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I was in the back of a taxi when my phone buzzed in my jacket pocket with a message from my assistant at the gallery: Check your email. Moments before, Tate Modern had issued an official statement, and she had sent it straight over. It read:
We have been made aware that a second version of Self-Portrait as Sphinx, the Juliette Willoughby painting which has been on loan to us since 2000, is being offered for sale as an authentic work. While we have no reasons for concern over the authenticity of the painting in Tate Modern, its owner has requested it be removed from display pending further analysis.
So there it was. The cat was officially out of the bag. A bit earlier than I had anticipated or hoped. Still, that might be a good thing, I told myself. A load of media attention, the whiff of scandal, could actually be useful in pushing up the painting’s price. Or it could scare buyers off. It was impossible to know. By far the highest-profile potential sale of my career, this was uncharted territory for me.
Just to make it all feel even less real, here I was at the Desert Palm Polo Club, very much not one of my usual haunts. Climbing out of the taxi—I could see a long line of expensive cars waiting for the valet—I gave my name at the door, took a seat at the bar, and ordered a beer. As I was waiting to be served, my phone buzzed again with new messages: someone from the art magazine Apollo, asking if it was true about the painting. Another from Harry saying that Giles Pemberton, now chief art critic at the Sunday Times, had phoned to ask him the same. And one from Caroline confirming that she had booked her flight out to see the painting in person.
Thank God for that, I thought.
Thumbing in speedy replies to each, I didn’t notice one of Sarah’s friends, Jerry Wilson, as he approached. A British expat of thirty years’ standing, with a penchant for panama hats and striped blazers, he was always good value at a dinner party if you were in the mood for stories about the old days here.
“Patrick! Don’t think I’ve seen you at the polo before. Know anyone playing?”
I shook my head. “Meeting an old university friend for a picnic, actually. You don’t happen to know where...?”
“They’ll be over on the far side of the pitch,” said Jerry. “Members enclosure. Very VIP. I’ll walk you over if you like.”
As we strolled, I waved hello to a few familiar faces. One of the things I hadn’t anticipated before moving here was how many people I would end up sort of knowing, or would turn out to sort of know already. Friends of friends, boys from school, art world émigrés, college acquaintances, like Dave White, who would suddenly pop up at a party or be sitting at the next table in a restaurant. People like Athena Galanis, whom I was here today to meet.
It might be three decades since we had been at university together, but I had recognized Athena instantly the first time I spotted her at a private event here, last year. Sky-high heels, waist-length hair, tasteful diamonds (but lots of them). When I asked what she was doing there, my assistant informed me that she was an art advisor, a very rich woman helping very rich friends invest sensibly in the art market and pick out the perfect blue chip pieces to fill their available wall space. As she said it, I did vaguely recall that Athena had grown up in Dubai, that her father was a big deal in something here—construction, I think, although Eric Lam had always insisted it was actually much murkier than that, which might have explained at least some of Freddie’s reluctance to introduce her to the family as his girlfriend.
I had spoken to Athena briefly at that event—we swapped cards and said we should get a date in the diary to meet. But we never did, until this morning, when she had suddenly decided a catch-up was overdue and called with an invitation. I suppose it was part of her job, keeping her ear to the ground. I did feel a little disloyal to Caroline accepting—given how close she and Athena had been, it always seemed to me extravagantly cruel for Athena (whatever the circumstances) to have ended their friendship so coldly, so abruptly, so finally.
Even years afterward, whenever Caroline talked about it, it was clear how hurt she still was. Well into her late twenties, she kept trying to reach out, to attempt a reconciliation. We looked for Athena on Friends Reunited when that became a thing, then on Facebook. She was not on LinkedIn or Instagram. We googled her name on a fairly regular basis, but nothing ever came up. Like Dave White, I suspected, Athena was wealthy enough that she made herself unsearchable.
Jerry and I parted ways at the gate to the VIP enclosure.
“Patrick!” Athena shouted over from where she was standing, signaling for someone to collect me.
It was an extraordinary sight. What most people probably think of, when they think of Dubai. Docile camels with Cartier-logo blankets on their backs flanked the entrance. Beyond that, a row of well-spaced Bentleys, Aston Martins and Rolls-Royces had been allowed to pull up, picnic blankets laid out beside them. At each, groups of guests lounged—women in blousy dresses and abayas, men in pastel suits and pristine kanduras—and around all of these hovered staff dispensing drinks, unpacking baskets of food.
“So glad you could make it!” She air-kissed me three times in a cloud of perfume. “Everyone, this is Patrick—a Cambridge friend of mine. In fact, we did art history together.”
There were lots of faces I recognized—big-time collectors, high-end dealers, and an auctioneer from Sotheby’s. Precisely the sort of people I had been attempting to cultivate ever since I had first arrived in Dubai. A white-gloved waiter offered me a champagne flute on a silver tray, another proffered a platter of caviar-topped blinis. We all made small talk about the heat, a lackluster exhibition that had just opened at the Louvre Abu Dhabi, a wonderful new Senegalese artist whose work Athena had just discovered. We all completely ignored the polo thundering alongside us, nodding occasionally for champagne top-ups. Eventually, Athena leaned over.
“So, spill the beans, Patrick. Another Self-Portrait as Sphinx? What is this, a publicity stunt? I can’t imagine your ex-wife is too pleased about it,” she said, with a sly smile—she had evidently been keeping tabs on Caroline and me over the years, too.
“It’s exactly what it seems,” I told her.
“It can’t be,” said Athena bluntly. “I’ve read Caroline’s book. It took Juliette months to paint Self-Portrait as Sphinx. She only talks of a single painting in her journal, and there wasn’t time for her to paint another, something that intricate, between her final diary entry and the fire.”
“I’m aware of the logistics,” I told her. “Nevertheless, the fact remains, the painting in my gallery is an authentic Willoughby, a genuine Self-Portrait as Sphinx.”
Athena studied my face. “And you really think Caroline is going to torch her own reputation to acknowledge that?”
“I have absolute confidence in Caroline’s professionalism, objectivity, and integrity,” I said decisively.
“Always the gentleman. You haven’t changed at all, have you?” Athena said with an airy laugh.
I was not quite sure how to take this, or if it was meant as a compliment.
“I’m sure Caroline would love to see you,” I said. “After all these years...”
Most people I knew—admittedly the majority of them were middle-class, and English—would have paid this idea at least some lip service, even if they subsequently failed to follow up. Athena simply pretended I had not spoken.
“As you’ve probably guessed,” she told me, her tone suddenly more businesslike, “the reason I invited you here is that I have several clients who would be very interested in viewing your painting. Who have asked me to gauge the sort of figure you might be looking for, if it were authenticated.”
“I couldn’t possibly say right now,” I told her, truthfully.