Читать книгу: «All the Little Lies»
All the Little Lies
CHRIS CURRAN
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www.harpercollins.co.uk
This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Killer Reads
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Chris Curran 2019
Chris Curran asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Ebook Edition © FEB 2019 ISBN: 9780008336332
Version 2019-01-07
Also by Chris Curran
Mindsight
Her Turn to Cry
Her Deadly Secret
For Emma and Neil with much love.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Also by Chris Curran
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
Eve
She had to go. And quickly. Before they woke up. But still Eve stood by her daughter’s cradle, looking down at her in the glow of the night light, longing to stroke the warm little head once more. To run her finger down Ivy’s fat cheek and across her tiny damp mouth. The baby snuffled and shifted, and Eve held her breath. It was midwinter and still dark outside, but morning was on its way. She had to go now or it would be too late.
She crept barefoot past the bedroom where her husband was sleeping, but didn’t look in. The baby monitor would wake him when Ivy cried. Since her birth he had done as much for her as Eve had. And managed it better. He often did the first morning feed and there was breast milk in the fridge and stored in the freezer too.
She had left a note on the kitchen table. There was nothing more to do.
Her clothes and trainers were in a plastic carrier in the cupboard under the stairs. She threw them on and shoved her dressing gown inside. With any luck Alex would see it wasn’t hanging on the back of the bedroom door when he woke and assume she was with the baby or downstairs. It might give her a bit more time.
For once she was thankful they had no driveway or garage and it was nearly impossible to park outside their house. So Alex must have thought the car was down at the other end of the road when he got home. It was actually a few streets away.
Everything was so still and silent in the early morning chill that she was aware of her own footsteps even though she was wearing soft-soled trainers. The icy air bit into her lungs. Plumes of white steamed out as she breathed and the atmosphere had that heavy feeling that means snow is not far off.
There was a forlorn-looking Christmas tree in the window of one house and a string of lights twinkling from the gables of another. It was still officially the Christmas season. Today was the sixth of January – Twelfth Night – and the Eliot poem about the three wise men came into her head. Something about a journey, a long cold journey.
In the glimmer of the street lights the pavement had a frosty glitter and she told herself to concentrate. It wouldn’t do to fall.
Once, she thought she heard footsteps behind her and stopped, holding her breath. The footsteps stopped too, and she looked back down the street. There was a shape, totally still, under a tree at the end. It could be a figure, but might just be a shadow. And she needed to hurry.
The car windows were thick with white and she used the de-icer and scraper as quietly as she could. The rucksack she’d packed with a few essentials was already in the boot, so all she had to do was to climb in and start the engine. But when it was humming she sat for a moment breathing heavily.
And asking herself if she really wanted to go through with this.
Three Months Earlier
It was a relief to see Suzanne’s name pop up on her phone. She would want to talk about work and Eve always enjoyed that. It felt so strange to be at home in October instead of teaching. She was even missing the staff meetings. Suzanne had taken over as head of the art department and she rang once a week or so to talk things through, although they both knew she was perfectly able to cope on her own. Suzanne probably realized how much Eve needed to feel she was still part of school life. And it was good to talk about something other than her pregnancy.
‘Hi, Suzanne. How’s it going?’
‘Fine. And you? Alex still driving you mad?’
Eve felt a flush of guilt. What had she said? It was true she was fed up with Alex treating her like an invalid, fussing over everything from how much she slept to her diet, but she must have told Suzanne more than she meant. She tried to make her voice light. ‘No, he’s fine. It’s my mum who’s the real worrier. Anyway what’s up?’
They spent a few minutes discussing the new exam syllabus. Then Suzanne said, her voice rising a little, ‘What did you think of the link I sent you?’
‘I haven’t checked my phone recently.’
‘It’s nothing urgent. Just made me think of you.’
When they’d said their goodbyes Eve looked for the message. It was brief:
Have a look at this. Any connection?
Apart from that there was just a link to a newspaper story:
LOST ARTWORKS RESURFACE AT BALTIC GALLERY
Newcastle’s Baltic Gallery has a new exhibition of paintings by artist, Stella Carr. If you haven’t heard of her it’s not because she’s a new talent, but because soon after making a brief splash in the art world in 1986 she disappeared from sight and died tragically (and somewhat mysteriously) a year later at the early age of twenty-one. If she hadn’t done so it’s likely she could have been one of the leading lights in the BritArt scene of the late 80s, early 90s.
At the time of her death it seemed that the handful of her pictures seen in an exhibition of promising young artists, at London’s Houghton Gallery, were all Stella had left behind.
Seeing the name of the gallery made Eve pause. Her father had been a partner there. She couldn’t remember mentioning it to Suzanne, but if she had that might explain why she’d sent the link. He’d certainly be interested because he would have been there at the time of Stella’s exhibition. She carried on reading.
The ever-fickle art world moved on and Carr was forgotten. But with this new display it’s clear that she was a considerable talent. While some of the paintings were in the Houghton exhibition, and others appeared soon after, a few have never been seen before. According to The Baltic they were her last completed works. They are giving away very little about how they came by these. All this paper could learn is that they are from a private collection.
Below the article were two of the paintings. One showed a terraced hillside covered in dark trees. It was called Pines and the second, Mermaid. This was particularly arresting. Instead of a fish’s tail the mermaid’s whole body was green and almost snake-like. Only the face – beautiful but secretive with floating hair – looked human.
She really liked the style. There was a freedom in the brushstrokes; a vitality about them that she loved.
There was a close-up of the signature, and Eve stopped scrolling to stare at it. It wasn’t a name but a shooting star, just like the ones she used to love drawing when she was little. And something else stirred in her memory. Something that made her move on faster.
There was a third picture entitled Maggie and Me and this was lovely. Two young women, both very slender, one with a mass of brown hair and the other with a tumble of russet curls. They stood in a woodland glade. Trees heavy with leaves surrounded them. Their long skirts, one green, one dark blue, floated in the breeze. Strands of hair trailed across their faces.
At the bottom of the page she found a photograph. Not very clear, but Eve saw enough to make her catch her breath. This was what Stella Carr had really looked like. She was the one with the red hair, although here it was more ginger than russet and there was a scattering of freckles across the pale skin that the painting had omitted. She seemed to be not only slim, but small. And Eve could understand why Suzanne had sent the link now.
Stella Carr was extraordinarily similar to Eve herself. Not that Suzanne could have understood the significance – she knew nothing about Eve’s origins.
But the photograph, the link with the gallery, and that tantalizing hint of memory were enough to tell Eve one thing.
This woman, Stella Carr, had to be her own birth mother.
At 4.30 it was still light outside. They’d been having an Indian summer, but as evening drew closer a chill wind had sprung up off the sea sending a few dead leaves rattling along the footpath. Eve pulled her jacket close to her throat, trying to control her breathing. She needed to deal with this as calmly as she could.
Her parents lived only a short distance away, down the hill in the Old Town of Hastings. She always used to walk there, but although it was tarmac or solid steps all the way, it was steep going. She had to agree with Alex that at seven months pregnant it wasn’t worth the risk. And the climb back would be impossible.
When she was sitting in the car she took out her mobile to text Alex. He had been coming home earlier and earlier recently and he would panic if she wasn’t there.
Just popping over to see Mum and Dad. Love you XXX.
After she’d sent it she shook her head at how different it sounded from the way she was feeling.
As she drove down towards the sea she shivered at the sight of the foam-topped waves speeding towards the beach and the bank of grey cloud on the horizon. Winter was coming. And her baby girl was due in the dead of winter. She had been looking forward to it so much. But now she was so disturbed she could hardly think let alone formulate the words she would need when she confronted her mum and dad.
They had lied to her.
All these years they had told her they knew nothing about her birth mother except that she was young and alone and couldn’t look after a child.
Eve was in no doubt that Stella Carr was her mother. They were so alike that seeing the photograph was like looking in a mirror, but what clinched it was the mention of the Houghton Gallery, where Stella’s only exhibition during her lifetime had been held. Eve’s father, David, was a partner in the gallery throughout the 1980s. It didn’t belong to him: his friend, Ben Houghton, was the money man. But it was David who knew about art and had the eye as he always said. He was the one who organized the exhibitions. So if Stella Carr had been part of one he must have known her.
Her parents moved to Hastings when they decided to start a family and bought a tiny gallery just off the seafront. Eve had never seen Houghton’s, which had closed when she was very young, though she imagined it had been a lot more swish than the little Hastings shop. But her parents were happy with the move. Except they found they couldn’t have children and so they adopted Eve. When she left home to go to university they had sold the family house and now lived above the shop (her dad hated her calling it that: ‘It’s a gallery not a shop, Eve,’) in a cosy little flat.
The cobbled street outside the gallery was pedestrianized, so Eve had to park a few hundred yards away. As she came close to the shop her steps slowed and she hugged her jacket to her, dreading the next few minutes. She loved her parents so much, but this seemed to change everything. How could they have deceived her all her life?
Her dad was alone wrapping a picture on the small desk at the back of the gallery. He beamed at her. ‘Eve, what a lovely surprise. Alex not with you?’
‘No.’ She couldn’t even pretend to act normally.
‘Everything all right, lovely?’
‘I need to speak to you and Mum.’
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes in the way he always did when he was worried, and she bit back on the temptation to say everything was all right.
Because it wasn’t.
One long look and he said, ‘Your mum’s upstairs. Ask her to put the kettle on and I’ll be with you in a minute.’
He seemed about to reach for her, but she walked past him and through the door at the back that led to the stairs.
She couldn’t avoid her mum’s arms as she came out into the warm kitchen at the top. It was the same soft hug with a little squeeze at the end that Eve knew so well, but today it felt different. Counterfeit somehow. The way it had sometimes seemed to her when she was a teenager and she and Jill argued endlessly.
‘Are you all right, darling? You look pale.’
Eve sat at the pine table. It had stood in the kitchen of their old house for as long as she could remember. ‘I’m OK. I just need to speak to you and Dad. Together.’
Her mother thumped down opposite. ‘What is it?’ Her voice wavered. ‘Not the baby?’
‘No. It’s fine. I’m fine.’
Jill moved to touch her hands across the table, but Eve sat back arms crossed.
‘And there’s nothing wrong between me and Alex either.’
She had printed out the article, and she pulled it from her bag to put in front of her mother. Jill looked down at the paper, her fingers plucking at one corner. Long after Eve knew she must have finished reading she stayed staring down, saying nothing.
Finally Eve could stand it no longer. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she said.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Jill turned as Eve’s father came through the door. He looked from Eve to her mother. The silence felt heavy, but Eve didn’t speak. Instead she pulled the article from Jill’s fingers. Her mum gave a tiny cry as if it had hurt.
Eve thrust the paper at her dad. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she repeated.
It seemed to take only a glance for him to see what it was. A sigh. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea and talk this through properly, shall we?’
Before he’d finished Eve’s mum stood and began to fill the kettle. Eve wanted to shout at them that she didn’t need tea, she needed the truth. But when her dad sat next to her, turned his chair towards her and took her hands, she felt like throwing herself into his arms and asking him to tell her it was all a mistake. That nothing had changed.
As Jill took milk from the fridge, Eve watched her familiar figure. She was small and dumpy with a round face that still showed only a few wrinkles. Her curly hair was coloured the same soft brown it had always been, with just a hint of grey at the roots. But since her heart attack a few years ago she had begun to walk with a slight stoop. When she came to sit with them at the table again she lowered herself carefully.
Eve felt a twang of guilt for upsetting her, but she had to know. Eventually her mother met her eyes.
‘We didn’t mean to deceive you. Please believe that.’ It was almost a whisper. She reached for her husband’s hand and his fingers tightened on hers as he began to nod in time with her words. ‘You always knew you were adopted. When you were tiny, we told you we loved being your parents and that you were the most wonderful gift we’d ever been given. That’s the only truth that matters.’
