‘I couldn’t live in Manhattan,’ Angela told him. ‘All those skyscrapers. I feel claustrophobic just thinking about it.’
The old Brett would have pooh-poohed her objections and pressed ahead regardless. But the new, more sensitive version had proposed a place in the Hamptons as a compromise solution.
Their current visit was part-vacation, part-house-hunting mission. If Brett’s aim had been to sell Angela on East Hampton, she had to admit it was working. After the longest, greyest, most miserable spring and early summer in England that anyone could remember, it felt wonderful to wake up to blue skies and sunshine. And the town itself, with its pristine white sand beaches and idyllically understated shingle architecture, appealed to Angela immediately. They were staying with the Claridges. Dean Claridge, a business associate of Brett’s, had made hundreds of millions in Russian oil, and his wife Lavinia ‘Vinnie’ Claridge lived in their sprawling East Hampton beach house full time while her husband spent the weeks in town.
‘I just adore it here,’ Vinnie told Angela, over a game of tennis on one of the Maidstone Club’s many courts. ‘The summer’s a zoo, but other than that it’s so peaceful. And the club’s like a second home. The waiting list’s over a thousand names long. This is the club out here. But Dean and I can easily get you and Brett in, if you like it.’
Angela did like it, slightly to her own embarrassment. She disapproved of the snobbery of private members’ clubs. But she had to admit to herself that this was a very pleasant way to live.
A shadow falling across her body made her open her eyes.
‘Lunch time.’
Brett stooped down to kiss her. Still in a business suit, he looked handsome and relaxed. He must just have returned from his meeting in Manhattan this morning. Judging by the broad grin on his face, it had gone well.
‘Dean and Vinnie got us a great table inside. Why don’t you change and meet us in there? I’ll order you a drink.’
At lunch, talk was of nothing but real estate.
‘I’m telling you, it’s gonna be the Eighties all over again,’ Brett said to Dean Claridge, over a steak so sinfully juicy it would have tempted Linda McCartney. ‘More than twenty-five per cent of Cranley Estates’ growth in the last year has been down to the boom in the New York market. Mark my words, the Hamptons are gonna skyrocket too.’
‘Haven’t they already?’ asked Vinnie, between sips of her ice-cold Chablis.
‘As high as prices are now, this is just the beginning,’ said Brett. ‘You watch.’
‘Have you seen any places you like?’ Dean Claridge asked Angela. A stocky, bulldog of a man with a thick neck and a pronounced under-bite that gave him the pugnacious air of a bulldog, Dean was in fact a kind and generous man, uniquely among Brett’s work friends.
‘I like all of them,’ said Angela truthfully. ‘I’m just not sure it’s worth buying another big house.’
‘Why not? Big houses are better than small ones,’ said Brett with a grin.
‘Yes, but it’s so extravagant,’ said Angela. ‘Logan’s about to leave home and Jason’s long gone. We don’t need all that space. Especially for a place I’m going to visit a couple of times a year.’
Brett reached across the table and covered her hand with his. ‘Maybe we’ll start spending more time here. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
Angela smiled nervously. Brett had dropped a lot of hints in the last few days about them spending more time in the US. In the back of her mind, she wondered whether he might be growing tired of Fittlescombe and their sleepy country life in Sussex. The Hamptons were lovely for a holiday, but the last thing Angela wanted was to be uprooted from her home. She couldn’t help but feel that Furlings was the glue that had held her and Brett together, through all the tough times and betrayals of the past seven years. Without it, things might slip back to the way they were before.
After lunch, Dean headed back to his home office to work and Vinnie and Angela joined some girlfriends for a game of doubles. Brett had another house to see at four, which made it hardly worth going home. He decided to catch up on some emails at the bar. Settling in to a quiet corner table, he ordered a grappa, the perfect postscript to a perfect meal, and opened his iPad.
So far, the trip was going exactly to plan. Angela was clearly taken by the Hamptons. Vinnie and Dean had been the perfect hosts. Thanks to them, Brett could see that Ange was starting to feel at home here. He must be careful not to push too hard and scare her off.
