Cecelia knew, although she couldn’t remember from where, that her own mother had wanted to study art history, but had switched to Russian literature in an attempt to please her mother and Cee’s grandmother. But Violet hadn’t given up her passion and love of art, and as soon as she settled in London with husband and first son, had gone about organising and cataloguing the Holmes’ art collection. She eventually set up The Holmes Art Trust, allowing the art to be lent to galleries and museums. Cecelia had only recently taken it over, not having the time, energy or interest before she was thirty. She knew, vaguely, that the charity allowed for easy tax doges for her father but she likes to believe that she was also walking in her mother’s footsteps. Actually, Georgina reminded Cecelia of her mother. Or, at least, she reminded her of everything she had heard about her mother. Quiet, kind but passionate too.
Celia raised her eyebrows to convey she knew the impressiveness of The Courtauld. “I feel the same,” she offers, reaching for her tea. “Actually, I’d love your job.” Cecelia had only chosen a different medium to Gigi, not a different line of work completely. Books, not pieces of art. Perhaps they didn’t offer the same allure of mystery, but they were at least a window into lives it was impossible to live. A book, well written, was a way of experiencing life in different times, countries, from different points of view. “Although, detective work is never as exciting as it sounds. My brother is a private detective of sorts and it’s always a lot of going through receipts and watching hours of security camera footage. A little action, maybe.”
“Well in that case art history is extremely like detective work. There’s a lot of hours spent pouring over things with magnifying glasses. I suppose it’s even worse for the conservators, having to patch things up. It’s like bringing the murder victim back to life, and trying to make them just the same as before.” She pauses and the meaning of her words sinks in. With a startled and mortified expression, she briefly covers her hand with her mouth as her eyes widen. “Sorry, that was really insensitive. I should think more before I speak, this shite just comes flowing out sometimes, it really does.” That’s what you get for talking without thinking, you should know better, she berates herself.
You see, Gigi has seen dead bodies. She’s seen murder victims. Pallid corpses with a bullet through their heads, her brother already disinterested and moving on. Her brother’s victims weren’t the first though. She remembers vividly the young woman pulled from a river near her home when she was only six or seven. Her parents had said that’s she’d got into trouble. At the time, Gigi couldn’t imagine a trouble so bad you’d end up in a river. But she’d seen the bloated skin, the skin on her hands peeling away like wet gloves. James had called it sloughing, told her it was very common in drownings. The sight of those hands and her sad, swollen face had haunted Gigi’s nightmares for nearly a year.
“I suppose no-one’s job is exactly as we’d imagine. Even the Prime Minister gets bored, for sure.” She replies lightly, desperate to recover the conversation.
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