by Jane Holland
He listens intently, nodding occasionally, sometimes frowning. ‘Hmm, I don’t like the sound of that. Have you spoken to her doctor about this?’
‘Dr Forster says it’s all par for the course. She says dementia is a one-way process, so my mother’s only likely to get worse, not better.’
‘Just a moment…’
Mr Adeyemi gets up and opens his filing cabinet. After a moment’s search, he withdraws a file and sits down again, opening it and producing my mother’s Lasting Power of Attorney.
He reads through the document with what feels like unnecessarily close attention while I wait in silence, glancing about at the windowless walls, mostly adorned with framed certificates or information posters about making wills and legacies, and listening to the hiss of the air con unit.
Eventually, he finishes reading and turns back to the front page of the document. ‘May I ask why Mrs Kinley has not accompanied you here today?’
I stare, a little bemused. ‘Mum’s not capable of… I left her at home because it was raining heavily today and she wouldn’t understand what was going on, anyway.’ The solicitor seems unimpressed by this explanation, and it does now sound a little thin even to my ears. But I don’t know what else to say. ‘She gets flustered when she has to leave the house. Especially in poor weather. I didn’t want to upset her unnecessarily, I suppose.’
‘Well, without speaking to Mrs Kinley in person, I’m not sure how I can advise you.’ He taps his copy of the Power of Attorney in front of him. ‘This document is drawn up in her name, not yours.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Your mother is not deceased. She may have medical issues which prohibit her full understanding of legal and financial matters. But she still has rights.’
‘I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying. She has dementia, yes. But isn’t that why we drew up the Lasting Power of Attorney? To allow for this eventuality?’
‘The Power of Attorney can only take effect when your mother’s mental faculties have been incapacitated beyond a certain point.’
‘And I believe she’s reached that point.’
‘Ah.’ He inclines his head, smiling faintly. ‘But unless I am able to speak with her myself, and verify that to my own satisfaction, I can’t condone your use of the Power of Attorney to access her money. Regardless of how you feel about it, it’s still your mother’s decision, and that proviso is noted in the Power itself.’
I’m stunned. ‘It… It is?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Should I ask her doctor to contact you?’
‘That would only be useful in regard to a specific health issue, in which case the decision would be made between you and her medical advisors. For financial matters, the law tends to frown on any use of an LPA before mental capacity is deemed to have been lost irrevocably. That’s my take on it, though you’re entitled to seek a second opinion if you prefer.’ He straightens one arm, the too-long sleeve of his suit shooting back as he swiftly checks his heavy silver wristwatch, then smiles at me again. ‘I’m very sorry, but you were late and I have another appointment. Maybe you should come with your mother next time, Miss Kinley. Then I can talk to her myself and make a determination on those grounds. Until then, I suggest we keep things as they are.’
‘Right.’
My voice sounds small and inadequate. I’m angry and frustrated, but a little intimidated too. The solicitor is so sure of himself, it feels almost like he’s mocking me.
He stands up and goes to the door.
I am being dismissed.
‘Now, unless there’s something else you wish to discuss…’ Smiling in a genial way, Mr Adeyemi holds the door open for me.
I bend to collect my handbag and get to my feet, feeling hollow inside. It had all seemed so easy, but now…
‘No, thank you. I’ll come back with my mother.’
‘That’s an excellent idea. I would love to see your mother again. You can make an appointment with Lucy.’ He nods to the smart young woman on the reception desk, who beams at me. ‘Whenever is convenient for you.’
We shake hands, but I don’t smile; I’m too annoyed. I came here today, thinking our family solicitor would help me. Instead, I’m being given the brush-off. Like he thinks I’m up to something shady, not merely trying to protect my mother from scamsters like the guy who rang, pretending to be from the bank. He doesn’t even seem to consider that a threat.
‘Though perhaps I should call at the house instead,’ Mr Adeyemi says slowly, studying my face. ‘It’s true, the weather is getting colder now. I wouldn’t want your mother to become ill on my account. We were good friends at one stage, you know… Before your father’s death. Such a sad business.’
