the features of a woman—her red lips, the gentle brush of watercolour defining cheek and chin and neck.
“The painter is unknown.” Evelyn’s voice startled Molly.
“Oh, I see.”
“As you know, Georgina Wright, of the Wright Foundation, visited the museum this afternoon. If you recall we spoke about Georgina this morning.” Molly nodded. “She wants to find out more about this work, in particular who painted it, for what occasion—the usual sort of thing. It belongs to her father. Well, belonged to her father, I should say. She was surprised to find that it wasn’t included in the bequest. I don’t know whether it’s a value question or a sentimental question—either way, we need to find an answer for her.” Evelyn took her seat opposite Molly. “This is just the opportunity we have been waiting for, even better than I hoped, because it gives us a natural way in to broach the subject of the Wright room. I did not mention our plans. I didn’t even remind her of the awaited bequeathed works. No. This is something I want you to do. Here is your chance to bond with Georgina and to build new alliances with the Wright Foundation going forward.” Evelyn paused. “I’m just going to say this once. Where Georgina Wright is concerned there are no forms, no procedures, no…barriers between her and us. Is that understood?”
Molly’s cheeks burned and her chest tightened. She nodded. “Absolutely. No barriers. Understood.” In an attempt to move their conversation away from how useless she clearly was, Molly asked, “Does she know who the sitter is or when it was painted?”
“The sitter, she is certain, is her distant relative Josephine Wright, or Brancaster as was her maiden name, and this is confirmed by the engraving on the frame.” Evelyn leaned forward, slipped her glasses on, and carefully teased back some more of the painting’s wrapping. “Yes, just there on the bottom right, which also records the date 1832. Certainly I would hazard the frame dates from that time.”
“Okay, great. I’ll see what I can find out.” Molly moved to stand.
“Please sit.” Evelyn leaned back in her chair and tilted her head, as if to study Molly. “Georgina and I didn’t really talk that much about the painting. As it happened our brief conversation turned to you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You see, I suggested that I would be asking you to work with her on this particular research, and I got the sense that, well, she seemed to hesitate at my suggestion, almost as if she was uncomfortable with the idea.”
“Uncomfortable?”
“Yes.” Evelyn’s eyes drifted up and down taking her in. It felt like she was being read, like a book. “Have you any idea why?”
“No. We’ve never met before. I mean, she doesn’t know me—”
“And there’s the point. We only get one chance to make a good first impression.” Molly opened her mouth to speak. Evelyn raised her hand. “I want you to learn from your encounter with Georgina Wright. I want you to practice exuding confidence, oozing capableness, embodying professionalism.”
What the chuff? “I was trying to help her.”
“When people come to a museum, they are not looking for help—one can get that anywhere. They are seeking authority.” Evelyn fixed both her stare and her next question with a pointed aim. “How old are you?”
“How old? I’m twenty-six.” Molly had no idea where their conversation was headed but it was certainly a destination she had no wish to visit. She cast an eye at the door. Any possibility of escape seemed hopeless.
Evelyn sat forward and perched on the edge of her seat. “Twenty-six. Yes, that’s what I thought. This is a pivotal time for you.”
Molly swallowed. “It is?”
“Yes. In my experience young curators’ careers diverge at just the stage you are at. They all have potential, Molly. It is not a question of background, or intelligence, or even work history.”
Evelyn was looking her up and down again. Molly folded her arms, hoping they would somehow protect her from Evelyn’s scrutiny. Evelyn’s intense gaze broke and dispersed as she sat back in her chair.
“The difference between mediocrity and superiority are two things. Poise and preparation.” Molly wondered whether she should be taking notes. “Give nothing away of your emotions, Molly, unruffled, shoulders back, chin lifted with a quiet certainty.” Molly lifted her chin slightly. “You will enter a room with a poise that suggests that no conversation or encounter will fluster you. And you should always know who you are talking to before you begin to speak.”
Molly winced at the thought of how unprepared she would have seemed in front of Georgina Wright. No forms. No handshake. No—
“Allow your preparation to anticipate the content of the discussion. For it is the detail of what you say that will mark you out and that will speak of your authority. Do you understand?”
