some hard
feeling,’ Eva said carefully. ‘Where is it?’
‘In West London. Holland
Park.’
Eva didn’t know London at all, but she
had heard of Holland Park being a smart area.
Jack must have read her expression because
he smiled. ‘Parts of that area were good even back in the sixties, but not where
the studio is, that was virtually a slum. We all said she was mad buying it. But
she’d inherited some money – from her father, I think – and she was determined. It
wasn’t as if it was a real artist’s studio, only a little terraced house. I
haven’t seen it since you were small, but I should imagine it’s been tarted
up since then.’
Ever since Eva had been told about this
‘studio’, she’d imagined it was just one big room, perhaps with an
adjoining bathroom, because that was what estate agents called such places. She was very
surprised to discover it was a house.
Her earlier caution left her. ‘Do you
know who my real father is?’ she asked. ‘I thought it was Andrew until
Mum’s death, but he said he isn’t my father.’
Jack and Lauren exchanged glances again.
‘She didn’t tell you
before?’ Lauren said, and looked very uneasily at Jack. ‘I wonder if
that’s why she never invited us here?’
‘You think she was afraid you’d
let the cat out of the bag?’ Eva prompted.
Lauren hesitated. ‘Maybe, dear. Flora
always did play her cards close to her chest.’
‘So who is my father?’ Eva
asked, keeping her voice down as she could see Sophie hovering close by.
‘Well, we’ve always assumed it was
Patrick O’Donnell, the illustrator. He was part of our group and they were
together for several years.’
‘You only imagine! Flora was your
friend, surely you know for sure?’ Eva said a little sharply.
‘Look, Eva,’ Jack took over.
‘It was a strange time, with lots of things going on, and we weren’t always
part of it. Flora was with Patrick for a few years, but she left him and later on took
legal action to get him out of her place. Pat went off to Canada, tail between his legs,
and Flora didn’t tell us anything, not even that she was expecting you. By the
time we caught up with her again, you were a couple of months old.’
Chapter Four
Eva switched on the light and looked at the
clock. It was after two, but she couldn’t get off to sleep. She could hear Andrew
snoring – just a soft, distant rumbling because his bedroom door was shut. She’d
listened to the sound a thousand times in the past and found it comforting that he was
close by. But now she knew he wasn’t her real father she found it irritating.
She almost wished she hadn’t spoken to
Jack and Lauren today at the funeral. She’d hoped for some new understanding about
her mother, but all she’d got was more puzzles. First, that she’d been a
successful artist; Eva knew little about the art world but she did know that only a
handful of artists made any real money from it. So why on earth hadn’t Mum ever
told her that she was one of those few?
Then there was the news about an illustrator
called Patrick O’Donnell who might be her father. Jack had said he knew he was
living back in England now, and had suggested she look him up. But how could she? If he
didn’t want her as a baby he wasn’t likely to care about seeing her now.
She had spoken to some of Flora’s
other old friends too, and although she didn’t get as much from them as she did
from Jack and Lauren, they had created a picture for her of the young Flora they knew.
They all said how much of a party animal she’d been, the last one to leave, always
up for anything. Someone said how she had mad ideas – camping in midwinter,
skinny-dipping in the Thames – and she got people joining her with sheer force of
personality. Yet none ofthis fitted the woman Eva knew; she’d
always seemed rather reclusive, and certainly not bold or impulsive.
There were also some pointed little remarks
from a couple of people that hinted at Flora being
feeling,’ Eva said carefully. ‘Where is it?’
‘In West London. Holland
Park.’
Eva didn’t know London at all, but she
had heard of Holland Park being a smart area.
Jack must have read her expression because
he smiled. ‘Parts of that area were good even back in the sixties, but not where
the studio is, that was virtually a slum. We all said she was mad buying it. But
she’d inherited some money – from her father, I think – and she was determined. It
wasn’t as if it was a real artist’s studio, only a little terraced house. I
haven’t seen it since you were small, but I should imagine it’s been tarted
up since then.’
Ever since Eva had been told about this
‘studio’, she’d imagined it was just one big room, perhaps with an
adjoining bathroom, because that was what estate agents called such places. She was very
surprised to discover it was a house.
Her earlier caution left her. ‘Do you
know who my real father is?’ she asked. ‘I thought it was Andrew until
Mum’s death, but he said he isn’t my father.’
Jack and Lauren exchanged glances again.
‘She didn’t tell you
before?’ Lauren said, and looked very uneasily at Jack. ‘I wonder if
that’s why she never invited us here?’
‘You think she was afraid you’d
let the cat out of the bag?’ Eva prompted.
Lauren hesitated. ‘Maybe, dear. Flora
always did play her cards close to her chest.’
‘So who is my father?’ Eva
asked, keeping her voice down as she could see Sophie hovering close by.
‘Well, we’ve always assumed it was
Patrick O’Donnell, the illustrator. He was part of our group and they were
together for several years.’
‘You only imagine! Flora was your
friend, surely you know for sure?’ Eva said a little sharply.
‘Look, Eva,’ Jack took over.
‘It was a strange time, with lots of things going on, and we weren’t always
part of it. Flora was with Patrick for a few years, but she left him and later on took
legal action to get him out of her place. Pat went off to Canada, tail between his legs,
and Flora didn’t tell us anything, not even that she was expecting you. By the
time we caught up with her again, you were a couple of months old.’
Chapter Four
Eva switched on the light and looked at the
clock. It was after two, but she couldn’t get off to sleep. She could hear Andrew
snoring – just a soft, distant rumbling because his bedroom door was shut. She’d
listened to the sound a thousand times in the past and found it comforting that he was
close by. But now she knew he wasn’t her real father she found it irritating.
She almost wished she hadn’t spoken to
Jack and Lauren today at the funeral. She’d hoped for some new understanding about
her mother, but all she’d got was more puzzles. First, that she’d been a
successful artist; Eva knew little about the art world but she did know that only a
handful of artists made any real money from it. So why on earth hadn’t Mum ever
told her that she was one of those few?
Then there was the news about an illustrator
called Patrick O’Donnell who might be her father. Jack had said he knew he was
living back in England now, and had suggested she look him up. But how could she? If he
didn’t want her as a baby he wasn’t likely to care about seeing her now.
She had spoken to some of Flora’s
other old friends too, and although she didn’t get as much from them as she did
from Jack and Lauren, they had created a picture for her of the young Flora they knew.
They all said how much of a party animal she’d been, the last one to leave, always
up for anything. Someone said how she had mad ideas – camping in midwinter,
skinny-dipping in the Thames – and she got people joining her with sheer force of
personality. Yet none ofthis fitted the woman Eva knew; she’d
always seemed rather reclusive, and certainly not bold or impulsive.
There were also some pointed little remarks
from a couple of people that hinted at Flora being
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