The Inheritance

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘Tatiana? No way,’ said Gabe. Once cricketing rivals, Santiago and Gabe had become good friends over the years.

  ‘Well, we’ll see at the wedding I suppose, won’t we?’ said Seb. Pulling the paper out of his stepfather’s hand, his eyes widened at the piece on his sister. Emma’s antics didn’t upset him the way they did his mother, but this latest sex scandal was more salacious than most. Apparently she’d been caught on video trying to sell sex to a Middle Eastern sheikh for some insane amount of money.

  ‘I’m not sure we’ll be going to the wedding,’ Santiago told Gabe.

  ‘Why not? You must have been invited.’

  ‘We were, and we accepted. But Penny can’t face it. Not now.’ Retrieving the newspaper from Seb, Santiago passed it to Gabe.

  ‘Shit,’ said Gabe, skim-reading the article.

  ‘Yeah,’ Santiago muttered darkly. ‘Shit. I tell you, compared to my wife’s darling daughter, Tatiana looks positively saintly.’

  ‘I’m not sure anyone could make Tati look saintly,’ said Gabe. But his mind was already wandering back to Santiago’s earlier comment, about Brett Cranley lusting after her. If that were true, if Brett was secretly falling for his own son’s wife, it would really set the cat amongst the pigeons.

  Max Bingley’s wedding was looking set to be one big fireworks display.

  Gabe Baxter could hardly wait.

  St Hilda’s Church, lovely as it was, was tiny, only seating eighty at a pinch. Happily, the garden at Willow Cottage was big enough for an enormous marquee. Well over two hundred friends and well-wishers were there to welcome the bride and groom back from the wedding, and to begin the serious business of celebrating.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Laura Baxter, who’d left Felix with a babysitter for the evening, wandered entranced through the white, candle-lit tables. Stella had gone for a ‘summer’s orchard’ theme, with tall glass vases holding blossom-laden branches, and smaller, simple jam jars stuffed with cottage garden flowers: sweet peas and roses and softly overblown peonies in various shades of dusky pink, white and purple. ‘It’s like A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’

  Willow Cottage’s lawn sloped down to the river, and the end of the marquee was open so that the bottom tables nestled right on the banks, by the water’s edge. The central beam holding the tent aloft had been decorated as a maypole, painted in bright candy stripes and with silk ribbons tied around it. Max’s granddaughters, Celia and Martha, danced around it in their bridesmaid’s dresses, along with some of the village children, like a scene from a Kate Greenaway book, while their parents got stuck in to the Pimm’s and fresh mint cocktails on offer.

  ‘Half the price of champagne and ten times as delicious!’ proclaimed the bride, helping herself and handing one to Max as she kicked off her church shoes and let down her hair. ‘Are you happy, darling?’

  ‘Of course.’ Max kissed her, a trifle stiffly. All the bare feet and fairies weren’t really his thing, but he was glad Stella was happy.

  He was happy too. Happy and relieved. The run-up to the wedding had been stressful. What had started out as a low-key, intimate affair had somehow ballooned in the planning into a major social event, with pretty much the entire village invited. Quite apart from the expense, the scale of the thing made Max feel faintly embarrassed. They weren’t young, after all. Truth be told, he’d only proposed in the first place because his daughters had confided in him that Stella really wanted to get married. Max had been quite happy muddling along as they were. The last thing he wanted was a big hullaballoo.

  ‘You should take it as a compliment,’ Stella told him. ‘It shows how much the village has taken you to its heart, the fact that everyone wants to share your happiness.’

  Privately Max thought it showed how much Fittlescombe villagers appreciated a free bar. But now that the ceremony was over and the party was under way, he determined to enjoy it.

  Brett Cranley was enjoying it too, until he saw the seating plan. In the two weeks since he and Angela had got back from New York, he’d been working flat out. He’d been looking forward to the Bingley wedding as a chance to relax and unwind a little, until he learned that Jason and Tatiana had also been invited and had accepted, damn them both.

  Angela had calmed him down, assuring him that it was a huge reception and he’d be able to avoid Tati easily enough if he wanted to. But someone, presumably the meddlesome Max Bingley, had other ideas.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Brett hissed in Angela’s ear. ‘Have you seen this? Some maniac’s put us all on the same bloody table.’