Molly sat staring at her hands tucked in her lap. “Yes.” She had never felt so humiliated.
“Do not look so despondent. I am giving you a second chance to make a good impression for yourself and for the museum. You see, I still believe you can win Georgina over. I want you to do everything you can to secure the support of the Wright Foundation. I have absolute faith in you.”
“But you just said she didn’t want to work with me.”
“No, I said she seemed uncomfortable with the idea. Georgina left my office with my reassurance that there was no better person available to me right now than you.”
Available to you? It was somehow always difficult to find the compliment in Evelyn’s praise.
“So I’ll see you Monday. Come to my office, say mid-morning, with a plan. Goodnight.” Evelyn stood and opened her door.
The meeting was over and so, Molly concluded, was her career.
On returning home, Molly sat slumped at her kitchen table, nursing a glass of red wine. She gave a heavy sigh at the sight of her forgotten meeting notes. She opened the paper weight cum jar of peanut butter and stuck a spoon in, scooping out a large curl of salty comfort. She repeated this action several times, interspersing them with large mouthfuls of Malbec.
Thank God she was home. Her day began crappy and ended even crappier. Yes, this was officially a crap day.
She took another scoop of peanut butter. She could hear Evelyn. I still believe that you can win Georgina over. Maybe she didn’t want to win her over. Maybe she didn’t care. Who was she kidding—of course she cared. But about her job and the museum, certainly not about what Georgina Wright thought. No way. Who did she think she was? How dared she pass judgement like that?
She kicked off her sandals and ran her hands down her legs. Smooth. Then what was she staring at?
What’s more how dared that stuck-up woman make her feel so small, and in front of her boss? Who did that? What on earth did she say about her that gave Evelyn the impression that she was uncomfortable working with her? And why shouldn’t she fill in forms like everyone else? And she could keep her hotness to herself. No one at this table was impressed. No, sir. So she was beautiful. Big deal. And lots of women wore a suit really well. You just had to be tall and toned. Molly took a large mouthful of wine. And firm and strong and unyielding. She’d smiled, hadn’t she, when they collided? Oh my God. Stop. She was the enemy, and Molly would defeat her with her astonishing plan of brilliance. Once she had one of course.
She reached into her bag for her laptop and typed in the words Josephine Brancaster, 1800s. At least, she’d meant to type that. Instead her fingers found the letters that formed the name Georgina Wright. She sat staring at the list of results.
After eliminating those that suggested she played the ukulele or cared for endangered rhinos or taught at St. Joseph’s primary school, Molly found an entry that read: Georgina Wright, Senior Strategist, UK portfolio, Investment Manager, Staithe Street Investment Group. Money. She was certain that would be her.
She clicked on the summary and was directed to the profile of Georgina. Economics first degree from LSE. Early career for Citigroup bank. A brief flirtation with Schroders before developing her resume and reputation with Staithe Street. She was based out of London and was as formidable on paper as she was in person. Wow.
Molly took a deep breath. Georgina somehow managed to make the tiny thumbnail photo look like a magazine advert. She was perfect. Her smile was warm and sincere, and she conveyed an effortless sense of poise and stature. There was something else. It was a natural confidence. Yes, that was it. Everything was safe in her capable hands. Stop thinking about her capable hands.
Molly refilled her glass. Although, wait, did she look happier in this shot than when they’d met, or less tired, perhaps? Her eyes definitely had more light in them in this picture. Come to think of it, these were kind eyes that peculiarly didn’t match the behaviour of the woman she met that morning. But then, she’d just not long lost her father, hadn’t she? She must feel so sad. It might be why she was so cold. Yes, that made sense.
Maybe she should cut her some slack. Could it have been that Evelyn had also misread her? Maybe Georgina hadn’t been uncomfortable with the thought of working with her at all. She would probably never know for sure.
What she did know, however, was that she had to prepare a plan for the painting for Monday, and unless she wanted to be working on it all weekend, she needed to make a start.
She stared one last time at Georgina Wright’s photo, pausing to wonder whether being that good-looking was a burden, before closing the page’s tab and typing Josephine Brancaster, 1800s.