He’d decided that he wanted to move to New York back in the spring. He and Angela needed a fresh start: while Angela viewed Furlings as some sort of talisman of good luck for their marriage, for Brett it was the opposite. That house was a daily reminder of Tatiana, the one person above all others that he needed to forget. Cutting her out of their lives, physically, was all very well. But what good did it do him if she was still in his head and his heart, haunting him like some toxic shadow?
Christmas was a turning point. Having foolishly left his home unguarded, Tatiana had wasted no time moving in like a snake, coiling herself around each member of his family, warming herself by his fire in his drawing room while he, Brett, stood out in the dark and cold, looking in. Of course, it wasn’t his family Tati wanted. They were just collateral damage. It was Furlings. That was the bait, the bricks-and-mortar bond that tied her and Brett together, eternally. He’d have sold the house tomorrow if he didn’t know for a fact that Tatiana would call any new owner the moment a sale went through and offer them limitless amounts of money to buy it back. After the cynical manner in which she’d run off and married his son, Brett would rather cut off his own hand than see Tati get that house back. He’d already changed his will so that Furlings and the remainder of his estate was left entirely to Logan and her future children. If Tatiana thought that having a baby with Jason would change anything, she had another think coming.
He’d decided to let Furlings out, decamp to New York, and be rid of Tatiana and the past for good. All he had to do now was convince Angela.
‘Your grappa, sir.’
A waiter set down the miniature tumbler of clear, viscose liquid in front of Brett. Lifting it to his lips, Brett suddenly froze.
No. It’s not possible.
It was almost exactly a year since he’d last seen Tati. On that occasion he’d also been in New York State, and in a bar. The encounter was seared on his memory like a cattle brand. And now here she was again, looking relaxed and happy in a white, twenties-style sundress with a dropped waist, arm in arm with an extremely attractive man.
Instinctively Brett sank back into the shadows. He did not want Tati to see him.
‘Do you know that man?’ he asked the waiter, sotto voce, nodding towards Tati’s companion.
‘Yes, sir. Of course. That’s Leon di Clemente.’
Brett knew the name. Leon DC was a famous angel investor on the East Coast. He’d made a lot of money from a couple of apps, specifically one that let people pay off their tabs in a crowded bar from their phone, without having to wait for service. Leon’s father, Andrea di Clemente, had made a small fortune in mining in the Congo and his son had turned it into a large one, inheriting at the tender age of twenty-one. All of which begged the question: what the fuck was Leon DC doing here, with his arm around Tatiana Cranley?
Tatiana was having a wonderful week. Not only had she persuaded the seller of the Seventh Avenue site to lower his price by a further ten per cent, but her meeting with Leon di Clemente yesterday had gone better than she’d dared hope. A mutual friend from London had set her up with Leon, and Tati’s plan had been to approach him about joining the board of Hamilton Hall NYC. But the two of them had hit it off instantly, agreeing about everything from the unique opportunity currently presented by Manhattan commercial real estate, to the limitless possibilities for growth in the private education sector. Within forty minutes, Leon had been reaching for his chequebook and promising to underwrite the New York school in its entirety if necessary, shoul
d Tatiana’s London board continue to stymie her proposal. After all the stress and confrontation of the last few weeks, Tati felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders.
She and Leon got on well personally, too. It was a long time since Tati had felt a sexual connection to anybody, but Leon’s attentions, combined with the adrenaline rush she always felt pulling off a great deal, had set her libido on fire. A few years older than Tati, with curly, jet-black hair, dark brown eyes and the swarthy complexion of a pirate, Leon was a handsome man. But his sex appeal lay more in his confidence. There was nothing passive or subtle about his flirting.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ he told Tati, apropos of nothing, halfway through their meeting in his palatial Park Avenue office. ‘Have dinner with me.’
‘I’m married,’ said Tati, unable entirely to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
‘So? I’ll pick you up at your hotel at eight.’