  Angela looked at the hand-drawn plan in dismay. All the tables were named after Shakespeare plays. There, on Hamlet, were she and Brett, Logan and Tom and Jason and Tatiana, along with Dylan Pritchard Jones and his wife Maisie. If this were Max’s idea of diplomacy, a well-meant attempt at family bridge-building perhaps, it was as subtle as a sledgehammer.

  Still, there was a chance that fireworks might yet be averted. Jason and Tatiana had been invited to both the service and the reception, but had been no-shows at the church. Angela had tried Jason’s mobile twice since, but it went straight to message.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Angela chided Brett. ‘They’re probably not coming anyway. Something’s obviously happened or they’d have been at the church.’

  ‘You were saying?’ Brett scowled.

  Angela followed his gaze to the marquee entrance. There was Jason, standing hand in hand with a green-looking Tati. Angela felt her stomach lurch with a combination of love – Jase looked so handsome in his morning coat – and nerves. Today was Max and Stella’s day. It mustn’t be allowed to become about the Cranleys and their internecine warfare.

  ‘Don’t make a scene, Brett. Please. You promised.’

  ‘I’m not going to make a scene.’

  Brett squeezed her hand. The last thing he wanted was to upset Angela now. Last week the purchase had gone through on their house in the Hamptons, a stunning nine-bedroom beachfront estate with gardens to rival Furlings’. Brett had anticipated a long, protracted battle to get Angela to even entertain the idea of moving to the States, but to his astonishment she’d already agreed to consider a trial period of a year. They could rent Furlings out and ‘see how things go.’ It was more than Brett had dared hope for. Now was not the time to rock the boat.

  He pulled a Cuban cigar out of his jacket pocket.

  ‘If you want me I’ll be outside by the river, having a smoke.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Angela, visibly relieved. ‘I know this is hard for you, darling, but it’s only for one night. I know it would mean a lot to Logan too if we can keep things civil.’

  Brett nodded. ‘Just see if you can shuffle the name cards around while I’m gone, so I’m not right next to them. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Angela. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ Jason asked Tati. ‘A glass of water?’

  She shook her head miserably. ‘Go and talk to your family. I’ll find a quiet corner and die somewhere. I’m not fit to be seen anyway.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You look lovely,’ Jason lied loyally.

  ‘I look horrendous,’ said Tati.

  It was true. The nausea had come out of nowhere. From the moment she woke up this morning she’d felt like death, not just sick but puffy and bloated, her skin sallow and sweaty. The dark green, brushed silk dress that had looked so cute and eighties retro in the changing room in New York, now made her look like a tree-frog that had somehow ingested its own poison. Her hair stuck limply to her head beneath a wilting green-feathered fascinator, and her swollen feet felt like pigs’ trotters squeezed into black patent Manolo pumps.

  Of course she had to get stomach flu on the one day she was certain to run into Brett, not to mention all her old friends and colleagues. She’d felt judged enough at Christmas, but the pitying looks she was receiving now were almost worse than the envious glares she’d got then. Look at Tatiana Cranley, she
imagined them all thinking. Talk about losing her looks!

  Having missed the entire wedding ceremony doubled over on the verge of the A3 puking her guts out, Tati had insisted on soldiering on to the reception, despite Jason’s objections. If she didn’t show up, Brett would think she was running scared, and she couldn’t have that. Now though, dizzy and seasick and wilting in the afternoon sun, she was already starting to regret her decision.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t get you something?’ Jason sounded worried. ‘Max is bound to have some Alka-Seltzer in a bathroom cupboard somewhere.’

  His concern only made Tati feel worse. Ever since she’d got back from New York, Jason had been kindness personified, cooking her meals and listening for hours while she poured out her frustrations about her board, who still hadn’t signed off on the Manhattan site and were using any excuse to stall the deal. In return, Tati had tried to be affectionate, and had even attempted to kick-start things sexually between them, with disastrous results. Their lovemaking was so awkward and forced it was mortifying, like a scene from a bad Carry On film. At least Tati’s sudden mystery illness would buy her a few days off sex, she thought guiltily. I must try harder.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she told Jason. ‘I might go and lie down for a bit, see if I can rally for dinner.’