‘No, I didn’t know,’ I say, surprised.
‘I meant to stay in touch with her. But then she became ill, and…’ He nods, seeming to reconsider. ‘Yes, I will come to see you both at the house. Lucy can suggest a few times when I’m free over the next week or so, and you may pick one. How about that?’
After he ushers in his next appointment, I settle on a date and time with Lucy behind the desk, and leave the solicitor’s feeling a little happier. Even the rain has stopped falling, which is a plus.
Heading back to my car, I can’t work out why I got so upset in there. It’s actually quite simple and straightforward. If Mr Adeyemi needs to speak to my mother before agreeing that the Power of Attorney can be implemented, there’s no problem with that. It should only take the solicitor a few minutes to see how much she’s deteriorated, and then we can proceed from there with perfect legality.
As I’m starting my car, my phone buzzes in my coat pocket.
I turn off the engine and check the screen.
It’s a text from Cheryl at work.
You free for lunch with Calum Morgan next Tuesday? He wants to discuss the new book, so I hope you’ve read it.
I feel a stab of guilt.
I haven’t finished reading the manuscript she sent me. I’m barely a third of the way through, in fact. Things have been so hectic recently, and there are so many issues with the book, it’s taking ages to annotate. But admitting that could be disastrous for my career, given Morgan’s status.
I text her back with a little white lie instead, grimacing at my own duplicity.
Of course. You can tell Calum I love it! A few minor problems but nothing we can’t fix.
By the time I reach home, Cheryl’s reply is already on the screen.
Tell him yourself. I’ll email the venue/time later. FYI, he always records his meetings, so stay sober and watch what you say. And never be alone with him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Calum Morgan greets me like a long-lost friend. ‘How are you, darling?’ he gushes, while pulling out the chair opposite him in the crowded restaurant above London’s Borough Market. Several people wave a hello to him from nearby tables, and he nods indulgently in their direction before sitting down again and smiling at me. ‘I’m so glad you were free to be my editor. Of course, I shall miss Cheryl. I’ve been with her since the beginning. But it’s only until she’s popped out that baby of hers, and fresh blood is always a teensy bit exciting, isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes.’ I’m prattling, too nervous to know what to say. ‘I’m delighted too. It’s going to be amazing.’
His hard, clever eyes watch me like a snake’s. ‘God, yes.’ He summons a waiter by crooking an eyebrow and orders champagne. ‘Let’s celebrate.’
‘I need to drive later, but…’ My voice tails off as Calum turns that gaze on me. ‘I suppose a glass or two won’t hurt. I can always get a taxi home from the station.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
We study the menus, discussing what’s most warming for a winter lunch. A bottle of water arrives, along with breadsticks. We order our meals, and then chat briefly about the weather – it’s turning colder all the time, chill air striking into one’s bones in the early mornings – and then, abruptly, the conversation pivo
ts to his book.
‘So,’ he says, with an air of disarming casualness, ‘have you read it?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And what do you think?’
I’m utterly terrified – of saying the wrong thing, of upsetting this man and blowing my chance to rise in the company – yet somehow I manage to keep smiling.
‘It’s… very interesting.’ I swallow, and reach for my water glass. ‘I think there may need to be a few changes.’
Calum pounces on that, his brow suddenly furrowed. ‘Changes?’
The wine waiter arrives with a bottle of champagne in a cooler. He pours a glass each, waits for Calum to approve the choice, and then moves away.
I stick with my water for now.
Calum seems calm enough, enjoying the champagne, so I plough on with my take on his book, ignoring the warning bells ringing in my head. ‘I could be wrong, but I’m not always sure you’re striking the right note of… Well, of sympathy with the reader.’
