Just My Luck

by Andrea Bramhall

  Second up was a large chain firm of solicitors. I didn’t like the conveyor belt system that seemed to be in operation there, so I didn’t even really meet with the case worker—not solicitor— who would be assigned to “meeting my needs.” Next up was a woman by the name of Francis Coppertone, of Coppertone and Black Solicitors. I have no problem being eyed up. I quite enjoy it in the right circumstances, actually. It’s a bloody good ego boost. So I didn’t have a problem with this particular introduction to Francis “you can call me Fran” Coppertone. However, I do think it’s unprofessional to “accidentally” feel up potential clients when “helping” them to sit down in a chair. I may call her later, but not in a professional capacity.

  Then I met the inimitable, the one and only, could never be another, thank God, Ricky “everyone calls me Tricky” Skullery. And I thought my dad was cruel. I think I may actually have just lost the worst name in the world title. Tricky Ricky Skullery was larger than life and had a balding pate covered—and I use this term loosely—with a slicked-down comb-over and slipping false teeth that I just could not look away from. Every word he spoke, I was waiting, ready to dive for cover at a moment’s notice. Oh, and did I mention that he actually put his arm around my shoulders when he shook my hand. You know those man hugs, grab the right hand, pull them in, and wrap the left around. Three swift, sharp slaps on the back and release. I’m not exactly butch. I have long hair, it’s damn near at my waist, in fact. Breasts—trust me, you can’t miss them. Hips that I wish you could, but, again, you can’t miss them, and I’m wearing a skirt today. Tricky Ricky Skullery did not instil in me confidence in his skills. So I headed for Roger Frasiers.

  I like his offices. Low-key but classy. There are nice little touches, like real flowers, not those awful silk ones. The coffee the receptionist brings me is in a china cup, not a mug, and she sets out sugar in a bowl and milk in a little jug. There’s music on very low in the background and it takes me ages to place it. “Pavane” by Gabriel Fauré. Gorgeous piece of music. Atmospheric. Haunting. Stunning. I like Roger Frasiers already.

  When he steps out of his office with a client by his side, he walks them to the door, where he shakes his hand and inclines his head a little. He’s a tall man, with a medium build and heavy eyebrows over dark, piercing eyes. A thick moustache and dark hair are sprinkled liberally with silver. His suit is immaculate, even late in the day, and his shoes shine like a new coin. I’ve already noticed a long, dark Macintosh hanging on the coat tree by the door, a matching trilby on the branch above, and an umbrella tucked against the corner.

  “Miss Collins?”

  “Yes.” I stand up and hold my hand out for him to shake. No sweaty palms, no antibacterial gel, no man hug. Excellent.

  “I am Roger Frasiers. Would you like to come into my office?” He indicates the way with a broad sweep of his arm. Once I’m sitting, he moves to the other side of the desk. “Can I get you something else to drink?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  “Very well. How can I help you, Miss Collins?”

  “I am looking to instruct a solicitor to help me with a rather complex plan to bequeath large sums of money on a very large party of people, on the condition that they agree to a nondisclosure agreement. I wish to make the announcement to all members of the party at once. But none of them must know about this before they agree not to talk about the situation. Particularly with members of the press.” Can you tell I’ve rehearsed this speech a few dozen times?

  “How very intriguing. How can I be of service in this matter?”

  “I need someone to draw up the nondisclosure contracts and deliver them all, in person, on a set day.”

  “And how many contracts are we talking about?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  “That is a considerable undertaking for one day.”

  “Several of them are members of the same families, so three or more will be taken care of in a single visit, and others are in close proximity to each other.”

  “How close?”

  “A few doors away.”

  “I’m still inclined to think that one person would be unable to visit all of the required people in one day. I may require calling upon my secretary to facilitate some of the visits. Would this cause issue?”

  “No, I can probably advise which would be better tackled by you and which would be okay handled by someone else.”

