I chose her final outfit, make-up and shoes, leaving specific instructions for the girl charged with making her ready. I couldn’t face seeing her so inert, shiny and cold.
Now, dressed for cocktails and courage at my mother’s funeral, the short, painful walk to the lectern is a blur. Outlines of familiar faces, flashes of colour, as if a strange filter has been washed across the room. I feel molten inside and ridiculous in party attire, when this is the opposite occasion of where you’d expect to find my outfit; yet it’s absolutely right in its wrongness. I asked everyone not to wear black, despite the tragedy of losing Mum at just fifty-nine. A mourner phoned me only yesterday to ask if navy was vibrant enough and to hear my thoughts on their scarf options.
Forever in our hearts and forever fabulous.
So many clothes, bags and shoes nestled in our wardrobes, firmly fastened to moments spent with each other, woven into the fabric like care instructions sewn into a seam. Her wardrobe will always be my treasure trove of memories, saturated with sentiment.
A shaft of spring sunlight pierces the stained glass, giving a technicolour kiss to the pink lilies on top of Mum’s wooden casket. I deliver my eulogy, telling hundreds of people things they weren’t ready to hear and already know.
‘My mother was like a rainbow. Known throughout the art world for her flamboyant colours both on canvas and off. Every shade of lipstick, the brightest clothes, spectacular jewelled earrings. She was a perfectly colour-coordinated rainbow.’
Catching the eyes of my dearest friends, their expressions will me to continue. Sympathetic raised eyebrows from my business partner, Tiff; encouraging winks and reassuring nods from my friends Sarah, Abi and Brittany. Then my eyes fix on Tasha and stay there for the remainder of my speech – her smile urging me on. Each sentence a word closer to goodbye.
I feel the warmth of Tasha’s hand in mine as I return to my seat, slipping into the pew between my best friend and her husband, Angus. I wouldn’t be able to get through this without them on either side of me, passing tissues, dispensing comforting squeezes in between their own sniffles.
Standing for a hymn, the words in the carefully printed order of service merge as I stare vacantly at the page. Readings and tributes follow from the great and good of the art world – the flamboyant chair of Sotheby’s, an esteemed art critic – but their words bounce around the room, unable to penetrate the shield woven around me, constructed entirely from shock and disbelief. I half listen, noticing amused chortles and the sound of noses being blown discreetly (some less elegantly so …).
Memories flash in front of my eyes as the poignant lyrics of the song I’ve chosen to close the service causes tears to stream uncontrollably down my face. This can’t be true, this isn’t real.
* * *
My eyes smart in the pale light as I step outside the Chelsea crematorium, unsure of what comes next. Do I wait for everyone to approach the grieving daughter, offering up memories and anecdotes to justify attendance, or do I lead back to the house and encourage them to follow?
‘Come here, you.’
I feel the reassuring arms of my childhood surround me and look into Tasha’s glassy, big blue eyes. My sister from another mister, we always joke. We’ve been best friends since preschool and she’s been my life support for as long as I can remember.
Tasha takes both of my hands in hers. ‘She …’ She breaks off as her chin begins to tremble. ‘She’d be so proud of you. I’m proud of you, Soph. It was the most beautiful eulogy. Mumma Lyns would have loved it.’
Her arm circles my shoulder and I suppress a wave of tears that threatens to sink me to the ground as we navigate the gravel towards the car. Today feels like I’ve stuck my head underwater, with the rest of the world swirling around me, and I’m not taking part. I’m being spoon-fed the morning like someone who has forgotten how to function. I receive hugs and kisses from my closest girlfriends, offers of dinners, lunches, a listening ear, their own grief as stark as mine. Mum was so loved by so many. But I’m suddenly jolted into the moment and I freeze. He’s there, blocking my way. I don’t have the speed or momentum in these shoes to swerve and avoid.
Robert, my ex-fiancé. I hadn’t planned on having to face him today. He shouldn’t be here. Like a tall spectre in a churchyard, he looms towards me.
Tasha tightens her grip as she feels me tense underneath her arm.
‘Hi … um … Soph,’ he stutters, stooping to kiss my cheek. ‘I’m so sorry … you know how much I loved Lyndsey … and how she loved you.’
He nods curtly at Tasha and my eyes travel to the order of service he’s holding. I see my mum’s face, beaming on the front. Underneath in elegant italics: Lyndsey Anna Kinlock.
The waft of his familiar scent makes my stomach churn with fear. I feel the imprint of his lips on my face like I’ve been branded.
‘Thank you,’ I manage to whisper with the sorrow of the occasion.
Tasha tries to guide me towards the car, glaring at Robert with a don’t you dare look. But he grabs my arm and I flinch instinctively, an in-built reaction.
‘Soph, I have to speak to you. It’s important.’
I look up into his eyes, the budding trees behind him framing his face like a halo of coiling snakes, his sandy hair against the watery spring sky. I can’t respond – there seems little point. He’ll always get his way.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. And don’t even think about coming back to the house, Robert.’ Tasha intervenes, knowing I’m likely to give in and let him have his conversation.
