Chris Curran - All the Little Lies

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.

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.

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.