All the Little Lies. Chris Curran

a few have never been seen before. According to The Baltic they were her last completed works. They are giving away very little about how they came by these. All this paper could learn is that they are from a private collection.

      Below the article were two of the paintings. One showed a terraced hillside covered in dark trees. It was called Pines and the second, Mermaid. This was particularly arresting. Instead of a fish’s tail the mermaid’s whole body was green and almost snake-like. Only the face – beautiful but secretive with floating hair – looked human.

      She really liked the style. There was a freedom in the brushstrokes; a vitality about them that she loved.

      There was a close-up of the signature, and Eve stopped scrolling to stare at it. It wasn’t a name but a shooting star, just like the ones she used to love drawing when she was little. And something else stirred in her memory. Something that made her move on faster.

      There was a third picture entitled Maggie and Me and this was lovely. Two young women, both very slender, one with a mass of brown hair and the other with a tumble of russet curls. They stood in a woodland glade. Trees heavy with leaves surrounded them. Their long skirts, one green, one dark blue, floated in the breeze. Strands of hair trailed across their faces.

      At the bottom of the page she found a photograph. Not very clear, but Eve saw enough to make her catch her breath. This was what Stella Carr had really looked like. She was the one with the red hair, although here it was more ginger than russet and there was a scattering of freckles across the pale skin that the painting had omitted. She seemed to be not only slim, but small. And Eve could understand why Suzanne had sent the link now.

      Stella Carr was extraordinarily similar to Eve herself. Not that Suzanne could have understood the significance – she knew nothing about Eve’s origins.

      But the photograph, the link with the gallery, and that tantalizing hint of memory were enough to tell Eve one thing.

      This woman, Stella Carr, had to be her own birth mother.

      At 4.30 it was still light outside. They’d been having an Indian summer, but as evening drew closer a chill wind had sprung up off the sea sending a few dead leaves rattling along the footpath. Eve pulled her jacket close to her throat, trying to control her breathing. She needed to deal with this as calmly as she could.

      Her parents lived only a short distance away, down the hill in the Old Town of Hastings. She always used to walk there, but although it was tarmac or solid steps all the way, it was steep going. She had to agree with Alex that at seven months pregnant it wasn’t worth the risk. And the climb back would be impossible.

      When she was sitting in the car she took out her mobile to text Alex. He had been coming home earlier and earlier recently and he would panic if she wasn’t there.

       Just popping over to see Mum and Dad. Love you XXX.

      After she’d sent it she shook her head at how different it sounded from the way she was feeling.

      As she drove down towards the sea she shivered at the sight of the foam-topped waves speeding towards the beach and the bank of grey cloud on the horizon. Winter was coming. And her baby girl was due in the dead of winter. She had been looking forward to it so much. But now she was so disturbed she could hardly think let alone formulate the words she would need when she confronted her mum and dad.

      They had lied to her.

      All these years they had told her they knew nothing about her birth mother except that she was young and alone and couldn’t look after a child.

      Eve was in no doubt that Stella Carr was her mother. They were so alike that seeing the photograph was like looking in a mirror, but what clinched it was the mention of the Houghton Gallery, where Stella’s only exhibition during her lifetime had been held. Eve’s father, David, was a partner in the gallery throughout the 1980s. It didn’t belong to him: his friend, Ben Houghton, was the money man. But it was David who knew about art and had the eye as he always said. He was the one who organized the exhibitions. So if Stella Carr had been part of one he must have known her.

      Her parents moved to Hastings when they decided to start a family and bought a tiny gallery just off the seafront. Eve had never seen Houghton’s, which had closed when she was very young, though she imagined it had been a lot more swish than the little Hastings shop. But her parents were happy with the move. Except they found they couldn’t have children and so they adopted Eve. When she left home to go to university they had sold the family house and now lived above the shop (her dad hated her calling it that: ‘It’s a gallery not a shop, Eve,’) in a cosy little flat.

      The cobbled street outside the gallery was pedestrianized, so Eve had to park a few hundred yards away. As she came close to the shop her steps slowed and she hugged her jacket to her, dreading the next few minutes. She loved her parents so much, but this seemed to change everything. How could they have deceived her all her life?

      Her dad was alone wrapping a picture on the small desk at the back of the gallery. He beamed at her. ‘Eve, what a lovely surprise. Alex not with you?’

      ‘No.’ She couldn’t even pretend to act normally.

      ‘Everything all right, lovely?’

      ‘I need to speak to you and Mum.’

      He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes in the way he always did when he was worried, and she bit back on the temptation to say everything was all right.

      Because it wasn’t.

      One long look and he said, ‘Your mum’s upstairs. Ask her to put the kettle on and I’ll be with you in a minute.’

      He seemed about to reach for her, but she walked past him and through the door at the back that led to the stairs.

      She couldn’t avoid her mum’s arms as she came out into the warm kitchen at the top. It was the same soft hug with a little squeeze at the end that Eve knew so well, but today it felt different. Counterfeit somehow. The way it had sometimes seemed to her when she was a teenager and she and Jill argued endlessly.

      ‘Are you all right, darling? You look pale.’

      Eve sat at the pine table. It had stood in the kitchen of their old house for as long as she could remember. ‘I’m OK. I just need to speak to you and Dad. Together.’

      Her mother thumped down opposite. ‘What is it?’ Her voice wavered. ‘Not the baby?’

      ‘No. It’s fine. I’m fine.’

      Jill moved to touch her hands across the table, but Eve sat back arms crossed.

      ‘And there’s nothing wrong between me and Alex either.’

      She had printed out the article, and she pulled it from her bag to put in front of her mother. Jill looked down at the paper, her fingers plucking at one corner. Long after Eve knew she must have finished reading she stayed staring down, saying nothing.

      Finally Eve could stand it no longer. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she said.

      Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Jill turned as Eve’s father came through the door. He looked from Eve to her mother. The silence felt heavy, but Eve didn’t speak. Instead she pulled the article from Jill’s fingers. Her mum gave a tiny cry as if it had hurt.

      Eve thrust the paper at her dad. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she repeated.

      It seemed to take only a glance for him to see what it was. A sigh. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea and talk this through properly, shall we?’

      Before he’d finished Eve’s mum stood and began to fill the kettle. Eve wanted to shout at them that she didn’t need tea, she needed the truth. But when her dad sat next to her, turned his chair towards her and took her hands, she felt like throwing herself into his arms and asking him to tell her it was all a mistake. That nothing had changed.

      As