All My Secrets Page 2

  Could this be my mother?

  I find a picture. This Irina doesn’t look anything like me; she’s got fine fair hair and blue eyes, while my colouring is dark, same as Dad and the twins. Also she’s clearly tiny with delicate features and a heart-shaped face. I can see that maybe I looked a bit like her when I was little, but I’ve grown nearly ten centimetres in the last two years and am definitely on the tall side, again like Dad.

  I hurry downstairs to show him.

  ‘Is this her?’ I demand.

  ‘Yes,’ Dad says. ‘Please stop looking. You can’t rely on anything you find on the internet.’

  ‘Then you tell me about her,’ I insist. ‘How did you meet? What was she like? Why didn’t you tell me about her before?’

  Dad frowns. ‘There really isn’t anything to tell. It was a brief relationship. I don’t know anything about her really, other than that she was a successful dancer who, er, died young in a traffic accident.’

  For goodness’ sake.

  I scurry back up to my room and start investigating more deeply. I find a Wikipedia entry which explains that Irina changed her name from Irene when she was eighteen and several videos on YouTube of her dancing. She looks amazing, so graceful and beautiful as she moves, entrancing. I’ve never been interested in ballet. I grit my teeth, wondering if Mum and Dad deliberately avoided cultivating that side of my abilities. Mum doesn’t have an artistic bone in her body. She’s all about practical things like baking and gardening and putting up tents on our definitely unglamorous camping holidays.

  It’s not fair, what they’ve done to me.

  ‘Evie?’ Mum knocks gently on the door.

  ‘Go away,’ I say.

  I can hear her crying and for a second I feel guilty. Then something inside me twists and breaks. I shouldn’t have to feel guilty. My parents have brought this situation on themselves and my life with them will never be the same again. In that moment, I make a conscious decision to stop calling them Mum and Dad. From now on they’ll be Janet and Andrew.

  And, when I get my money at the end of August, never mind holidays and clothes . . . I’m going to buy my own place. Cheered up by these thoughts, I go back to my web search. After a few more minutes, I find a fan site for Irina, complete with background biography, performance dates and memorabilia sales details.

  Excitement grows inside me. I read the biography eagerly. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but maybe I’ve got lots of brothers and sisters, a whole alternative family.

  It’s soon clear that I don’t. Irina was the daughter of elderly parents, both of whom are dead. The biog covers the details I’m already aware of: how Irina left home to study ballet abroad at the age of twelve, her early successes, her decision to change her first name from Irene, her unplanned pregnancy and the year-long hiatus this brought to her career right up to her triumphant comeback, followed swiftly by her sudden and tragic death at the age of twenty-one in a hit-and-run accident in Nottingham.

  I’m mentioned at the end of the biog as the baby girl Irina leaves behind, but my name isn’t given. Does the writer not know it? I peer at the note at the bottom: the biog was written by a Gavin Galloway, Irina’s brother. I turn back to the fan site and do a search. It turns out that this man, Gavin, is not just Irina’s younger brother but also the manager of her fan club, responsible for the sale of the memorabilia. The site is clearly regularly updated and there’s an email and a postal address in Edinburgh.

  I quickly start an email: Hi, Gavin

  I stop. What on earth do I say next? It doesn’t sound as if he has any idea about where – or who – I am. How do I break the news that I’m out here, eager to meet him, to find out more about Irina and her life?

  Mum – Janet – is knocking on the door again, calling my name. She’s still crying.

  My fingers hesitate, then I delete the draft. What I want to say can’t be put in an email. Tomorrow I’m going to take a coach to Edinburgh and go and find my uncle. Even if he’s not at the address on the website any more, whoever lives there will surely know how to reach him.

  Andrew and Janet might not be prepared to tell me about Irina, but surely my Uncle Gavin will.

  Three

  I switch my phone back on as I leave the station in Edinburgh. There are four missed calls from Andrew and five from Janet, plus a stack of texts urging me to ring them and asking if I’m all right.

  I send a quick message – no ‘x’s – saying that I’m fine. I already left a note on the kitchen table explaining that I’d ‘borrowed’ some money from Andrew’s wallet ‘which I’ll easily be able to pay back at the end of August’ and was going off to find out more about Irina ‘as you won’t tell me anything’.

