The Inheritance

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘Anyway, a friend talked me out of it in the end,’ she told Brett.

  Silence descended once again.

  ‘So what happens now?’ Brett asked eventually.

  Angela looked him in the eye. ‘I think we need some time apart.’

  ‘A separation?’ Brett sounded stricken.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be formal. But we need to think,’ said Angela. ‘Both of us. We can’t go on like this, Brett. I mean, look at us!’

  They both turned to their reflection in the huge gilt-framed mirror that dominated the west wall of the room. Angie looked as if she’d done ten rounds with a champion boxer. As for Brett, unshaven, green-skinned and with bloodshot eyes, he looked more like a down-and-out than a property mogul.

  ‘OK,’ said Brett, defeated. ‘I’ll move out. I’ll go to the flat in London for now. I’ve got a lot of business coming up in New York too, so maybe I’ll spend some time there …’ His words trailed off. ‘I love you, Ange,’ he said, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I love you too,’ said Angela truthfully. ‘But I don’t know if that’s enough any more. And I don’t think you do, either.’

  Brett stood up. Angela didn’t think she’d ever seen him so broken.

  ‘I’ll pack a bag,’ he said gruffly. ‘Can I get you anything? Painkillers?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’

  He left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

  Only then did Angela give way to tears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Autumn seemed to come and go in a blink that year. One minute Hyde Park was a riot of flowers and butterflies and sunshine, crammed with shirtless sunbathers and children leaping excitedly into the Princess Diana Memorial Fountain; and the next it was stark and bare, swathed in a grey blanket of frost and empty save for the few brave joggers prepared to endure the winter cold. There must have been a period in between, when the sycamore leaves turned to rust and fell, and a gleaming brown sea of conkers covered the ground. But Jason Cranley couldn’t seem to remember it.

  In any event, winter had arrived now, and with a vengeance, plunging London into a cold snap that had already seen a few flurries of snow, and the inevitable delays on public transport that any change in the weather always seemed to bring. Walking up the King’s Road from his house on Eaton Gate, for his usual breakfast at The Chelsea Bun, Jason pitied the poor commuters crammed onto the number 19 bus, which was going nowhere fast.

  Jason himself felt unusually cheerful. Swaddled in a heavy, black cashmere coat and scarf, he was protected from the cold, and could enjoy the childish thrill of watching his breath plume out in front of him, like a dragon’s smoke. The sky above him was that magical crisp, bright blue you only ever saw in winter, and the Christmas displays in the shop windows, put up preposterously early as usual, lent everything a cheerful, festive and happy air.

  Or perhaps it was tonight’s concert that had put him in such a good mood? He’d landed the gig of a lifetime, playing a full hour-long set at the legendary Ronnie Scott’s jazz club. Well, perhaps it was a stretch to say that he’d landed it. The truth was that George Wilkes, the Cranleys’ art-dealer friend, was a close mate of the new manager there, and had pulled a veritable orchestra-full of strings to get Jason a slot.

  ‘Listen. They’re a business with a reputation to maintain. They heard your tapes. They wouldn’t have hired you if they didn’t think you were good,’ George had assured him, scores of times, as the date drew nearer and Jason’s nerves began to amp up. Jason clung to the idea that there must be some truth in what George said. This was Ronnie Scott’s, for God’s sake. Ronnie Scott’s! They weren’t in the business of disappointing paying customers.

  I can do it.

  George believes in me.

  I just have to believe in myself.

  Tatiana had been really sweet and congratulatory about it, and had promised to try to be there. Her work had been so manic lately, even more so than usual since the arguments with her board over a US school had begun to escalate, so nothing was certain. Secretly, Jason prayed that his wife didn’t make it. Not because they were at loggerheads. They’d been getting along better recently, arguing less and supporting one another more. In a weird way, they had Logan to thank for that.

