“Tell me about the paintings.” I pout.
He pauses, glancing at me like he’s assessing whether I’m actually interested. “If you’re sure,” he says slowly, then shifts intosexy professor modelike it’s second nature. “This is the beginning of A Harlot’s Progress. The protagonist, Moll Hackabout, has just arrived in London from the countryside. She’s naive and untouched by the city’s corruption. She thinks she’s here to make an honest living, but the tragedy is, she has no idea what’s coming. But Hogarth does—this is him painting her on the cusp of her downfall.”
I squint at the girl in the painting, clutching her little suitcase like she’s just stepped off the Megabus from Yorkshire. “That old lady beside her with the mad bonnet is a nasty bitch then?”
“That ‘nasty bitch’ is a brothel madam, yes.”
“Knew it.”
He smiles. “Moll thinks London will be full of opportunity. But by the next painting, she’s the mistress of a wealthy man, no longer innocent. And then . . .” He pauses, studying me like he’s testing whether I’m still paying attention. “Should I go on?”
I cross my arms. “I’m invested in Moll’s poor life choices. Continue.”
His lips twitch, but he obliges, stepping over to the next painting. “Here, Moll appears to have ascended in status—at least on the surface. She is now the mistress of a wealthy merchant, surrounded by the trappings of affluence: opulent furniture, little lapdog . . .”
“Seems like a glow-up to me.”
“It’s a trap. She’s comfortable, yes, but entirely dependent on this man’s whims. She’s no longer an innocent country girl. But look at the door in the background.”
I squint. “Someone’s sneaking out?”
He nods. “Her protector’s servant, helping himself to her things. She’s kept but not respected. And look at her face. That smile—it’s got an edge to it, like she knows this won’t last.”
Something about that makes me shift uneasily. Bit too relatable, actually.
Edward moves on to the third painting. “By this stage, she’s hit rock-bottom.”
I stare at Moll in her grimy room, fine clothes gone, looking hollow-eyed and lost. A constable looms ominously in the background.
Edward crosses his arms, eyes sweeping the painting. “She’s now a common prostitute, abandoned by her wealthy lover. Everything about her new life is chaotic—look at the crumbling plaster on the walls, the drunken brawl in the corner.”
Chaotic?
Bit on the nose there.
“That escalated quickly,” I mutter.
I am the Moll Hackabout in this scenario. The country girl who landed herself a posh boyfriend and thinks she’s living the dream. Except instead of being a literal harlot, I just sell tools provocatively in a mini skirt.
There are six paintings in this series.
Which stage am I at? The “temporary mistress who doesn’t know she’s temporary” stage?
“Fuck,” Edward mutters, suddenly going stiff beside me.
For a horrible moment, I think he’s just had the same Moll-related epiphany I have. We’re literally standing here looking at my future.
But then I follow his gaze.
A well-dressed couple is approaching.
“Edward!” The man beams, his arm slung casually around his partner’s waist. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“John,” Edward says, his voice oddly strangled. “Rita. Yes. Great exhibition, isn’t it?”
John looks at me expectantly.
Edward shoots me a fleeting, panicked glance. “This is—”