  Under any other circumstances I would feel sorry for them, but how can I right now? They’ve kept the truth from me for years. If I’m making efforts to find out about my own history now, they’ve only got themselves to blame.

  I do a quick check on my maps app. The address from the website – a flat in Rose Street – isn’t far away. I find the road, then switch off my mobile again. It’s cooler here in Edinburgh than it was at home. I tug my jacket around me, wishing I’d worn proper shoes instead of sandals. As I reach Rose Street, it begins to rain. I scuttle past the rows of sand-coloured buildings, looking for the address given on the website. It’s teeming down by the time I find the old wooden front door and ring on the bell.

  No one answers.

  I stand, feeling the rain trickling down the back of my neck, and press the doorbell again.

  Still no reply.

  For the first time since I left home, I’m forced to face the fact that I may have come on a complete wild goose chase. I huddle closer to the door, trying – and failing – to keep the rain off me. Surely someone must be in.

  I’m about to turn away when the buzzer sounds and a sleepy voice mutters, ‘Second floor, leave it by the door.’ Is that Gavin? My heart is in my mouth as I head inside and scurry up the stairs. It’s chilly on the stone floor, though the walls with their off-white paint and chrome-framed mirrors have a designer feel. I glance at my reflection. I look a mess, my hair lank against my face and my mascara smudged. I wipe under my eyes, my pulse racing.

  There’s only one door on each floor and I’m on the second-floor landing in seconds. I don’t let myself stop to think. I hurry over to the door and give it a sharp rap. Then another.

  After a few seconds. it creaks open.

  ‘I said leave it by the—’ The man who’s speaking stops as he sees me. He’s about Andrew’s age – but much shorter – and pale-faced, similar in colouring to Irina, at least from the pictures I’ve seen of her. His hair is ruffled as if he’s only just woken up – though it’s almost 2 pm – and he’s dressed in ripped jeans and a bright orange T-shirt with a diamond stud in each ear. ‘Hello?’ His accent is softly Scottish.

  ‘Hi.’ My throat feels tight. I’ve been planning this moment for two days, but now I’m here everything I’d intended to say flies out of my head.

  ‘Hello?’ he says again.

  I shake my head. ‘I’m Evie . . . Evelina,’ I blurt out. ‘I’m Irina’s daughter.’

  What little colour there is drains from the man’s face. His mouth gapes.

  ‘Are . . . are you Gavin?’

  He nods, still clearly speechless. Then he shakes himself. ‘Where . . .? How . . .?’ He stands back. ‘Come in, darling. Please, come in.’

  I go inside the flat, my heart still beating fast.

  It’s very smart, with polished wood floors and – though I’m no judge – what looks like proper art on the walls and expensive designer furniture in both the hall and the living room where Gavin leads me.

  We sit down. Gavin stares at me in the same way that Mr Treeves did, like he’s searching for something in my face.

  ‘Are you really . . .?’ he asks.

  I hold out the birth certificate Mr Treeves gave me.

  Gavin reads it and nods. ‘Wow,’ he sa
ys. ‘Darling, I had no idea where you were, that you were even alive.’

  ‘But you knew I existed?’ My question comes out more accusatory than I mean it too.

  Gavin looks up quickly. ‘I was abroad when you were born and my sister died. My . . . our . . . parents told me about you, but, well, by that point they weren’t in touch with you or your father so . . .’

  Now I’m staring at him. ‘Do you know my dad?’ I ask.

  ‘No, though I’ve seen pictures.’ Gavin walks over to a cupboard and takes out a photo album. ‘My parents left loads of these when they passed. I’m sure there’s a picture of your dad with Irina in here. Have a look, darling.’

  I take the album, feeling dazed. Gavin is still staring at me.

  ‘Wow,’ he says. ‘Sorry, but this is totally freaking me out.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I look up at him. ‘Me too. It’s weird that we’re related, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure is.’ Gavin hesitates. ‘So . . . so I don’t get it. I mean, I vaguely knew you existed, but when I came back from travelling your dad had already told my parents – your grandparents – they weren’t welcome in your life. So they – all of us – we backed off.’

