curls with her fingers and shot a sweet glance toward me. ‘I think if you look closely I’m much more like Camille.’
Francine’s gaze rested on Rachael’s art portfolio balanced atop the Arnott’s tin and the rest of our luggage; a mixed look of déjà vu and dread crossed her face. I turned to Rachael and felt a stab of guilt. Fresh-faced, innocent and eager, a young girl presents her precious oeuvre to a revered aunt: a woman who rips away dreams like adhesive tape from the skin.
Without an invitation, Rachael wandered off into the apartment. Her voice rang through the hallway. ‘Oh, wow, this is stunning!’
Francine raised her eyebrow and I felt myself reel. She told me we would be staying in the guest room and that she had tea ready for us in the salon. I dragged our suitcases into the hall.
Rachael returned and picked up the Arnott’s tin. ‘So what do you want me to do with these?’
Francine blinked at the tin held together with masking tape, her eyes narrowing, awareness flooding her face. ‘A biscuit tin?’
That was rich coming from the woman who hadn’t spoken to her sister in years. I hoisted my laptop bag over my shoulder, wondering if things were going to kick off already. ‘It was all we could manage.’
Francine took the tin. ‘I’ll find something more . . . appropriate.’
You’re a bit late
, I wanted to say, but bit my tongue. I followed her camel-coloured slacks and cream Italian loafers into the salon.
Rachael was staring at a small pig with feathered wings inside a glass tank – one of the many contemporary artworks on display. ‘That guy is laughing all the way to the bank,’ she said before moving on to the mantelpiece, where a fresh arrangement of white lilies had been placed. Above the white open petals and the yellow stamen, in a gilt-edged frame, hung a pastel of a ballet dancer, holding a bouquet of flowers, bowing to the audience.
Rachael spun around. ‘Holy shit it’s a Degas!’
Francine smiled modestly. ‘It’s pronounced
Dega
, my dear. The “s” is silent.’
‘Dega, then. OMG, you have a DEGA!’
I glared at Francine, looking for some kind of acknowledgement, some hint that she knew that I knew that the famous picture had hung in my mother’s room when she was a young girl. But Francine simply closed her eyes over the rim of her cup.
Rachael held her nose up close to the painting, ‘This is just . . . I’m speechless. How do you. . .?’ She glanced over her shoulder at Francine.
‘My parents bought it many years ago. Those who adore Degas –’ she paused ‘– call him the artist’s artist. Mind you, he was an old misanthrope and a dreadful anti-Semite, but one can’t get past his brilliant draftsmanship.’
‘I love his nude series, the way the women aren’t aware of the viewer – their poses are so natural. Like they’ve been caught unawares.’
I listened to Rachael talk about one of her favourite painters; it seemed she was at ease here in this old world in a way I had never been. Maybe this was the way; some tea in a fine bone china cup, the pretty pastels of an impressionist, a rich aunt.
‘I’m impressed – you seem very passionate,’ Francine said.
‘Hasn’t Camille told you? It’s what we came here for. I’ve an interview for art school.’
My skin prickled. This was too soon. ‘Well, not yet, but we think we’ll get one.’
Francine raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Art school?’
‘There’s only one worth going to,’ Rachael said.
‘I didn’t know the Beaux-Arts took students your age. I assume that is where you mean.’ She turned to me. ‘You know how selective they are?’
Rachael assumed her position in a garish armchair and picked up her cup of tea. ‘I’m not too worried. It all feels like everything we’ve ever done has led to this point. Right, Camille? I’ve just won the Whiteley Prize at school and heaps of others before that.’
I frowned at Rachael’s barefaced lie, but let it go.
Francine’s gaze rested on Rachael’s art portfolio balanced atop the Arnott’s tin and the rest of our luggage; a mixed look of déjà vu and dread crossed her face. I turned to Rachael and felt a stab of guilt. Fresh-faced, innocent and eager, a young girl presents her precious oeuvre to a revered aunt: a woman who rips away dreams like adhesive tape from the skin.
Without an invitation, Rachael wandered off into the apartment. Her voice rang through the hallway. ‘Oh, wow, this is stunning!’
Francine raised her eyebrow and I felt myself reel. She told me we would be staying in the guest room and that she had tea ready for us in the salon. I dragged our suitcases into the hall.
Rachael returned and picked up the Arnott’s tin. ‘So what do you want me to do with these?’
Francine blinked at the tin held together with masking tape, her eyes narrowing, awareness flooding her face. ‘A biscuit tin?’
That was rich coming from the woman who hadn’t spoken to her sister in years. I hoisted my laptop bag over my shoulder, wondering if things were going to kick off already. ‘It was all we could manage.’
Francine took the tin. ‘I’ll find something more . . . appropriate.’
You’re a bit late
, I wanted to say, but bit my tongue. I followed her camel-coloured slacks and cream Italian loafers into the salon.
Rachael was staring at a small pig with feathered wings inside a glass tank – one of the many contemporary artworks on display. ‘That guy is laughing all the way to the bank,’ she said before moving on to the mantelpiece, where a fresh arrangement of white lilies had been placed. Above the white open petals and the yellow stamen, in a gilt-edged frame, hung a pastel of a ballet dancer, holding a bouquet of flowers, bowing to the audience.
Rachael spun around. ‘Holy shit it’s a Degas!’
Francine smiled modestly. ‘It’s pronounced
Dega
, my dear. The “s” is silent.’
‘Dega, then. OMG, you have a DEGA!’
I glared at Francine, looking for some kind of acknowledgement, some hint that she knew that I knew that the famous picture had hung in my mother’s room when she was a young girl. But Francine simply closed her eyes over the rim of her cup.
Rachael held her nose up close to the painting, ‘This is just . . . I’m speechless. How do you. . .?’ She glanced over her shoulder at Francine.
‘My parents bought it many years ago. Those who adore Degas –’ she paused ‘– call him the artist’s artist. Mind you, he was an old misanthrope and a dreadful anti-Semite, but one can’t get past his brilliant draftsmanship.’
‘I love his nude series, the way the women aren’t aware of the viewer – their poses are so natural. Like they’ve been caught unawares.’
I listened to Rachael talk about one of her favourite painters; it seemed she was at ease here in this old world in a way I had never been. Maybe this was the way; some tea in a fine bone china cup, the pretty pastels of an impressionist, a rich aunt.
‘I’m impressed – you seem very passionate,’ Francine said.
‘Hasn’t Camille told you? It’s what we came here for. I’ve an interview for art school.’
My skin prickled. This was too soon. ‘Well, not yet, but we think we’ll get one.’
Francine raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Art school?’
‘There’s only one worth going to,’ Rachael said.
‘I didn’t know the Beaux-Arts took students your age. I assume that is where you mean.’ She turned to me. ‘You know how selective they are?’
Rachael assumed her position in a garish armchair and picked up her cup of tea. ‘I’m not too worried. It all feels like everything we’ve ever done has led to this point. Right, Camille? I’ve just won the Whiteley Prize at school and heaps of others before that.’
I frowned at Rachael’s barefaced lie, but let it go.
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