It didn’t sound good. It sounded awful and clinical and like they were already divorced. Angela didn’t want to ‘regroup’. She wanted her life back. But she hadn’t protested at the time, and all of a sudden it was done, agreed, decided. That was the way things had been since the separation. Cold and businesslike and with Brett firmly in the driving seat. At least that was how it appeared to Angela.
The irony was that she had been the one who’d asked for time apart. She’d thought they both needed space, a cooling-off period after the drama of her fall. But the cooling-off period had quickly become too cold for comfort. Brett, as always, had had his work to distract him. But with Logan still living up in London with her brother, and Furlings empty, Angela had had nothing but time on her hands. She felt as if her life were in constant limbo, with no end in sight, no certainty, no plan. Were she and Brett headed for divorce, or reconciliation? Did they want divorce, or reconciliation? Angela didn’t know. If Brett knew, he certainly wasn’t sharing those feelings with her.
A week after the Mustique phone call, the prospect of a lonely Christmas at Furlings with just her and Logan around the tree suddenly sank in with bleak and terrible force. So Angela did the obvious thing and called Jason, inviting him and Tatiana to join them. They accepted at once, and the next day Logan announced that Tom, her first serious boyfriend, would also be coming down. ‘If that’s all right, Mum?’
For forty-eight hours, Angela was happy again and looking forward to a family Christmas. But when Brett heard the news he hit the roof and they’d ended up having an almighty row. Whatever entente cordiale had been reached between the two of them unravelled like a ball of yarn flung carelessly over the edge of a cliff. Once again, tension reigned.
Sod it, Angela thought, tossing gold, red and green ornaments into her trolley willy-nilly until it was overflowing with Christmas tat. I’m going to enjoy the time with my children, whether Brett likes it or not. He was the one who decided to bugger off and leave us to it. Logan was already here, floating around the house in a fog of love with her new ‘man’. And Jason and Tatiana arrived the day after tomorrow. Michaela was always telling her to ‘live in the present’. Angela decided she was going to do just that.
A few hours later, back at the house, she was putting up the Christmas tree with Tom.
‘How’s that? Better?’
Perched precariously on top of a ladder, Logan’s boyfriend was attempting to secure the top of the enormous Norwegian pine to the upper balustrade with a length of garden twine.
‘Yes, I think so. That looks straight to me,’ said Angela. ‘Come down and take a look.’
Logan had driven off to Tesco in Chichester to buy more milk and bread and family-sized tins of Quality Street chocolate – ‘basic supplies’, as she put it – leaving her mother and boyfriend to put up the tree alone. Angela was glad of the chance to get to know Tom, whom she’d already decided she liked immensely. He was short and stocky and not particularly handsome, but there was a boyish charm about him that she immediately warmed to, and he had the best, loudest, most infectious laugh she’d heard in years. More importantly, it was clear that he worshipped the ground Logan walked on, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. Angela had been very fond of Seb Harwich, and sad when Logan’s fling with him had petered out in the wake of Fire-gate. But Tom was definitely a better fit for her.
‘So what are your family up to this Christmas?’ Angela asked, hoping she didn’t sound too nosey or demanding as she handed Tom a packet of red blown-glass baubles with reindeers on them. ‘Won’t they miss having you around?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Tom cheerfully. ‘Pa’s just got married for the fourth time and is on honeymoon in Indonesia, I believe. And Mum’s in Scotland with husband number two and my three vile stepsisters.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Angela. ‘Why are they vile?’
‘Well, they’re Scottish,’ said Tom. Sensing this might not be explanation enough he added, ‘They’re spoiled, too. And not wild keen on Mum. Probably because she broke up their parents’ marriage.’
‘I see,’ murmured Angela.
‘Also,’ said Tom, through a mouthful of green plastic hooks, ‘they’re called Kendra, Kyla and Kate. Can you imagine?’
‘Really?’ Angela giggled.
‘Really. Like the bloody Kardashians. I can’t be dealing with that. Can you pass me the snowflakes?’
