Inheritance

by Jenny Eclair

  ‘I couldn’t find this,’ she waves the magazine at Maisie. ‘It’s the house,’ she garbles, ‘an article about Kittiwake, the house where Lance is having the party. Look—’ and she shows Maisie the pale lemon house, which now has a big sticky juice ring above the front porch.

  ‘Oh yeah, cool.’ Maisie sits down next to her. She is so close Bel can see the droplets of water that cling to her bony clavicle, smell the Aesop geranium bath oil, Bel’s bath oil, a gift from Jan ‘and all at Snow Nation’.

  Still dripping, Maisie reaches over and turns the page of the magazine. ‘Is that him then, your brother?’

  Maisie is stabbing a damp finger at a photograph of Lance with his wife and children, artfully posed on the lawn at Kittiwake, the sea in the distance. They are all wearing navy and white, the children are interchangeable in Breton stripes and jeans, Freya is wearing a white shirt with a navy cardi, while Lance is all in navy. It brings out the blue of his eyes. Under his arm is a healthy young black lurcher; no putrid gums and parasitic worm for this mutt, notices Bel, momentarily thinking of poor dead smelly Benji.

  ‘Only, you don’t look anything like him,’ insists Maisie in her slightly nasal Croydon whine.

  ‘No, I was adopted, remember – I told you a few weeks ago? After I was found at Kittiwake, I was adopted by the family that owned the place. It was basically a convenient solution to the situation. Things were quite different back then, I think they’re much stricter now – I’m not saying they shouldn’t have adopted me, but . . . ’ For a moment she wants to confide in Maisie – girls are so much more sympathetic than boys, all her friends with daughters say so.

  Bel feels a pang of bitterness. Neither of her sons have ever shown any interest in how she feels about being adopted. It never crosses their minds that she might have struggled with her identity growing up. By contrast they have sailed through life in a lifebuoy of her love. Even when she dislikes her children, she still loves them, she can’t help it. There is a leaky valve in her heart, she cannot turn the love off – even now, when they are drowning in it.

  ‘He’s like dead fit, you know, for his age.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Bel laughs self-consciously. ‘Only, when you grow up with someone you don’t see them in that kind of light and there was a bit of an age gap.’

  ‘Yeah, I was thinking that. Like, how much?’

  ‘Let me think,’ says Bel. ‘I was born in ’63 and Lance came along in ’68, so five years.’

  ‘Oh,’ Maisie looks confused, ‘only he looks like loads younger.’

  ‘Yes, well, his wife doesn’t have a proper job,’ snaps Bel. ‘So she basically spends all day stroking his ego and looking after the kids. I reckon I’d look a damn sight younger if I didn’t have to do absolutely sodding everything.’ The veiled accusation is wasted on Maisie.

  ‘It says she’s an interior designer and an ex-model.’

  ‘Yes, I think she did do some modelling. She’s a perfectly sweet girl, and I’m sure she’s got her work cut out – I mean, look at the size of the house. I dare say she has help, but even so. And Lance has very high standards, he likes things—’

  Suddenly Maisie stands up and the towel drops away, revealing her small sinewy frame. Reaching into the top drawer of Ed’s tallboy, she pulls out some underwear, and proceeds to climb into what looks like a game of cat’s cradle rather than anything that could possibly contain a human backside, before coming straight out with it. ‘Can I come?’

  Bel pauses. Obviously, the girl means ‘Please may I come?’

  Maisie has the grace to colour slightly. ‘Only there’s room in the car and, anyway, Bel, if I don’t come I don’t think Ed will, and if Ed won’t, I don’t think Jamie will either.’

  It’s blackmail, thinks Bel, trying not to notice Maisie’s complete lack of undercarriage hair and the swing of her breasts as she lassos them into her bra.

  ‘I’d have to ask Lance,’ she mutters, stalling for time. ‘It’s his party and it’s meant to be for friends and family.’ Maisie pouts and instantly Bel feels the familiar kick of guilt in the guts – this is precisely what she promised she wouldn’t do after last week’s chicken tikka episode. She backtracks quickly, ‘But I don’t think he’d mind.’

