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The cloakroom was as big as the bathroom in Eve and Alex’s house and far more luxurious. It was also beautifully warm, and Eve took her time, glad to have a chance to thaw, but also to think.
When she came out Pamela was standing at the bottom of the elegant white staircase. Eve went to speak, but Pamela placed her finger to her lips, whispering, ‘I’m afraid Ben isn’t up to seeing anyone. But I’m sure I can help.’ She pointed to a nearby door.
In the long living room, a bow window with sweeping green curtains at one end and tall French windows at the other, Eve perched on a pale leather sofa and tried to relax. Pamela sat opposite, smiling warmly at her.
‘How are Jill and David? It’s too long since we’ve seen them.’
‘They’re fine, still living in Hastings, and I’m back down there now too.’
‘That must be lovely for them.’ Pamela looked as if she was going to say more, but Eve’s movement stopped her and she made a little, go on, gesture.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you, but I just discovered that my birth mother was Stella Carr.’ Pamela remained expressionless. ‘As you probably know there’s a new exhibition of her work at the Baltic Gallery and I wondered if Ben had contributed any works to it?’
Pamela’s light blue eyes flickered towards the door. ‘Actually I didn’t know about the Baltic and I don’t think Ben does either. We don’t keep up with the art world nowadays, I’m afraid. It’s a shame really, but we’ve never been collectors. So, no, we didn’t contribute.’
Eve took a breath. She hadn’t planned to say this to Pamela, but it looked as if she wasn’t going to be able to talk to Ben. ‘Well, I’m trying to get in touch with Stella’s friend, Maggie de Santis. Do you have any idea where she is now?’
Smoothing her hair, Pamela said, ‘What did you say your mother’s name was?’
‘Stella Carr.’
Pamela looked towards the French windows and the garden where the dark silhouette of a tree was just visible, then turned to Eve, her forehead creased. ‘No, I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. I don’t remember Stella or any of her friends, and I doubt my husband does either.’
She glanced at her silver watch, and Eve took the hint and stood.
‘Well, thank you anyway. Will you ask him about them for me, in case he recalls anything at all?’
Pamela led the way saying, ‘Of course, but your father is more likely to know something. He organized that young artists’ show. Ben just supported him. And, as David would be the first to admit, I’m afraid the whole thing turned out to be a costly mistake.’
By now they had reached the front door and as Pamela opened it a gust of cold air blew through the hall. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, but do give your parents my best wishes. Tell them we must catch up soon.’
On the steps again Eve stood for a moment, almost certain she could feel someone watching her. She shivered and looked left and right down the street, but there was nobody in sight.
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.’
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