Chris Curran - All the Little Lies

‘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.’

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.’

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