The Inheritance

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Her eyelids began to flicker. She looked at him, peaceful for a moment, then winced with pain.

  ‘I think she needs something,’ said Brett.

  A nurse brought water and some painkillers. Tati swallowed them, then slumped weakly back onto the bed.

  ‘I lost the baby.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears.

  ‘It would never have survived, sweetheart,’ Brett said gently. ‘If they hadn’t operated, you’d have died.’

  Tati nodded. Her face crumpled.

  ‘Please don’t cry,’ said Brett.

  ‘I want my baby back.’

  ‘I know.’

  Tati’s voice was slurred and sleepy. Brett looked anxiously at the nurse.

  ‘It’s the drugs,’ she whispered. ‘They’re pretty powerful. She’ll be up and down for a few hours yet. In and out of consciousness. Tearful.’

  Tati murmured something that Brett couldn’t hear. He bent closer, turning his ear towards her lips.

  ‘What was that, angel?’

  ‘I want … my house … back.’

  She sighed heavily and sank back into a deep sleep. Brett stood over her, watching, as the nurses moved in and out of the room, going about their business. Under his breath he whispered.

  ‘I know you do, Tatiana. And I want you. But neither of us can have what we want.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Max Bingley watched the raindrops racing one another down his kitchen window, pushing the tension and anxiety out of his mind. He was alone at Willow Cottage this Saturday morning. Stella had gone to stay with her sister in Suffolk, ostensibly a painting trip, but they both knew it was more than that. She needed some time away from him, away from Fittlescombe and the school and the cottage and their life together. Or, as she would put it, his life.

  ‘I feel like a guest here,’ Stella told Max the day before she left. ‘Like a visitor in my own marriage.’ It hadn’t been said in anger. One of the things Max loved most about Stella was her calm, even temperament. Theirs was a relationship that had begun quietly and without drama. If it ended, he hoped and believed it would end the same way. Not much of a silver lining, perhaps. But where there had been no great, passionate love, at least there could be no agonizing, passionate parting. Wagner’s The Valkyrie was on Radio 3, its sweeping, triumphant refrain filling the tiny cottage with sound. Perhaps, if I’d never been married to Susie, Stella and I could have worked. But having tasted real love, no imitation would do. Max and Susie had both adored their opera. Rosie had been conceived to Wagner, if Max remembered correctly. Stella had tried to take an interest for his sake, but it was obvious opera didn’t move her. When he’d taken her to Covent Garden to hear the sublime John Tomlinson as Hagen, Max had turned to Stella at the end of the Götterdämmerung, tears of emotion streaming down his face, only to find her fast asleep and snoring beside him.

  He couldn’t blame her for not being Susie. Stella was a wonderful, talented woman in her own right. Max respected her as much as anyone he’d ever met. The problem was he wasn’t in love with her, nor she with him. Not really. They’d married to save themselves from loneliness, and because Max’s daughters had so wanted them to. But the irony was they both felt lonelier now than they had before. Something had to change.

  The knock on Max’s kitchen door was so faint at first that he didn’t hear it over the radio. It soon grew louder, however, an insistent banging that demanded an answer. Biting back his irritation – as headmaster of a village primary school, one was always on duty – Max turned down the Wagner and opened the door.

  ‘Angela!’

  His irritated frown vanished instantly.

  ‘Come in, come in! You look like a drowned rat.’

  This wasn’t true, of course, and Max instantly regretted the turn of phrase. Mrs Cranley looked as beautiful as ever, her skin sparkling wet beneath a mask of raindrops and her blonde hair sticking to her cheeks and neck like a mermaid’s tresses. She was wearing a scruffy old pair of corduroy gardening trousers and an army green macintosh coat that seemed to have done little to protect her from the elements on this foul, rainy morning. But even in her bedraggled state she was radiant, her smile lighting up the room and Max’s heart in the same, glorious instant.

  ‘Thanks.’ She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. ‘Sorry to drip all over your floor. I wanted some advice.’

  ‘Of course, any time. And don’t mind my floor, it could do with a wash.’ Taking her wet coat he dashed into the downstairs loo for a towel. ‘Here. You can dry yourself off with this.’