He took her to L’Artusi, a trendy restaurant in the West Village that wasn’t remotely discreet, and held her hand as they walked to the table, apparently not in the slightest concerned about who might see them together. Nothing happened. But after a few sour apple martinis, Tati felt a warm rush of happiness whenever Leon touched her back or paid her a compliment. Like a coma patient opening her eyes after years of nothingness, every sensation was heightened and wonderful. It was an effort to return to her hotel room alone.
Leon, however, seemed unfazed and happy to play the long game.
‘I’m heading out to the Hamptons this weekend. You should come. If we’re going to be business partners, we need to get to know each other better. And there are people there it would be useful for you to meet.’
Tati hadn’t needed to be asked twice. After sending a brief, pithy fax to her board – she couldn’t resist addressing it to Lady Arabella’s attention – outlining the new sale price on the proposed school site and her decision to go ahead with the deal with or without them, she splurged on a new sundress and bikini at Barneys, got her hair highlighted at Garren and was sitting in Leon’s helicopter sipping champagne by four that afternoon.
Steering her through the bar at the Maidstone Club, Leon commandeered a table by the pool and ordered oysters on the half-shell and Bloody Marys for both of them. Tati enjoyed the feeling of not being in control for once, of having the man make the decisions.
‘So,’ Leon said bluntly. ‘What’s the deal with you and your husband?’
‘The deal?’ Tati laughed. ‘It’s called marriage, Leon. It’s where you stand up in a church and promise to be faithful and stay together forever.’
‘Ah, yes. Because you love each other so much.’
Each word dripped with cynicism.
Tatiana said nothing.
‘How long have you been together?’
‘Six years.’
‘No kids?’
‘No.’
Leon sipped his drink slowly. ‘Why not?’
‘What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?’ said Tati, crossly. ‘Can we change the subject?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Leon grinned. ‘I like this subject.’
He wasn’t a tall man. Nor was he stocky, like Brett. If anything he was rather slight, which was usually a huge turn-off for Tati. But Leon’s black eyes glinted when he spoke, with the sort of playful arrogance she’d always found irresistible. She noticed his hands on the tablecloth, slender and impeccably manicured, and found herself imagining what they would feel like caressing her naked body.
‘Do you love your husband?’
‘I do. Yes,’ she said truthfully.
‘Have you ever been unfaithful to him?’
‘No.’
‘I’m afraid that’s the incorrect answer.’ Picking up an oyster, Leon lifted it slowly to Tati’s lips. ‘The correct answer is “not yet”.’
Their eyes locked. Tati swallowed the slimy, salty creature. She felt both aroused and afraid. Suddenly, irrationally, she wished Jason were there. Or that she was at home, in Eaton Gate, in the safety of her marriage bed.
I’m afraid of myself.
She stood up, aware of her legs quivering beneath her. ‘Excuse me. I have to go to the bathroom.’
Leon sat back in his chair triumphantly, his perfectly chiselled face radiating the confidence of the victor.
‘Take your time,’ he drawled. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Brett Cranley watched as Tatiana hurried back through the bar and into the Ladies’. The body language between her and Leon di Clemente had been unequivocal.
Little slut.
But this time Brett wasn’t about to let his anger get the better of him. He must think, and strategize, before he made his next move. Dropping a fifty-dollar note on the table, he slipped out to the tennis courts and found Angela.
‘Time to go,’ he said forcefully.
‘What? I can’t leave now, darling,’ she protested. ‘We’ve still got another set left to play.’
‘The vendors called and moved up our viewing,’ said Brett. ‘They got an offer this morning apparently, so it’s now or never. I really need you to see this house, Ange. It’s perfect.’
‘But … I …’ Angela hesitated.
‘Go,’ said Vinnie. ‘It’s fine. One of the other girls will step in. It’s only a game of doubles.’
‘See?’ said Brett. ‘It’s fine. Now let’s get out of here.’
Very late that night, Tati called Jason.
‘I’ve decided to come home early,’ she told him. She forced herself to sound upbeat but the hand that held her phone was shaking. ‘I’ll be on the first flight to London tomorrow.’
‘Really?’ Jason sounded surprised. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Everything’s fine!’ Tati chirped.
