All the Little Lies

by Chris Curran

  ‘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 l
ife.

  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.

  Stella

  She left the Ladies without another word. Couldn’t bear to look at Maggie let alone speak to her. Had she told Ben about the drawings? Maybe even taken a cut?

  The gallery was still full, still noisy with chatter and clinking glasses. But the lights and jewels that had sparkled so brightly looked garish: the voices raucous, the punters overdressed and caked in lurid make-up. She felt clammy, her heart thundering in her ears and went to sit on one of the stone benches in the courtyard.

  It was cool, empty and silent. There were no stars in the sky, just hazy moonlight and the drifting shadows of cloud behind the black. What a fool she’d been. If only she could unhear Maggie’s words or at least believe there was any chance they might not be true. But that was impossible. They made too much sense.

  Two women came into the garden followed by a group of men. One of the women smiled at her, about to say something. Stella looked away and bolted back into the gallery. If she waited she would lose her nerve.

  Ben was standing with his son, talking to an older, distinguished-looking man and she didn’t dare approach them. Instead she stared at Ben until she caught his eye. He smiled, said something to them, and came over.

  ‘I need to talk to you. It’s important.’ She’d prepared the words as she sat in the courtyard.

  His hand was on her back, shepherding her towards his office and they were inside with the door closed before she was aware of moving.

  She blurted out, ‘Did you sell those drawings as the genuine work of George Grafton?’ hating that her voice broke.

  ‘Ah,’ was all he said with the smile she had once thought charming.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘The short answer is, no.’ He walked over to his desk and perched on it, his long legs stretched out in front. ‘But the long answer is rather more complicated.’

  Stella felt suddenly so deflated she longed to collapse on the leather sofa behind her. Instead she stayed ramrod straight glad that Maggie’s painful stilettos at least made her feel a little taller. A deep breath. ‘I need the long answer then.’

  ‘OK. The truth is that I sold them to a man who probably sold them on. When he did it’s likely he passed them off as the real thing.’

  Stella’s heart slowed to a huge and heavy thump, thump, thump, filling her chest. If she was breathing, she wasn’t aware of it. But somehow she clung to her script. ‘We could go to prison.’ She had to stop for a second, but then forced herself on. ‘At the very least any chance I have of making it as an artist will be ruined.’

  When he laughed, a light unconcerned laugh, she was just able to hold back a scream.

  ‘You have to get the drawings back. I’ll return the money.’ She’d spent some of it, but refused to think about that now.

  Ben walked to a drinks trolley in the corner of the room. His voice was muffled, but she could hear the chuckle still in it. ‘Stella, my darling, you’re getting yourself worked up about nothing. No one will ever know. The idiots that bought the drawings won’t have them checked, and even if they did, they wouldn’t want to admit they’d been fooled.’ She went to speak, but he carried on. ‘And you don’t think the police would waste time on something so insignificant, do you? Even major art forgery hardly ever gets exposed. Most of the big galleries in the world have fakes on their walls.’ He came towards her with two glasses of whisky or brandy. ‘Now let’s drink to a profitable partnership and one that could do both of us a lot of good.’

  She kept her hands clenched by her sides. ‘We’re not partners.’

  He gulped some of his drink and put the other glass on a small table next to her. ‘I hope this little show today hasn’t deluded you into believing you’re ever likely to make money from your own daubings.’

  She must have flinched because he touched her arm and smiled in a kindly way.

  ‘You’re good, but not that good, and to make it in this business you have to be brilliant or very lucky. You might sell the odd painting every year, every few months even, but it’s never likely to be enough to keep you. So why not take this opportunity? All you have to do is produce more of the same. Maybe move on to another obscure, but collectable, dead artist and I’ll look after the rest. No one will ever know.’