  It’s like a punch. ‘My dad told them to stay away from me? Why?’

  Gavin shrugs. ‘Guess he didn’t want the reminders of Irina.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘How much has he told you about her?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The word explodes out of me. ‘He won’t talk to me about her at all.’

  ‘So how do you know about me? In fact, how come you’re here?’

  I take a deep breath and launch into an explanation of everything that happened following Mr Treeves’ knock on the door. Gavin listens intently, wide-eyed when I tell him about the ten-million-pounds and appalled that I’ve been given so little information.

  ‘I can’t believe Andrew is keeping everything from you, darling,’ he says. ‘I totally understand why you felt you had to come here.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Tears prick at my eyes. ‘I just really want to find out more about Irina. I saw your fan site for her. It’s obvious you and she were really close.’

  ‘Not so close that she told me she had ten mill to leave anyone,’ Gavin says with a grin. ‘I knew she was a successful ballerina, but not that successful. That’s some inheritance.’

  ‘I don’t think it was anywhere near that much money to begin with. Mr Treeves said it was a good investment.’

  ‘I’ll say it was.’ Gavin raises his eyebrows. ‘Look, darling, I’m happy to tell you everything I can about your mother. I’ve tried to keep her memory alive and I’ve still got a few of her bits and pieces I expect you’d like to take a look at.’

  ‘Oh yes, please,’ I breathe.

  ‘Well, why don’t you stay here tonight? I have to go out for a bit, but I’ve got a spare room and I am your uncle after all and . . . well, I’ve got sixteen years of uncle stuff to make up for.’

  I hesitate. In so far as I’d thought about it at all, I’d assumed that I’d have to find a room in a hostel for the night. All I knew was that I couldn’t go home without finding out more about Irina. But here was Gavin offering me a bed for the night and information. It was more than I could have hoped for.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, definitely.’

  I switch on my phone, send Andrew and Janet another text, reassuring them that I’m fine, then turn it off again. Gavin goes out, leaving me leafing through another photo album. He returns within the hour, carrying a couple of pizzas. He puts on a DVD of Irina dancing Giselle and I watch, transfixed, as my mother skips and pirouettes across the stage on screen.

  ‘Oh, she was beautiful,’ I gasp.

  After the DVD finishes and our pizzas are eaten, Gavin fetches a small, faded canvas bag. ‘Here.’ He offers it to me. ‘I think you should have these.’

  Excited, I open the bag and take out two pink ballet shoes. The leather is creased and worn and exquisitely soft.

  ‘They were Irina’s,’ Gavin says. ‘Her favourite pair. I was going to sell them with some of the other memorabilia, but I’ve never quite been able to bring myself to.’ His voice grows shaky. I’m suddenly aware that it isn’t just me who has lost someone here. Gavin is all alone, without his parents or his sister.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  Gavin nods. ‘No problemo, darling.’ He shows me to my bedroom, a white-painted room with green furniture which he says once belonged to Irina. It’s old and quirky and I love it instantly. I get into bed, feeling ridiculously at home. It makes sense, I guess. After all, Gavin and I are family and this room is full of furniture my own mother chose and loved. I just hadn’t expected to feel like I belonged so quickly.

  It crosses my mind that maybe I should send Andrew and Janet another text to let them know where I am and that I’m still OK, but, as soon as the thought arrives, it passes. I lie down, clutching Irina’s ballet shoes. There’s something comforting about the soft leather. Before I know it, I’m asleep.

  I sleep deeply, waking full of excitement for the day ahead. Gavin has promised to take me to the theatre where Irina danced her debut as a prima ballerina. Before that, we walk to a café where he says she used to go for coffee with her dancer friends. I order mine black with two sugars, like he says she drank it. Gavin has found some more photos overnight – mostly of Irina at my age, already dancing with a professional troupe. While Gavin answers some texts on his phone, I stare and stare at her, searching for some connection, but there’s nothing in her heart-shaped face or fine blonde hair or dark blue eyes that resembles me. Plus, she’s much smaller and slighter than I am.

  It hurts that I don’t look more like her and I push away the croissant that Gavin has bought me. I feel his gaze on my face.