Eve bit her lip so hard it hurt, fighting to keep the anger from her voice. ‘You said you knew virtually nothing about my birth mother.’ She felt the baby kick under her ribcage and rubbed her hand over the hard mound of her belly. It’s all right, my darling. She had to keep calm.
Jill sighed and ran her fingers through her curls, and David said, ‘We told you she was very young and couldn’t look after a child. That she wanted you to have a family, the kind of life she could never give you. The only thing we didn’t tell you was her name.’
Eve couldn’t hold back a bitter laugh. ‘You didn’t think to mention you knew her?’
‘What good would that have done? She was dead.’
‘And you didn’t tell me that either.’ This was unbelievable.
Her mother’s fingers were pressed to her mouth, muffling her words. ‘When you were little it would only have upset you. And as you grew older you didn’t seem interested in knowing anything more.’
Eve stood, pushing the chair back. Her dad stopped it from falling over. ‘Of course I was interested, but you always made me feel you would be hurt if I tried to find my real parents.’
‘Oh, Eve, don’t say that.’ Her mother’s voice cracked and she pulled a tissue from the box on the table.
David’s expression, when he looked at Eve, was one she remembered from when she misbehaved as a kid. ‘Please, Eve. You’re upsetting your mother and in your condition you mustn’t get stressed.’
She felt suddenly exhausted, her knees so weak she could no longer stand. She dropped back onto her seat and her words came out on a huge sigh. ‘Just tell me everything.’
Her dad went round the table to stand behind Jill, resting his hands on her shoulders. They both looked at Eve. ‘Ben and I decided to mount a show of upcoming young artists and she was one of them. The best of the bunch. Then I found out she was pregnant. She was young, poor and alone. And I offered to help her. We couldn’t believe our luck when we became your parents. Still don’t.’
He dropped a kiss onto Jill’s curls then turned away to switch on the kettle again, saying. ‘Now whatever happened to that tea?’
Eve could hear the Scottish lilt that became stronger when he was stressed. Her mum wiped her eyes and blew her nose.
‘So how did she die? I mean I could have inherited something.’ She rubbed her bump again. ‘My baby could have.’
Her mum spoke fast. ‘No it was nothing like that. It was an accident.’
Eve coughed. Her voice threatened to wobble. ‘What happened?’ She touched the article. ‘It says her death was tragic and mysterious.’
David came to sit beside her again, speaking softly. ‘It was certainly tragic. She died in a fire.’ He must have heard Eve gasp because he stopped. ‘I’m sorry, darling.’
She had covered her eyes with her hands, but dropped them again. The images behind her lids were horrible. A deep breath. ‘Go on. Tell me everything.’
He reached for her hand, squeezing gently. ‘It was in Italy where she was staying. I can’t remember how we found out officially. But sometime later her friend sent us a note and the newspaper report.’
She managed to say, ‘Who? Who was this friend?’
He stood again and went back to the kettle, tearing the cellophane from a new box of teabags. ‘Just a girl she knew. I think they shared a place in London when they were at art school. Her work was in the exhibition too, but it was fairly mediocre if I recall and I know nothing else about her. She obviously didn’t make it as an artist.’
‘What about the letter?’
He turned to her mother who said, ‘It was just a note. I’ll have a look for it, but it was very brief. Didn’t give much information. Nor did the newspaper.’
Her dad put a mug of tea in front of her. She took a huge gulp. The thought of her mother – that vibrant young girl in the photograph – burned to death was so horrible she was trembling. They all sat silently as they drank. It was as if they’d just suffered a bereavement.
After a while she took a deep breath and, looking from one of them to the other, asked the obvious question. ‘So who was my father?’
Her mother screwed her tissue into a ball and shoved it up her sleeve. ‘We never knew. A boyfriend she’d broken up with I suppose.’
Eve nodded, forcing herself not to say what she was thinking. Or an older man? Maybe someone who was married? She ran her finger down the article. In small print at the end it gave the dates of the Houghton Gallery exhibition. Eve was born close to nine months after the exhibition ended.
She looked up at her father. And that would be nine months after Stella met him.
CHAPTER TWO
Stella 1986
Stella was putting the finishing touches to a painting of her grandmother, standing close to the window to catch the last of the natural light. Her bedroom overlooked the tiny walled yard at the back of the house. Here in Marylebone they were surrounded by other Victorian terraces, so it wasn’t the best place to paint especially on a dull March afternoon. She squinted at the photograph propped on the easel. She’d replaced the armchair her nana was sitting on in the photo and the striped wallpaper behind her with a riot of huge exotic flowers – a fantasy garden. Of course the portrait was a fantasy too. Nana didn’t look like that anymore – she sat drooling in a chair in the nursing home – but this was how Stella wanted to remember her. She stroked the photo with one finger and swallowed on the lump in her throat.
Thank goodness for Maggie, thundering up the stairs even faster than usual. Stella put down her brush as her bedroom door burst open. ‘Where’s the fire?’
Maggie ignored her and threw herself on Stella’s bed. ‘Got anything decent to wear?’ She laughed and before Stella could speak, ‘Don’t answer that. Come to my room and try something on.’
There was no point in arguing and anyway it would be too dark to carry on soon. ‘Where are we going?’ Since she’d come to live with Maggie – been taken under her wing was how Maggie described it – she’d had the kind of social life she’d only ever dreamed of.
Maggie’s room was even untidier than Stella’s and she flung open her bursting wardrobe and tossed a great pile of dresses onto the unmade bed. As Stella picked through them Maggie pulled off her own jeans and shirt and stood in her black bra and lacy knickers, one hand on her hip, studying Stella and shaking her head as she held dress after dress up to her shoulders. Stella knew her own figure wasn’t bad. She and Maggie were pretty much the same size but she would never have Maggie’s confidence. Came from always having had money she guessed. The best schools and all that. This house actually belonged to Maggie. Before coming to art school Stella had never known anyone who owned their own house and it was almost unbelievable that someone in her early twenties could do so.
‘I can’t choose until I know where we’re going, Margot.’ She grinned as she said it, knowing Maggie hated the name her parents had given her. Hated them too for that matter. She said her dad had only gifted her this house so he wouldn’t feel bad about moving to the States with his new young wife. At least that was more than she’d had from her mother who, according to Maggie, had deserted them when she was a toddler. The fact that neither Maggie nor Stella – now her nana no longer recognized her – had any real family had helped their friendship develop.
Maggie threw a shoe in Stella’s direction and plonked down among the pile of clothes, lighting a cigarette and talking through puffs. ‘My man has invited us to a gallery opening. So pick something tres glam.’
The gallery was beautiful. All pale walls with black leather sofas. Waiters circulated carrying trays of champagne. Stella had never had it and wasn’t sure she liked it, but Maggie swallowed hers in one gulp and grabbed another. Then Stella felt her stiffen beside her.
‘Damn it, the old bitch is here.’
Following her gaze across the room Stella saw a tall, blonde woman in a slender black dress. Her hair gleamed under the lights, and just looking at her made Stella feel like a scruffy midget. This must be the wife of Maggie’s current man, Ben. Maggie liked older men and was never bothered if they were married.
It had to be Ben who approached them. He took both Maggie’s hands in his and kissed her cheek and from the way Maggie stroked his jacket and gazed up at him Stella could tell he was more than one of her flings – a lot more.
He was probably at least forty, but very handsome in a dark Irish kind of way. ‘It’s Maggie, isn’t it?’ he said, his eyes twinkling.
With a quick glance around, Maggie punched his arm. ‘You never told me she would be here,’ she hissed.
‘Couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid, but I doubt you’ll be lonely.’ He turned to Stella. ‘And that goes for both of you.’ He took her hand, and she felt herself flush, wishing she’d had time to wipe it on her dress because it felt sticky. He looked from her to Maggie. A flash of white teeth. ‘Are you related?’
Maggie moved closer to him, touching his arm. Her voice turning gruff. ‘Stella is my flatmate.’
‘Ah, just alike in beauty then. So are you an artist too, Stella?’
‘An art student, yes.’
‘That’s wonderful. Did Maggie tell you we’re planning a small exhibition of young talented folk like yourselves? We’ve already snapped up a couple of Maggie’s collages.’
Before she could answer he beckoned to another man who had been talking to an elderly couple nearby.
‘You must meet my partner, David Ballantyne. He knows more about art than anyone in London.’
As the other man came over Ben said, ‘David, meet two of the young talents for our new show.’ Then he gave Maggie’s bottom a pat and headed away.
David was a bit younger than Ben. Mid-thirties Stella guessed. He was nice-looking where Ben was handsome, with fair hair and glasses, but still looked good in his dinner jacket and black specs. His smile was friendly, but he seemed embarrassed to be stranded with them, especially with Maggie rather obviously scowling after Ben’s retreating back.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your names,’ he said, and Stella thought she detected a hint of a Scottish burr.
Maggie gave him her brilliant smile and held out her hand. ‘Maggie de Santis.’ She always pronounced her surname with an almost comical Italian accent. Despite hating her first name, and the parents who gave it to her, Maggie was very proud of the fact that her ancestors had been Italian aristocracy. She tossed back her shining chestnut hair. ‘You and Ben chose two of my collages for the show.’
David’s eyes crinkled as he turned to Stella with a laugh. ‘Ah, that explains where I’ve seen you before. It’s a very amusing picture, although not a good likeness if I may say so.’
The collage he must be talking about had lots of photos of Maggie’s friends in the most bizarre poses and situations. Stella’s face was right in the middle; she was wearing a bathroom plunger as a hat, decorated with a huge feathery-topped carrot. Her laugh came out too loud. She had no idea Maggie had got the picture into an exhibition.
Maggie smacked David’s hand. ‘Naughty boy. That was supposed to be a surprise.’
Stella could never believe how confident Maggie was with men who were so much older and more sophisticated. But then looking at the way David’s face had flushed perhaps he wasn’t so sophisticated after all.
His eyes were still on Stella. ‘I don’t remember seeing any of your work.’
‘You haven’t.’ It sounded rude and she was very aware of her Geordie accent but he didn’t seem bothered.
‘Well why don’t you bring some stuff in tomorrow for me to see?’
Someone waved from across the room, and he smiled and told them to enjoy the evening and was gone. Stella’s heart was beating so fast she thought she might collapse. And when Maggie grabbed her arm she leaned in to her for support.
‘Oh my god! Thank you so much.’
Maggie tapped her glass with her own. ‘That’s what friends are for. He’ll love your stuff. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s taken a fancy to you, too.’
Stella told her not to be silly, but watching him smiling and chatting as he moved around the room she did think he looked rather lovely.
Eve
The doorbell to the flat shrilled into the silence. They all ignored it. Eve didn’t take her eyes off David. Could he be her real father? Surely not. She knew how much he loved Jill. But no marriage was perfect and she guessed her parents’ must have come under strain when they realized they couldn’t have children of their own.
As if he knew what she was thinking David met her eyes and shook his head. His voice was suddenly old and weary. ‘We were wrong to keep all this from you, but there never seemed to be a right time.’
The doorbell pierced the air again, a long ring, but Jill spoke over it. ‘But we were all so happy, weren’t we? How could that be wrong?’
Eve’s phone began to buzz on the table – Alex. She had to answer.
‘I’m outside. Got your message.’ He must have come straight from the train.
‘I thought we could drive home together. The light’s not good at this time of night.’
She bit down on a spasm of annoyance. She was a better driver than Alex even with her bump. Why did he insist on treating her like an invalid?
‘Stay there,’ she said, ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’
Her father said, ‘Eve, my darling …’
She shook her head and held up her hand to keep him from going on. ‘It’s all right, just leave me to think about it.’ She shoved the article into her bag and turned to her mother. ‘But please try to find that letter for me.’
As she was buttoning her jacket, Jill said, ‘Why don’t I come round tomorrow morning and we can talk this through? You can ask me anything you want then.’