  Having a needy teenager in the house had turned out to be a far more positive experience than Jason had anticipated. For one thing, Logan’s presence had turned Jason and Tati into an instant family, albeit a rather unusual one, removing the unspoken pressure to think about having children of their own, at least for the moment. Then there had been the pleasure of seeing Logie mature and grow right before their eyes. Being away from Fittlescombe, from Brett and Angela, and village gossip, and that snobby school of hers, had done her the world of good. In so many ways, the fire at Wraggsbottom Farm had been the wake-up call that Logan needed. In the immediate aftermath she’d been too frozen with guilt to learn anything from her mistakes. But now, settled and happy in a new school, the changes were beginning. She barely drank any more and had given up smoking altogether. She’d written touchingly sincere letters of apology to Gabe and Laura, and to Seb Harwich, whom she knew she’d treated appallingly. Best of all, she seemed finally to have broken the spell of her obsession with Gabe Baxter and to have fallen in love properly with a sweet kid from school, Tom Hargreaves.

  Today was a big day for Logan too. Laura Baxter had had her baby, a little boy they’d named Felix, and had emailed Logan, inviting her to come and see the baby. It would be the first time Logan had gone back to the village since storming out of Furlings, and the first time she’d seen Laura face to face since the fire. Jason had watched her set off to Victoria Station this morning looking white-faced with nerves. But she’d gone, and he was proud of her. He prayed things went OK.

  His mind swiftly flipped back to tonight’s concert, and the likelihood of Tati showing up. The thing was, as much as Jason loved his wife, she had a way of making him feel nervous. It was his fault really, not hers. Somehow Tati always seemed to remind him of his own inadequacies. There she would be, poised and confident and beautiful and successful, willing him on. And there he would be, frightened and sweating and useless and disappointed, letting her down.

  George Wilkes, on the other hand, was a face he desperately wanted to see through the smoky clubroom tonight. With his gentle manner, his unquestioning acceptance of all that Jason was, good and bad, George was like a human quilt. Either that, or a fortifying shot of whisky for good luck. Jason wasn’t sure which simile fitted his friend better. George, too, had promised to ‘try’ to make it.

  Jason glanced at his watch.

  Nine o’clock. Ten hours to go.

  Tonight was going to be his night.

  Laura Baxter wrapped the blanket more tightly around her infant son’s shoulders and stared at his face lovingly. She wondered if his little nose and permanently pursed mouth would ever seem less than magical to her. She couldn’t imagine that they would. Lots of people said he looked like Gabe, but Laura couldn’t see it at all. Felix didn’t look like anyone. He was himself: tiny, unique and quite perfect.

  ‘Would you like to hold him?’

  ‘Oh, no. Thanks.’ Logan looked terrified. She and Laura were ensconced on the sofa in the drawing room at Wraggsbottom Farm, with Felix’s Moses basket wedged in between them. Gabe was out on the farm and would be gone all day, so the two girls were alone. Laura had made tea and cut some slices off the enormous Battenburg cake that Mrs Worsley had brought over from Furlings ‘in case you get a bit peckish, while you’re feeding.’ Everyone in the village had been so kind, but at this rate Laura stood no chance of losing her baby weight. Logan, by contrast, looked skinnier than ever and positively fragile in the black skinny jeans and baggy, cover-all sweater she’d chosen for today’s visit.

  ‘He’s lovely,’ she stammered, ‘but I … I wouldn’t know what to do.’

  ‘There’s nothing to “do”,’ Laura laughed. �
�You just pick him up and cuddle him. Like a doll.’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ said Logan. ‘My hands are shaking just thinking about it. I might drop him.’

  Reaching into the basket, Laura lifted her son herself and leaned back against the sofa cushions, allowing Felix to rest against her while she chatted to Logan with both hands free.

  ‘Pass me my tea, would you?’

  Logan obliged, and Laura could see her hands actually were shaking as she rattled the cup against its saucer.

  ‘It was sweet of you to come.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Logan, blushing. ‘It was sweet of you to ask me. I should have come a long time ago. But I couldn’t face it.’

  ‘Couldn’t face what?’ Laura asked gently.

  ‘You. Gabe. What I’d done.’ Logan looked down at her hands and kept her eyes resolutely fixed there.

  ‘It was an accident,’ Laura reminded her. ‘You didn’t set fire to the barn on purpose.’

  ‘Yes. But it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t got drunk and invited all those idiots over, and smoked weed even after Seb told me how dangerous and stupid it was.’