  Dinner was a living hell.

  Tati forced herself to sit down and eat, but by now she had spots in front of her eyes and felt borderline delirious. Brett and Angela, thankfully, were on the opposite side of the table, far enough away to make conversation impossible. The downside was that this left Tati between Tom, Logan’s adorable but by now completely drunk boyfriend, and Dylan Pritchard Jones, her old enemy from St Hilda’s.

  ‘Hullo, Tatiana.’ Dylan smiled smugly. ‘It must be ages since we last saw each other. Do you know, if I hadn’t read your place card, I don’t know if I’d have recognized you.’

  Clearly this was code for ‘you look like shit.’

  Arsehole.

  Tati decided to take the high road.

  ‘Hullo Dylan. How are things going at St Jude’s?’

  ‘My lord, you are out of date!’ Dylan laughed, a loud, braying, donkey-like sound. I’m sure he didn’t used to laugh like that, thought Tati. Wasn’t he quite attractive when I first met him? ‘I left Jude’s years ago. Got the headship at Lancing. I’m having the time of my life.’

  With his sun-bed tan, mouthful of white veneers and once naturally chestnut curls now dyed blonde to cover the grey, Dylan looked more like a television presenter than a headmaster these days. He reminded Tati of a Ken doll: vain, obnoxious and above all fake. If it hadn’t been for the gallon and a half of Gucci aftershave he must have sloshed over himself this morning, Tati was sure she could have smelled the insincerity on his skin.

  ‘You should drop by some time. It’s a gorgeous campus.’ Under the table, Dylan slipped a hand onto Tati’s bare thigh and squeezed, while flashing his teeth. ‘I’d be happy to show you around, for old times’ sake.’

  Oh my God! She shuddered. Is he serious? He actually thinks I might be interested?

  ‘How kind,’ she said brusquely, removing his hand and inching her chair as far towards Tom’s as it would go. ‘Unfortunately I’m rather busy with Hamilton Hall right now. Both the London schools are oversubscribed. In fact, business is booming so much that we’re opening our first American school next year,’ she couldn’t resist adding.

  ‘So I hear,’ said Dylan, refilling his wine glass.

  Tati frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  No one knew about their planned New York expansion. She hadn’t even officially cleared it with her own board yet, although now that Leon DC had effectively underwritten the new school, their approval was a formality.

  ‘Did Jason say something to you about New York?’

  ‘Jason? No, no. It was your beloved father-in-law.’ He nodded across the table to where Brett was deep in conversation with Seb Harwich’s extremely young, extremely beautiful blonde girlfriend. ‘I gather he saw you there last month. Funny how your paths seem to keep on crossing, isn’t it? Now that Brett and Angela are moving Stateside, I expect you’ll be running into each other all the time. Like one big, happy family,’ he added snidely.

  Tati put her head in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut, willing the nausea to dissipate. She felt so ghastly it was hard to concentrate, but what Dylan was saying was important. He must be wrong.

  ‘Brett and Angela aren’t moving,’ she said slowly. ‘They’d never leave Furlings.’

  Dylan shrugged. ‘Au contraire. They’re upping sticks. It’s the talk of the village. Well, that and Emma Harwich dropping her knickers again, although quite how that’s still considered news, I couldn’t tell you. Ask Brett yourself if you don’t believe me.’

  Tati stared at him mutely. He had to be mistaken. Or perhaps he was saying it just to get a reaction out of her? Dylan had always been a shit-stirrer.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it, me knowing so much more about your family’s business than you do?’ he smirked.

  ‘Hilarious,’ said Tati.

  As soon as dinner was over, Tati dragged Jason off to one side.

  ‘Dylan Pritchard Jones told me your parents are moving to America. Is that true?’

  ‘Apparently so,’ said Jason.

  Tati exploded. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?’

  A number of guests turned around to stare at them. Dizzy with the effort of shouting, Tati slumped down onto the nearest chair.

  ‘For God’s sake, calm down,’ said Jason, pulling up a chair next to her. ‘I didn’t know myself till tonight. Mum told me at dinner.’