  Angela took it gratefully, rubbing her wet hair beside the Aga.

  ‘I thought you’d be packing,’ said Max, filling an ancient cast-iron kettle and putting it on the hot ring of the Aga to boil. ‘The whole village is agog about the new tenants taking over Furlings. Rumour has it you’ve let it to some pop star. Please tell me that’s wide of the mark.’

  ‘Actually, that’s what I came to talk to you about,’ said Angela. She pulled a letter out of her trouser pocket, carefully wrapped in a clear plastic sandwich bag to protect it from the rain. ‘This came this morning. I’d like your opinion.’

  Max took the letter and read it, slowly.

  ‘But, that’s wonderful!’ he said to Angela. ‘You’ve been accepted onto a Masters course in art history. The department at Sussex University is one of the best in the country. Congratulations!’

  ‘Thank you.’ Angela smiled shyly. ‘It’s rather a long commute from New York, though.’

  ‘Ah.’ Max put the letter down on the table. ‘Yes.’ He thought for a moment. Then, trying his best to sound upbeat, he said, ‘Perhaps you can transfer to a US college? A lot of the universities have reciprocal arrangements these days. The main thing is that you’re doing something for yourself. Something unconnected to Brett or the children. You deserve that, Angela.’

  The kettle started to boil, a loud hissing sound that made them both jump. Max made tea and cut the last of Stella’s home-made fruitcake into slices. He cleared a space at the table amidst the paintbrushes and newspaper supplements and they both sat down.

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ Angela blurted. ‘I … I think I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘Then don’t go,’ said Max.

  Every time he looked at her, she noticed how piercing his eyes were, how intense. In every other way he looked his age. His face was lined, his hair grey and his back slightly stooped, the way that older men’s so often were. In all these ways, he reminded Angela of her own father. But his eyes still danced with the light of youth and energy and intelligence. It was his eyes that made him attractive. That and the kind smile that, over the past decade, she had truly come to love. Max Bingley’s smile was as much a part of Fittlescombe to her as the church or the green or the annual Swell Valley cricket match. Max Bingley’s smile was home.

  ‘It’s not just America. It’s everything. Me and Brett …’ She tailed off. Max found himself waiting with baited breath for her to finish the sentence. When she said no more, he prompted her gently.

  ‘You’ve changed your mind?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. It’s not that I want to end my marriage. It’s that it has ended. I’m just watching from the sidelines. That probably sounds stupid.’

  ‘No,’ Max assured her. ‘As it happens, I know exactly what you mean. Have you spoken to Brett?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s away in America. Finalizing things at the new house. He gets back tomorrow.’ She looked at Max bleakly. ‘What am I going to tell him?’

  ‘The truth?’ Max suggested, gently.

  ‘It’s not that easy,’ said Angela.

  ‘The important things in life rarely are,’ said Max.

  ‘Yes but purely on a practical level. Half our life is already on a boat! We have tenants supposed to arrive in a week. We signed a contract.’ Angela grimaced.

  ‘None of that matters,’ said Max. ‘Not if you’re really not happy. It can all be undone.’

  Can it?
thought Angela. Could she really just accept this place at Sussex University? Start a new life, here in the village, on her own? At her age?

  ‘You never know,’ said Max. ‘Brett may already be thinking the same thing you are. If you’ve watched your marriage crumble, isn’t it at least possible that he has too? Perhaps you’ve both been too scared to say anything. It isn’t easy to rock the boat, but sometimes it’s the right thing. Sometimes it’s worth it.’

  Angela took a bite of cake and finished off her tea. She felt so safe here with Max Bingley, so comfortable and happy. But this was Stella’s home, Stella’s life, not hers. She remembered something that Penny de la Cruz had once said to her.

  I mustn’t rely on Max. If I do this, I have to do it alone. Start as I mean to go on.

  ‘I’d better get back.’ Reluctantly she stood up and took her mug over to the sink.

  ‘All right.’ Max sounded equally regretful. He’d have loved her to stay, but couldn’t think of a reason to keep her there.