  ‘We all make mistakes,’ said Laura. ‘Thank goodness the others had already gone home when it happened.’

  Logan nodded. ‘And thank goodness I’d been too lazy to bring the horses inside that afternoon, or they’d all have been baked alive in their stalls.’ Her hand flew to her mouth, imagining the horror of what might have been. She let out a little yelp of distress, and had to force herself to look up at Laura. ‘I wanted to come before, to say sorry. But “sorry” just sounded so inadequate, under the circumstances.’

  ‘I think sorry sounds fine,’ Laura said kindly. ‘Now do eat some cake, for heaven’s sake, or I’m going to turn into the fat one from Bridesmaids.’

  Logan tried to laugh, but it wasn’t working. If anything Laura’s sweetness was making this harder.

  ‘You saved my life,’ she said. ‘After all the mean things I said about you … you saved me.’

  ‘Did you say mean things about me?’ Laura looked surprised more than offended.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Logan admitted. ‘But none of them were true. The problem was I was poisoned with jealousy.’

  Laura laughed. She had missed Logan’s melodramatic, teenage turns of phrase.

  ‘I loved Gabe so much,’ Logan went on seriously. ‘And you had him, and I couldn’t bear it. That’s also why I behaved like such a prat. I think I thought if I were a bit more cool, and drank a lot, and did adult things like smoking weed and going out with Seb …’

  ‘Is going out with Sebby Harwich an “adult thing”?’ Laura couldn’t help interjecting.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said Logan. ‘I thought it might make Gabe see me in a new light.’

  ‘I see,’ said Laura.

  Poor girl. It had obviously taken a good deal of courage for Logan to come back to the farm today and face her. Laura wondered if she’d been brave enough to confront her father as well; she asked her.

  Logan shook her head. ‘I think I’d be shot on sight if I went back to Furlings.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Laura frowned. ‘I know your mother misses having you at home, and I’m sure your dad does too. Men aren’t always great at showing these things, you know.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Logan, noncommittally.

  ‘I ran into your mum yesterday as it happens,’ Laura went on. ‘Gringo had fallen into some sort of silage, I think, and she was dragging him back across the field for a bath.’

  ‘Oh, Gringo!’ Logan pouted. ‘I think I miss him most of all.’

  ‘Yes, well, you’ve got a lot in common,’ teased Laura. ‘He’s definitely the naughtiest dog in Fittlescombe.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll reform?’ grinned Logan. ‘Like me.’

  Laura laughed. ‘Perhaps he will.’ Felix wriggled sweetly against her chest, disturbed by her laughter. He then emitted a fart so loud and long it was impossible to believe it had come from such a tiny person. Logan erupted with giggles.

  ‘What on earth have you been feeding him?’ she looked at Laura aghast.

  ‘Just breast milk, I swear! What can I tell you? Flatulence runs in the Baxter family, I’m afraid. Gabe may seem perfect from a distance, but I can assure you he has his faults – and plenty of them. You’ve never seen him in Speedos.’

  ‘Oh God, really? No. He doesn’t, does he?’ Logan gasped.

  ‘Not any more. But he did before I married him,’ said Laura. ‘Then there were the snowflake socks.’

  ‘Stop!’ pleaded Logan.

  ‘The goatee that made him look like Noel Edmonds.’

  ‘Oh, now, come on. I don’t believe that.’

  ‘I have photographic evidence!’ Laura squealed. ‘Hold Felix and I’ll get it for you.’

  Logan demurred. ‘There’s no need. The truth is, it’s sweet of you to say all that, but I’m not in love with Gabe any more.’

  It was such an endearingly honest comment that Laura wasn’t sure what to say. She eventually opted for ‘Oh.’

  ‘I probably never was. It was just a crush gone a bit, you know … mad.’ Logan pushed her hair out of her eyes. She’d cut it shorter since Laura last saw her, but it suited her face, and her new, more mature manner. Then again, a crew-cut would have suited Logan Cranley. She really was disastrously pretty. ‘I’m in love with an amazing boy now. Tom,’ she gushed. ‘Tommy. You’ll meet him one day. If Gabe’s OK with it.’

