Chiaroscuro Chapter 6
Emery faces the ghosts of her past and is shocked when she finds out the truth behind her mother's death.
Dearest Cultured Readers,
Welcome to Chapter 6 of Chiaroscuro. If you tuned in for Chapter 5, you would have noticed Emery’s brief encounter with the painting ‘Portrait of Mrs Alexander Spark’ while she was at the Waldrof Prize opening party at the Sydney Art Gallery. This painting that I described, is actually one of my favourite paintings in the Art Gallery of NSW (AGNSW) collection. I recently visited Mrs Alexander Spark, or Frances Maria - her real name. I always had a special bond with this painting and would pop into the Grand Courts and see her most days when I worked at the AGNSW.
The work was painted in 1840 by Naval surgeon Maurice Felton. The subject of the painting, Frances Maria Spark, was the wife of successful merchant and art patron Alexander Brodie Spark, who commissioned this portrait shortly after their marriage.
Frances resided with her husband at Tempe House, the John Verge (1782-1861) designed house on the Cooks River, south of Sydney. Of which the Sydney suburb of Tempe was named after. This beautiful example of Victorian Gothic architecture still stands today (albeit with the encroaching sprawl of gentrification behind it) and has an interesting history. This Alexander Brodie Spark had another beautiful residence built in Potts Point, Tusculum, and had further land grants on the Hunter River.
I digress. But, I love art and I love history. It’s fascinating stuff.
So, Chapter 6 - what we are all here for - sees Emery go back to face the ghosts of her past. Will her father divulge the information she seeks, to find out how her mother and Cliff were connected? What will she do once she finds out what really happened between them? Read on to find out!
Joey xoxo
P.s. Are you loving Chiaroscuro? Why not send a friend Chapter 1 Part 1 to read, or think about buying a subscription so you can read every chapter together? Be the first to read fortnightly instalments by signing up below. Or if you would like to read Chiaroscuro, but can’t afford it right now, send me a message and I’ll add you to the comp list for free for six months. No questions asked.
Chapter 6
The sun had already dipped below the horizon by the time Emery’s train pulled into Cronulla. The station lights flickered a morose yellow, casting long shadows over the satin subway tiles. She took a breath, drawing in the salty air. It had been months since she’d come back, and every corner of the beachside suburb held a ghost of her younger self.
The red brick and tiled roof of her childhood home stood on a quiet street, tucked behind a garden that had once been vibrant but now was a tangled mess of weeds and overgrown bushes.
She turned the key in the door, and a thick waft of air flew back at her, releasing a waft of musty air tinged with a sweetness that hit her in the pit of her stomach. Nearly a decade had passed, but she swore her mother’s scent still lingered. A tightness radiated through her chest and a lump formed in her throat, but she pushed it away, pushed the feelings back down to wherever they’d arisen from in her body. She couldn’t break down. Not in front of her dad. She had to be strong for him.
She was here to find out how Cliff knew her mother. It had taken weeks of brooding for her to finally pluck up the courage to come back to Cronulla. To face her dad and her childhood home, knowing that visiting him always brought back the stain of grief. But it was the guilt that wrenched at her the most. Her dad was alone, and she was off living her own life in the city. She pushed the heaviness of it that cleaved at her away. Her mother wouldn’t want her decaying. She’d wished for Emery to leave this place, and that’s exactly what she had done.
The yellowing walls were lined with her mother’s paintings—abstracts with dark, swirling colours, while faded photographs were scattered on side tables, jumbled amongst bric-a-brac. Emery felt a tightness in her chest as she took in the familiar scene. The house, like her mother’s legacy, was stuck in limbo, a place where time had paused the day she’d died.
‘Em?’ Her dad’s voice travelled down the musty hallway.
She followed the sound, finding him stirring a pot on the stove in the small, dated kitchen. Garlic, tomato and onion wafted towards her. She knew without asking what he was cooking. He only had one dish. Spaghetti Bolognese. His version. No meat, just canned tomato soup, onions and garlic.
Her father hadn’t changed much—still wiry and greying, with tired eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights. At almost sixty, he was still working night shifts at the wharves. No doubt, that work was beginning to take a toll on his health. But without it, he’d have no direction, no social life. So, Emery let it be. She kept her thoughts and her worries to herself. It was easier that way.
