All the Little Lies

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 (#u416e7b09-7e79-54c2-8740-2c7eee976355)

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.