Eve nodded. ‘OK.’ She must have said it more coldly than she meant because Jill’s face crumpled.
‘Eve, you must believe we’ve always done our best by you,’ she said pulling at the curls on the nape of her neck.
It was a gesture so familiar that Eve felt a twist of pain deep inside. She said, ‘I know you have,’ and kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Alex talked about work on the drive home, but she was hardly listening. He was twenty years older than her and taught art history at University College London. It was how they had met. They hadn’t got together until just before she graduated, and he never actually taught her. Her parents weren’t too happy at the time. He’d been married before and Eve knew they were hoping she would come back to live with them for a while after she graduated, but there was never any chance of that. Although she couldn’t have hoped for a better childhood, her teenage years had been difficult as she began to find their love stifling.
They’d grown to like Alex when they realized how happy he made her, especially when he agreed with Eve that they would move to Hastings after her mother’s heart attack.
As they pulled up outside the house he said, ‘What’s wrong?’
She wasn’t ready to talk about it in the car, so she shook her head and, despite the baby bulk, got out quickly and had let herself in by the time he’d retrieved his briefcase from the back seat and locked the car.
Standing in the kitchen she could hear him take off his coat and walk in behind her. When she turned, his kiss was so warm and familiar she felt bad for shutting him out.
‘Come on, Eve, tell me,’ he said.
She took the scrunched-up article from her bag, then pulled him into the living room to make him sit on the sofa beside her. ‘I found out today that my parents have been lying to me all my life.’
He took the article and glanced at her, expecting her to explain, but she tapped the paper and he fumbled in his pocket for his reading glasses. ‘What is it?’
‘Just read it, please, Alex. I’ll go and dish the dinner up.’
She’d made a casserole in the slow cooker, so there was nothing much to do except to lay the table and put on some microwave rice. She expected Alex to come and talk to her when he’d finished reading, but he didn’t, so she ladled out the food and called him. When she handed him his plate he didn’t look at her.
‘Alex? You realize who she is, don’t you? And my parents lied to me about knowing her.’
He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, that must have come as a real shock. I can understand you being upset, but I suppose they thought it was for the best.’
She knew her voice sounded bitter. ‘Best for me or for them?’
‘Well I’m sure it would have upset you to know your mother was dead. And when would be the right time to come out with something like that? Did they tell you what she died of?’
‘Just that it was an accident.’ She shuddered. ‘She died in a fire – how awful.’
‘Oh, no. Well, that would have been a difficult thing to tell a child.’
‘And there’s the suggestion that it was mysterious. Whatever that means.’
They were both silent, thinking about it, until Eve felt a kick from the baby that was so hard it made her cry out.
Alex said, ‘All right?’
‘Yeah. Just a kick.’
‘All the same, you look exhausted. Maybe you should get an early night.’
She wanted to tell him to leave the worrying to her, but she knew how much this baby meant to him. It meant a lot to her too, of course. She was thirty-one and they’d tried for three years before she got pregnant. Although Alex looked wonderful for over fifty – his hair was still thick and there were no signs of grey – he’d been anxious that he might be too old for babies soon. And of course he’d already lost two children. His first wife had taken his son and daughter to Australia after the divorce and had apparently told them all sorts of lies about Alex, so they refused to see him. They were teenagers now, but he didn’t even know how to contact them.
She touched the article. ‘Have you noticed the date of the Houghton exhibition?’
‘Yes, the year before you were born.’
‘I looked it up. It was just over nine months before.’
Alex studied the report again, then put down his glasses. ‘You’re not thinking …?’
‘It makes sense. Young artist trying to make it and an influential older man.’
Alex shook his head. ‘No, I can’t believe that of David.’
‘He knew Stella at the time and if they did have an affair he could have been lying to Mum all these years as well as to me. Or maybe she decided to forgive and forget. Just glad to get a baby.’
‘Eve, this is ridiculous. It’s your parents we’re talking about.’
‘I wonder what he’ll say if I ask for a DNA test?’
‘You wouldn’t do that, would you?’
She suddenly felt enormously weary. ‘I don’t know.’ Alex was right that she needed to rest and she wanted to be alert when her mother came round tomorrow. She collected their dishes, tipped the remains in the bin and put the plates into the sink. ‘I think I will go up now.’ She kissed his hair, but stopped at the door. ‘You know, after what I’ve learned about my parents today I don’t feel I know them at all.’
She fell into a fitful sleep as soon as she was in bed. At one point, half-awake and not sure if she was dreaming, she thought she heard Alex talking to someone on the phone.
CHAPTER THREE
Stella
Stella had delivered two paintings to the Houghton Gallery. Holding them at arm’s length, as if they were grubby or possibly dangerous, the glamorous receptionist had put them into a cupboard behind her desk and said Mr Ballantyne would call when he’d had a chance to see them. It was clear she didn’t expect the news to be positive.
That was two days ago and, although Maggie told her she was stupid to be downcast, she kept expecting a request to remove her rubbish from the premises.
She had spent the morning at the Tate Gallery. She loved the place and at the moment they had a small exhibition of a group of artists who worked in the East End of London during the 1930s. One of them, George Grafton, was her favourite. Many of his paintings had been destroyed in the 1941 air raid in which he died: but some of his drawings had survived and she found copying them oddly soothing. She’d even started doing one or two of her own in his style. They were quite different from her usual stuff, but that was part of the pleasure. Made it more like playing than work.
It was a lovely afternoon and when she walked down the steps from the gallery there was the first hint of spring in the air. The Thames across the road glittered; each ripple sparkling as it caught the sunlight.
When she opened the front door, calling to Maggie as she did so, Ben waltzed out of the living room. Maggie was behind him looking furious, and Stella headed towards the stairs. Best to make herself scarce.
But Ben was looking at her with a broad smile. ‘Ah, just the girl I want to see.’
She stopped and glanced at Maggie, but she muttered something and went into the kitchen closing the door behind her.
Ben said, ‘David hasn’t stopped raving about your work for two days. Wants to make it the centre of the exhibition. If he has anything to do with it you’re going to be a star.’
Stella stopped halfway up the stairs. After what seemed an age she managed to say, ‘Thank you. That’s wonderful.’
Ben was rubbing his hands together. ‘Now, I’ve got the car outside and Maggie tells me you have more work complete. So what do you say we load the boot and take it to the gallery now?’ He bounded up past her, holding out his hand to take her drawing folder from her.
She hadn’t made her bed this morning and there were clothes scattered on the floor and dirty cups on the bedside table and the window ledge.
With her folder under his arm, Ben headed straight for the picture of her nan on the easel, touching it with a fingertip to check it was dry. ‘Right, we’ll take this one and …’ He turned to the canvases propped up by the wall. ‘This and this and, yes, this too.’
In less than ten minutes they had carried them out to his car.
As she left the house she called, ‘Goodbye,’ to Maggie. There was no reply.
Eve
As soon as Alex left in the morning Eve went onto the Internet looking for more information about Stella. There were several reports on the Baltic exhibition, talking of her talent and the tragedy of her early death. Only one gave any details about that and as Eve read she felt something cold clench deep inside.
Stella’s death was tragic. She had recently moved to Italy and was painting in a garden studio when it burned down. There were some suggestions that she was depressed at the time, but the Italian authorities eventually declared her death accidental.
Depressed at the time. Eve looked away from the screen and turned the phrase over in her mind. Where had those suggestions come from? The article was from The Guardian, so she found the contact details for the columnist and wrote a message.
I’m doing some research into the life and work of Stella Carr and wondered if you could tell me where the suggestions that she might have been depressed before her death came from.
She thought about it for a moment and added:
I’m working with Dr Alex Peyton and with David Ballantyne.
It was true, up to a point, and she hoped her own name, Eve Ballantyne, might help to give her enquiry more substance.
She couldn’t stop that phrase depressed at the time from echoing in her head. Was it code for suicidal? Eve knew about depression. Her first year teaching art in a tough London comprehensive had been difficult. She had been trying to make a go of her own painting; working late into the night after she’d completed everything for school. Alex had been supportive, but eventually she had a breakdown. It was a nightmare that went on for months and, just as she was beginning to come back to herself, her mother’s heart attack sent her back into turmoil. But that turned out for the best. They moved down to Hastings, she took a job in a local school and loved it. Nowadays she hardly painted.
What if she’d inherited a tendency to depression? She shook her head. Nothing good could come of thinking like that.
It didn’t help that when her mum arrived at the house later that morning her first words were, ‘Eve, you look exhausted.’
She forced herself not to say that it might be because of the shock she’d had yesterday. During her teenage years she had fought with Jill all the time and she still felt guilty about that.
As usual Jill headed for the kitchen, opening the lid of the cake tin she was carrying. ‘I made a sponge.’
Eve had expected this and, although she was desperate to get down to talking about Stella, she had already percolated the coffee and put mugs and plates on the table. Her jaw tensed as she watched her mother cut the cake saying, ‘What do you think? I thought it looked a bit dry.’ Just like any normal day.
Eve nibbled at a few crumbs. ‘It’s fine. Lovely, as always. Now please, Mum, tell me everything.’
After what seemed an age Jill put her palms together and said, ‘We’re sorry for not being honest with you. We spent all last evening talking about it and your father seems to think the friend who let us know about Stella’s death was the girl with her in the painting from the article – Maggie. He vaguely remembers her from the time of the Houghton exhibition and has an idea that Stella was sharing a house with her.’
This was something. ‘What was her surname?’
‘He can’t remember. Only that she had some collages in the show. Apparently they weren’t very good. Ben chose them and he wasn’t the greatest judge of art.’
‘Gallery owner was a strange choice of career for him then.’
‘Dad says he liked the glamour of it. It actually belonged to his wife, Pamela. She had the money and was a bit of a socialite, enjoyed hosting openings and so on. Not something I was interested in. I hardly ever went there.’
Eve told herself to be patient. It wasn’t easy. ‘So you never met Stella?’
Her mother fitted the lid of the cake tin back on, pressing it carefully into place. Still smoothing her hands over it, she spoke without looking at Eve. ‘Actually she stayed with us for a while before you were born.’
‘What?’ Eve plonked her mug down so hard the coffee splashed on her hand. She rubbed it off with the sleeve of her jumper, struggling to get the words out. ‘Stella lived with you down here?’ She was, what was the word? Damn pregnancy for making her head so woolly. Astounded, that was it, she was astounded. She’d assumed her mother had only met Stella when they picked up the baby (it was impossible to think of that child as herself).
‘She didn’t have anywhere else to go, you see. No family and I think she had to move out of the place where she was living.’
‘With Maggie?’
‘I suppose so. Although …’
‘So it wasn’t just Dad? You knew my birth mother too and you never told me.’ It was little more than a gasp.
Jill moved back – away from her – and turned her mug round and round on the table looking at it with intense concentration. Her voice wobbled. ‘We never set out to keep anything from you.’
‘But you did. You knew her. You could have told me what she was like. You could have told me so many things. Even the fact that my mother was an artist might have made me try a bit harder with my own painting.’ A chill shivered through her. ‘Was she so horrible you thought it better I didn’t know?’
Jill grabbed her hand. ‘Of course she wasn’t. Like we always said, she was a young girl in an impossible situation. And giving you to us was her way of doing the best she could for you.’
Eve looked into the hazel eyes she knew so well. The eyes that had comforted her when she was a little girl crying over a scraped knee or a bust-up with her friends. Eve’s own eyes were a similar colour and she’d always been happy about that. It seemed to connect them.
‘Please, Mum, tell me everything. I mean how did Dad even find out about her pregnancy if he hardly knew her?’
Her mother shook her head and took in a shuddering breath. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but there was nothing between them. He would never have done that to me. He’s always been the kind of person people can talk to and she confided in him. She was alone and virtually penniless. She came to live here because she had nowhere else to go.’