‘But I thought you said things were going really well over there.’
‘They were. They are,’ said Tati. ‘I just … I miss you.’
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. Then Jason said cautiously, ‘OK. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.’
He was about to hang up. Tati didn’t know why, but she suddenly felt panic welling up inside her. She wanted to go back. Back to yesterday. Or farther back. Back to when she and Jason had been happy together. But did that time even exist? She didn’t want to think about it, to lift the cover off her marriage and examine the yawning, terrifying fissures beneath. She wanted to put her fingers in her ears and hum. She wanted everything to be OK, everything to stay as it was.
But that could never happen. Not now.
‘I love you,’ she blurted out, close to tears.
‘I love you too,’ said Jason. Tati pictured his words as pieces of driftwood, floating out on an ocean of sadness. ‘Goodnight, Tatiana.’
The soft click of the receiver sounded like the cocking of a gun.
Leon di Clemente was deep asleep when his mobile phone rang.
‘Mmmm?’ he said groggily, knocking books off his bedside table. His clock informed him it was 2.50 a.m. But when he realized who the caller was, it was as if a glass of cold water had been thrown in his face. He sat bolt upright, wide awake.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘The question, Mr di Clemente, is what I can do for you. I’d like to meet.’
‘Of course. Yes,’ Leon stammered.
‘Good. Is tomorrow afternoon convenient?’
Twenty seconds later, Leon slumped back against his pillow, physically and mentally exhausted. Had that conversation really just happened?
Then again, after the day he’d had today, perhaps nothing should surprise him?
He slipped back into a deep and dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Max Bingley’s wedding to Stella Goye was Fittlescombe’s most talked-about event of the summer. With the village fete and the annual Swell Valley cricket match both now over and done with (both had been drearier affairs than usual thanks to some dismal spring and summer weather), the wedding
became the focal point of the entire village. In early August the skies had finally cleared, and a belated summer descended over the South Downs. Temperatures for the Saturday of the wedding were expected to soar into the high eighties, lifting local spirits still further and prompting a run on Pimm’s, the like of which the village off-licence hadn’t seen in a decade.
Rumour had it that the wedding would also be the first time since Jason and Tatiana’s elopement that the entire Cranley family, both generations, would be gathered under the same roof.
‘Poor old Reverend Slaughter only just got St Hilda’s roof fixed,’ Gabe Baxter joked to Seb Harwich, filling his vintage MG up with petrol at Vick’s garage in the village. The MG had been an extravagant birthday present from Laura, whose happy hormones seemed to have gone mad with breastfeeding Felix. ‘Shame to see the top blown off it so soon.’
‘You think there’ll be fireworks then?’ Seb asked, checking the oil on his decrepit Datsun. Seb was back in Fittlescombe briefly, in between trekking in the Andes and going on what he reverently described as a ‘cricket pilgrimage’ to India, Australia and the West Indies in September. His so-called year off was beginning to look more like a decade, but he was such a nice lad, it was hard to hold his lack of industry against him. And at least he was finally over Logan Cranley. Gabe had caught a brief glimpse of Seb’s latest squeeze in The Fox last weekend, a stunning blonde with the sort of legs guaranteed to cure any twenty-three year old of heartbreak within minutes. ‘I don’t think even the Cranleys would air their dirty laundry on Old Man Bingley’s special day.’
‘It’s not the Cranleys,’ said Gabe. ‘It’s Tatiana and Brett. They won’t be able to help themselves. They’re like two cats in a bag.’
‘I thought you liked Brett?’
‘I do,’ said Gabe. ‘But I also know him. He hates Tati Flint-Hamilton’s guts.’
‘I disagree.’ Santiago de la Cruz, Seb’s stepfather, came out of the garage shop looking thunderous with a copy of the Daily Mail under his arm. Yet another scandalous piece about Seb’s sister Emma has been printed in the gossip section, upsetting poor Penny dreadfully. ‘I reckon Mr Cranley’s protesting too much. He fancies her.’
The Inheritance Page 36