I have nothing more to say to him that hasn’t already been raked over. I used up all of my tears on him months ago and have no love for him any more. Pity, anger, but certainly not the great love I once thought was there. And fear. I hated who I became when I was with him, what he did – that squashed mouse of a girl still lingers. I resent him for it.
‘This has nothing to do with you, Tasha. Do try to keep out of it. I have every right to pay my respects and speak to Sophie alone,’ Robert snarls, and my heart sinks.
I don’t want anything else in this day apart from Mum. I can see others circling, watching to see if a scene will unfold. Why did he come?
Tasha squares up to him. ‘If you think for a moment this is appropriate, you’re madder than I thought. Just stay away and do the right thing for once in your sad little life. You have no right to speak to Sophie after all you’ve done.’
‘Enough! Both of you. Please, just stop.’ I untangle myself from Tasha and march as gracefully as I can towards the black town car.
She was never a Robert fan. And for good reason.
* * *
The wake passes in a haze, and now the merry mourners have gone, I’m alone. Mum’s house creaks with memories and screams with emptiness. I sometimes think I catch the smell of her perfume on the breeze, robins seem to ti- ti- ti nearby, often landing beside me, but is that really her, or just something us bereaved cling on to for comfort? I only want to know she’s safe. Alcohol doesn’t seem to have affected me at all today, through the adrenaline and shock. If I’d drunk this much on a normal day, I’d have fallen over four glasses ago.
I find myself walking up the stairs.
‘Up the winding wooden hill to Bedfordshire before the nine o’clock horses come …’ Mum would say to entice little me to go to bed. She made everything fun.
Pulled by an invisible thread, I find myself in her bedroom. The duvet is still crumpled, like she got up in a hurry and will be back later to put it right. I feel like I’m snooping. Standing in front of the mirrored door to her walk-in closet, I gaze at my reflection.
My face is puffy, contorted with a deeply etched grief, like a grotesque mask. My grey eyes I shared with Mum seem to belong to a different face, framed by red. My curls have started to free themselves from their band, now resembling a tatty brown end of the school day ponytail.
I push on the mirrored door and the catch springs open towards me. Her fingerprints, still on the glass like smudged spiderwebs. I step into my mother’s wardrobe and the smell of my childhood draws me further inside: security, warmth and love. It’s all around, embedded in the material. The scent of perfume, laundry and leather. Gloves, belts, jackets. Chiffon, dust, silk. Elegant cocktail-hour shifts, dramatic sweeping gowns, taffeta, satin, beading. Crystals glisten, sequins reflect. I reflect.
Blood red, canary yellow, inky blue …
A rainbow in a closet.
Brand new with tags, cellophane rustling on dry cleaning. Along with well worn, pre-loved … so loved.
Racks and racks of clothes. Wooden hangers, hooks, fastenings, zips.
A clatter of brooches and vintage clip-on earrings stored in an old French biscuit tin. I push them around, close the clasps, close my eyes.
A memory of being caught in a feathered hat, in heels too high and too large for my tiny feet, her laughter, my face smeared with lipstick and eyeshadow clumsily coating my baby skin. I was always found here playing hide-and-seek, nestled among skirts, the clang of metal on rails giving me away.
She’d sing to me, nuzzling my hair; inhaling the scent of autumn sunshine and sweat. Tutting at the inevitable scar of grass stains on white broderie anglaise. Standing among these empty shells, the undertaking of clearing out feels overwhelming.
I can’t do it, not today, maybe not for a long time. Turning to go, I nudge a stack of shoeboxes on the floor with my foot and as the lid slides off the top one, curled-edged photographs tumble out. I scoop up the pile and firmly close the door to the sanctuary of shopper’s paradise … for now.
Having poured the remaining glass of wine from the dregs of an open bottle, I place the uneven stack of pictures on the empty dining table. All remnants of today are gone. Aside from a tub of my favourite sweet treat, rocky road. Thoughtfully and lovingly baked by my work partner, Tiff, it’ll be my nutritional chef fail of a supper tonight. Catering for the wake was my way of contributing something practical to the day, as opposed to being led from one moment to the next, buffeted by well-meaning hands at my elbow. I’m a feeder; in life and by profession. If food consumed my thoughts, I could rescue some joy from the monstrous occasion. But even my go-to love of cooking has been tarnished, my appetite deserting me. Everything is cleared into bin liners, washed up and tidied away. The benefit of running a private catering business is immediate access to hundreds of plates, glasses, cutlery and cups, but they’re all stacked away in boxes in the hallway at what is now only my home.
I moved here when I left Robert, my ex-fiancé, last September. Mum was diagnosed soon after and I became the caretaker parent to my dying mother. Home. This is the only place I feel safe. As if I’m back in the womb; cocooned and close to her, exactly where I want to be.