  ‘Don’t you understand what this means?’ said Tati, running her hands through her hair.

  ‘I don’t think it means anything,’ said Jason. ‘Other than Mum and Dad wanting a fresh start.’

  ‘Of course it does,’ snapped Tati. ‘It means they’ll sell Furlings. Which means we can buy it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Jason gently. ‘Dad wouldn’t sell to you – to us – if we were the last buyers on earth.’

  ‘Of course not. But he’ll sell to someone else. Then we can swoop in and make them an offer they can’t refuse.’

  Jason sighed. He wished, for her own sake, that Tati would let go of her fantasies about Furlings.

  ‘According to Mum they’re not selling at all,’ he told her. ‘Dad’s renting it out. They want to keep their options open. I think Mum would like to come back, eventually.’

  While Tati sat in brooding silence taking this in, Logan, looking ravishing in a gold brocade dress and with her long dark hair swept up in Cleopatra-esque coils, came over and accosted Jason. Since she and Brett had buried the hatchet, she had been back living at Furlings over the summer holidays. Both Jason and Tati missed her presence at Eaton Gate and had been looking forward to seeing her today at the wedding.

  ‘Can Tommy and I cadge a lift back to London with you tonight?’ Logan asked. ‘A friend from college has two extra tickets to the Venom concert tomorrow at the O2.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jason. ‘We’ll probably be leaving soon, though. Tati’s not feeling too chipper.’

  ‘She looks all right to me,’ said Logan, pointing to the far corner of the marquee. Tatiana was talking to Brett. Judging by her body language, she was letting him have it. ‘Perhaps she’s rallied?’

  ‘Oh, God,’ sighed Jason.

  ‘You don’t even want the house.’ Tati was shouting, waving her arms around like an air traffic controller trying to bring a plane in to land whilst in the throes of an epileptic fit. ‘Why can’t you just admit it?’

  ‘Look,’ said Brett. ‘I’m not selling Furlings and that’s that.’

  ‘Yes, and why not? Out of spite, that’s why. Because you know Jason and I do want it.’

  ‘Leave Jason out of this,’ said Brett. ‘This is between you and me.’

  ‘Fine. So sell the house back to me. You can name your price.’


  ‘It’s not for sale.’ His eyes were glittering but Tati couldn’t quite get a handle on whether it was with amusement or something else. ‘And it never will be. Why can’t you just accept the fact that your father didn’t want you to have that house? He cut you out of the will, and left it to me, and there is nothing you can do to change that. Nothing.’

  The truth was that Furlings was the one thing, the only thing, he controlled when it came to his relationship with Tatiana. He couldn’t have her. He couldn’t stop wanting her either. But he could hold on to something he knew she wanted, and would always want. Furlings was the unbreakable chain that bound the two of them together. The only ace in Brett’s hand. That made it priceless. Because as much as Brett yearned for escape from the misery of his feelings for Tati, the thought of actually breaking that chain and letting her go filled him with terror.

  Of course, Tati couldn’t see Brett’s fear. She was too blinded by her own, by her deep need to get Furlings back and right the wrongs of the past.

  ‘He cut me off because I was a mess back then.’ She pleaded with Brett’s rational side. ‘He wouldn’t have made the same decision if he could see me now. I rarely drink and never touch drugs. I have Hamilton Hall. I’m rich and successful. I’m happily married.’

  Brett let out a snort of derision at this last claim. ‘You’re delusional.’

  ‘And you’re a fucking arsehole,’ Tati shouted, loudly enough for a number of nearby wedding guests to shoot her disapproving looks.

  Brett leaned in closer. His voice in her ear was like the hissing of a snake. ‘I saw you at the Maidstone Club last month. With lover boy.’

  The hair on Tati’s forearms stood on end and the greenish colour drained from her face.

  ‘You can tell me that was a business meeting till you’re blue in the face,’ Brett went on. ‘But I know what kind of business you’ve been doing. So you can spare me the “happily married”, saintly wife act. I know who you are.’

  Tati looked him in the eye defiantly. ‘You have no idea who I am. You don’t even know who you are.’