  ‘Do you really think I can do it?’ Angela asked at the door, shrugging on her still-wet raincoat. ‘The Masters, I mean?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Max. ‘Standing on your head. And the professors at Sussex obviously agree. Your problem is you don’t have enough confidence. You can do whatever you want to do, Angela.’

  ‘You see, that’s why you’re a teacher,’ she joked, kissing him on the cheek goodbye.

  Max watched as she disappeared down his garden path and into the lane. He stood at the doorway, watching the rain fall, long after she’d passed out of sight.

  In the background, the muted strains of the Wagner drifted back to him. But they no longer lifted his spirits. Angela Cranley had gone.

  Brett Cranley tied the belt on his silk Turnbull & Asser dressing gown and looked at his face in the bathroom mirror. Deep grooves fanned out from each of his eyes, like cracks in a dry river bed. The grey in his hair had spread from his temples all the way back to the nape of his neck, and deep shadows had inked themselves permanently beneath his eyes like two violet tattoos.

  I look old.

  I am old.

  At Tatiana’s request, he’d said nothing to Jason or anyone about her losing her baby. She wanted some time to grieve, alone, and she wanted to tell people herself. But the emotional trauma of his week in New York still weighed heavily on Brett. Part of him longed to share the burden with Angela. But somehow he found he couldn’t talk to Ange about Tatiana. Nothing had happened between them, nor would it. Whatever feelings Brett harboured for Tatiana, she’d made it clear over many long years that they were not reciprocated. Even so, her very existence on this earth cast a shadow over Brett’s marriage. As if his love for his wife were a plant that hadn’t quite died, but could no longer grow or thrive. There was no more light for it to reach towards. However much Brett watered or tended it – fresh starts, beautiful homes, more time together – it remained stunted, a sad remnant of what it might have been.

  Brett had got back to Furlings this afternoon. Angela had made him tea and he’d dutifully sat down and drunk it, laying out pictures of the Hamptons house on the kitchen table and talking to her about plans. An agent from Savills was coming in the morning to run through the inventory at Furlings before the big move-out. Life, their life, was marching on.

  Brett splashed cold water on his face. I have to get a grip.

  Angela was already in bed. Sitting propped up against two large pillows, her blonde hair brushed out and her reading glasses on, it struck Brett that she looked tired too. She was wearing an ancient Laura Ashley nightdress with pink rosebuds on it and reading a book about art history, but she put it aside when he came in.

  ‘I think we need to talk.’

  Brett perched on the edge of the bed. ‘All right.’

  Angela took a deep breath. ‘I want a divorce.’

  Brett stood up again, shocked. ‘Are you serious? Why?’

  Reaching for his hand, Angela pulled him back down onto the bed. She didn’t look angry. And when she spoke, her voice was calm.

  ‘Because I want to stay here and live here. And you don’t.’

  Brett said dismissively. ‘Come on, Ange. We’ve been through this a hundred times.’

  ‘I know. And I know I said I’d move to New York. But the fact is, I’ve changed my mind.’

  Brett exhaled slowly, turning her fingers over in his hand. ‘Fine,’ he said at last. ‘Then we’ll stay. Together.’

  Angela shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t work.’

  ‘Of course it would work,’ said Brett. ‘It’s worked for thirty-odd years, hasn’t it?’

  Angela raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  ‘This is crazy, Angela. Where we live is just geography. You don’t divorce over geography.’

  ‘No,’ said Angela quietly. ‘You don’t.’

  ‘Well what then?’ He could hear the desperation in his own voice. Every word he said sounded like please don’t leave me. ‘I’m not cheating on you. I swear. Since we got back together there hasn’t been anyone.’

  ‘Brett.’ Reaching up, Angela gently touched a finger to his lips, shushing him the way a mother might a child. ‘We don’t have so many years left that we can afford to waste them. I want to live a quiet, uneventful country life. And you’re in love with someone else.’

  ‘What? I … that’s not true,’ said Brett on autopilot.

  ‘Yes it is. I think you loved Tatiana even before she married Jason. But ever since then you’ve been obsessed, and you know it.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Brett insisted.

