The Inheritance

by Tilly Bagshawe

  By the time they pulled into Victoria, he’d almost forgotten Tatiana was sitting opposite him.

  ‘It was nice talking to you,’ he said shyly as they stepped down onto the platform. ‘Enjoy your party.’

  ‘It’s only dinner,’ said Tati. ‘But I will. And good luck with your work thing.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘God, that smells good.’

  Tati closed her eyes and inhaled. The pungent scent of warm dough and chocolate from the Millie’s Cookies kiosk wafted over them deliciously.

  ‘Shall we get one?’

  They strolled onto the concourse together and bought two white-chocolate-chip cookies, still soft and warm from the oven.

  She’s really nice, thought Jason. He didn’t understand where Tati’s scandalous, rich-bitch reputation had come from. Suddenly reluctant to let her go, he asked about her plans for the summer.

  ‘I’ll be in Fittlescombe,’ she said gloomily.

  ‘Working on the court case?’

  She nodded. It felt awkward, talking to Jason Cranley about a legal battle that, if she won, would see him turfed out of his home. She changed the subject.

  ‘What about you? Logan said you’re off to the South of France.’

  ‘My parents are, not me. I’ve got to work.’

  Tati’s ears pricked up. ‘So you’ll be at Furlings over the holidays then?’

  Jason nodded. ‘Logan’s been begging to be allowed to stay too. I’m not sure she can bear the thought of a whole summer away from Gabriel Baxter.’

  He told Tati about Logan’s crush on Gabe, which showed no signs of abating.

  ‘I’d be careful if I were you,’ Tati said archly. ‘I wouldn’t trust Gabe as far as I could throw him. But you’ll be on your own then, will you? At the house?’

  ‘Yup. Just me and Mrs Worsley. And the dog.’

  The cogs in Tati’s brain began whirring. She hadn’t set foot in Furlings since the day she’d collected her grandmother’s painting. Brett’s presence, and the looming court case over the will, made any sort of social call impossible. But with Jason Cranley home alone, she’d be able to drop in whenever she pleased. Here was a perfect chance to invade enemy territory! Perhaps even snoop around in Brett’s office, or scour the attic for papers of her father’s? Who knew what she might unearth that could help her case?

  She’d have to get round old Mrs Worsley, of course. Rory’s dragon of a housekeeper had made no secret in the village of her disapproval of Tatiana and her support of the Cranleys’ claim to Furlings. But at least old Ma Worsley was a known enemy. With a little advance planning, Tati was confident she could think up some scheme to get rid of her.

  ‘We must have lunch.’ She bestowed her most dazzling smile on Jason. ‘Or dinner. Or both. As we’re stuck in Sussex together.’

  Jason couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful. Thanks to the ambrosial melting cookie in his mouth, an enthusiastic nod was the most he could manage by way of response.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Tati, kissing him on the cheek. ‘I’ll call you.’

  She slipped off into the crowds and was gone.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Cranley. Would you like breakfast on the upper deck this morning, or down here?’

  Hannah Lowell, the Lady A’s frighteningly efficient chief stewardess, handed Angela Cranley her morning newspaper as she emerged onto the yacht’s lower deck. In flip-flops and a simple blue shirt-waister sundress, with her hair tied back and a pair of toirteshell Ray-Bans covering her eyes, Angela looked relaxed as she stepped out into the Côte d’Azur sunshine. (Unlike Brett, who’d been awake since dawn, pacing the boards and yelling into his mobile phone at some hapless private banker who’d evidently made a mistake on a deal.)

  ‘Who’s upstairs?’ she asked Hannah. ‘Is everybody up already?’

  ‘Most of them, yes. Jeremy Curzon and his … friend … are still in their cabin. But the O’Mahoneys, the Gassinghams and Mr Morgan are all at breakfast. Monsieur Lemprière, the lawyer, left last night after dinner.’

  As usual, the relaxing family holiday that Brett had promised her had been hijacked by a slew of rich and famous guests and their hangers-on. Brett loved entertaining on the yacht. What was the point of spending forty million on a boat you used twice a year at most if you didn’t at least get to show it off to your mates?