Angela did as she was asked. She learned that Tom had a total of six half-siblings and five step-siblings; that his parents had divorced when he was three; and that he’d been away at boarding school since he was six years old, only recently moving to London to live with his godfather while he attended MPW.
‘I’ve never really lived at home or had that stable-family thing,’ he told her. ‘Not like Logan. I think the situation’s much harder for her.’
‘In what way?’ asked Angela. She was desperate to know what Logan had said to Tom. Like Brett, Logan did a good job of concealing her true feelings. Since she’d moved in with Jason and Tati, Angela felt as if she’d lost her completely.
‘She misses her dad,’ Tom said simply. ‘I think she assumed he’d be home for Christmas. She was really cut up when she heard he wasn’t coming.’
She’s not the only one, thought Angela.
‘She thinks it’s her fault.’
‘Why on earth would she think that?’ said Angela, shocked.
‘Because of the fire. Because she left home and moved in with Jason and Tatiana. I don’t think she planned on that being a permanent thing. She thought some distance might calm her dad down, that’s all. And maybe, you know, her not being in the house might give you and him more romantic time. Or something.’ Tom blushed, fearing he might have overstepped the mark. ‘But now she thinks her leaving is what made everything worse. I told her it doesn’t work like that.’
‘What doesn’t work like that?’ Logan appeared in the hallway, weighed down with Tesco bags.
‘Nothing,’ said Tom, scrambling down the ladder and relieving her of the shopping. ‘Do you like our tree?’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ Logan beamed, successfully distracted.
He’s so gentlemanly, thought Angela, watching her daughter gaze lovingly into Tom’s eyes. So sweet. I do so hope they stay together.
The things Tom had told her worried her deeply. She knew that the thought of Logan blaming herself for her and Brett’s current estrangement would upset Brett as much as it upset her. That gave them some common ground, at least. After Christmas she and Brett absolutely must sit down together and sort things out. For all their sakes.
‘Oh God, which ones do you think I should bring?’
Jason watched, perplexed, as Tatiana ran a frazzled hand through her long, tangled hair. She was naked in their bedroom in Eaton Gate, surveying the bed, which she’d littered with just about every dress she owned. Shoes of all shapes, colours and sizes were strewn across the floor. It was mayhem.
‘It’s Christmas at home, not the Oscars,’ Jason said gently, handing her a dressing gown. He had never quite got used to Tati’s total lack of inhibition about her body, perhaps because he had never felt comfortable in his own skin.
‘You don’t understand.’ She bit her bottom lip and looked close to tears.
Jason put an arm around her and pulled her down onto the bed beside him. It wasn’t often he saw her so vulnerable.
‘Explain to me, then. Do you not want to go to Furlings for Christmas?’
‘No, no. I do.’ Tati shook her head.
‘Because we can stay in a hotel if the house is too much for you. If it brings back too many memories,’ Jason said kindly.
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s not the house. It does bring back memories, of course. But they’re good ones. Most of them, anyway.’
‘Well what then? You know Mum loves you. She couldn’t care less what dress you wear or what presents we bring.’
This was also true. It was hard for Tati to explain t
o Jason how she was feeling, hard to admit it fully even to herself. They might be spending Christmas with Jason’s family, or what was left of it. But it was Tati’s home they were going to. Furlings, but also Fittlescombe: the village, the church; her old colleagues from the school; people she’d grown up with and who had known her in all her various incarnations – from a sweet little girl to an obnoxious wild-child to a lowly village schoolmistress to her current role of über-businesswoman. Tati knew that her marriage to Jason was still considered a scandal by many in the village. Plenty of locals still felt that she’d corrupted the naïve young heir to her family’s old estate. That she’d used Jason shamelessly for his money and hijacked the Cranley name in an act of revenge, to spite his father. The fact that there was at least a grain of truth to these accusations only made Tati more paranoid about them. Rory Flint-Hamilton might be dead but, on some unspoken level, Tatiana still yearned for his approval. Going back to the Swell Valley for Christmas made that yearning more acute.