This was unbelievable. ‘You must have got to know her then.’
‘Not really. She was very quiet and she wasn’t here long.’
‘And how did you first find out about her death?’
Her mother shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. Through people in the art world I suppose. The note came later and even that was just a few lines. The truth is, and I’m sorry if this makes us sound callous, we knew Stella for such a short time and we began, very early on, to think of you as our own. We loved you so much right from the start that we didn’t want to be reminded of how you came into our lives. But we’ve always been grateful to her.’
They didn’t speak for a long while. Eve told herself nothing had really changed. She’d had a wonderful childhood; couldn’t have chosen better parents. But why, oh why, hadn’t they told her the truth? ‘What about the note? Did you find it?’
Jill looked at her watch. She was always busy. If she wasn’t helping David in the gallery, she was involved with various local groups and charities. She began rooting in her bag for her car keys. ‘I’m sorry, no, but I’ll search for it tonight.’
‘What did it say about how she died?’
‘Just that there was a fire.’ The zip on her handbag seemed to be giving her trouble.
Eve took a breath. ‘Only I read that there were suggestions she was depressed. Which might mean it was suicide. And then there was the comment about it being mysterious. What does that mean? That the fire might not have been accidental?’
Jill stopped. She sat down again and gripped Eve’s hand. ‘Oh, don’t start thinking like that.’ Her voice quavered. ‘I promise I’ll find the note and we’ll answer as many of your questions as we can. But, darling, please concentrate on yourself and the baby for the moment. It’s all in the past. Your health is the most important thing. Alex said you were exhausted last night.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’
‘Dad rang him when you were asleep. Just to check you were all right.’ Eve’s face must have shown what she was feeling because Jill touched her cheek. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve said something wrong.’
Eve tried to smile. ‘No, it’s fine.’
But it wasn’t fine. Alex hadn’t mentioned the call, and she didn’t like the idea of them all discussing her behind her back. She followed Jill to the door and after they’d hugged she went into the front room, standing away from the window so she couldn’t be seen, and watched her mother heading along the street to her car.
At the car door Jill turned to stare back at the house, her knuckles pressed against her lips. And the chill that had settled in Eve’s stomach turned to ice.
Stella
Houghton’s was closed, but Ben let them in through a side door. David appeared and helped take the pictures inside. He leaned one against the reception desk and spread the others out along the pale wall. For a few silent minutes he stood, arms folded, looking at them. Then said one word, ‘Superb.’ And finally Stella was able to breathe.
‘Thank you,’ was all she could say, and it seemed to make David aware of her for the first time.
He shook his head at her. ‘No, thank you, Stella. These are beautiful. Fresh, original and so full of life. Just what we need as the centrepiece of the exhibition.’
Ben had disappeared into the office and came back with a bottle of champagne and three glasses. Stella stood in a daze as he popped the cork and poured the foaming wine into her glass. They clinked and Ben and David both kissed her on the cheek.
David raised his glass to her. ‘Here’s to our new star.’ He laughed. ‘I love the signature by the way.’
Stella grinned, too shocked to say anything. Her nan had always called her a little star and that’s why she used the shooting star as her signature. Ben had obviously not noticed it because he bent down to study the bottom of one of the pictures. ‘Ha!’ His laugh was loud in the big empty space. ‘A star for a star. Very clever. And I predict you will soon be stellar, Stella.’ Another booming laugh.
Stella glanced at David, not sure why she felt embarrassed, but he just swallowed the last of his champagne and said, ‘Well, I must get home, lots to do tomorrow. It’s times like this when I wonder if we were right to move down to the coast.’
Ben laughed and slapped his back as he walked away. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ but David gave a cheery wave.
Stella finished her wine, coughing slightly because it was so bubbly, and Ben went to fill her glass again. ‘Thank you, but I’d better get away too. I’m going out tonight.’ It wasn’t true, but she knew she wouldn’t feel comfortable alone in this big space with him. Silly really because he could obviously have his choice of women, so would hardly be bothered with an ordinary girl like her.
‘I dragged you over here, so you must let me take you back. Anyway I want to talk to Maggie.’ He rubbed her shoulder. ‘Think I annoyed her this afternoon.’
Stella had been so nervous on the way that she hadn’t noticed how fast he drove, but in the car going back he obviously guessed she was worried and put his hand on her knee.
‘Relax, it’s quite safe.’ She must have tensed because he gave her a little pat and said, ‘I’ll slow down.’
He began talking about her work. Full of enthusiasm. ‘I’ve never seen David so excited. We see a big future for you, Stella. And we want to feature your picture on the cover of the catalogue.’
It was all so amazing she just sat staring out of the window seeing nothing but a blur. Finally she realized he was waiting for her to say something and she blurted out, ‘Which picture?’ flushing because that sounded stupid.
Another of his loud laughs, making her feel idiotic again. ‘No, I mean your photograph. You’ll be the perfect poster girl.’ Another pat to her thigh. ‘I’ll be honest with you, we were going to use Maggie, but you’re much the better artist.’
His large hand was still on her knee as they drew up outside the house and it was impossible to move without seeming rude. Still tongue-tied she could only manage a strangled, ‘Thank you.’ She put her hand on the door.
‘And of course …’ he gave her thigh a little squeeze as he opened his own door, ‘you just about beat Maggie in the looks stakes, too.’
Before she could get out he was round her side taking her hand to help her. She moved quickly away, planning to run straight up to her room with the excuse that she had to change for her imaginary night out.
But as she reached the gate he said, ‘On second thought, I won’t come in just now. Let her ladyship cool down.’
Then, before she could move, his hand was behind her head and he was kissing her hard on the lips. It only lasted a second then he turned away, heading back to the car as if nothing had happened.
In the driver’s seat he rolled down the window and said, ‘We need to do those photos ASAP. So I’ll collect you in the morning and take you to the studio. Eight sharp.’ That loud laugh again, echoing down the quiet evening street.
When he roared away Stella stood one hand still on the gate the other pressed to her lips. She was almost afraid to let go of the gate because her legs felt like jelly. What had just happened? And was it really true that her work was set to be a success? She couldn’t think and told herself the only thing to do about that kiss was to pretend it had never happened.
But as she gave herself a little shake and opened the gate, she realized the curtain in Maggie’s bedroom was pulled back and Maggie, her face a frozen white mask, was standing there staring down at her.
Eve
When Alex got home Eve was checking the cod roasting in the oven. It took her a while to straighten up nowadays and Alex laughed and came behind her to haul her upright. Then he lifted her hair and kissed the back of her neck. ‘Sorry I’m late. They cancelled my usual train and the next one was a packed.’ He opened the fridge and poured himself some milk, holding up the carton. ‘Want some?’
She shook her head determined to get it out right away. ‘You didn’t tell me about Dad’s call last night.’
He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Oh yes, I completely forgot in the rush this morning. He only wanted to check you were all right. I told him you were asleep and that was it.’
She wanted to say that she didn’t like them discussing her as if she was a child who needed looking after, but the way she was feeling she knew it was likely to turn into an argument. Besides she had something more important to tell him.
It was difficult, but she forced herself to wait until they were eating. ‘I’ve decided to go to Newcastle this week, to see that exhibition.’
Alex swallowed a mouthful of potato and took a drink of water. ‘The train tickets will cost a fortune this late, if we can even get any, and I have work commitments.’
‘You don’t have to come and I was planning to drive.’
He put down his fork. ‘You’re joking. You shouldn’t be driving or travelling distances. Certainly not on your own. You can access the pictures and all the information you need online.’
He reached out for her, but she crossed her arms. She’d been prepared for this. ‘I have to see them as they really are, and I want to talk to someone at the Baltic about this collector. It could be someone who knew my mother. Someone who might know more about the circumstances of her death.’
Alex wiped his mouth. She’d obviously spoiled his appetite. ‘If The Guardian couldn’t get that information out of the gallery you’re hardly likely to.’
‘I’ll tell them I’m her daughter.’ Why was she feeling like a naughty child? She felt tears gather in her eyes and a pain stab inside her throat. Was his support too much to ask for? She ripped off a piece of kitchen roll and headed for the door pretending to blow her nose rather than wipe her eyes. Turning back to him she said, ‘Well I’m going and that’s it.’ She just managed to stop herself from adding, ‘So there.’
It was pathetic and she knew it, but she ran upstairs and locked herself in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet her arms wrapped round herself. Damn, damn, damn. Damn her mum and dad, damn Alex and damn Stella Carr. This ought to be the happiest time in her life, when she should be thinking about the future not the past. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to rest until she found out all she could about her birth mother.
And about how she died.
CHAPTER FOUR
Eve
It was a long way to Newcastle and Eve would normally have insisted on at least sharing the driving, but this time she slept for much of the journey.
Alex had come upstairs while she sat miserably in the bathroom and tapped on the door.
‘Eve, I’m so sorry. If it’s that important to you, I’ll cancel my appointments and come with you. Let’s book a hotel for a couple of nights and I’ll get in touch with the Baltic. As an art historian I should at least be able to arrange for us to meet a curator.’
He nudged her as they approached the city. It was already dark and her eyes were dazzled by the lights. ‘We’re nearly there. Our hotel is just across the river from the Baltic.’
She sat up and shook her head. They were approaching a steel bridge flanked by two others. On the right she recognized the Tyne Bridge. The river below them was a dark mirror gleaming with reflections of city lights.
When they stopped outside their hotel Eve looked across the water. The gallery was a great chunk of a building. Over the front the massive words, BALTIC FLOUR MILLS, proclaimed its industrial past, but brightly lit glass sections at the top and sides relieved its bulk.
Eve stared hard at it almost imagining she could see the pictures inside. She’d hoped to have a look round as soon as they arrived, but the exhibition spaces must be closed by now. Alex had got them an appointment with one of the curators next morning.
Eve was still cloudy from sleep and struggled to listen as he carried on talking and pointing. ‘That’s the Millennium Bridge leading over to the Baltic. They call it the Blinking Eye.’
Eve could see how it had got its name. Hanging low over the water it really did look like the slender outline of the upper and lower lids of a wide open eye. Its two semicircles of light, the top lid lit up in blue and purple and the lower a curve of brilliant white, shone in the black glass of the river.
She smiled at Alex. ‘You sound like a city guide.’ When he looked down and she noticed his knuckles turn white on the wheel she realized her mistake, but said nothing. Alex had done his PhD at Newcastle University and it was where he had met, married and lived with his first wife, Beth. Where their children were born. Where their marriage fell apart before Beth took the children to Australia and broke contact.
‘It’s changed quite a bit since I was here,’ was all he said as he pulled into the hotel car park and turned off the engine.
He took her hand to help her out and must have realized how wobbly she was because he pulled her close. She rested her head on his chest, wanting suddenly to cry. He was very warm and held her tightly, whispering, ‘Was the journey all right? I know you hate being a passenger. And I’m not a patch on you for driving. Had a sticky moment on the M25 when that bloody Audi cut me up.’
She remembered jolting awake to see a silver flash speeding away from them and hearing Alex curse, but she had fallen asleep right after. Now she saw how anxious he must have been all these hours and one tear spilled onto her cheek. She wiped it away. ‘You did brilliantly.’
He kissed her gently on the mouth and for the first time in weeks she felt a surge of desire.
‘Let’s check in,’ she said.
When they got to their room she had to dash to the toilet. Nowadays she felt as if her bladder had shrunk to nothing. She came out to see Alex standing by the window looking over the river. It was a lovely view, but she pulled off her shoes and trousers and lay on the bed looking at him. He was tall and slim, and although he was twenty years older than her, he didn’t look it. And there was something about his back, with his T-shirt all crumpled from the long drive, that was so vulnerable it made her want to cry again. He usually seemed so calm and composed that she still sometimes thought of him as a professor and herself as a student, but today she felt almost maternal. And guilty. She had been completely wrapped up in wanting to find out about Stella Carr and hadn’t thought how coming here would stir up memories of his first marriage.