  Why would he? He probably wouldn’t even notice. Lance is popular, no doubt lots of people have been invited to his party and at least Maisie will add some glamour to the Robatham clan, as long as she doesn’t open her mouth.

  So . . . ‘Yes, Maisie, why not.’

  Maisie scrambles onto the bed and begins to bounce.

  ‘Cool,’ she squeals, ‘I’ve never been to Cornwall. I might dress up as a mermaid. Yeah, a sexy mermaid with silver hair and seashells over my tits.’

  Maisie bounces again and lands on top of the open magazine and the perfect family portrait rips across Lance’s face.

  ‘Oh shit,’ she says.

  31

  Two Months to Go

  Kittiwake, June 2018

  Freya is in her element. The preparations for Lance’s fiftieth are all-consuming. She has spreadsheets on her Mac concerning yurt hire and catering contracts, notebooks containing finely drawn black ink diagrams detailing exactly where in the grounds the hog roast and ice-cream van should be positioned, plus a special Pinterest board, entitled ‘top secret’, on which she has gathered internet images from around the globe to help her decide on a decorative theme for Lance’s party. So far, authentic piñatas from Mexico and quality calico bunting vie with retro fairy lights and vegan mosquito-repelling outdoor candles.

  The food and drink are sorted. The party itself will be catered by a well-known local company based in Helston. She has arranged for trestle tables to be set up in one of the open-sided barns behind the house, with accompanying hay bale seating. Welcoming drinks (Pimm’s/prosecco/ginger beer) will be served on the front lawn and on the Sunday, weather permitting, there will be a stroll down to the beach for a barbecue breakfast of rare-breed organic sausage sandwiches.

  For months Freya has been sourcing vintage wicker baskets from Etsy to transport all the items required for this jaunt and she’s found enough red-and-white gingham fabric locally to run up forty matching napkins on her state-of-the-art sewing machine.

  As for the Friday evening before the festivities proper begin, she herself will prepare a large fish pie for the ‘family only’ supper; after all, they’re in Cornwall, it would be sacrilege not to use the bounty of the sea. She has already tipped the taciturn fishmonger off about her intentions, but she will be ensuring that the freezer is well stocked with supermarket mixed fish supplies to be on the safe side. She has factored in how many potatoes she will need for the mash and how many jars of mango chutney will be required as an accompaniment. Lance insists on mango chutney with fish pie, and as it is his birthday then mango chutney he shall have. She will do a raspberry pavlova for dessert, but will not make the meringue base herself – she is prepared to put herself out for this party but not kill herself in the process. Oh, and there will also be a cheese board, naturally, for those who would rather eat Cornish brie.

  Deep down, Freya knows she is doing this as much for herself as for her husband. If all goes to plan, her Instagram will be on fire after the party and the newly refurbished house and the weekend festivities will be her interior design calling card. Obviously most of the guests are friends and family, but one or two clients will be coming, influential locals who have supported her projects in the past.

  Freya has put the children into tennis club for the first two weeks of the summer holidays; much as she loves Ludo and Luna, she has a lot to do and she can’t do it with those two pulling at her, needing her attention, wanting snacks and trips to the beach.

  As for the birthday boy himself, Lance is spending a lot of time in Exeter. Apparently there have been staff shortages and an abusive chef scenario to deal with. Lance is the boss, sometimes he has to go and troubleshoot, but he always comes home at weekends. She doesn’t really min
d, everything is tidier when he isn’t here and the towels in the bathroom hang in the correct formation of pale grey to charcoal on the heated towel rail.

  At the moment she is concentrating on the entertainment side of things, making sure the croquet lawn has its full complement of hoops, balls and mallets, and that the designated games shed is fully stocked with tennis paraphernalia so that guests can make the most of Kittiwake’s two brand-new gravel courts. In a stroke of genius, she has even ordered a selection of old-fashioned pogo sticks and space hoppers off Amazon, because she thought it might be fun to transport Lance back to his seventies childhood. Maybe they can set up some sort of race, grown-ups versus kids? Freya’s mother would certainly be up for it; Mari is only in her late sixties and still a keen skier, whereas her sister Elise had nearly made it as an Olympic figure skater – when you live in Oslo, you learn to ski and skate practically before you can walk. At the thought of her own childhood, Freya is hit by a wave of homesickness. They never have proper snow in Cornwall, not since she’s lived here at any rate.

