The only thing I really need now is to go back home. I have to overcome the bureaucracy and return there. I hope that I will be able to remember only beautiful things about the time spent with Dad, like the times when I used to call him from his office because dinner was ready and found him asleep with his head on the desk. I used to find his dedication to work really funny, especially when he was tired and tried anyway. I look forward to filling my mind with these memories when I think of him. I want to cast away the one negative memory that has obsessed me over the last few years.
I love my home and it’s been excruciating to be away from it for so many years. My home smells clean, it’s beautiful and large. It’s full of shelves with hundreds of my favourite books, not to mention a beautiful view across the city. I have my own hanging garden at home – Robert, my personal gardener, helps me to take care of the Canadian grass twice a week. I’ve missed Robert. I’ve also missed Dad’s office, the only place in the house where you can still smell his cigars and where it’s difficult to find your way through the many dusty bits and pieces that fill the room. I miss things that I would never have thought I would miss. I miss the life that I used to lead when I lived there, all the memories that live in that place, and how lovely it felt to watch a TV series with Dad on a Sunday. He didn’t really enjoy watching them, but he did it anyway so as to be able to spend some time with me. I wish that could happen again.
I glance at the taxi driver, he glances back at me through the rear view mirror. I’m aware that I look impatient but he has no idea just how much I’m longing to get my old life back.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s just a traffic jam. I’m afraid it’s going to take about half an hour with these queues.”
“That’s okay, as long as we get there.”
I take my phone out of my handbag and call the solicitor. I want to tell him about the delay. The phone rings twice, then a woman answers.
“Orwell solicitors, how can I help?”
“Erm, hi, this is Ashley Morgan. I’m supposed to meet Mr Orwell in about fifteen minutes, but I’m going to be late, I’m afraid. Could you let him know please? I’m really sorry about this, I’m stuck in traffic.”
“Yes, that’s no problem, I’ll let the solicitor know.” the secretary says.
I’m more frustrated than I sound on the phone but I don’t want to make everyone’s life more difficult. I’ll have to be patient – I’ll be there soon, we’ll get everything sorted and I’ll finally go home.
As predicted, the taxi stops outside the solicitor’s office about half an hour later. I pay him pretty much all the money that I have in my purse and I rush to the entrance to shelter from the pouring rain. I pull off my red raincoat and I endeavour to walk quickly along the corridor towards the lift, although the wellies don’t help with this. Once in the lift, I press the button for the top floor decisively and wait until it gets there. I contemplate the beauty of this lift: the bright, white light that illuminates the whole space, the mirrors on the sides and the polished, amber coloured wood. The doors open to let me into a huge hall with a large glass and iron desk in the middle. There is a woman behind the desk, she must be in her forties, her brown hair is tied in a bun. Her red lipstick highlights the beauty of her fleshy lips, her ivory-coloured glasses frame suits her face nicely.
“I’m Ashley Morgan, sorry I’m late.”
“Good morning, Miss Morgan, and welcome. Mr Orwell is waiting for you in his office. Come with me.” The secretary stands up and waves her hand, indicating that I should follow her. Every detail of this building looks extremely expensive, even the paintings on the wall look original. We walk past a dozen doors on each side, they are all closed and tagged with the names of those who, presumably, work for the company. We finally stop by a larger door, the secretary knocks lightly.
“Yes?” The solicitor answers.
The secretary opens the door. “Miss Morgan is here.” She invites me to enter the office.
I feel one step away from getting my house back! It has been a painful few weeks but here we go.
I might not have any chance of inheriting Dad’s company, even though I deluded myself that my family name would somehow influence Dad’s choice of his successor. That was a naïve assumption, but I’m older and wiser now.
I walk determinedly towards the solicitor; he stands up at his dark mahogany desk to shake hands. His handshake is firm and assured and I hope I give him exactly the same impression.