  “Should I be concerned, Miss Collins?” He has one eyebrow quirked up, but I can see he is amused and definitely intrigued.

  “No, they’re harmless, but they behave better when they’re off-balance.”

  “Off-balance?”

  “Perhaps in shock, would be a better description. I’m hoping that you will provide that, at least until they have signed the contracts.”

  “I see. Signing a contract does not negate them actually talking to the press.”

  “I know. That’s also where you come in. I want you to convince them in no uncertain terms that if they do break the contract, they will have to return the entire sum they are to be given, plus interest.”

  “And what is the sum they are to receive?”

  “One million pounds each.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “One million pounds each.”

  “I’m sorry. You did say one million pounds each?”

  “Yes, in most cases. For my mother and brother and a few others, I want to increase the amounts.”

  “May I ask where this money is coming from?”

  “I won the lottery.”

  “Congratulations.” He takes a big gulp of water, then puts his glass back down. Really, really slowly. “I guess we have work to do, then, Miss Collins. If you are happy to start, we can get a good deal of the preliminary work completed now.”

  “Yes. What do you need to know?”

  “I need the names and addresses of all beneficiaries. The sums they are to receive and any specific terms.”

  “Such as?”

  “Are any of the beneficiaries minors?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wish to set the funds for them in trust? To add the funds to their parents?”

  “Of course. Sorry. I want to set the majority of it in trust for when they turn twenty-one, with a small amount given to them now at their parents’ discretion. With one exception.”

  “And that is?”

  “My cousin Rosie has Down Syndrome. What’s the best way to handle the fund for her? Is it best to set it up so that her mother is in control of the fund?”

  “That would be the normal way these things are handled. The parents make the decisions to the benefit of the child.”

  “That’s fine, then. I want it stipulated in her trust, though, that should anything happen to her mother, control of the trust does not pass to her father. Her maternal grandmother would be a good choice. If she’s already passed away, then probably I should do it.”

  “Might I enquire as to the reasons against the father?”

  “I don’t trust him to put Rosie above his own concerns. He’s never paid child support for her or been much of a father at all.”

  “Very well, then. Shall we get started?”

  “Absolutely.” I smile at him. “Just one last thing.”

  “Yes?” he asks.

  “When you visit them, would you be averse to wearing a camera?”

  His head cocks to one side and a small smile twitched his lips. “Whatever my client requires, Miss Collins.”

  CHAPTER 7

  GENNA

  Technology really is amazing. There’s a website called spy123.co.uk, where you can buy these teeny-tiny cameras and watch all the action from your phone. Mr Frasiers is wearing one of those lovely little cameras for me. It looks like a tie pin, and with it, I can’t talk to him directly, but I can see and hear everything he does. Like, right now I can see everything going wonky when he goes over the speed bumps around the council houses on the Wythenshawe estate. Correction, grotty council ho
uses as far as the eye can see. Which is only as far as the next high rise block of flats. Wonderful. Row upon row of identical little boxes in a rabbit warren estate filled beyond capacity with generation after generation of people living hand-to-mouth on social welfare and, in some cases, illegal activities too.

  I’ll bet any money Mr Frasiers is wondering how the bloody hell he ended up a part of this.

  “Greg?” he says to the driver. His voice is a little thinner through my phone speakers.

  “Yes, Mr Frasiers?”

  “How long until we reach the first address?”

  “About two minutes.”

  “Wonderful.”

  The house is the same as all the others on the street. Yet another row of grotty, grey, pebble-dashed walls on houses sitting so close together they’re practically on top of each other. Net curtains, yellowed from cigarette smoke, twitching at the slightest noise. Paint peeling off the front door, and wheelie bins waiting at the curb, some standing up but most knocked over and spilling their guts into the street. Welcome to Chavsville!