Without turning he said, ‘Shall I make you some coffee?’
‘I don’t want anything but you right now.’
He came to her and they kissed and he held her very tightly. When he moved back to look at her, his eyes shone almost gold in the light from the bedside lamp. They made love then, slowly and in silence and when it was over they lay close together, their breath coming in matching rhythms.
The next thing she was aware of was Alex brushing her hair away from her face, and she realized he was dressed and that she had slept.
‘I can’t face going out to eat, can you?’ he said. ‘Room service is a bit pricey, but I could get a takeaway and sneak it in if you like.’
Eve was too sleepy to be hungry, but knew she should eat. ‘A spicy pizza would be nice and some cold juice.’
He jumped up. ‘Just what I fancy, but with a couple of beers instead of the juice.’
Alex put the TV on for her, but she grabbed the book she was reading from her bag.
It wasn’t until she heard the music for the television news that she realized how long he’d been gone. A few minutes later he came in with a pizza box and a carrier bag. His hair was damp.
‘There was a queue, then it started pouring with rain and I had to wait in a doorway.’ He rubbed a hand over his face.
She pulled herself up straight in the bed. ‘Alex, what’s wrong.’
He had turned to the little table by the window and was unpacking the bag. ‘Oh, nothing, except some boy racer nearly knocked me into the river. Just managed to jump out of his way and, more importantly, to save the food.’ He faced her with a smile. ‘No harm done. Now let’s eat before you fall asleep again.’
Stella
The photo session turned out all right in the end. After Ben Houghton drove away and Stella saw Maggie staring down at her, she raced inside and up the stairs, but Maggie was in the bathroom. Stella tapped on the door.
‘Maggie, are you all right?’ There was no answer, so she went to the kitchen and made herself some beans on toast.
When the phone in the hall rang Maggie hurtled down wrapped in a towel. She leaned over and closed the kitchen door so that Stella couldn’t hear what she was saying. Minutes later she was slamming out the front door.
Stella had been awake for hours when she heard a hoot from outside. As she opened the front door she felt a lurch of anxiety. What if Ben did something while they were alone in the car? But Maggie, looking straight ahead, was in the passenger seat.
Stella sat in the back of the car watching Maggie nuzzle at Ben as he drove with one hand on her knee. He looked back and winked at Stella, which made her face go red.
What he had said to her yesterday – what he had done – had obviously just been to make Maggie jealous. And it turned out that the photo session was for all the artists. The four others were men. Stella knew one of them, Baz, from college and the rest were all a similar age to her and Maggie. The photographer wasn’t much older and he encouraged everyone to clown around as he took lots of snaps very quickly.
A few paintings had already been hung, and he was photographing one of the men in front of his work, when Maggie came and sat next to Stella on a black sofa.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘I’ve got over it, so no need to avoid me. I know Ben only kissed you to annoy me.’ She held up her wrist to show Stella a lovely gold bracelet he’d given her. The phone call the night before had been from him and he’d come back to take Maggie to dinner and a hotel for the night. ‘We’ve been making plans,’ she said with a secret smile.
Before Stella could ask anymore David Ballantyne arrived with sandwiches and bottles of beer, and they all went out into the courtyard. One of the men, James Stone, who had dark floppy hair and a silver earring, came to sit on the stone bench next to Stella. She liked him and as they ate and drank in the sunshine she felt as happy as she had ever been. A thought came into her head. This is when my real life begins.
When he stood to leave James nudged Stella with his knee. ‘Coming?’ But Maggie called out. ‘Don’t go, I need to talk to you.’ So James waved and said, ‘See you around then.’
Stella sighed and followed Maggie back into the gallery. She whispered, ‘Don’t you want to be alone with Ben?’
Maggie laughed. ‘And miss the best bit. Look.’ She was holding a small bag and pulled out the two dresses they had worn to the preview. ‘Ben wanted a photo of me in something a bit more glamorous and we thought it might be nice to have one of the two of us together.’
When they’d changed, the photographer asked them to come back into the courtyard where he took several pictures. Then Ben appeared and said, ‘Now a few of Maggie on her own, I think.’
Maggie was trying out various poses, some sexy, some sedate and some comical, and she and the photographer were soon laughing together, so Stella wandered back into the gallery. She was looking at a picture by James and was so absorbed that she gasped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
It was David Ballantyne. ‘Sorry. I thought you heard me,’ he said. He gestured with his head and they moved over to a beautifully lit corner of the gallery where six canvases were leaning against the wall. Although only their backs were showing, Stella recognized them as hers.
‘What do you think?’ he said, and when she looked blank he smiled and added, ‘I mean how’s this corner for your work?’ He gestured towards the rest of the room. ‘It’s visible from pretty much everywhere and people will be drawn over as soon as they come in.’
It was difficult to speak. ‘It’s wonderful. The light …’ she couldn’t go on. There was a pain in her throat as she struggled not to cry at the thought of her pictures on display in such a beautiful spot.
‘You’ll be the star of the show. No doubt about that.’
All she could say was, ‘Thank you.’
He was looking away from her and fiddling with the frame of one of the canvases. ‘I want you to know I think you’re a rare talent and I’m very proud to have you in the exhibition.’
Stella was glad he left her then, muttering something about work and busy, because she had to move close to the wall to hide her tears. She was so thrilled that her heart seemed to throb. Was it possible to die of happiness?
She turned one of her pictures around. It was the first she’d done in London when she was feeling lost and homesick and was a fantasy version of the Tyne Bridge. She’d removed all the other bridges around it and painted it as if it was in the middle of jungle rather than in Newcastle. Was it really as good as David said?
‘Put that back the way you found it, young lady.’ Ben Houghton’s voice boomed out, and she automatically did as she was told. He clapped her on the back and gave his huge laugh. ‘Only joking, my darling. If anyone’s entitled to handle it, I’d say it’s you. Now will you step into my office for a moment?’ He smiled down at her, raising one eyebrow.
CHAPTER FIVE
Eve
Alex had emailed the Baltic to say he was researching a book and wanted to include some details about Stella Carr. He had kept it as vague as possible.
They arrived with an hour to spare. It was cold and drizzly but, despite the gloom outside, the gallery was full of light and space. When they left the glass elevator on the third floor, Alex wandered straight into the exhibition. Eve stood at the entrance reading the information on the partition.
The Baltic is especially glad to welcome the works of Stella Carr because she was born in Newcastle in 1966. The Tyne Bridge is clearly recognizable in one of her earliest paintings.
Nothing is known about her father, and her mother, Karen, died when Stella was only nine years old. From then on she lived with her grandmother. She attended Newcastle’s Bath Lane College of Art until she won a scholarship to St Martins in London.
Eve looked over towards Alex. So Stella was actually from Newcastle. Alex was a student here during the Eighties and later taught at the university. She wondered if anyone he knew from that time had ever come across Stella.
She read on:
The painting, Nana, shows Stella’s grandmother when she was in a nursing home suffering from dementia.
Stella’s only exhibition during her lifetime was at the Houghton Gallery in 1986. Five of her paintings were sold, but Stella refused to part with Nana. She moved to Italy the following year and was tragically killed when a fire destroyed her studio. Some of the paintings in our exhibition are from the original London show, but a number were produced during her final weeks in Italy. These have never been shown before. They survived because the studio was too small to store her finished works and they were kept in the main house.
So the studio was separate from the house. Surely that would have made it easier to escape from. She wondered what it was like. Needed to find out.
She walked into the exhibition space, her breath caught, and she couldn’t move. It was like being inside a kaleidoscope, not just because the colours were so vivid, but because she felt as if they were whirling around her as she tried, and failed, to focus on any single painting.
She walked to the glass case in the middle of the room where the catalogue for the Houghton exhibition was displayed. The photo of Stella that she’d seen on the Internet was on the front cover. A second copy of the catalogue was open at a two-page spread. On one side was Stella with another small and slender young woman. It was obviously the photograph that had inspired the painting of Maggie and Me that Eve had seen in the original article. They were wearing the green and blue dresses in what looked like a courtyard with white walls. The caption under the photograph read:
Stella Carr and Maggie de Santis.
So this was the friend she had lived with.
On the opposite page were four smaller pictures of the other artists: all young men. Eve took out her notebook and wrote down their names. Then began to walk around the room. The first painting was Nana and Eve looked into the lined face trying to see something of herself in the woman who was her great-grandmother. The old lady’s short neat hair was completely white, so if she had been a redhead it was impossible to tell. Above all Eve could detect love in every brushstroke. Stella had loved her nana very much.
Next was Maggie and Me. The two young women just as they were in the photo, but surrounded by dark woodland. It changed the character of the picture completely, making it almost sinister. She saw now that the girls were holding hands and an alternative title came into her head: Babes in the Wood.
She must have said the words aloud and became aware of Alex behind her, his hand moving to rest on her shoulder.
‘All right?’
‘Just thinking.’
‘You should look over here.’
He led her to one of the smallest paintings. It was of a young woman seated in a rowing boat surrounded by water that glinted with blues, greens and purples. The sky was heavy with clouds. Her red hair fell over her face as she looked down at a bundle that suggested a baby. It was called Madonna?
Eve was grateful for Alex still behind her because she felt as if she might fall. He pointed at the caption on the wall.
The woman is probably Stella’s mother – apparently Stella owned a photograph of herself and Karen in a similar position. However there have been suggestions that the mother is Stella herself. Rumours persist that she had a child that she gave up for adoption a few months before her death. The question mark could support this interpretation.
Alex said very softly, ‘Shall we take a moment before our meeting?’
They went down to the café. The rain had stopped and the glass-fronted room was bright. Arrows of sunshine split the clouds above the river. Not quite sure how she got there, she found herself at a table with a cup in front of her and a slice of cake on a striped plate.
She broke off a chunk of cake and swallowed without chewing or even tasting it. The coffee was only lukewarm, but it helped to bring her back to reality. She looked up at Alex. ‘That baby was me. And Stella was so unhappy. You could see that too, couldn’t you?’
He squeezed her hand. ‘Look, I know what we want to ask, so why don’t you stay here, or go back to the hotel and let me see the curator. This is too much for you.’
She pulled away. ‘No, I’ve got to be there.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And we’d better go now.’
Stella
Ben opened his desk drawer and pulled out a folder, which she recognized as hers. It was the one he had picked up by mistake when they brought over her paintings. The one with her drawings in the style of George Grafton: the East End artist from the 1930s and ’40s.
‘I’m afraid I’ve been a bit naughty, but you did agree to us selling your work, didn’t you?’
She wondered where this was going. ‘Yes, all except the picture called Nana.’
‘Good and we’ll make sure we get the best possible price for them. I know you’re not like Maggie, born with a silver spoon and all that.’
Stella shifted in her seat feeling embarrassed.
‘Don’t look like that, sweetie. You have everything except money. Beauty, style and above all talent, so there’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
She opened the folder hoping it would make him get a move on, but it was empty and she looked up at him.
‘The thing is, Stella,’ he said, ‘I’ve taken a bit of a liberty and sold those drawings already.’
‘But they weren’t for the show. They don’t reflect my work at all.’ Now she felt angry.
‘Don’t worry. You didn’t sign them, so no one will connect them with you. But I happened to know a collector who is mad about the East End group, and George Grafton in particular, so I couldn’t resist showing them to him. He was amazed at how well you’d caught George’s style and he just had to have them. You’ve made him very happy.’
He passed her the empty portfolio. ‘And if you feel like doing a few more, he’d love to buy them too.’
She didn’t know what to say. ‘He bought them?’
‘Absolutely. And I thought you’d prefer the money in cash, so here you go.’ He pulled an envelope from the open drawer and held it out to Stella.
All she could do was stare because it bulged with notes. ‘How much is it?’