Mrs Worsley would be there, of course, another face Tatiana hadn’t seen since her marriage. Would the old woman have softened towards her former charge? Tati didn’t know, but prayed so. In her current state, she wasn’t sure she could cope with Mrs Worsley’s hostility. The very idea of seeing Furlings’ housekeeper again filled her with a torrent of mixed emotions she could barely contain.
‘I’ve told Mum we’re looking at houses down there,’ said Jason, once it was clear Tati wasn’t able to articulate her fears. ‘She’s so excited about it. I thought maybe, after Christmas, she could come with us on a couple of viewings?’
‘Sure,’ said Tati, collecting herself. ‘Of course.’
She was grateful to Angela for defying Brett and inviting them back to Furlings, and for backing off about the baby. Mercifully, that subject had been dropped, for now at least. The least Tatiana could do in return was to show willing and include Angela in their house-hunting trips.
‘I love you, you know,’ said Jason, pushing back a stray strand of hair from around Tati’s face. They’d actually made love last night, for the first time in many months. Or at least they’d tried to. Tatiana was so tense she’d found it hard to get into the mood, and perhaps as a result Jason had lost his erection halfway through. But a first step had been made. Tati had reassured herself this morning that it was the intimacy that counted, not the quality of the performance. This was marital sex after all, not high-diving at the Olympics, with a panel of judges holding up scorecards.
‘I love you too,’ she said, truthfully. ‘But please, pick me out a dress for church on Christmas day.’
‘Fine,’ Jason laughed. ‘The green DVF wrap dress. You can’t go wrong with that.’
‘Really?’ Tati looked as if the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders.
‘Really.’ Not for the first time, Jason Cranley marvelled at the mess of contradictions that made up the woman he’d married. Part superwoman, part little-girl-lost, after nearly six years Tatiana still had the capacity to surprise him. Watching her put her dresses away, it struck him that he was actually looking forward to Christmas this year. Something had changed, something good. He found himself praying that it would last.
‘Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr Cranley? Anything at all?’
Brett’s new Serbian secretary smoothed down her skintight pencil skirt and flashed her boss a look that needed no translation. She was exceptionally pretty in a feline, high-cheekboned, Slavic way. Brett could not have been less interested.
‘No. Thank you.’
The girl left the room with a disappointed pout. Brett picked up the plane tickets and itinerary she’d left on his desk.
Mustique. He didn’t even like the place. More posers in a few measly square miles than you could find anywhere else on earth. He’d been on the point of cancelling, of swallowing his stupid pride, calling Angela and telling her enough was enough, he was coming home for Christmas and he wanted everything to go back to normal. But then she’d dropped the bombshell about inviting Jason and Tatiana and he’d dug himself a hole so deep he had no idea how to get out of it.
His own wife, inviting that little witch to Furlings, after everything she’d done to try to hurt them and destroy their family! Wasn’t it enough that Tatiana had brainwashed and married Jason? That she’d now enticed Logan to live under her roof as well? That she made no secret of her desire to get Furlings back eventually, by fair means or foul?
If Angela really loved him, she would never have done it. It was an insult, designed to wound him. And it had wounded him. Deeply. All Brett had ever wanted, deep down, was a family. A place where he could be safe, where he could feel like a true insider for once in his life. He’d worked like a dog to create that, and to provide for his family. And now here he was on the outside, looking in. It was hard not to feel bitter.
Brett re-read his itinerary gloomily. He left London in three days. What the hell was he going to do until then? He’d have liked to work, but the real-estate market was dead as a doornail now and would be until after the New Year. Everybody else, apparently, had families to go home to or Christmas parties to attend. Not that Brett was short of invitations. What he lacked was desire or enthusiasm or even physical energy. Ever since he heard the news about Tati, he’d felt desperately tired. He felt like a champion boxer, hotly tipped to win, suddenly collapsing against the ropes in the tenth round through sheer fatigue.
Tatiana Flint-Hamilton was beating him, against all the odds.
She was wearing him down.
There was only one thing Brett Cranley wanted for Christmas. And neither his Serbian secretary, nor anyone else, could give it to him.