  The door opens before Mr Frasiers gets the chance to knock. A short, rotund woman stares at us both—him in person and me through the tiny camera lens—with squinting eyes and rollers in her hair. This is great. I feel like I’m actually there with him. I’ll be able to see the look on each of their faces when he tells them the good news.

  “What do you want?”

  “Are you Mrs Rachel Collins?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “My name is Roger Frasiers. May I come in, Mrs Collins? It will be of benefit to you if you let me explain.”

  “No. I don’t let strangers into my house.”

  “All that’s missing is the bloody rolling pin, Gran. Then you’ll look just like Nora Batty.” I chuckle. I wish Abi was here to watch with me. It’s great, but it would be so much more fun to share it with someone else.

  “Very well, Mrs Collins.” Mr Frasiers carries on with his task. “I am a solicitor. I have been instructed to come here today to invite you to a very important meeting. Before I can give you any more details, though, I must get you to agree to and sign a nondisclosure contract.”

  “A what?”

  “It is an agreement that says you agree not to tell anybody about this arrangement.”

  “What arrangement?”

  “The one I will tell you about if you agree not to talk about it.”

  “All right I won’t tell anyone. Now what arrangement?”

  “Would you sign the papers?” He holds out the page and a pen, she carries on looking at him through her squinty little eyes. “May I come in to explain?”

  “All right. But don’t touch nothing.”

  I laugh again and wish I could see the look on Mr Frasiers’s face. He’s probably mortified, I’m sure. But he follows her into the poorly lit room and sits where she directs him to.

  “So what’s this all about?” Gran asks him.

  “You are to receive a monetary gift from a source I cannot disclose at this time.”

  “How much?”

  “That’s it, Gran. Straight to the nitty gritty.” I lean closer to the screen and rest my elbows on my knees.

  “I cannot disclose the amount at this time either.” Mr Frasiers sticks with the script we discussed.

  “Well, what can you tell me?”

  “Ah, Gran, I warned him about you.” I wag my finger at the screen. “You’re smarter than you like to let on.”

  “I can tell you that the document you have signed allows you to go to the meeting to find the answer to all your questions,” Mr Frasiers says. “You will find out the who, whys, and how much then. Until then, you cannot tell anyone. Not your children. Grandchildren. Brothers or sisters or friends. Absolutely no one.”

  “And when is this meeting?”

  “This evening.”

  “Who else will be at this meeting?”

  “Very sneaky, Gran,” I say, “but he’s not gonna tell you.”

  “At this point I cannot tell you, because I don’t know. You are the first person I have visited,” he says.

  “See, I told you,” I mutter.

  “Well, lucky me.” Gran’s voice drips with sarcasm. I can’t help laughing.

  “If you would get yourself ready, a car will wait outside for you and take you to the meeting place at noon,” he says, as the picture goes wonky. Then he looks down on Gran and his extended hand.

  “I thought you said it was this evening,” Gran says.

  “It is. But there are many people to organise, hopefully.” He’s still holding out his hand, but I think, overall, it went really, really well. I always knew Gran was going to be the hardest to convince. If she goes along with my plan, everyone else will fall in line.

  “Will you be there?”

  “Yes.”

  Gran stands up and shakes his hand. “See you later, then.”

  Did she just wink at him? Ew.

  * * *

  “Mr Kevin Collins?” Mr Frasiers asks.

  “Sorry, mate, you just missed ’im.”

  “I don’t think so.” Mr Frasiers holds up the photograph that I’ve given him. It shows my Uncle Kev in all his gap-toothed, stringy haired, unshaven, and unkempt glory. “May I speak with you, please?”

  “I ain’t got no money. I don’t do charity. And I ain’t no rent boy—”

  I groan and lean back in my chair. “Trust you, Uncle Kev.”

  “Mr Collins, this conversation could be the most important one of your life. All I need is five minutes of your time,” Mr Frasiers perseveres.

  “Yeah, last time I ’eard that, I got told I was gonna be a dad. Again. For the seventh time.”