‘Good God, who cares about the reader? You only need them to buy the book; you don’t need them to read it.’ His eyebrows have risen steeply, and his voice with it. Then Calum seems to notice heads turning curiously in our direction. He puts down his champagne flute and leans forward, saying in a low growl, ‘Very well. You think I’m unsympathetic. Millions of readers would disagree with you, darling, to judge by all my five-star reviews and my vast following on social media. But you’re my editor now. So I’m open to suggestions. Perhaps you’d care to elaborate on that startling analysis?’
He’s upset. But I can hardly withdraw my comments now. And besides, if I have any hope of rescuing his book, I’ll need to get him to see where it needs to be changed.
‘It’s a self-help book about unhappiness,’ I begin tentatively. ‘So it’s likely most of its readers will be suffering from mental health issues of one kind or another; otherwise, they wouldn’t have picked it up. Certainly they’ll be more inclined towards unhappiness than the average reader. And occasionally – just occasionally, mind you – it can feel a little as though you’re…’
I run out of tactful ways to make my point, and gulp down some chilled water instead, staring at him over the rim of my outsized water glass.
‘As though I’m what?’ he presses me, holding my gaze.
‘Making fun of them,’ I whisper.
‘Making fun of them,’ he repeats blankly.
‘And some of your recommendations to avoid unhappiness come across as a little… self-entitled.’ Hopelessly, I reach for an example from my memory. ‘For instance, when you suggested taking a long holiday somewhere hot to get over the blues. That might put some of your readers’ backs up. I mean, given how badly the economy is suffering, a foreign holiday may be beyond the reach of many readers.’ I pause. ‘Especially those who may be reading your book precisely because they’re depressed after losing their jobs.’
‘Is that so?’
Hurriedly, I try to soften the blow. ‘It’s just your tone. I’m sure with a few tweaks—’
‘My tone?’ He almost doubles at the waist to reach across the table, his face close to mine, his voice an angry hiss. ‘My tone is part of my style, darling. My style is what makes people buy my books in droves. And my sales are what keep your sad fucking company from going under.’ He pauses, his eyes locked on mine, a hint of spittle on his lips. ‘Am I making myself clear, Kate?’
I push the water glass away, my hand trembling.
‘Perfectly.’
The waiter arrives with our hors d’oeuvres, and Calum leans back, throwing a white cloth napkin over his lap, an urbane smile on his lips again.
‘Soupe à l’oignon,’ he declares loudly, watching as the dish is placed reverently before him on the damask tablecloth. ‘It looks delicious, thank you so much.’ He nods as my own plate of olives and assorted spicy salami is set before me. ‘Marvellous.’
The waiter smiles and moves away.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say falteringly, aware that I’ve screwed things up. I ought to have waited until we were more comfortable together as author and editor before making critical comments about his book. Now he must hate me.
But he’s already got himself under control again. ‘Don’t give it another thought,’ Calum says smoothly, and reaches across to grasp my wrist. ‘I like women who aren’t afraid to give their opinion.’ His cold fingers, curled about me, tighten inexorably on the narrow wrist bones until I’m in actual pain. Tears start in my eyes and I blink them back, my lips closing on a barely audible moan. ‘I find it… exciting. But I expect you know that, don’t you, Kate?’
He releases me, and I have to resist the urge to rub my throbbing wrist.
‘Know what?’ I manage to ask, wanting to yell at him in fury but not quite daring. If it had been anyone else…
I can’t risk losing this author. Not now, not with everything else that’s going on in my life. Mark would kill me. Not literally, perhaps. But it would be a black mark against me, and my career might not survive a bust-up with Calum Morgan. Besides, I should be grateful he isn’t playing footsie with me instead of roughhousing me, given his reputation.
‘You know about men who like feisty women.’
There’s a strange inflexion in his voice… The inference being that I’m supposed to find this comment significant. Only I don’t.
‘I don’t understand,’ I begin to say, but he cuts me off with a thin smile and a raised hand.
‘David,’ he says softly.
My stomach plummets and for an instant, I can’t breathe, let alone speak. It feels like someone’s punched me in the stomach.
How the hell does he know?
‘D-David?’