  He moved closer. The lights flickered and blurred, and she put her hand out to touch the sofa behind her, afraid she might fall. Then his arm was around her waist, his glass slammed onto the little table, and he was pressing his mouth and the length of his body against hers. He whispered against her lips. ‘Come on, we can be partners in work and play. You know that’s what you want. I’ve seen you looking at me. Jealous of Maggie. But there’s no need to be.’

  She was no longer standing, but floating somewhere at a distance watching his mouth on her neck, his hand pressed into her back as the other groped at the hem of her skirt.

  But then she felt the weight of him trying to push her onto the sofa. If he managed that … For what might have been seconds or minutes that horrible sense of detachment was back and this time everything was dark. She seemed to be blinded. It was as if she was smothered in a dark cloak. But she could hear. Breathing and grunting, some of it coming from her own throat. Oh God! Then she forced her mind back and kicked out, her foot cracking hard against his shin, as she pushed him away with both hands. ‘Leave me alone.’ The words came out guttural. Nothing like her own voice.

  He stumbled back and she was at the door.

  When she turned to shut it behind her she saw Ben pick up his glass again and raise it in a silent toast.

  Outside she stood leaning on the wall trying to catch her breath. One of the straps of her red dress had collapsed and she pulled it up, tugged at the hem, and tucked a long curl of hair back into place. Everyone in the room was chatting and drinking. Too occupied to notice her.

  Except … In the corner where her own paintings hung, their colours somehow turned dull, stood Simon. Too tall for his skinny frame; his face a sweet young version of Ben’s. And he was looking straight at her, those dark lashed eyes sad and knowing.

  She turned away and headed to the Ladies.

  Thank God, it was empty again and she collapsed on the same stool Maggie had used. In the mirror her face was flushed, eyes fevered, and the red lipstick she’d put on so carefully all smeared and ruined.

  She was wiping her mouth and trying to straighten her hair when the door opened and Maggie stood there, staring at her. ‘I saw you,’ she said. ‘How could you?’

  ‘I went in to ask him about the drawings, that’s all.’

  For a moment Maggie’s eyes had the same look she’d seen in poor young Simon’s. Then they took on a hard shine. ‘Don’t talk to me. Don’t ever talk to me again.’

  She turned away, the door swinging shut behind her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Eve

  The weather had turned wintery and Eve was forced to park yards away from the house and struggle against
gusts of cold rain mixed with sleet. At her antenatal check-up the hospital had been concerned about her blood pressure. She told them she’d been rushing around, but she knew that wasn’t it. Ever since meeting Simon, and reading the article about the closure of Houghton’s with its comment on Stella’s vulnerability, she had felt in turmoil.

  As she let herself into the house her phone vibrated in her pocket. A text from Alex.

  How did it go?

  She rang him back as she struggled out of her wet coat and scarf. ‘I’m fine. They say the baby’s head is down, so it won’t be long now.’ There was no need to worry him about the blood pressure.

  Then she called her mum and left a message. ‘Had my check-up this morning and everything’s good. Dad said he found that note and newspaper cutting about Stella. I’m in for the rest of the day if you want to bring them. Or Alex can pick them up on his way home.’ She didn’t want to give them any excuse to delay further.

  As she rang off, the phone chirruped with another text: Alex, reminding her there was some lentil soup in the fridge for lunch. She heated it up and sat at the kitchen table looking through the glass doors into the garden. There were still a few withered leaves hanging from the trees, but they only made it seem colder and so bleak that even in the warm kitchen she shivered.

  Her phone buzzed again. David asking if she was free to talk.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ he said when she called him back, his voice a little husky. ‘I’ve heard from one of the other artists at Stella’s show.’

  Her spoon dropped into the bowl with a small splash. ‘Maggie?’

  ‘No, but you’ll be interested in what he has to say.’ A pause. ‘Before I send it I want you to promise me that you’ll talk to someone before you rush into doing anything. Discuss it with Alex if you don’t want me or Mum to know.’

  Her, ‘OK,’ was an unconvincing grunt, but she didn’t care.