I look at the dated, yellowing Polaroids and tiny overexposed prints I brought down with me from Mum’s wardrobe. Moments captured of moments lived. I must have been small when this bunch were taken. I don’t remember any of these scenes. Dad is in some. I will forever be older than my father now. He died when I was three and at my grand age of thirty-six, I’m a year older than he reached. I feel too young to be orphaned. I hated the idea of Mum being alone, but I knew she’d had that great love, which gave her soul sustenance. The romantic in me responds to that, despite the underlying sadness I sensed in her, quietly yearning for what she could no longer have, although she’d never admit it. She always appeared to be thinking of the one she’d loved and lost, but it was the only topic she wouldn’t open up about. We shared everything else. Dad became a mythical figure in my childhood, like a character in one of my bedtime stories.
‘Tell me about Dad,’ I’d plead, and Mum would relent, telling me of glamorous art exhibition openings, flitting around London’s creative social scene, their adventures before I came along. But never about her own grief. In my mind, they were always backpacking bohemian lovers, exploring the world before I came along, travelling on a carefree whim. Later, she continued to travel for work, but they became solo voyages.
My thoughts and a randomly selected photograph come together as I see Mum on a beach, laughing, glowing in sunlight, so alive.
I wonder where she is now … in heaven or maybe transported back to this happiest of moments. Mum and I look so alike. If you put a picture of me in my twenties beside this one of her, you’d think it was the same person. Identical wild brown curly hair, heart-shaped face. I take a fortifying gulp of acidic fizz and turn my attention to the next photo in the pile.
A white feather is sitting on it. They say a white feather is a sign of spirit being present. I’m not so sure, but my skin betrays any cynical notion by prickling with goosebumps. Is this a message from Mum telling me she’s here? My fingers manage enough control to pick up the delicate white down, then I let the feather drop. My breath is short and high in my chest as I watch it float, landing on another photograph. I move it aside and see the most magnificent beach hugged by ancient cliffs, a ruined castle surrounding the cove. I feel its warmth and safety, instantly dispelling my fears and chills. The reverse says: Methoni, Greece: my heaven on earth.
I take another sip. Tucked behind the pile of photographs, my eye is drawn to a large, folded piece of paper, its corners sticking out, larger than the others. Unfurling the page, a riot of colour is slowly revealed. It must be a photocopy of one of Mum’s paintings, but I’ve never seen it before. It is unmistakably hers from the use of pigment and brushstroke technique. A seascape, a rock protruding from the pristine beach, and the lone figure of a man in shadow walking along the sand towards the foreground. His gaze fixed on mine, I can just make out faint flecks of what could be green in his eyes among the mass of his silhouette as he purposefully makes his way forwards. It makes me shudder; his determination seems to leap out and grab me despite the blurred, poor-quality reproduction.
It is beautiful. I wonder where the original is. I flip over the page, searching for clues, and see a note scrawled in Mum’s hand: Fate unites us then rips us apart, Methoni V.
How very cryptic. I didn’t know this existed. My mind pings backwards to a conversation with an art critic at the funeral. A large, ruddy man with rounded vowels mentioning something about the Methoni series and a lost fifth painting. He said there were fakes out there, but wouldn’t it be marvellous to find the real thing. I can’t remember what else he said, my brain is filled with a fog that won’t clear.
Methoni. I roll the word around my mouth, foreign and exotic. Mum dedicated each summer to her work. The spring and autumn holidays were always ours. But she travelled for two months each year in the summer, painting and collecting inspiration, mainly throughout Greece. This could be one of her sketch ideas that came to nothing, but it doesn’t look like one of her prep pieces – it’s too complete.
I’m immediately pulled into the picture. The heat of the sun feels real, glittering light on the waves, grainy, textured sand. But who is this man? I squint closer at his figure. I don’t recognise him, but it’s hard to make out as he’s mostly in blurred silhouette save for part of his eyes and even they are barely distinguishable. Perhaps I’m reading too much into this, clinging wildly on to anything. Maybe Mum’s agent, Arabelle, will know something. I immediately message her:
If it is this so-called missing painting, it feels like it should be mine. Having something of hers out there, maybe lost or undiscovered, seems wrong. I want to gather all the pieces of her and scoop them in close, holding her memories tight. The more I can hold on to, the less painful this will feel, surely.
Arabelle responds to my message, inviting me to come to her office in the morning. She’ll know what this picture is and maybe even where I might find it. It isn’t in her studio, I’m certain. I have the overwhelming urge to be close to this place, to immerse myself in the brushstrokes. I need to have it. A rising urgency suddenly consumes me. If it is lost, I can hunt it down. The momentum of a task lifts the weight coiled around my heart. It could be my way through this insurmountable, chaotic wall of grief, to find a purpose, some direction. For the first time since Mum died, I smile.
My heaven on earth.
Holding it up to my eye, I look at the scene. Where in the world has she hidden this painting?