  ‘Is Mr Cranley with them?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘And Logan?’

  ‘Danny took her out on the jet-ski an hour ago. Don’t worry,’ Hannah Lowell added, seeing her mistress’s face cloud over with anxiety. ‘She had her headgear on. Danny’s super, super safety-conscious. He’s one of the best deck hands we’ve ever had.’

  ‘All right. I think I’ll stay down here,’ said Angela. The thought of making small talk with Brett’s chest-beating playboy friends and their vacuous young wives did not appeal. ‘Don’t tell Mr Cranley I’m up. And I don’t want breakfast yet, just a large mug of coffee. Thanks.’

  Hannah left, and Angela sat down on one of the outdoor sofas, carefully choosing a section that was shaded by a large, blue canvas awning. To Brett’s irritation, and Angela’s huge relief, they were moored offshore and not in St Tropez harbour itself. The harbour was the place to see and be seen, which was of course why Brett liked it. But Angela always felt like a monkey in the zoo there, being gawped at by all the tourists strolling around the port.

  At this time in the morning, and seen from a little distance, St Tropez looked idyllic, with its sloping cobbled streets and red tiled roofs tumbling down the hills, one on top of one another, punctuated only by the occasional medieval church spire. The Mediterranean sparkled bright blue in the sunshine, like liquid lapis, and seagulls swooped and cawed overhead, excited by the nets of wriggling fish being hauled up onto the quayside for today’s market.

  Take away all the yachts and Ferraris and arseholes, all the Club 55 poseurs and diamond-encrusted Russian whores at Nikki Beach, and this would be a charming village, Angela thought wistfully. Still, it was hard to feel too depressed, sipping fresh coffee on the deck of the beautiful yacht that her husband had named in her honour, reading yesterday’s edition of the Daily Mail while the sun warmed her back. We have an amazing life, she told herself sternly. I must try to appreciate it more.

  Her attention was caught by an item in Baz Bamigboye’s gossip column about Tatiana Flint-Hamilton and her latest squeeze, described as ‘City whizz-kid, Marco Gianotti’. Whizz-kid or not, judging by the picture of the two of them leaving Annabel’s arm in arm, he was certainly very good looking. How odd it must be for Tatiana, flitting between her two lives as village primary schoolteacher and ‘It girl’ about town. The former took up considerably more of her time than the latter, but clearly someone at the Daily Mail believed that Tati’s photograph could still sell newspapers.

  ‘What are you doing down here on your own?’

  Brett appeared out of nowhere. Angela hastily folded the paper and put it aside. Tatiana Flint-Hamilton was not a subject likely to be conducive to marital harmony. In white linen shorts and an open-necked, cornflower-blue polo shirt, Brett looked fit and tanned, far younger than his forty-five years. Angela had never stopped wanting him, even after all the storms and heartaches of their marriage.

  ‘You startled me.’

  He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Come up and join the party. Jeremy and Miriam just sat down to breakfast.’

  Angela folded her newspaper disapprovingly. ‘All the more reason for me to stay down here. Poor Rachel. She’d be horrified if she knew.’

  Brett rolled his eyes. ‘You’re not still on about that, are you?’

  Rachel and Jeremy Curzon were old friends from Hong Kong. The Curzons had married the same year as Angela and Brett, and the couples became instant friends. This was back in the early days of Cranley Estates, when they were all still in their twenties. Then, last year, Jeremy had walked out on Rachel and their four children and set up home with a
twenty-four-year-old Persian model named Miriam Kashani. Angela had choked on her cornflakes when Brett announced he’d invited the two of them on the yacht for a week.

  ‘Jeremy and Rachel are separated,’ Brett said wearily.

  ‘So?’

  ‘They’ll be divorced by Christmas, Ange. It’s not like Rachel doesn’t know the marriage is over.’

  ‘Yes, and why is it over? Because of that bloody tart,’ Angela said angrily. ‘And you expect me to have breakfast with her? Make small talk over the frittatas, as if I approve?’