“Good to see you, Miss Morgan, please make yourself comfortable.” He points to a white leather armchair. While I turn round to take a seat, I notice that there are others in the office: Jamie is here, along with three older men. It feels like Dad has planned it all perfectly so that I would see Jamie again before everything is over. My opinion of him has changed considerably since the last time I saw him. After the funeral, I promised myself that I would ignore him if I bumped into him in the street. I realise now that this was only a dream: how could I even think that it’s possible to completely ignore the head of my family business?
I have no other choice than to be polite. I nod slightly to greet him, coldly, then I sit down in the armchair. He replies to my greeting with an equally cold nod, without even trying to stand up to greet me like a true gentleman would with a lady. The three other men, who are members of the management committee, stand up to shake my hand and then they sit back down next to Jamie. I have no doubt that this is the real Jamie, not the gentleman that I believed he was. How naïve and silly I was such a short while ago.
Jamie met my Dad about six or seven years ago. At first, he was a friendly, confident man and I found his personality very attractive. Then he slowly revealed his true nature as a calculating, false and arrogant man whose only goal in life is to fulfil his obsession for power and money. Maybe Dad was fully aware of these qualities and he particularly liked him because of them. Now, the chocolate and pastry factory isn’t the centre of my life, so I’ve learned to get over it. I have my own job at the book shop and I like it that way. I like my job and I wouldn’t change it for anything, so I’m not worried about Jamie owning the entire company. I know this is what’s going to happen. He can have it, I don’t need it any more.
I feel his eyes on me; he glances at me out of the corners of them as I lean back in the armchair and make myself more comfortable. I bet he doesn’t enjoy seeing me again and still even likes me, deep down. That will teach him: out of everybody in the country, plotting behind my back was a particularly bad idea. I ignore him and keep staring at the solicitor, full of expectation. He’s about to open the will in front of us.
“Okay, we’ll try to be as quick as possible.” Mr Orwell speaks calmly.
I cross my legs and listen to the solicitor’s careful, slow reading of the will, after which he clears his throat:
I, Nathan William Morgan, declare this to be my last will and testament. I would like the following people to be present at the reading of this document: my daughter Ashley Jewell Morgan, my successor Jamie Aron Standley and the three members of Morgan & Hall’s management committee, Mr Elton Pitt, Mr Lloyd Cassidy and Mr Carter Green. I kindly ask Mr Orwell not to carry on reading this will if any of the above are absent.
The solicitor pauses for a moment and stares at us, almost as though he wants to make sure that we are all present. Then he carries on reading:
Ashley and Jamie, you are the only ones that I really loved in my life.
This statement doesn’t surprise me, considering that Dad had remained almost completely alone after his divorce from my mother.
I love you as though you were both my children, and I have tried my best to give each of you what you deserve.
I’m getting a little nervous now, I wish it was possible to just skip to Dad’s instructions for the apartment. For a moment I zone out, thinking about how happy I’m going to be when I can finally go back home knowing that it’s mine. Mr Orwell’s voice brings me back to reality
as he carries on reading.
Ashley, I know that I haven’t always been a good father to you, but trust me: everything that I did, I did it for your own good. I have never wanted you to suffer and if any of my choices have caused you trouble, I’m heartily sorry.
The solicitor plays his part perfectly, his reading almost sounds like a passionate monologue. Despite the gentle tone of the will, I know that Dad’s intentions weren’t always good, and the problem with Jamie reinforces my opinion. Dad didn’t let me step up as his successor at head of Morgan & Hall, that is a fact. Instead, he preferred to nominate a new son. He found somebody who would suit his taste and there’s no way that he did this for my own good. Jamie’s maybe, but not mine.
I know that the rationale behind my actions will become as clear to you as it is to me now, as I’m writing this will. Now Jamie: you know how much I care about you and how lucky I was to meet you casually years ago. You are the son that I have always wanted and I firmly believe that you deserve what I’m about to declare in this document. Please do not be sad about my death and try to hold onto good memories of me, because I loved you both very much. Having said this, I’m now going to list all of my possessions and my instructions for each of them. I love you, Ashley and Jamie.