‘Five hundred pounds and I suspect he would have paid more if I’d pushed him.’
‘Five hundred pounds for a few practice drawings?’
There was that big laugh again as he leaned back in his chair and shook his head at her. ‘Ah, the innocence of youth. I’m savouring it while I can. You’ll soon learn how the art world works. If a collector really wants something there’s no limit to what they’ll pay. So take the money and go celebrate with that naughty Maggie. I’m sure she’ll help you spend it.’
Eve
The curator was a tall woman around Eve’s age with dark hair in a shiny bob. Her white shirt and loose black trousers looked very elegant. She shook Alex’s hand. ‘Good to meet you, Alex. I’m Miriam.’
Alex said, ‘And this is Eve.’ They had decided he wouldn’t introduce her as his wife so their interest would initially seem completely professional. Eve had pulled her hair into a bun at the back of her head to minimize the mane of red that was so like Stella’s.
Alex explained they were researching Stella’s life, but knew little more than the information displayed outside the exhibition room.
Miriam shook her head. ‘That’s a shame. To be honest we were hoping you might shed some more light on her for us.’
‘What about the collector or collectors who supplied the new pictures?’
Eve was glad he was getting straight to the point.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there except to say that we believe they belong to one person. We’ve only dealt with a firm of solicitors.’
Eve couldn’t hold back. ‘And these solicitors are?’
When Miriam turned to her something seemed to spark in her eyes. She had seen the likeness. ‘They’ve asked us to keep them anonymous too.’
There was nothing to lose. Eve sat up straight and took a deep breath. ‘I should tell you that I’m actually Stella’s daughter and was adopted by David Ballantyne: Ben Houghton’s partner.’
The curator stared. She half rose then sat down again and carried on looking at Eve for long seconds. When she spoke her voice was breathy. ‘Oh my word. We actually have a note in the gallery about the rumours that she had a child –– but no one seemed to know whether there was any substance to them.’
‘For various reasons I didn’t discover the truth myself until recently, but now I’d like to find out as much about my mother as I can. For instance, these rumours about her having a child: where did they originate?’
‘As far as I know they were simply a response to the Madonna? picture. The mother figure looks more like Stella than her own mother, Karen, for one thing.’
‘And I read somewhere that Stella was depressed just before her death. Have you heard anything about that? Or about any suspicious circumstances around her death?’
Eve felt Alex shift beside her. He obviously thought she was being too forceful, but the curator gave her a sympathetic smile and shook her head.
‘Not really. Most of the reports I’ve come across call it a tragic accident. There are always conspiracy theorists on the Internet, but I don’t take much notice of that kind of thing.’
‘I read in the gallery that Stella worked in a studio separate from the house. Do you have any information about it?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’
Eve could sense Alex was about to speak, but she came in with: ‘The main reason I’ve come to see you is that I’m hoping the owner of the newly discovered pictures might be able to help me. It might even be someone who knew Stella.’ Eve could hear her own voice becoming breathless, but she forced herself on. ‘So I’d like you to give my details to their solicitors and ask them to contact me.’
Miriam looked down at papers on her desk tapping them with a pen.
Alex spoke quickly. ‘You can assure them we have no intention of making any claims on the estate. As I said we just want to find out as much about Stella as we can. Eve obviously never met her mother. And her adoptive parents know very little about her.’
When Miriam spoke her tone was careful – guarded – was the word that sprang into Eve’s mind.
‘I see, yes. Well I’m afraid I can’t guarantee anything, but if you email me your details, and some evidence of your identity, I’ll see what the solicitors say. And obviously, if you discover anything you’d be willing to share with us we’d be very glad to hear it.’
CHAPTER SIX
Eve
After they left the curator, Alex said, ‘I think we should go for some lunch. You can come back afterwards if you want.’ Neither of them spoke as they walked across the Millennium Bridge and away from the river into the busy Newcastle streets. Alex stopped outside a little Italian restaurant and looked at Eve. She nodded. Couldn’t face walking any further.
When they were seated at a window table and had ordered drinks – a Peroni for Alex and sparkling water for Eve – he put down the menu he’d been holding and took her hand.
‘I’m sorry. I know you hoped to find out something more concrete today.’
She said, ‘Do you know the art school she went to here? Before London?’
‘I’ve heard of it, of course.’
‘You don’t know anyone who was there in the Eighties when you lived here?’
‘No, sorry.’ It was curt, but not surprising. He always clammed up when anything reminded him of that time in his life. If he’d kept any friends from then she had never met them.
She shrugged, fighting to keep her voice steady. ‘I suppose it was silly to expect anything more. It’s just …’ She shook her head. What she had imagined they’d find out she didn’t know, but she had never felt so tired. ‘I’m sorry for making you drive all this way for so little.’
‘Let’s try to make the most of the day anyway. I thought I’d pop into the Lit and Phil Library, and maybe check out the theatre to see if there’s anything on tonight. What do you think?’
‘Good idea, but I’ll skip the library. I want to have another look in the Baltic.’
He didn’t argue, but plunged his fork into his spaghetti and tutted as a dollop of sauce splashed on his hand.
It was raining again and Eve pulled on her beanie. She kept it on in the gallery. It felt like protection. This time she walked very slowly around the exhibition, trying to keep her emotions in check. It was difficult when she came to a painting of Stella’s mother, Karen – her own grandmother. The caption said she died when Stella was nine. She was on a swing attached to the branch of a huge tree with a twisted trunk. Her hair swirling around her as she seemed to sway back and forth.
It must have been so hard growing up without a mother, and it seemed that Stella’s grandmother developed dementia when she was still only a teenager.
Forcing herself to move on she came to a picture of the little town in Italy where Stella had spent her last weeks. The caption called it Sestri Levante, and Eve noted the name down. That was something she hadn’t known before. The tiny beach was surrounded by tall houses and restaurants. Stella had changed the bay into a magical sea with mermaids perched on rocks.
Next to it was Seascape with Gulls and she was almost sure it was a view from the cliffs above Hastings, although the gulls were beautiful diaphanous creatures nothing like the screeching scavengers she knew. There were two more portraits of Maggie. Alone this time. In one she wore a red dress, her hair threaded with white flowers. Another was the strange Mermaid picture in which she now recognized the face as Maggie’s.
Eve had seen love in every brushstroke of the Nana portrait and sadness in Madonna? The Maggie paintings were different. Some strong emotion certainly seemed to emanate from them, but Eve couldn’t tell if that emotion was love or something quite different.
Back at the hotel she phoned her dad and as soon as she heard his, ‘Hello sweetheart,’ she felt a rush of warmth. ‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry for being so horrible to you and Mum. I know you only did what you thought was right.’
‘But we should have trusted you with the truth. I see that now.’
‘Whatever I find out won’t make any difference to us.’ As she said it she tried to ignore the tiny voice asking if she was sure about that. ‘But, Dad, please help me now.’ She read out the names of the other artists in the show. ‘Could any of these have been Stella’s boyfriend: my father?’
‘Now that’s a tricky one. Since you started asking about her I’ve racked my brains and honestly I can’t remember her with anyone. I assumed it was another art student. So the young men from the exhibition certainly fit the bill. I’ve followed their careers – those that went on to have some success – but I’ve never seen any connection to Stella.’
‘Could you try to put me in touch with any of them?’
A pause. ‘We’d have to go about it delicately.’
‘I know. And I also thought I’d try to speak to Ben Houghton. He’s likely to remember something about her. Might even know more about how she died. And I can’t stop thinking that I was born about nine months after she met him.’
There was no pause this time. Instead David rushed on. ‘Oh, no, Eve. You mustn’t bother Ben. You know how things are with him.’
She knew Ben had been in a wheelchair for years, paralyzed from the waist down. His accident was one of the reasons Houghton’s had closed. Her dad was still talking.
‘Granted he was a bit of a lad in his day, but he’s paid the price and so have Pamela and Simon.’
‘But could he be my biological father?’
‘Since this started I’ve been thinking about possible candidates and naturally Ben came to mind, but I’ve remembered he was actually having one of his flings with the other girl. Stella’s friend, Maggie.’
‘And he couldn’t have been cheating on Maggie with Stella?’
‘If he did I’m sure he won’t admit it at this stage. And he knows about you, my darling, so if he wanted to claim parentage don’t you think he would have done so already?’
He must have heard her gasp because he said quickly, ‘I’m sorry, that was clumsy. I’m just sure he’s not the one and I don’t want you upsetting yourself as well as Ben and his family.’
She took a deep breath. ‘OK, I understand.’
Lying on the hotel bed after they’d said goodbye she held the phone to her chest and watched the early evening sun breaking through the clouds. Her father’s words had only made her more convinced that she had to see Ben. Whatever his relationship with Stella it was clear he knew her friend, Maggie, intimately. So it was possible he could put Eve in touch with her, which could be crucial to finding out how Stella died. In fact, Maggie could be the key to everything.
She stared at her phone, that cold feeling creeping over her again. Much as she loved her parents she was beginning to believe they were still lying to her. And she didn’t want to think about why that might be.
Stella
When Stella told Maggie about the £500 Ben had given her for the drawings, Maggie said, ‘You can bet your life he got a lot more than that for them. Next time ask for double.’
‘There won’t be a next time. I don’t want to get into producing copies. I need to focus on my real work.’
Still, she enjoyed treating Maggie to a meal for once even if it was only fish and chips from the corner chippie and a cheap bottle of Muscadet. They sat at the old Formica kitchen table laughing about fools who were prepared to pay out hundreds for pencil drawings that weren’t even original. When they finished the wine Maggie produced a bottle of Bacardi and a few cans of Coke.
They were supposed to go to the gallery the next morning to see the exhibition before it opened the following week, but slept in and didn’t get there until late afternoon. David let them in and said he needed to leave in half an hour so they didn’t have long. Ben wasn’t around, but Stella was glad to see the dark-haired guy, James, who had sat with her in the courtyard after the photoshoot.
He smiled and waved, but after one glance at him all Stella could see were her own paintings. Looking at them she felt breathless because, although David had promised they would be in a prominent position, she hadn’t realized just how they would dominate the room.
Maggie was standing in front of her own two collages, but when she turned away from them Stella saw that her face was twisted into a scowl that was almost frightening. Then, without a word, she walked out.
James came over. ‘Your stuff looks fabulous. Well done.’ She managed to thank him, but when he pushed the catalogue into her hand, her heart sank. Her photograph was the only one on the front cover. The names of all the other artists were there, but it was the photo that caught the eye, of course. Inside it was even worse, because alongside the individual snaps of the four men, crammed onto one side of a two-page spread, was the one of her and Maggie together in their blue and green dresses. None of the many pictures of Maggie on her own had been used.
James must have realized she was upset because he grabbed her hand. ‘Let’s get a drink, shall we?’
They went to a pub nearby, and he tapped his glass against hers. ‘You should be dancing in the street and instead you look as if someone died. Don’t let other people put you down. Your stuff is the best in the show and if anyone is jealous then that’s their lookout.’
He was very kind, but she didn’t feel much better. ‘It’s just that Maggie has been so good to me. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t even have been able to stay in London. And she got Ben and David to look at my work.’
‘OK, so when you’re successful you can try to give her a leg up. And remember, she may have helped your stuff get seen, but it’s your talent they love.’
When they eventually left they bought a takeaway pizza and ate it as they walked back to the flat James shared with a couple of others. No one else was in and they collapsed on his bed fully clothed.
She woke with her mouth dry and her head thumping. Light was coming through the thin curtains, although her watch said it wasn’t yet six a.m., and the room smelled of beer and sweat. She rolled off the bed, and James opened his eyes, struggling to focus on her.
‘All right?’ He still sounded drunk.
‘Yeah, but I’d better get home.’
‘OK, see you later.’ He turned over and was soon asleep again.