  ‘You don’t have to approve,’ said Brett gently. ‘You just don’t have to disapprove quite so pointedly. After all, it’s not going to change anything, is it?’

  No. I suppose it isn’t.

  Angela closed her eyes. Brett was massaging her shoulders, being unusually affectionate. She didn’t want to start the holiday off by fighting with him.

  ‘Besides,’ he said smoothly. ‘I’d like to have breakfast with my wife. Especially as you’re sodding off to the mainland without me later.’

  Angela had quite forgotten. It was market day today, a jolly affair in the Place des Lices. Local artisans sold everything from soap to hand-sewn baby clothes, lavender oil and stinky, unpasteurized cheeses. Over the years they’d been coming to St Tropez, Angela had scored some surprising bargains at the market, including kilim rugs and antique jewellery. She adored pottering around the square, soaking up the atmosphere of France and the local flavour of the Var, but Brett had always hated it.

  ‘Who wants to waste time on bloody tourist tat when you could be enjoying a nice cold flute of Bollinger at Nikki Beach?’

  They had long ago made a pact to split up on market day, regrouping in the evening for dinner on the yacht, mutually refreshed after a day pursuing their respective pleasures.

  Cheered by the prospect of a whole day in town to herself, Angela agreed to join Brett for breakfast.

  ‘I suppose I can manage a slice of toast. But I’m not sitting next to Miriam.’

  ‘Damn right,’ said Brett, kissing her. ‘You’re sitting next to me.’

  A few hours later, weaving her way aimlessly through the market stalls, Angela felt deeply happy. Breakfast had not been the ordeal she’d expected. Jeremy’s mistress had had the good sense to keep her head down and contribute little or nothing to the conversation. And the other guests had been good company, Johnny Gassingham in particular regaling the table with hilarious stories of his recent trip to India, where he’d somehow managed to fall foul of local police and get himself arrested for shoplifting. (Worth comfortably north of a hundred million, Johnny was apparently suspected of stealing a banana.)

  More importantly, Brett had gone out of his way to make her feel comfortable and happy. One of the reasons Angela had always disliked St Tropez in the past was that it seemed to bring out the very worst, most insecure side of her husband’s nature. Brett became louder, brasher, more bullying, less considerate from the moment they set foot on the yacht. But this time he seemed genuinely to be making an effort. He’d even arranged for Logan to spend the day at Luna Park, a local funfair, so she wouldn’t be bored while her mother was in town.

  Picking up a beautiful lace tablecloth, Angela began to haggle with the stallholder in broken French. It took a few minutes to agree on a price. Reaching into her wicker shopping basket for her purse, Angela’s stomach suddenly lurched.

  ‘Oh god,’ she blanched. ‘It’s gone! Someone’s taken it.’

  The woman stallholder looked at her curiously.

  ‘Voleur,’ said Angela. ‘Mon sac à main. Stolen. Volé. Vous avez vu quelqu’un?’

  The woman shook her head. Angela tried not to be suspicious, but one read so many stories about sellers at French markets being in cahoots with local pickpocketing gangs. There wasn’t much cash in her purse, but she felt quite sick. Violated, as if the beautiful rose she’d just been smelling and admiring had suddenly erupted with maggots.

  Pushing through the crowds, she made her way back to the harbour. She was about to call Brett and have one of the tenders come and pick her up when she caught sight of Danny Michaels, one of Lady A’s crewmembers.

  ‘Danny!’

  ‘Mrs Cranley! I thought you were at the market.’

  The boy seemed unaccountably nervous.

  ‘I was.’ Angela told him what had happened. ‘It’s lucky you’re here. You can take me back to the boat. Come to think of it, why are you here?’

  ‘I was dropping the other guests off, ma’am. The ladies have all got spa appointments at the Byblos and the gentlemen are lunching at the beach.’

  ‘And my husband?’

  ‘Mr Cranley … er … Mr Cranley is still on board. I believe.’

  Working, thought Angela. You couldn’t part Brett from his precious deals for long, not even here.

  ‘OK. Well let’s head back. I’ll cancel my cards and get some cash, and then you can bring me back to town again.’