  ‘You launched a takeover for Hamilton Hall without telling me.’

  ‘Because I knew you’d be upset. Take it the wrong way,’ said Brett. ‘And you have. That was business.’

  ‘Darling.’ Angela looked at him reproachfully. ‘Come on. And what about Jason? Was that business too? Tatiana told you about him being gay, but you said nothing to me.’

  ‘I didn’t believe her.’

  ‘Even if that’s true, she still came to your office to see you. Why did you keep that a secret?’

  ‘Because I didn’t know what to say!’ Brett blurted.

  ‘Because you didn’t want me to know you’d seen Tatiana. That you’d spent the last three months trying to buy out her company because you can’t help yourself. You can’t stay away.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘You can’t even mention her name to me, Brett! I don’t know why you’re denying it.’

  Brett pulled away and began pacing the bedroom, running his hands through his hair. ‘Look,’ he said eventually. ‘Nothing’s happened between me and Tati.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Angela truthfully.

  ‘Then why are you doing this? Why are you leaving me?’

  Peeling back the bedclothes, Angela got up and walked over to him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him on the cheek then leaned her head against his chest.

  ‘We won’t be happy in America if we aren’t happy here,’ she said. ‘I’ll always be here if you need me, Brett. We’ll always be friends. Dear friends. But friends tell each other the truth. It’s over. It’s been over for years.’

  Brett opened his mouth to protest, but realized he had nothing to say. Instead he wrapped his arms around her and held on tight. He wished he could freeze the moment. Stand there for ever and never let go. But he knew he couldn’t.

  It was too late.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Tatiana watched the thick flakes of snow falling outside the café window and sipped her hot chocolate contentedly. According to the BBC weather-forecasters, this was set to be the coldest December in London in fifty years. A white Christmas was now so likely that bookies had stopped taking bets on it.

  For Tati, the snow was a fitting end to a tumultuous year. The blanket of white on the streets felt like a metaphorical clean sheet: a crisp, white piece of paper on which a new chapter of her life would be written. The pain of her mis
carriage still walked with her. But after three months, she no longer felt the raw desolation that she had in New York. Back then, at the hospital, Brett Cranley had seen her at her lowest ebb. Mourning her baby, her marriage, her business and her birthright all at the same time had brought her to the brink, with the collapse of her relationship with Leon di Clemente the icing on a rotten cake.

  But a lot could change in twelve weeks, and a lot had. The nation had belatedly caught up with the Cranley family’s travails – the simultaneous divorces of Tati and Jason and Brett and Angela had prompted a flurry of salacious rumour and gossip in the tabloids, while business analysts still argued over Brett’s intentions for the newly acquired Hamilton Hall. Despite his threats to Tatiana in New York, Brett had yet to start selling off assets, and both the London schools were still operating – so privately Tatiana felt the worst was behind her. With the Eaton Gate house to herself, the country house on the market and a comfortable cushion of cash from the Hamilton House deal nestled in her bank account, she’d begun to feel her ambition returning, and with it her appetite – for food, life and business, if not for romance. Fate had decided she wasn’t going to be a mother, or a wife. But she was too young to sit around doing nothing. Brett Cranley was right. She was free. It was time to start making the most of her freedom. Brett had also been the one who’d suggested that she start a new school. Tati could hear his voice in her head now. ‘Why not? You’re good at it.’

  She was good at it. Just imagine what she could do without the millstone of a hostile board around her neck? This time around she’d be more careful. She’d make sure she kept control, total control. She’d find a silent partner, maybe someone in Asia or the Middle East … the possibilities were endless, and exciting.

  Unfortunately, not everyone had emerged from the latest round of Cranley family drama unscathed, or with such a positive attitude.

  Tati watched as the café door opened and Maddie Wilkes walked in. Scanning the room, waving cheerlessly when she saw Tati, Maddie came over to the table looking haggard and ill. Even in her thick coat and scarf she looked thin. When she took them off and sat down she looked positively emaciated. Her twig-like arms and gnarled, veiny hands dangled uselessly at her side, and the skin stretched over her cheekbones was so paper-thin it was almost see-through.