As she got the bus back to Maggie’s she told herself she was a coward for not facing her yesterday. She let herself in as quietly as she could and went to tiptoe upstairs, but Maggie shouted from the kitchen.
‘No need to hide. I’m making toast so come and get some.’
Stella hovered at the door, and Maggie laughed. ‘Stop looking so scared. I know it’s not your fault you’re so bloody talented and my stuff is shit.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘The talent or the shit? No, don’t answer that.’
Although Maggie seemed calm for the moment, Stella knew she had to be careful. Her temper was unpredictable and she had smashed most of the plates in the kitchen after her last fight with Ben and boasted that he’d only avoided a black eye by running to his car.
‘Anyway where were you last night?’ she asked.
‘I went for a drink with James.’
‘Ah, dishy James. Tell me more.’
‘I stayed over at his, but before you start getting ideas, I just slept there. With all my clothes on as well.’
‘Oh but next time maybe?’ She laughed. ‘I thought there were some sparks. We must find something great for you to wear to the opening. Me too, of course.’
It looked as if things were going to be all right, so she smiled and said, ‘You looked lovely in that blue dress. And maybe I could wear the green again.’ A sudden thought. ‘Or what about swapping them over? And doing our hair identically? If people have seen our photo in the catalogue, they could be really confused. I’d love that.’
‘Hmm, no, with gorgeous James in your sights I say we need something a bit sexier for you. And I want to be completely different. All the catalogue pictures show me in that blue dress.’
Stella felt the piece of toast she was swallowing turn into a solid lump in her throat. Maggie had rushed out of the gallery as soon as she’d seen the way her own collages and Stella’s paintings were displayed.
She still didn’t know about the catalogue.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Eve
Eve caught the train for London an hour or so after Alex left for work. She hadn’t told him she was going to see Ben Houghton. On the drive home from Newcastle it was clear he thought all they could do was wait and hope to hear from the solicitors. Eve doubted that would ever happen, but if Alex believed she was going to leave it there it might be for the best. This was her problem, not his.
She couldn’t just wait because even if the collector did get in touch he or she might know nothing about Stella. She needed to focus on the people who definitely did. Apart from her own parents that meant Ben and Maggie. If those two really did have an affair, as her dad suspected, Ben might know where to find Maggie. And Stella had been in Italy with Maggie when she died. If anyone knew the truth of what had happened it had to be her.
Ben and his wife lived in Mayfair. Eve’s train came in at Charing Cross and it wasn’t far on the tube after that. It was a short walk to their street, but she had begun to feel huge. It had turned bitterly cold and the wind spat rain into her face as she searched for the house. Her back ached and she rubbed her belly and made a silent apology to the baby. I promise I’ll take it easy tomorrow, my darling.
Although Ben and David had been colleagues and had known each other since university they hadn’t exactly been friends and had rarely seen each other since her dad left the business. So Eve had never met him or his wife.
The house was an elegant Regency building with stone steps leading up to a heavy front door that shone with black paint and golden brass. Eve had to stand for a moment breathing heavily before she knocked.
The woman who opened the door was not young, but in her grey woollen dress, with her blonde hair in a simple up-do she could have stepped off a catwalk. She smiled. ‘Yes?’
Eve swallowed. ‘Hello, Mrs Houghton, I’m Eve Ballantyne, David’s daughter. I wonder if I could have a word with your husband.’
Pamela blinked. ‘Well this is a surprise, but how nice to see you. The last time we met you were in your cradle.’ She glanced towards the stairs and her voice dropped. ‘Do come in, but can I ask you to speak quietly? Ben’s having a nap.’
In the spacious hallway Pamela gestured towards a door. ‘Let’s go and sit down. You look tired.’
Eve felt very awkward. ‘I’m fine, but I’ve come quite a long way, so would you mind if I used your toilet?’
‘It’s just there.’ Pamela pointed to a door at one side of the hall. Next to it was a tiny lift with a glass door. Just large enough for a wheelchair.
The cloakroom was as big as the bathroom in Eve and Alex’s house and far more luxurious. It was also beautifully warm, and Eve took her time, glad to have a chance to thaw, but also to think.
When she came out Pamela was standing at the bottom of the elegant white staircase. Eve went to speak, but Pamela placed her finger to her lips, whispering, ‘I’m afraid Ben isn’t up to seeing anyone. But I’m sure I can help.’ She pointed to a nearby door.
In the long living room, a bow window with sweeping green curtains at one end and tall French windows at the other, Eve perched on a pale leather sofa and tried to relax. Pamela sat opposite, smiling warmly at her.
‘How are Jill and David? It’s too long since we’ve seen them.’
‘They’re fine, still living in Hastings, and I’m back down there now too.’
‘That must be lovely for them.’ Pamela looked as if she was going to say more, but Eve’s movement stopped her and she made a little, go on, gesture.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you, but I just discovered that my birth mother was Stella Carr.’ Pamela remained expressionless. ‘As you probably know there’s a new exhibition of her work at the Baltic Gallery and I wondered if Ben had contributed any works to it?’
Pamela’s light blue eyes flickered towards the door. ‘Actually I didn’t know about the Baltic and I don’t think Ben does either. We don’t keep up with the art world nowadays, I’m afraid. It’s a shame really, but we’ve never been collectors. So, no, we didn’t contribute.’
Eve took a breath. She hadn’t planned to say this to Pamela, but it looked as if she wasn’t going to be able to talk to Ben. ‘Well, I’m trying to get in touch with Stella’s friend, Maggie de Santis. Do you have any idea where she is now?’
Smoothing her hair, Pamela said, ‘What did you say your mother’s name was?’
‘Stella Carr.’
Pamela looked towards the French windows and the garden where the dark silhouette of a tree was just visible, then turned to Eve, her forehead creased. ‘No, I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. I don’t remember Stella or any of her friends, and I doubt my husband does either.’
She glanced at her silver watch, and Eve took the hint and stood.
‘Well, thank you anyway. Will you ask him about them for me, in case he recalls anything at all?’
Pamela led the way saying, ‘Of course, but your father is more likely to know something. He organized that young artists’ show. Ben just supported him. And, as David would be the first to admit, I’m afraid the whole thing turned out to be a costly mistake.’
By now they had reached the front door and as Pamela opened it a gust of cold air blew through the hall. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, but do give your parents my best wishes. Tell them we must catch up soon.’
On the steps again Eve stood for a moment, almost certain she could feel someone watching her. She shivered and looked left and right down the street, but there was nobody in sight.
Ben
He pushed his wheelchair over to the window. The shock of recognition when he heard that voice amazed him. It was thirty years ago. But then those few weeks were seared into his brain – and his body too.
Now he thought about it he could see there was something different. No accent. That was it. This girl sounded as if she was from round here. No hint of Stella’s cute northern twang. He smiled remembering how the way she tried to hide it made her even more attractive.
It couldn’t be her, but when he heard the door open and close and looked down into the street he had that sense, which happened more and more as he grew older, of absolute recognition. Of being back in time. His brain told him it wasn’t Stella, but his eyes said it was.
It must be her daughter. The baby David and Jill adopted. But as he watched her walk away, red hair blowing in the wind, he could still almost believe it was Stella.
He shook his head. Ridiculous. If Stella had still been alive she wouldn’t look like that now. And anyway she was dead. He knew that better than anyone.
Eve
As she walked slowly along the damp pavement Eve was thinking hard. One thing was certain: Pamela had been lying.
Eve hadn’t mentioned the young artists’ show, yet Pamela had known Stella and Maggie were part of that. Of course, if her husband had been unfaithful to her with one or both of them she wouldn’t want to be reminded.
Just ahead was a coffee shop, its lights shining onto the pavement, and Eve was suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. It was busy, but she found a table in a warm corner and ordered hot chocolate and a falafel wrap. Her seat was comfortable and she leaned back almost in danger of falling asleep.
‘Excuse me, is this place free?’ She nodded absent-mindedly as the man sat opposite. Then she did a double-take. He was almost identical to the early photographs she had seen of Ben. This had to be his son. He gave a little laugh.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not trying to pick you up. I’m Simon Houghton and I was at the house to see my dad just now and overheard you talking to Mum. I’m ashamed to say I stayed on the landing and listened.’ Another laugh, soft and pleasant.
Like Ben he was dark and very good-looking, but this man seemed diffident, even shy, which didn’t fit the image she had formed of his father.
‘I was asking about my mother, Stella Carr, and her friend, Maggie de Santis.’
He regarded her silently for a moment. She knew she was flushing and was glad when the waitress arrived bringing her order. Simon asked for a coffee then turned to Eve again, shaking his head this time.
‘I can’t get over how much you resemble her.’
A heavy thump inside. Not from the baby, but her own heart. ‘You knew my mother?’
‘Hardly. I mean I was only fourteen at the time, but I saw her at the gallery because they let me come to that show. And then a few times afterwards. She was so pretty, I suppose I had a crush on her.’
Eve was glad she could fiddle with her food: pushing in a few bits of salad that poked from the end of the wrap. She knew she had gone pink. It was ridiculous. He was talking about fancying her mother not her and that was when he was a boy.
‘Your mother says she can’t remember Stella or Maggie.’
‘That’s not surprising. Maggie was one of Dad’s many affairs, which didn’t endear her to Mum.’
‘So do you have any idea how I can find her?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t, and it’s not likely Dad will either.’
‘I was hoping she could tell me more about my mother.’ She paused for a moment, but his smile told her to go on. ‘Thought she might even know who my father was.’
He nodded. His eyes looked brighter blue than his mother’s perhaps because of his dark lashes. ‘I could tell you that knowing all about your biological parents isn’t as wonderful as you might think and whatever you do find is likely to be very disappointing. But I don’t suppose that would convince you?’
It was impossible not to echo his laugh. ‘It wouldn’t. But I’m not after anything lifechanging. My adoptive parents are wonderful, and I know my birth mother is dead. All I want is to find out what I can. I feel I owe it to my baby too.’ It was very easy to talk to him.
‘I can understand that and I could try and get something out of my dad if you like.’ He took out a business card and wrote on the back. ‘These are my work and personal contact details.’ He handed her the pen and another card. ‘Put yours on there and I’ll get back to you if I find out anything.’
Her food was virtually untouched and she wrapped it in a paper napkin. She needed to get home in case Alex arrived early again. And it wouldn’t do to meet him on the train.
Simon said he was heading for the tube station too. It had stopped raining and Eve was still so tired she couldn’t walk fast, but Simon matched his pace to hers without comment. They needed to travel in different directions, so stopped by the station barriers. As they stood rather awkwardly to say goodbye Simon suddenly reached out and took both her gloved hands in his.
‘Good luck. I’ll be in touch if I find anything that might help you.’ A lopsided smile and one raised eyebrow. ‘I notice you haven’t mentioned the elephant in the room.’
He let her hands drop, but carried on looking at her with that quizzical smile.
She said, ‘You mean your father may have had an affair with Stella as well as Maggie?’
‘Precisely, my dear Watson. And of course what follows from that. The fact that I could be your brother.’
Stella
David had asked the artists to arrive early for the show, but it wasn’t easy to get Maggie moving. She changed her clothes three or four times before finally settling for a black chiffon dress, its low neckline bordered with crystals. Long earrings glittered among the shining strands of her hair. She insisted Stella try on a short red dress. Stella was doubtful until she saw herself in the dusty mirror on Maggie’s wardrobe door, but the colour set off her hair. She piled her curls on top of her head and put on some red lipstick she’d bought ages ago but never worn. Maggie handed her a pair of ridiculously high black stilettos.
‘It doesn’t matter if they’re uncomfortable,’ Maggie said. ‘We’re going by taxi. Ben and David can pay.’
Stella had been close to mentioning the front cover of the catalogue more than once, but in the end she hadn’t dared. Now she hoped the evening would be such fun that Maggie would be swept along in it all. And Ben would probably have the sense to make a big fuss of her.