  The boy hesitated. ‘Shouldn’t we tell the local police first? As we’re here.’

  ‘Oh, they’re not going to do anything,’ Angela said dismissively. ‘One more robbed tourist. They couldn’t care less.’

  ‘Still,’ Danny persisted. ‘If no one reports these guys, it’s hopeless, isn’t it? They can act with impunity.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Angela. ‘But I really don’t feel like trudging up to the gendarmerie. I’ll call them from the yacht.’ Stepping past him, she began to climb down into the waiting speedboat. ‘Better yet, I’ll get Brett to do it. He’s bound to have more joy than I am. The French are such sexists, they won’t take a woman seriously.’

  Danny stood frozen on the dock for a moment, as if unsure what to do next. Angela looked at him curiously.

  ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘No, Mrs Cranley.’

  ‘Well come on then!’ Angela laughed. ‘I don’t know how to pilot one of these things by myself. The sooner we get back to the yacht, the sooner we can turn around again.’

  The boy climbed in and started the engine.

  Five minutes later, Angela was climbing the stairs up to the Lady A’s lower deck and the entrance to the family living quarters. Dropping her basket in the TV room, she headed towards the study.

  ‘Brett?’

  No answer. Pushing open the door she saw his computer open on the desk, but he wasn’t there.

  Everything on the boat was quiet. Danny must have been wrong. Had Brett joined the others for lunch at the beach after all? Walking down the corridor, she opened the door to the master suite.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  At first she thought she was seeing things. It can’t be her. Not here! She closed her eyes and opened them again, but the apparition was still there, sprawled out on the bed in a pair of tiny Agent Provocateur knickers.

  Tricia Hong, Brett’s mistress from Australia, was exactly as Angela remembered her. The same tiny, gym-toned body, the same smooth golden skin and silken black hair, the same tiny, perky breasts like two glued-on apples. And the same ruthless look of naked hatred in her beautiful, snake-like eyes.

  Tricia neither moved nor spoke. Both women remained frozen, like actresses in a play who’ve forgotten their lines. From the en-suite bathroom, Brett’s voice ricocheted off the walls like a stray bullet.

  ‘Hold on a minute, angel. I’ll be right there.’

  He was opening and closing cabinets. Looking for a condom, thought Angela numbly. She should probably scream or cry or throw something, but she was in absolute shock.

  How could Tricia be here, now, in France? On her boat? In her bedroom? She was supposed to be in Australia, thousands of miles away. There was a time and a place for every enemy, a time and a place where Angela might have felt prepared for such a betrayal. A year ago, back in the Sydney apartment, she could have made sense of it. But not now, not like this. It was like going for a walk down the High Street in Fittlescombe and finding yourself face to face with a tiger. The unexpe
ctedness of the situation almost trumped the fear.

  Brett burst into the room, a smile a mile wide plastered across his face. Then he saw Angela.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ he said quietly. There didn’t seem much else to say.

  Ashen-faced, Angela turned and ran staggering down the corridor.

  Brett ran after her. ‘Ange wait! Please.’

  She quickened her pace. Tears bleared her vision, but she kept going, knocking against the walls as the yacht rocked gently from side to side on the water.

  ‘Angie!’ Brett grabbed her by the arm. She tried to wrench herself free but his grip was too tight.

  ‘Let go of me,’ she sobbed.

  ‘No. I won’t. I can’t. Ange, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry you did it? Or sorry you got caught?’

  ‘Both,’ said Brett truthfully.

  ‘She knew you’d be here! You’ve been in contact.’

  Brett said nothing.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Angela shook her head in disbelief. ‘Did you fly her out here?’

  Again Brett didn’t deny it.

  ‘You planned this.’

  The pennies dropped one by one, like acid on Angela’s skin.

  ‘Look, Ange, she called me. She was relentless. I know it was stupid of me and weak. She doesn’t mean anything to me.’

  ‘I have to get out of here,’ Angela said quietly.

  ‘Please! Don’t go. I don’t mean anything to her either, and that’s the truth. She’s got a new boyfriend. They’re getting married …’