Logan Cranley ran up Furlings’ drive with flushed cheeks, as delighted as a child on its birthday. It had snowed last night: not just a pale, half-hearted dusting, like icing sugar on a waffle, but a fully fledged dump of thick, heavy snow, like the frosting on a wedding cake. She and Tom had rushed out onto the lawn as soon as they’d woken up and made snowmen. Logan had given Tom’s an enormous erection, which they’d both thought screamingly funny, especially when it kept falling off. Tom had been more successful moulding a pair of tits onto Logan’s effort, complete with holly-berry nipples. Snow brought out the kid in everyone. It was impossible not to feel happy and Christmassy and excited on a day like today, and Logan was indulging her inner child with shameless delight.
The village also looked utterly magical, like a ravishing Christmas bride. Its snowy rooftops, punctured only by smoking chimneys and St Hilda’s stone spire, topped cottages cheerfully decked out with wreaths and berries and brightly twinkling strings of lights. Children sledged on the Downs, their shrieks mingling with the beautiful sound of the church bells pealing. And on the snowy green, an enormous Christmas tree hung with baubles of every size and colour sparkled enticingly, a cheerful reminder of the celebrations and feasting to come.
Logan had forgotten how much she loved it here. Or rather, how much she used to love it, before the fire at Wraggsbottom Farm and the humiliation that followed. But this Christmas, for the first time, she felt better. Laura Baxter’s kindness, inviting her down to meet Felix and forgiving her for everything, had been a huge step forward, relieving Logan of part of her guilt. Then, yesterday, she’d run into Gabe in the village stores. He was buying tinsel and, after a moment’s hesitation, had smiled broadly when he saw her and given her a hug.
‘Hello you,’ he grinned. ‘How’s London?’
‘Erm, nice.’ Logan blushed, but it was out of awkwardness rather than desire. In dirty jeans and a thick fisherman’s sweater, Gabe looked as craggily handsome as ever. But he no longer had the mesmeric hold on her that had consumed her through her early teens. ‘It’s lovely to be back, though. Fittlescombe’s so perfect at Christmas.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Gabe agreed. ‘I hear you brought a boyfriend down.’
My goodness, thought Logan. She’d forgotten quite how fast gossip travelled in this village.
‘You should bring him over to the farm some time. See what we’ve done with the place. Everything’s been rebuilt since the fire, courtesy of your pa.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Logan blushed again.
‘Don’t be,’ said Gabe. ‘All’s well that ends well. You should see the stables now. They’re so state of the art, they look like something out of Buck Rogers.’
‘Who’s Buck Rogers?’ asked Logan.
‘Never mind,’ Gabe laughed. ‘I’m old. Good to see you anyway, kiddo. Merry Christmas.’
Logan had stood and watched him dart out into the cold with the last of Mrs Preedy’s tinsel under his arm and felt a profound sense of relief. Gabe didn’t hold a grudge. And she didn’t fancy him. Well, not much anyway. It was the best Christmas present she could have wished for.
Or perhaps it was the second best. What she really wanted, deep down, was to have her father back. Not that she necessarily wanted to move back home permanently – she loved her life in London, loved MPW, and most of all loved Tom. But she wished she could wave a magic wand and heal the rift between herself and Brett, along with her parents’ foundering marriage. That she could come down to Furlings at weekends and holidays and that everything would be back to normal. Everyone was glossing over it, but Logan wasn’t stupid. Brett not coming home for Christmas was a big deal, the biggest. It had to be the beginning of the end.
Finally reaching the house, she burst in through the kitchen door, red faced and panting.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ said Angela. Wearing a reindeer apron, and with her hands and arms elbow-deep in flour, so thick that she looked as if she were wearing white gloves, Angela was rolling out the pastry for another batch of mince pies. Yesterday’s attempt had been, as Tom rather tactlessly put it, ‘a bit cement-y’. Not that this had prevented him from eating an entire bowlful.
‘Gossip!’ Logan breathed heavily. ‘You’ll never guess.’
‘Gringo’s got the vicar’s bitch pregnant and he’s suing your dad for damages,’ suggested Tom, who up till that point had been deep in last week’s Sunday Times Sudoku at the kitchen table.
The Inheritance Page 33