When she saw the gallery all lit up, with big vases of white flowers everywhere and waiters holding trays of champagne, she felt a bit like Cinderella. David came up with a huge smile on his face. ‘Right, now, don’t be anxious; you both look gorgeous. Take a drink, and as everyone arrives it might be a good idea to stand near your pictures so people can ask you about them.’
Stella stood in the corner where her work was displayed and smiled over at James. He waved his champagne glass at her with a smile.
‘Yours are my favourites.’
She was startled by a young voice coming from behind her and turned to see a lanky teenage boy with dark hair and clear blue eyes. He was so like Ben he had to be his son.
‘I’m Simon Houghton,’ he said offering his hand.
Shaking hands always made her feel awkward and doing it with a boy of thirteen or fourteen seemed silly. She must have shown her embarrassment because from the corner of her eye she could see James grinning at her.
When she smiled up at Simon and thanked him his ears turned pink. Poor lad. She wondered if he’d been forced to come. He looked quite used to wearing a dinner jacket and bow tie, but she was sure he would have been happier hanging out with his friends. She gulped her drink, trying to think of something to say that would put them both at ease. After all she was the adult, although she didn’t feel like it at the moment. ‘Is your mother around?’ she asked.
It was a mistake and his colour rose again; big blotches of red marring his cheeks. ‘No.’
She tried a little laugh. ‘Well it’s very good of you to keep your dad company like this.’
He had long black eyelashes that fluttered as he spoke. ‘I came to have a look the other day and thought your work was wonderful. So I wanted to meet you.’ It was so simple and so dignified that he seemed far more grown-up than his father and she felt ashamed for treating him as a kid.
Almost at once she seemed to be surrounded by people holding glasses and talking about her paintings. One man said he was planning to buy the Tyne Bridge picture and shortly afterwards David appeared, grinning broadly.
‘First sale of the show,’ he whispered and stuck a coloured dot on it.
James came over with another drink for her, and she realized she’d lost count of how many she’d had.
‘I think I may have sold one as well,’ he said and kissed her cheek before being beckoned over to his own pictures by David, who was talking to a tall man in a crumpled suit. She was grateful to have a moment to stand in silence and take it all in.
Everything glowed: a woman brushed back her copper-coloured hair, a circlet of green stones glittering on her arm. The glass tables reflected the white blooms and the flutes of pale wine; the occasional flash of colour from a dress passing by wavering and distorting. She knew she was smiling as she looked at her own paintings, their vivid hues brought to life by the perfect lighting.
Then she caught sight of Maggie.
Standing pale-faced, her arms folded, she stared across the room at Stella, the catalogue in her hand. Stella swallowed the rest of her champagne then forced herself to go over. Maggie flapped the catalogue at her.
‘You could have told me about this. I’ve got friends coming and they think I’m going to be on the cover or at least have a big picture inside.’
‘I’m sorry.’ What else could she say?
Maggie’s eyes were glassy. ‘I should have expected it, but it’s just so humiliating.’
Stella touched her arm, but Maggie shook her off and headed for the Ladies. There was nothing for it but to follow.
Maggie sat in front of one of the mirrors rubbing at her nose and eyes with a handful of tissues. ‘I knew your paintings would attract all the attention. I just thought I might get a bit of glory from the catalogue. Was that too much to ask? ’ She looked up, and her face was so like a wounded little girl’s that Stella, who had been choking back her own tears, crouched down and held her.
It did seem unfair. She wasn’t interested in appearing in the catalogue. Hated the photo they’d put on the front.
Maggie stayed still for a moment or two, her chest heaving. Then she pushed Stella roughly away. Her eyes glittered, and her mouth was an ugly squiggle. ‘You still don’t realize what Ben has done with those drawings of yours, do you?’
At first Stella couldn’t think what she meant. ‘The ones I did in the style of George Grafton?’
Maggie’s words were clipped. Hard. ‘That’s right. Your forgeries.’
‘Copies not forgeries.’ But even as she said it the look on Maggie’s face sent a chill through her.
‘If he gave you £500 for them, I reckon they sold for at least twice that. And you don’t think anyone, no matter how obsessed they were with George Whatshisname, would pay a grand for a few copies by an art student, do you?’
‘I don’t know. Some people have more money than sense.’ She heard her voice wavering.
‘He’s been doing it for years.’ Maggie ran a finger under her eye to wipe away a smudge of mascara. ‘Homes in on art students with a talent for copying. It’s how we met.’ A breath through her nose that was almost a laugh. ‘Of course I wasn’t talented enough, but he’s had three or four doing it over the years.’
‘You mean he sells them as originals?’
Her lips twisted. ‘At last she gets it.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eve
I could be your brother. Eve couldn’t stop thinking about Simon’s words. Although she had guessed Ben might be her father, she hadn’t really thought about the consequences, but talking to Simon, she had felt a connection. Or was she fooling herself?
The card he’d given her showed he worked for an auction house specializing in fine art. She wondered if he had ever hoped to take over Houghton’s. When his dad sold up that might have been a disappointment very much like her failure to make a go of it as an artist. Although, unlike him, she had only herself to blame for that. She had been too much of a coward to face the possibility that she might not have enough talent, even though Alex and her dad had assured her she was good.
She was in the kitchen putting on some washing when her phone rang: Dad. A tremor went through her. It was only mid-morning. He should be busy in the shop, and after her mother’s heart attack she’d begun to dread unexpected calls from him.
‘Everything all right, Dad?’
‘Fine, fine. I just thought I’d give you a ring. We’re very quiet today and with all this rain and wind it’s not likely to improve.’
She hadn’t spoken to him since she came back from Newcastle and had told no one about visiting Ben’s home. He talked for a bit, asking how she was feeling and how Alex was, but it was clear he had something on his mind.
She closed the washing machine door. ‘Come on, Dad, spit it out.’
A gusty sigh. ‘Pamela Houghton rang me last night. Said you’d been trying to see Ben. She seemed to think you imagined he might be connected with the Baltic show and was a bit cross with me for not putting you straight on that.’
‘How could you? You haven’t spoken to him recently, have you?’
‘No, but I could have told you Ben hasn’t wanted anything to do with the art world for twenty or thirty years.’
‘I just asked if he might have lent some paintings to the Baltic.’
‘Ben never bought art for himself. Couldn’t have even if he’d wanted to. Pamela held the purse strings. And anyway, like I told you, he wasn’t interested.’
‘She promised to ask him if he remembered Stella. Claims she doesn’t recall her or even Maggie.’
Her dad spoke slowly, as if he would rather not be having this conversation. ‘Well she did talk to him and apparently he just shut off. And I can understand why he doesn’t want to look back to those days. It must be very painful for him. That was when he had his accident. The same applies to Pamela. Things haven’t been easy for them since then. I did warn you.’
Eve waited, listening to his breathing, knowing there was more to come.
Finally, ‘Don’t you think you should stop worrying over all this stuff? At least until you’ve had the baby?’
She bit her lip and stopped herself from snapping out a reply. All this stuff? A deep breath. ‘Wait until I’m totally occupied you mean?’
‘I’m just thinking of you. You need to keep calm.’
She said, ‘Simon Houghton thinks Ben might be my father.’
‘You’ve seen Ben’s son?’
‘Yes, and he seems to think it’s quite likely that Ben and Stella had an affair.’
‘He was just a kid at the time. What would he know?’
‘He knows his dad was an adulterer.’
David’s voice was low, and she could almost hear him trying to be patient with her. ‘All I can say is that Stella never suggested anything like that to us.’
‘I want to know what she was really like, Dad.’ She could hear her voice wobbling. Felt as if she was a little girl again asking him to make everything all right.
Very gentle now. ‘I know, I know. And I wish I could help more. But apart from her talent, all I knew about her was that she was a young girl in a difficult situation, just as we’ve always told you. She had little money, no family and no home. No one came to see her when she was here, and we were the only visitors to the hospital when she had you. So I’m afraid your biological father either didn’t know she was pregnant or didn’t want to know.’
‘What about Maggie?’
‘As I told you, we heard she went abroad not long after the show. I got the impression they’d had a falling out. So she wasn’t around when Stella was pregnant. Soon after you were born Stella told us she was going to Italy to stay with Maggie and that was the last we saw of her. Then we heard about her death. I’ve managed to dig out that note, by the way, but it won’t tell you much. There was no address, and although there was also a tiny cutting from the local paper about the fire, that said very little either.’
‘Still, I’d like to see it.’
‘Of course. Just don’t expect too much. And since you asked I’ve been trying to track Maggie down, but with no luck. If she married and changed her name it would be very difficult to trace her.’
‘What about the other artists?’
His breathing had become so loud he sounded asthmatic, and Eve felt bad. He coughed and when he spoke his voice was croaky. ‘I’ve managed to trace a couple of them, but had no response yet.’
‘Thank you. Please let me know as soon as you do. Whatever they say.’
‘Look, Eve, it was obvious Stella was very unhappy when she was with us. It must have been so hard to give you up. But when she was gone we put her out of our minds. That’s no excuse for keeping you in ignorance and what I feel most guilty for is not telling you what a great artist she was. I hope you can forgive us.’
A surge of sadness and when she could speak Eve said, ‘Of course I can, but please, Dad, will you promise not to keep anything else from me?’
After she put down the phone Eve sat thinking. This was the first time either of her parents had said anything about Stella being unhappy when she was with them. It supported the idea that she was depressed just before her death. She wondered if it was a mistake on his part and they’d agreed not to mention it in case it made Eve worry about her own mental health.
She had promised herself and the baby that she would relax today, and the rain was beating off the pavements outside, so she cranked up the heating, took a book into the living room, and lay on the sofa. She had no intention of giving up her search for more information about Stella – she owed that to her own child – but it was important to avoid stress.
Hard as she tried though, she couldn’t relax and the words she was reading made no sense. Eventually she picked up her phone.
And there was a reply from the journalist she’d contacted about the comment that Stella might have been depressed at the time of her death.
Telling herself it would most likely be a brush-off she sucked in a long breath, counted to five, and opened it. It was just a few lines saying how glad the woman was that someone was planning to look in depth at Stella Carr’s work and that David Ballantyne’s involvement was particularly exciting:
because as far as I know he’s never talked about Carr, although he’s credited with discovering her.
With a plea to keep in touch she’d added a link to a 1988 article by Brock Adams, which she said might be useful. Adams was art critic for the Observer in the 1980s and ’90s and the article was mainly about the closure of Houghton’s.
Only a couple of years ago Houghton’s seemed likely to become one of the UK art world’s most exciting spaces. Ben Houghton and David Ballantyne were developing as a great talent-spotting duo. In particular their last exhibition felt like the start of something big and several of the young artists featured looked set for stardom. Chief among them was twenty-year-old Stella Carr.
Tragically that sparkling moment was followed by a series of disasters. The gallery was even then rumoured to be in financial difficulties, but Houghton insisted it would survive. These hopes were dashed when a freak accident hospitalized him for months. His recovery was only partial and he is confined to a wheelchair for life.
Then came the terrible news that, only a year after lighting up that final show, young Stella Carr had died in another apparent accident in which a second artist from the exhibition was also badly hurt.
This was something new. So Maggie had been injured in the fire too. She wondered what badly hurt actually meant. And she noticed Adams used the phrase apparent accident, which suggested he had his doubts. She read on.
I remember spotting Stella at the start of the exhibition as a charming and vivid presence among her equally vivid paintings. However towards the end of the evening I couldn’t help noticing an air of vulnerability about her. As a working class girl she must have found all the attention somewhat overwhelming. The one source who was prepared to speak to me, albeit anonymously, claimed she left England shortly before her death because of this pressure.
Houghton and Ballantyne have issued a short statement blaming the financial situation for the gallery’s demise. Usually the most approachable of men, neither was willing to give an interview or add to that terse statement.
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