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you that, Mr Collins.”

  I laugh. “So you do have a sense of humour, Mr Frasiers.” I rub my hands together. “Cool.”

  “No. I reckon I’d remember if I’d got friendly wiv you. I’m going to the pub. You wanna come?” Kev offers.

  “Is there somewhere a little more private we can talk?”

  “Well, me mate’s upstairs doin’ ’is missus, so we can talk in the living room.”

  “Lead the way.”

  I think I hear Mr Frasiers swallow over the audio line. I know this room. I know it pretty well. It stinks of smoke and stale beer. There are crushed cans that I know he’ll have to push off a chair before he can sit down. I try not to think about what else is on the seat. I can tell by the hesitation and the way the camera’s still pointed at the chair that he’s wondering the same. “Come on, Mr Frasiers, this is the last one and then you’re done with Wythenshawe, and you can burn the clothes later.”

  The camera angle spins and lowers. Brave.

  He starts, “Mr Collins—”

  “Kev. Mr Collins was my dad. Miserable old bastard, ’e was.”

  “Very well, Kev. I have to ask you to agree to a nondisclosure contract—”

  “Whoa whoa whoa.” Uncle Kev’s holding up his hands as if he’s trying to stop a stampede. “Contract. I don’t do contracts, mate.”

  “This agreement says that you won’t talk to anyone about what you learn at a meeting tonight. If you agree to that, then you will benefit. If you don’t, then you will not know what the agreement is about or what the benefits are to you.”

  “You’ll need to break it down more than that, pal,” I warn, even though he can’t hear me. “Uncle Kev’ll never follow that lot.”

  “I don’t get what you’re on about, mate,” Uncle Kev says.

  “See? Told ya.”

  “Sign that piece of paper. Don’t talk to anyone about this. Earn some money.”

  “When you say ‘don’t talk to anyone’, do you mean, like, if me mate asks me if I want a pint, can I speak to him, and tell him, yeah?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Uncle Kev, don’t be a moron.”

  “I meant specifically about the situation you will learn about at the meeting this evening,” Mr Frasiers says, exercisi
ng an inordinate amount of patience. Let’s face it, a saint could get pissed off with Uncle Kev.

  “Huh?”

  “You need to go to the meeting tonight. You can’t talk to anyone about the meeting.”

  “I never do. It’s AA tonight. I never talk to me mates down the pub about that.”

  “I don’t want you to go to AA tonight. You need to go to a different meeting.”

  “But I’m supposed to go to AA tonight. I go every Thursday night. ’Ave to. It’s part of me parole agreement—”

  “Today is Friday, Mr… Ah, Kev. Yesterday was Thursday.”

  “So where was I last night?”

  “I don’t know. Did you not go to your AA meeting?”

  “I can’t remember. I went to the pub for a liquid lunch, if you know what I mean.” Uncle Kev winks and lifts his hand to his face as if he’s holding an imaginary pint glass.

  Now, I know you’re probably wondering why I’m giving this…person…a million pounds. He’s likely to kill himself with it. Cirrhosis, most likely, but the problem I have is that I can’t give everyone else in the family some of my good fortune and not him. That just wouldn’t be fair. Also, I’m hoping that he might use it to get straightened out a bit. Maybe if he lives in a nicer place, away from some of the bad influences, he could make better choices. Yes, I do realise that he’s a forty-five-year-old bloke who doesn’t need me to mother him. But he’s still family. And I still love him. And I’d still like to help him if I can. So if that makes me soft…well, so be it.

  “Yes, Kev. So does that mean you will go to the meeting tonight?”

  “I only ’ave to go on Thursdays?”

  “This isn’t AA. This is very important.”

  “More important than AA?”

  He’s going around in circles, and he’s never going to get anywhere. I make an executive decision and pick up the landline phone on the corner of the desk. The picture goes all wonky again while he fishes around in a pocket and pulls out his mobile phone.