He turned, offering a weak smile as he spooned the red, soupy mixture over a pile of spaghetti. ‘Thought you might be hungry.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ Emery forced a smile and took a seat at the chipped wooden table, its surface cluttered with unopened mail and old newspapers. Each spoonful and her body tensed. How was she going to ask her dad about Cliff and her mother without upsetting him?
‘Did you hear Rosanne is pregnant?’ He said through a full mouth of pasta.
Here he went with the local news stories again. ‘No, we haven’t spoken in a while.’ Twenty-two and pregnant. It was no wonder she’d left this place and moved to the city. Her options here were limited.
‘Have you kept in touch with any of your school friends?’ He said, bringing a forkful of red spaghetti to his lips, knowing the answer.
‘No Dad. I don’t have anything in common with them anymore,’ she said, scooping another mouthful of overcooked spaghetti into her mouth. ‘You know that.’
Why was he doing this now? She felt her chest tighten as the questions continued to rain down like hail.
‘A bit of a shame Em, you all grew up together.’
The further she was from this place and the memories of her childhood, the better.
‘You wouldn’t think about coming back?’ His eyes widened in hope. ‘I worry about you, in the city on your own.’
The guilt that had been festering for the past four years began clawing at her insides.
‘Not right now, dad. I’m happy in the city. And Quentin is close by.’ Quentin. She hadn’t thought about the strangeness between them for at least the last hour. Quentin. She pushed the feeling away.
‘Surely Quentin isn’t your only friend?’ He took another mouthful of food.
‘No…I have some other friends from art school,’ she snapped back. ‘We hang out...’ She realised as she spoke that her dad was right. She’d pushed all of her friends away once she’d left Cronulla for the city and art school. None of them knew what it was like to lose their mum. It was easier this way.
‘So, how’s the art stuff going?’ he asked, his voice gruff but laced with genuine concern. ‘Have you had any more offers from those art dealers you spoke of at your graduation?’
Emery hesitated. He’d asked and now was her chance to be honest. For a moment, she considered brushing off the question with the usual half-hearted ‘it’s fine,’ but something inside her cracked open. Maybe it was the familiarity of home, or maybe she was just too tired to keep up the façade any longer.
‘I was promised a show,’ she began, her voice wavering. ‘Cliff Hersain—he said he’d represent me. Said he’d take my work to the next level. But…’ she faltered, ‘it was just... he lied to me.’ Her voice cracked, and she bit her lip, as the tears began knocking at her from behind her eyes.
Her father’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw seemed to tighten, pulling at the muscles along his neck. He put his fork down with a sharp clatter, his hand trembling slightly. ‘He’s always been like that,’ he muttered, almost to himself, clanging his empty bowl and fork down on the table.
‘What do you mean?’ Emery pressed, her heart thudding in her chest. There was something in his tone—a bitterness that went deeper than she’d heard before.
He sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘Your mother… she was in Italy with Cliff when she died,’ he rubbed at his mouth, ‘he told her he’d show her work over there, that he had connections in the European scene,’ he took a deep breath and looked to Emery. His face relaxed and Emery thought he might cry. Her hands waivered, waiting for his tears to signal her to move towards her father whom she’d not seen cry in years. ‘But it was all a trick, a way to get her away from me. From you.’
The words hit Emery like a punch to the gut. Bastard. She felt the room spinning as her father continued, tears glistening in his eyes.
‘He used her, Em. Promised her the world, then left her stranded when she realised it was all a sham. She was alone, heartbroken, and she never made it back to us.’
‘What do you mean never made it back to us?’
‘His lies were enough to make her feel so alone that she didn’t feel like she was good enough. She left a note with her. Explaining everything to me.’
Her mother had killed herself. The air suddenly escaped her lungs, and the edges of the room began to blur. All these years, she’d believed her mother’s death had been a tragic accident, an unfortunate turn of fate.
A choked sob escaped Emery’s lips, and she dropped her pasta bowl and heard it shatter somewhere below her. The floor or the table. She wasn’t sure.
‘Em,’ her dad’s soft voice was next to her, coming from somewhere below her. She shook her head, and the brown of the laminate cupboards went muddy. Stained through the tears that were now beginning to flow from her eyes like a river.