  She is looking forward to seeing her mother and sister. Elise is bringing her three kids, who are similar ages to Luna and Ludo, which will be fun, especially since Freya has hired a couple of local girls to do some weekend nannying. Why should the mothers get lumbered with all the kiddie care?

  Lance’s London nephews are a good deal older than their cousins so it’s doubtful whether they’ll share the littlies’ excitement about collecting hens’ eggs in the morning or climbing into the new sustainable wooden treehouse that Ludo and Luna received from a very generous Father Christmas last year. She can’t remember exactly how old they are – she doesn’t know Lance’s family very well. Apart from weddings and funerals, they hardly see them.

  Freya looks down at the art deco square-cut emerald-and-diamond engagement ring sparkling on her left hand, which for insurance purposes has been valued at fourteen thousand pounds. What a lucky girl she is.

  She and her husband met ten years ago when Freya was employed as the maître d’ in one of Lance’s restaurants. She had given him some tips on styling the place and when profits rose as a direct result of Berringtons’ newly acquired cool reputation, Lance asked her to marry him, pushing the small velvet box across the tablecloth so she could see his grandmother’s green-eyed ring winking up at her.

  Peggy’s ring. Peggy had been the original mistress of Kittiwake (Lance has briefed her on the family history). His grandmother was American and had bought the house as a holiday home. But then, in a nutshell, Ivor died, Teddy shot himself, Peggy was killed falling off a horse and Kittiwake had gone to Lance’s Uncle Benedict, who in turn had eventually given it to Lance.

  It’s a blood thing, Lance once said, adding that eventually it would go to Ludo. She had bristled at that: why not Luna? ‘Because Ludo is the oldest boy,’ he explained. ‘They can’t share it, it would end up being sold, that’s the whole point behind primogeniture, and yes, it’s ridiculous, but that’s the way it is. Luna can have the restaurant and the flat in Exeter.’

  Freya’s eyes drift to over to the piano and the photograph of Lance in his grandmother’s arms. If she looks very carefully her engagement ring is visible in the frill of Lance’s christening gown. Almost unnoticeable at first glance is a small girl with flyaway hair, peeping out from behind Peggy and holding a toy rabbit. This is Bel, Lance’s adoptive sister.

  Poor Bel, Lance once said, she might have got Kittiwake if she had turned out to be Benedict’s child. Apparently he’d had some kind of entanglement with the mother, but Bel wasn’t his, so she didn’t inherit and he got it instead.

  Freya sighs contentedly. Now the place is back to its former glory, they can all celebrate together. For a second she fantasises about the whole family singing ‘Happy birthday, dear Lance’ and her husband looking thrilled and handsome before leaning over the cake to blow the candles out.

  She has spent a long time racking her brains over what might make a suitable cake for Lance’s fiftieth. It needs to be what The Great British Bake Off would call a ‘showstopper’, something with enough wow factor to make the guests gasp. And, most importantly, big enough to hold fifty candles.

  She has doodled and sketched for days on end. She had thought about commissioning someone to make a cake in the form of his favourite thing but decided that a Victoria sponge Aston Martin would be vulgar and then it hit her: the cake should be in the shape of Kittiwake. Because this party isn’t just to mark Lance’s half-century, it’s also to celebrate the restoration of the family seat.

  The August bank holiday weekend will be the first opportunity for most of their friends and family to see all the back-breaking work they’ve put into its resurrection.

  Not that they’d physically done any of the grunt stuff themselves. Lance, despite kitting himself out with a high-vis jacket and a hard hat to ‘inspect the site’, had stood as far away from the action as possible and barely muddied his steel-toecap boots. Instead they’d employed a team of ‘great guys’ – Polish, mostly – who slept in one of the barns for the duration of the building works.