He nods, leaning back comfortably in his chair. ‘Your fiancé.’ His hooded eyes watch me without expression. ‘Or should I say, your late fiancé?’ When I still don’t speak, his lips curl into a cruel semblance of a smile. ‘What’s the matter, Kate? Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten his name? What’s it been…? Two years? Poor David. I wonder if he realised how little impact his suicide would have on the love of his life?’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe he did. Maybe that’s why David killed himself. Because you drove him to it with your heartless—’
‘Shut up,’ I hiss under my breath, my eyes burning, locked furiously on his face. ‘How dare you?’
Calum’s smile broadens, and he gives a little chuckle. ‘Ah now, there’s the real Kate at last. I was beginning to think I’d have to slap you to see her.’
‘Excuse me?’ I’m shocked.
‘Apologies if I touched a nerve but I can’t stand working with an editor who’s too timid to speak her mind. Cheryl and I have stayed together for so long because she never baulks at giving me the bad news about my manuscripts. When I met you, Kate, I knew immediately that you’d be the same. Fearless and hard to intimidate.’
I can scarcely believe what I’m hearing. Is the man crazy?
‘So you thought you’d put that theory to the test by nearly breaking my wrist, and then all but accusing me of murdering my boyfriend?’
‘Murder?’ His eyebrows shoot up again. ‘I asked Cheryl for some juicy background on you, that’s all. She mentioned your fiancé. But she told me he’d committed suicide. Did I say you killed him?’
I pull myself up short, and swallow the words I’d been about to say. Wild, angry words that would have made me sound mad as well as guilty. Even though I am neither.
I DIED BECAUSE OF YOU, KATE.
It’s those bloody poison pen letters. They’ve polluted my mind. Now, every time I hear David’s name mentioned, I leap instantly to defend myself against that accusation.
‘No,’ I admit reluctantly, ‘but you implied neglect. It wasn’t my fault David died. He’d been depressed for a long time. I stuck with him through his illness, but in the end, it wasn’t enough.’ I rub my sore wrist at last, looking away. ‘You hurt me.’
‘Did I?’ Calum reaches for my hand again, and I can’t help but f
linch and draw back as he does so. He stops, noting the involuntary movement. ‘For that, I’m truly sorry. It was unintentional. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.’ He pats my hand gently, and then sits back, his gaze on my face. ‘Look, Kate, I was baiting you to get a reaction, I can’t deny it. But I didn’t mean what I said. Especially about the book. If you genuinely think it needs work, send me your editorial notes and I’ll see what I can do.’
My head is all over the place. He was only pretending to be angry? And the thing about David was him testing me? I can’t believe that.
I take a deep swallow of champagne, needing the courage of alcohol in my veins. ‘Okay, I will.’
‘Good.’ Calum picks up his spoon and begins drinking his onion soup. His face changes as the first taste hits, his expression suddenly warm and sensual. ‘Um, spicy. Utterly gorgeous.’ His gaze moves to my plate, which I haven’t touched. ‘How’s yours?’
I nibble some salami, pop an olive in my mouth, and smile mechanically. ‘Delicious,’ I say indistinctly.
But inside it’s hard not to hate him.
Calum Morgan may be a bestselling author. But he’s also as changeable as a wind vane, his mood swings not just mercurial but violent and disturbing. Working with this man is going to destroy what little peace of mind I have left, given everything that’s been going on at home.
But I don’t have a choice, do I? Not if I want to hold onto my career…
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Logan takes me out for a lunch date on Friday, my day off, which is lovely. The contrast between the lunch with Calum Morgan and this one with Logan is so marked, it’s almost absurd.
We choose a pub at random, chatting as we wander along the street together, and find a cosy table on a raised level overlooking the street. He’s taken a long lunch break from work, which I suppose he’s allowed to do because he’s one of their senior executives, and shows no inclination to leave after we finish eating.
Logan is warm and friendly and makes me laugh with anecdotes about the office where he works, which sounds very cut-and-thrust.