  ‘What’s up, darling?’ he asks.

  ‘I just don’t look anything like her.’ The truth is out before I mean to say it.

  ‘Puh-leese,’ Gavin says. ‘Your colouring might be darker, but you have the same cheekbones and the same smile.’

  ‘Really?’ I glance up at him, hopeful.

  ‘And that look is one I saw her give our dad a million times, whenever she wanted anything.’ He pauses. ‘She had him wound round her little finger.’

  I sit back and smile.

  ‘Talking of dads, maybe you should send yours a text if you haven’t already? Let him know exactly where you are, that you’re safe with me.’

  I do as he suggests, then switch off my phone as we leave the café. The morning traffic is busy down on the main road. Gavin points to a church just visible on the other side.

  ‘That way,’ he says.

  I glance up and down the street. Nothing’s coming right now. As I step onto the road, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. A car. Coming towards us. In the split second that follows it seems to speed up until it’s right here, black metal looming into view, and I just have time to step back before it zooms past, so close I could touch it.

  I fall back, hard, onto the pavement. In an instant, Gavin is beside me as the car speeds off into the distance.

  ‘Darling, are you OK?’ He sounds breathless, terrified.

  I nod, gasping, as a single thought fills my head: that car was driving fast towards me on purpose; it meant to run me over.

  Four

  Seconds later, I tell myself not to be so stupid. The driver of that car couldn’t possibly have meant to run me down. It was just going too fast. And anyway I was at fault for stepping out without taking another look.

  I push myself up off the pavement. Gavin is chasing after the car, almost out of sight. I can hear his yells, his Scottish accent stronger as he shouts out:

  ‘You idiot! Hurtling along like that! You could have killed her!’

  A few seconds later, he’s back.

  ‘Are you all right, darling?’ he asks, dusting me down and patting at my arms as if to make sure they’re not broken. ‘Evie? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I insist. ‘Not even bruised.’


  ‘Thank goodness for that.’ Gavin hugs me, his voice full of emotion. ‘I’ve only just found you. I don’t want to lose you again.’

  His words fill me with a warm glow. It strikes me that though Gavin has asked about my life, and he’s certainly told me plenty about Irina’s, I don’t really know anything about him.

  ‘What do you do for a living?’ I ask.

  Gavin shrugs, steering me carefully across the road. ‘Bits and pieces of things.’ He sighs. ‘I’m a journalist of sorts, though not a terribly successful one. Irina’s death hit me hard. Of course, it was even harder for our parents. And I think not being able to see you made it worse. They were both gone within two years of her passing. And I was on my own. I struggled to cope, to be honest with you. I mean, I had their money, but what good are material things if you don’t have anyone to share them with?’ He smiles. ‘Remember that when you inherit your ten million.’

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ I ask timidly. ‘Or a boyfriend?’

  ‘No one special,’ Gavin admits. ‘Not right now anyway.’

  He sounds really lonely. I suddenly feel furious with Andrew and Janet for keeping me away from him all my life.

  ‘I don’t want to go away again,’ I say. ‘I mean, I’d like to keep in touch with you. And, once I’ve inherited my money, I think maybe I’ll find a course I could do up here, maybe buy a flat?’

  Gavin grins. ‘Sounds fantastic, darling. Will your parents be OK with that?’

  I pull a face. I can’t imagine Andrew or Janet liking the idea of me moving away from home for the sixth form. But that’s their problem. Not to mention their fault.

  ‘They’ll have to be,’ I say. ‘Er, I know it’s a big deal and everything, but . . .’

  ‘. . . could you stay with me while you sort out a course?’ Gavin grins again. ‘I think that would be brilliant.’

  Feeling delighted, I let him show me around the sights of Edinburgh. It’s a sunny morning, though the air has a crisp edge to it. Gavin doesn’t just take me to the theatre where Irina first danced, but a park where they played as kids and the hotel where their parents – my grandparents – met. I feel so sad that Andrew denied me the opportunity to ever know them. And even sadder when I consider that the two sets of grandparents I have known – his and Janet’s – must have both been in on the whole secret from the start, lying to me like Andrew and Janet have done.