Kitabı oku: «All the Little Lies», sayfa 5

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.