The picture won’t stop nagging at me, so that I’m drawn back to that beach scene, even in my dreams. The next morning, waiting for my meeting with Arabelle in her wood-panelled reception room, I grip the crumpled photocopy. I acknowledge the sympathetic smiles her assistant occasionally sends my way, feeling guilty about having managed to get through another sleep without Mum. I go through the motions of the mundane, but it’s half-lived, like synchronised swimming in liquid cement. To have no parents at my age doesn’t seem possible. I feel uncomfortable about laughing, ashamed to be existing.
I was holding her hand when it happened, the cancer nurse in the corner of the room gently prising my grip from a hand that would never return a squeeze again. There was no dramatic ray of biblical light, no hideous death rattle – everything stopped, almost unnoticed. She looked beautiful, serene, just like she was asleep. And now, with all the ritualistic moments passed, it’s down to me to make sense of it all. But if I try to find this painting, it could help me to navigate this unknown next chapter of life – it has to. I need it to. I’ve been lost, stuck in a directionless rut, but having a plan, something to focus on, is giving me energy, replacing my sense of hopelessness.
Mum’s artwork hangs on the walls among Arabelle’s other clients’ creations. Colours streak around the room, paint almost pulsing in its frame. I can’t tear my watering eyes away from one of Mum’s pieces. She’s Leaving Home – a painting in tribute to her favourite song, and the time when I left for university. There is such heartbreak captured in the stance of the mother figure reaching out into the distance, as the image of what I know is me retreats. The wind is almost palpable, leaves swirling in the air, gusts lifting long hair.
The thud of grief in my heart punctuates every movement of my eyes. I can’t believe she’ll never again transform a blank canvas into a vibrant moment, coated with feeling. Yet, the work on the wall is so different to the mood of the one I hold in my clammy hands. Glancing down, I search my copy of the mystery painting again, reaching for clues to interpret. Other than the scrawl on the back, I’m none the wiser. I feel a desperate, urgent need to be in front of this piece of work, to hold it, as if it may unlock something or complete a circle in my grief.
Interrupting my musings, a door off the waiting area suddenly opens and Arabelle steps forward and embraces me without a word. Smart and immaculate as always, she’s in a navy bouclé skirt suit paired with her trademark kitten heels, blonde hair coiffed to perfection.
Arabelle is one of those women who is always so well put together that I feel innately scruffy in comparison. The fact I managed to get dressed at all today is nothing short of a miracle, but jeans and a silk blouse were the best I could muster. My hair just about tamed, brown curls no doubt already pointing in all directions. She looks at me and shakes her head, her pencilled eyebrows raising in condolence.
‘This does not seem possible, it is not real, yes? Yesterday, the funeral was magnifique, but just unreal.’ Her gentle French burr does nothing to shield the harshness of our circumstances.
She guides me into her office barking for coffee, her assistant scurrying off in dutiful obedience. Leaning back into her large leather wing chair, Arabelle switches into business mode.
‘So, there is much to do, as you are now the beneficiary of the estate and own all the collections, in which there is even more interest, of course. There will be decisions, but nothing needs to be done now. I have calls from all the big museums about exhibition ideas – MOMA in New York are very excited, but this is not for now, chérie.’
This all seems so surreal, as if we’re having a conversation in another universe about someone different. I bend forwards and slide the printout I’ve been clutching across her desk, still unable to participate in the conversation verbally. She picks it up, her red metallic nail polish glinting against the paper. Unfolding it slowly, a surprised smile spreads over her face and she gasps.
‘You found it, Sophie. This is it! I have never seen, but I know what it is. The mysterious Methoni painting.’ She laughs with excitement as she smooths out the crumples from the page in front of her. ‘You know, this almost became like a rumour, a fictitious work that was talked about but nobody ever saw. There were fakes, and still your mother says nothing about it and the mystery yet builds. She describe it to me only once but says no more. I even have someone offer me big money for it. Imagine, for a painting that they had never seen but wanted to pay high six figures for. People are crazy.’
Her assistant brings in a tray with two steaming espressos and elegantly places them in front of us, subserviently backing out of the room. Arabelle lifts a skinny electronic cigarette to her lips, breaking all employment laws as she does so, a long, thin black spindle against her crimson lipstick. Her eyes travel over the picture, holding it closer and then further away.
I’m keen to find out more, my curiosity piqued.
‘I found it in a pile of photographs. Look at what’s written on the back.’
Frowning, she flips the paper over and snorts with laughter.
‘Your mother, for one so straightforward, this is mystérieuse, but always only about this place. Magical Methoni. She say it is where she makes her best work and this place is her true love. And here it is. Methoni V.’
A pang of sadness stabs at me and my eyes fill. If she held this place in such high esteem, why did she avoid discussing it with me? I wish we’d gone together. When she went away to work for that chunk of time each year, she said it was the only way she could concentrate on painting. I didn’t mind, as I got to holiday with Tasha at her granny’s house in the South of France every year and loved it. But now it feels almost as if Mum wanted to keep Methoni and me separate.
‘Do you know who the man is? I don’t think it’s my father …’ I ask, hoping for at least one answer to my many questions.
‘Non, no idea,’ she shrugs. ‘All I know is she made five paintings of Methoni and four are in private collections scattered throughout the world. But the fifth one … is this one. Maybe it is still in Greece. But is very spéciale. Look at this, maybe her most beautiful. Difficile to tell in this bad copy – nobody has ever seen it in real life. Not even me.’
Arabelle passes the page back to me, her eyes glinting, and once again I look at the blurred brushstrokes in disbelief that my mother’s hand was behind this unknown secret painting. Arabelle bubbles with enthusiasm.
‘Wouldn’t it be merveilleux to have it back? To find this one. It would be the talk of the century. A discovery that shakes the art world. The Methoni mystery solved at last!’ She leans forwards, placing her hands on her desk. ‘Perhaps you should travel there.’
‘But it could be anywhere, Arabelle. I mean, I’d love to see it. I’ve been thinking about it constantly …’
‘Sophie, you must go to find this painting. Yes. It would be a legacy parfait, to unite those five paintings, to let others see her craft. We could gather all the Methoni series together for the most fabulous exhibition. Unveiling this work to the world. I think this is your purpose given to you, a task from your mother. To locate the missing work – and then we can celebrate her in the most magnifique way. It will also stop all of the fakes that will begin encore, now she is gone.’
Arabelle rolls her eyes and I neatly fold the paper, putting it back in my bag.
‘Do you really think I could track it down? I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘Ah!’ exclaims Arabelle, picking up her phone and scribbling down an email address on a pad. ‘There is collector who lives on the mainland in Greece, near to Methoni, I believe. Tony Giovinazzi. He owns two of the five Methoni paintings and is very connected. Maybe a good place to start. And if you find this missing painting, I know he will buy it for huge money. He has been wanting to buy all the series for years. You must do this, but I insist you call me the moment you find it and it is in your hands, chérie.’
I know she means well but is solely thinking in headlines and pound signs. My motivation is different. I don’t want anyone else to have it. If there is a part of Mum out there, I need to find it.