  Naturally, when it came to tackling Kittiwake’s precious interior, the Poles weren’t allowed to get their bear-like paws anywhere near Freya’s £200-a-roll wallpaper. Although Freya had insisted on calling herself the ‘project manager’, a team of specialists from London had been entrusted with the actual job of tiling, papering and painting. Eamon, Jilly and Davide had been accommodated not in the barn but in guest bedrooms, of which Kittiwake had plenty to spare. ‘The gang of three’, as Lance had fondly nicknamed them, had plastered, painted, gilded and glued for months while Freya sourced vintage light fittings from the internet, pored over her Colefax and Fowler samples and dithered over the virtues of ceramic tiles versus Italian marble.

  The London trio have only recently departed, leaving a trail of Farrow & Ball paint fumes behind them and acres of gleaming waxed floorboards. On the day they left, Freya sat on the bottom step of the sweeping staircase and breathed in, knowing it would never be as perfect as this again.

  There are still a couple of rooms that aren’t properly finished, but with two months to go before the party, Freya feels quite confident that every last tile will be grouted with time to spare. And now that the house is ready, it’s time to put the finishing touches to the party plans.

  Freya would normally make Lance’s cake herself – her strudel is unbeatable – but when it comes to cake sculpting, she is out of her depth. It’s one thing to order a dinosaur-shaped cake tin for Ludo’s seventh birthday and go mad with the green food dye, but a scale model of Kittiwake is beyond her.

  There is a woman in the village who has won prizes at local shows – Freya shudders involuntarily, she can imagine the kind of thing – she’ll give her a call this afternoon. As long as she creates the design and this woman merely executes it, surely nothing can go wrong.

  Confident that everything is in hand, she spends the afternoon capturing Kittiwake in watercolour. By August, the fat cream-headed roses on the east side of the house will be in their full second bloom, and the lilac bushes planted around the foot of the house will be thick with bees. It’s going to be the perfect backdrop for the party.

  Freya looks at her watch. She’s got time for a spot of yoga before lunch. Loping into the sun-drenched living room, she unrolls her mat and sits cross-legged for a moment with her hands in prayer position as her teacher has taught her. Then she closes her eyes, and thanks the universe for giving Kittiwake to Lance, and not to Bel.

  32

  School Days

  Lawn House, London 1969–1970

  Annabel’s bedroom still hadn’t been decorated, but Mrs Phelan said she was a lucky girl to have her own bookcase and a special big wicker basket to keep all her toys nice and tidy – and every night she was allowed to choose three soft toys to accompany her to bed.

  Rabbit was still her best toy, although sucking her thumb and stroking his ears wasn’t very nice after Mr
s Phelan started painting Annabel’s thumbs with something called bitter aloes. Daddy had brought it home from the chemist because ‘thumb-sucking is a disgusting habit, sweetheart’, even though Baby Lance did it.

  Baby Lance got away with a lot of things in Annabel’s furious opinion; for instance, even though he was meant to sleep in his very own nursery, he still got taken into Mummy and Daddy’s bed when he cried at night and sometimes he was still there in the morning, lying on Mummy’s chest like a big cat.

  Occasionally, when Daddy had gone to work, Annabel was allowed to climb into her parents’ bed too and in these moments, before she had to get dressed and go to school, she loved her baby brother, with his special milky smell and tiny purple lips with the little blister from sucking too hard at his bottle – she loved his chubby hands and the deep dimple in his cheek, just like Uncle Benedict’s. She could have stayed with Mummy and the baby like this all day; for ever, in fact.

  But her mother always had one eye on the clock and eventually she would start shouting, ‘Oh God, look at the time, Annabel – hurry up now, you mustn’t be late for school.’

  Annabel attended Lawn House in Hammersmith, a small prep school for nice girls from good homes.

  Lawn House wasn’t particularly academic; it promised parents that their daughters would be educated in the value of good manners, how to make an egg cosy out of felt and the practice of saying Grace before meals, preferably with eyes screwed tightly shut and small sweaty hands clasped together in what looked like religious fervour.

  Annabel found school a mixed blessing. It was bad when she wanted to wee-wee and had to put her hand up in class and the teacher said, ‘Honestly, Annabel, can’t it wait?’ but good when it was story time and you all sat on the big square of brightly coloured carpet in the corner of the classroom and listened to the teacher read from a picture book. She also quite liked lunch, especially when it was a pink custard day.