It was Cliff’s manipulation, that had led to her mother’s demise. Just like what he’d done to her. He was a monster. His fat, balding, smirking face hovered in her mind, and it ignited a white-hot fury inside her. Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging in until small crescent moons etched into her palms. The house, once a sanctuary of bittersweet memories, now felt suffocating, tainted by the revelation. The revelation of the monster.
‘I’ll make him pay. I swear it,’ she said through tears. She could hear the slight tremble in her voice as she spoke. Her head shook from side to side, as if taking on a life of its own.
‘Don’t lose yourself to this, Em. Your mother wouldn’t want that.’ The warmth of her father’s hand was on hers.
But Emery was beyond reason now. Cliff Hersain had taken everything from her family – her mother’s dreams, her father’s peace, and now, her own sense of purpose. Revenge was no longer just an idea; it was a mission. And she would stop at nothing until she saw him fall.
Cliff’s flabby, sweaty skin flashed through her mind, and she shook her head to rid it. If Cliff had done this to her, to her mother, then there must be other women who had suffered too. She just had to find them.
***
Emery sat by the window of the crowded train, the rhythmic clattering of the tracks doing little to ease the storm churning inside of her. Cronulla faded into the distance as the suburban sprawl of Sydney blurred past, but her thoughts remained with her father. The conversation replayed over and over in her mind—the tremor in his voice as he spoke about Cliff Hersain, the betrayal still raw even after all these years. That monster had ruined not just her mother but her father too, eroding their family from the inside out with secrets, lies, and manipulation.
The betrayal burned hotter now, mingling with something sharper. Rage. The image of her mother alone, afraid and embarrassed in an Italian city made her insides boil. She felt so stupid now. Allowing Cliff to ply her with drugs and sleep with her. He probably did the same thing to her poor mum.
Emery’s fingers tapped restlessly against her phone. How many times had she searched Cliff’s name in the past few weeks, looking for a crack in his impenetrable façade? He had to have enemies. Surely others had been hurt by him, pushed to the fringes, left in ruin like her mother, and like her.
She scrolled manically through articles, comment sections, obscure forums—anything that might give her a lead. Most of it was old news. Mentions of Cliff in the social pages. New artists being represented. A talk at this regional gallery, or that philanthropic event. Mundane. Fake. He was so fake.
After an hour of sifting through vague mentions and dead links, she found a blog entry from nearly a decade ago. It was a personal account, written by someone claiming they had been silenced by a prominent figure in the Sydney art world. They didn’t mention Cliff by name, but the details—the gallery, the timeframe, the specific language used—lined up perfectly. The blog post was signed off by someone called Liv265.
‘Olivia Madden,’ Emery whispered to herself. She could almost feel the weight of something falling into place. Don’t be the next Olivia Madden. She could hear Natalie’s voice echoing through the lavatory at BC restaurant that night.
Emery leaned back in her seat and stared out the window, her mind racing. If this woman had tried to take legal action against Cliff, she might have the evidence Emery needed. Maybe she was the key to destroying him – someone with nothing left to lose, like her.
For a moment, doubt crept in – what if she was wrong? What if she was grasping at shadows? But then the image of Cliff’s smug face, his sickening arrogance, flashed in her mind. She couldn’t back down now.
Her thumb hovered over the screen before she began typing a message on the contact form linked to the blog.
Hi Liv265,
I hope this message reaches you. My name is Emery Steele. I’ve got information on Cliff Hersain. I found your post from 2013 and I’d like to talk if you’re open to it.
Please let me know if you’d be willing to connect. I think we could help each other.
Emery Steele.
She read it over a dozen times before pressing send. The message went through, and Emery watched as it disappeared into the ether. Her heart pounded in her chest as the train continued its journey. She couldn’t be sure Olivia would respond, but for the first time in a long while, she felt a flicker of hope—no, not hope. Determination.
The train rocked gently as it made its way across the city, but Emery’s thoughts were anything but steady. For a long time, she had felt powerless, a victim of other people’s decisions. But this time, things felt different – like revenge was possible.
She closed her eyes and pictured Cliff Hersain’s face – smug, untouchable, protected by the web of power he had built around himself. But every web had its weak points. Maybe Liv265 was the first thread that would unravel it all.
Chapter 7 drops in 2 weeks.
© Joey Hespe, 2024.
*Disclaimer: The characters and events depicted in this story are fictional and do not intend to represent any single person or company.