All the Little Lies. Chris Curran

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.

      Eve

      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.

      Stella’s death was tragic. She had recently moved to Italy and was painting in a garden studio when it burned down. There were some suggestions that she was depressed at the time, but the Italian authorities eventually declared her death accidental.

      Depressed at the time. Eve looked away from the screen and turned the phrase over in her mind. Where had those suggestions come from? The article was from The Guardian, so she found the contact details for the columnist and wrote a message.

       I’m doing some research into the life and work of Stella Carr and wondered if you could tell me where the suggestions that she might have been depressed before her death came from.

      She thought about it for a moment and added:

       I’m working with Dr Alex Peyton and with David Ballantyne.

      It was true, up to a point, and she hoped her own name, Eve Ballantyne, might help to give her enquiry more substance.

      She couldn’t stop that phrase depressed at the time from echoing in her head. Was it code for suicidal? Eve knew about depression. Her first year teaching art in a tough London comprehensive had been difficult. She had been trying to make a go of her own painting; working late into the night after she’d completed everything for school. Alex had been supportive, but eventually she had a breakdown. It was a nightmare that went on for months and, just as she was beginning to come back to herself, her mother’s heart attack sent her back into turmoil. But that turned out for the best. They moved down to Hastings, she took a job in a local school and loved it. Nowadays she hardly painted.

      What if she’d inherited a tendency to depression? She shook her head. Nothing good could come of thinking like that.

      It didn’t help that when her mum arrived at the house later that morning her first words were, ‘Eve, you look exhausted.’

      She forced herself not to say that it might be because of the shock she’d had yesterday. During her teenage years she had fought with Jill all the time and she still felt guilty about that.

      As usual Jill headed for the kitchen, opening the lid of the cake tin she was carrying. ‘I made a sponge.’

      Eve had expected this and, although she was desperate to get down to talking about Stella, she had already percolated the coffee and put mugs and plates on the table. Her jaw tensed as she watched her mother cut the cake saying, ‘What do you think? I thought it looked a bit dry.’ Just like any normal day.

      Eve nibbled at a few crumbs. ‘It’s fine. Lovely, as always. Now please, Mum, tell me everything.’

      After what seemed an age Jill put her palms together and said, ‘We’re sorry for not being honest with you. We spent all last evening talking about it and your father seems to think the friend who let us know about Stella’s death was the girl with her in the painting from the article – Maggie. He vaguely remembers her from the time of the Houghton exhibition and has an idea that Stella was sharing a house with her.’

      This was something. ‘What was her surname?’

      ‘He can’t remember. Only that she had some collages in the show. Apparently they weren’t very good. Ben chose them and he wasn’t the greatest judge of art.’

      ‘Gallery owner was a strange choice of career for him then.’

      ‘Dad says he liked the glamour of it. It actually belonged to his wife, Pamela. She had the money and was a bit of a socialite, enjoyed hosting openings and so on. Not something I was interested in. I hardly ever went there.’

      Eve told herself to be patient. It wasn’t easy. ‘So you never met Stella?’

      Her mother fitted the lid of the cake tin back on, pressing it carefully into place. Still smoothing her hands over it, she spoke without looking at Eve. ‘Actually she stayed with us for a while before you were born.’

      ‘What?’ Eve plonked her mug down so hard the coffee splashed on her hand. She rubbed it off with the sleeve of her jumper, struggling to get the words out. ‘Stella lived with you down here?’ She was, what was the word? Damn pregnancy for making her head so woolly. Astounded, that was it, she was astounded. She’d assumed her mother had only met Stella when they picked up the baby (it was impossible to think of that child as herself).

      ‘She didn’t have anywhere else to go, you see. No family and I think she had to move out of the place where she was living.’

      ‘With Maggie?’

      ‘I suppose so. Although …’

      ‘So it wasn’t just Dad? You knew my birth mother too and you never told me.’ It was little more than a gasp.

      Jill moved back – away from her – and turned her mug round and round on the table looking at it with intense concentration. Her voice wobbled. ‘We never set out to keep anything from you.’

      ‘But you did. You knew her. You could have told me what she was like. You could have told me so many things. Even the fact that my mother was an artist might have made me try a bit harder with my own painting.’ A chill shivered through her. ‘Was she so horrible you thought it better I didn’t know?’

      Jill grabbed her hand. ‘Of course she wasn’t. Like we always said, she was a young girl in an impossible situation. And giving you to us was her way of doing the best she could for you.’

      Eve looked into the hazel eyes she knew so well. The eyes that had comforted her when she was a little girl crying over a scraped knee or a bust-up with her friends. Eve’s own eyes were a similar colour and she’d always been happy about that. It seemed to connect them.

      ‘Please, Mum, tell me everything. I mean how did Dad even find out about her pregnancy if he hardly knew her?’

      Her mother shook her head and took in a shuddering breath. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but there was nothing between them. He would never have done that to me. He’s always been the kind of person people can talk to and she confided in him. She was alone and virtually penniless. She came to live here because she had nowhere else to go.’

      This was unbelievable. ‘You must have got to know her then.’

      ‘Not really. She was very quiet and she wasn’t here long.’

      ‘And how did you first find out about her death?’

      Her mother shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. Through people in the art world I suppose. The note came later and even that was just a few lines. The truth is, and I’m sorry if this makes us sound callous, we knew Stella for such a short time and we began, very early on, to think of you as our own. We loved you so much right from the start that we didn’t want to be reminded of how you came into our lives. But we’ve always been grateful to her.’

      They didn’t speak for a long while. Eve told herself nothing had really changed. She’d had a wonderful childhood; couldn’t have chosen better parents. But why, oh why, hadn’t they told her the truth? ‘What about the note? Did you find it?’

      Jill looked at her watch. She was always busy. If she wasn’t helping David in the gallery, she was involved with various local groups and charities. She began rooting in her bag for her car keys. ‘I’m sorry, no, but I’ll search for it tonight.’

      ‘What did