  ‘I’ll meet him whether Gabe’s OK with it or not,’ said Laura robustly. ‘Free advice for you, angel. Never let a man tell you who you can and can’t hang out with. Not that Gabe would dare.’

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t!’ giggled Logan. Laura Baxter really was the nicest woman she knew. She somehow combined all Tatiana’s fun side with all her mother’s kindness.

  ‘Felix is so lucky. Having you for a mum,’ she blurted out suddenly.

  Laura was so touched she felt tears prick her eyes. ‘Logan. Thank you. What a lovely thing to say. And you mustn’t worry about Gabriel. He’ll come around eventually, I promise.’

  Back at her office at Hamilton Hall, Tatiana reached into her desk drawer and scrabbled around for a headache pill. She usually kept Nurofen in constant supply, as well as Alka-Seltzer for those mornings-after-the-nights-before, and (slightly embarrassingly) Rescue Remedy bottles for everything from stress to fatigue. Obviously they didn’t work. But there’d been a fad for them in her A level year at school years ago, and Tati had got into the habit of using the little glass bottles; rather in the same way as she still read her horoscope at the back of Vogue every month.

  Today, irritatingly, she was out of everything. And boy, could she use a pill right now.

  Unlike Jason and Logan, Tatiana was having a horrendous morning. Hamilton Hall’s headmaster, the brilliant and eminently sensible Drew O’Donnell, had called her to the school to fire two teachers. As chair of governors, and CEO of the parent company, hiring and firing were still officially Tatiana’s job. The problem was that both today’s fire-ees were lovely people: genuine, vocational teachers with decades of experience in their respective subjects of Chemistry and Maths.

  ‘Look, I don’t like it any more than you do,’ Drew O’Donnell told her. ‘But Miss Watkins’ class all did poorly in their mocks last week – we’ve had several complaints from parents. And David Brinton can’t focus on anything since his wife died. His head’s a mess.’

  ‘Can’t we give him compassionate leave or something?’ Tati protested. ‘It seems awful to sack someone for grieving.’

  ‘We offered.’ Drew threw up his hands. ‘The old boy won’t take it. He’s stubborn as a mule. I feel terrible for him, I do, but it’s not fair to leave our Year Sixes with substandard teaching. Besides which, our policy’s clear. Poor performance is cause for dismissal.’

  Tatiana knew. She wrote the policy, a document abhorred by the teachers’ unions who viewed it as the educational equivalent of M
ein Kampf. Hamilton Hall staff were paid twice the salaries of their unionized peers at other schools. But their jobs came at a price.

  Tati buzzed her secretary. ‘How long do I have till Janice Watkins’ appointment?’

  ‘About ten minutes, Mrs Cranley.’

  Tati used the time to check her schedule for the rest of the day, then wished she hadn’t. Fuck. She’d totally forgotten, but she’d agreed months ago to go to tea with her elderly godmother this afternoon.

  Beatrice Radley-Cave – Bee, or Queen Bee, as she had always been known to Tatiana – was ninety years old, sharp as a tack and lived in a mansion flat in Westminster that had been frozen in time at some point in the early 1950s. This was probably also the last decade in which it had been properly cleaned. Despite her somewhat shoddy surroundings, Queen Bee herself remained as regal as ever. She was not a woman one disappointed – or rescheduled – lightly.

  Tati adored her godmother, and in other circumstances would have looked forward to a visit. But things were so preposterously hectic at work, between the firings and the ongoing boardroom battles over a New York school, she had neither the time nor the energy for Bee today.

  Not that work was going badly, per se. Tati’s last trip to New York had been wholly positive, from a business point of view. Not only had she found a great potential site for Hamilton Hall NYC, but she’d met with two potential new investors who might be willing to step in and provide funding, should Tati’s chairman and CFO really stick to their guns and try to block her. She ought to have returned to London in high spirits. But for some reason her unexpected run-in with Brett Cranley the evening she arrived had both heightened her stress levels and depressed her.

  How had Brett known about the infighting amongst the Hamilton Hall board? There was no way he’d have heard anything through Jason. Relations between father and son were as bad as they’d ever been, nonexistent at this point, in fact. Was it just coincidence that Brett had been staying at Tati’s hotel? Somehow Tati doubted it. She didn’t trust him an inch.