All My Secrets (2 page)

‘Yes, that’s younger than in England, I know,’ Mr Treeves says. ‘That’s because the trust and the will were drawn up under Scottish law.’

I stare at him. ‘My mother was Scottish?’

He nods. ‘I think the best thing right now is for me to leave you with your, er, family. My card is in the folder. I don’t have any direct knowledge of Irina Galloway myself, but you
can call for more information about the trust fund whenever you wish.’

He hurries out, clearly desperate to get away from the tense atmosphere in the room. I can’t blame him. Suddenly it’s just me and Mum and Dad.

Outside in the hall, Jade and Jess are squealing with excitement over something.

Mum squeezes my arm. ‘Oh, Evie, I’m so sorry it’s come out like this.’

I turn to her. ‘ Tell me . . . everything.’

Mum glances at Dad. He nods. I’m vaguely aware that his hands are shaking. I feel numb.

‘The first thing to say is that Mum is your mother first, last . . . in
every way
.’

I hold up the birth certificate. ‘Not first,’ I say.

‘OK.’ Dad rubs his forehead. ‘Irina and I had a relationship before I met Mum.’

‘You were born,’ Mum says, ‘but . . . but Irina . . . she wasn’t well . . .’

Dad coughs. ‘Janet,’ he says, a warning note in his voice. Mum stops talking.

‘The point is that Irina died in a hit-and-run accident shortly before your first birthday,’ Dad goes on. ‘I was on my own with you for a bit, then Mum came along and . .
.’

‘. . . and I loved you
as if
you were my own right from the start.’

I nod, letting what Dad said sink in. ‘So my real mum died when I was a baby?’

Beside me, Mum winces.

‘Mum is your real mum,’ Dad insists. ‘Irina only knew you for the first few months of—’

Anger seers through me again. ‘Don’t tell me what’s real and not real,’ I snap. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Dad and Mum exchange helpless glances.

‘We thought it was for the best,’ Mum says shakily. ‘A few months passed and we moved here where we didn’t know anyone, and of course everyone assumed you were mine and .
. .’

‘There was never a good time to tell you,’ Dad urges. ‘We didn’t want to upset you.’

‘Well, you’ve upset me now.’ I stand up. ‘You should have found the time. You’ve been lying to me all my life and—’

But I can’t finish the sentence. A huge sob rises inside me like a claw clutching at my insides. Out in the hall, Jade and Jess’s excited squeals have turned into some kind of
argument. Normally, Mum would be straight there, sorting them out, but now I’m not sure she even hears them. She’s weeping, hunched over on the sofa.

‘What about Jade and Jess?’ I ask, teeth clenched. ‘Are they even my sisters?’

‘Of course they are,’ Dad says.

‘Yes.’ Mum nods eagerly. ‘They’re mine and Dad’s.’

It suddenly sinks in. ‘Yours and Dad’s,’ I echo. ‘But I’m not yours.’

‘Of course you are, Evie. This doesn’t change anything,’ Dad argues.

I glance down at the folder in my hand. What did Mr Treeves say? That I would inherit ten-million-pounds on my sixteenth birthday.

‘No Dad,’ I say. ‘This changes everything.’

The next twenty-four hours are the worst of my life. Mum doesn’t stop crying and Dad is torn between comforting her and dealing with me. He refuses to answer any of my
questions about Irina: from how he met her and what their relationship was like, to what she looked like and where the original money invested in the trust fund came from. He says that none of this
matters, that Irina was never a proper mother to me, not like Mum has been, that she’s just a set of genes and, now, this legacy of millions of pounds.

He’s not even happy for me about the money. He’s been on to a lawyer about setting up a new trust fund that he and Mum will control until I’m twenty-five.

No way am I agreeing to that.

As time passes, his refusal to talk about anything other than the fact that it’s crazy for me to have access to too much money too young makes the whole thing a zillion times worse. My
early shock gives way to pure, coruscating rage that he and Mum clearly want to carry on as if the entire revelation hasn’t happened. Mum sobs the whole time the twins are at school,
insisting how much she loves me and how little my having a different birth mother matters, while, at the same time, begging me not to tell my sisters.

‘So you want me to lie to them too?’ I can’t believe it. ‘If it doesn’t matter, why can’t I tell everyone?’

But the truth is I don’t want to talk to people either. How can I tell anyone that my parents have been lying to me all my life? In the first heat of my fury, I go to call my best friends,
Mina and Carrie. I want to tell them I’ve been deceived and betrayed – and that I’m about to be very rich. Vague ideas about how we could spend some of my inheritance flit through
my head: we could go on a fancy holiday and buy millions of clothes, maybe even follow a band on tour around the world . . . But as soon as we’re talking I realise I’m too embarrassed
to explain either the money or the lies. At least not until I’ve found out more.

But neither Mum nor Dad are prepared to talk to me about Irina Galloway so I lock my bedroom door and search for information on the internet. I’m imagining it won’t be easy to find
anything, but to my surprise there are loads of hits. I examine them more closely. The Irina I’ve discovered was a dancer from Edinburgh and the youngest person ever in the UK to become a
prima ballerina.

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.

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 says. ‘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.’