My sight is getting a little blurry, but I’m trying hard not to cry, not here and now. I want to focus on the reason why I’m here in this office today, and I try my best to keep the annoying emotion at the back of my mind. It’s time to focus on the most important part of Dad’s will, the part that has motivated me to get out of the apartment this morning. With this will, a chapter of my life will finally come to an end. I feel impatient and slightly excited on the one hand, and still mad, sad and disappointed on the other, but I can’t show my emotions because Jamie is sitting next to me. I can’t wait to get rid of him.
Mr Orwell stands up and he begins to read the last part of the will, after a quick glance at all of us to make sure that we are all listening carefully.
I, Nathan William Morgan, give to my daughter, Ashley Jewell Morgan, the family home at 37 Long Street…
Wait, what?
I must have missed something. I stare at Mr Orwell with the dumbest look ever, the solicitor doesn’t seem surprised by what he has just read. Maybe I misheard him.
“Could you… explain to me what the last part means?” I ask, as I try to suppress my emotions. I want to keep Jamie completely unaware of how I feel right now, even though he looks just as surprised as me. I hope that is a genuine reaction, I swear I’m going to kill him if he has had anything to do with this.
“That’s my understanding of it, Miss Morgan: you and Mr Standley will be able to fully enjoy the endowment left by your father in a year’s time. This year, you will have to live together in your father’s apartment on Long Street and you will both work for your father’s company as equals, with no majority share for either. It will be 38 per cent each, just as it was between your father and the late Milton Hall when they first started their business. If you’re able to work together successfully throughout the year, we will meet again this time next year for the formalities, and you can claim your full inheritances. Mrs Agata Rochester will be in charge of making regular checks as suggested in the will. If Mrs Rochester, my trusted legal representative, finds that the conditions for the transfer of ownership are not met, the entire inheritance will be donated to the Jocelyn Grayson rehabilitation house.” the solicitor concludes calmly.
“Is this a joke?” I burst out, springing from my comfortable armchair. The happy day I had anticipated is slowly turning into a horrible nightmare.
“Calm down, Miss Morgan. Please.” the solicitor says. How can I stay calm after hearing this pile of rubbish? Of course, Dad’s decision won’t affect Mr Orwell in the slightest: I’m the one who is going to have to share her home with Jamie!
“I’m not going to calm down until the issue is resolved. Get the paperwork started for the transfer of ownership immediately. This sharing idea is complete nonsense. Why are we being treated like kids?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.” Mr Orwell replies. He looks at the other men sat in front of him, perhaps hoping to receive some support from them. It seems, however, that they are all more interested in enjoying the show than helping him out. “We are tied by the will and we can’t do anything to change it.”
“Find a way, for goodness’ sake. Anything!” I plead with him as I lean closer towards his desk. I wish I could tear up that stupid piece of paper!
“I’m sorry, but the will and its depositions are all legally valid. You could initiate formal legal proceedings to challenge it but I’m almost certain that it will only end up being a waste of money.” As he speaks, the solicitor keeps a safe distance between us; he probably fears that I’m going to jump over the desk and attempt to kill him.
If I had the money, I would probably take that slim chance, but I’m too poor to afford even the most unskilled lawyer. All the money that I had is now in the hands of the taxi driver who brought me here. What has my life just turned into? How will I pay Robert, to make sure that my hanging garden survives? How am I going to cope without his help? My poor garden is going to suffer just because of Dad’s strange ideas.
I stand up, I try to pull myself together a little and I turn round. My eyes meet Jamie’s, my future co-tenant. It looks like he’s enjoying the show, sitting comfortably in his armchair, insensitive to the tragedy that has just turned my life upside down. I can’t give up my lovely home for him, it’s the only place that can give me real child-like peace. I won’t surrender. No, I won’t give up my happiness because of a stupid deathbed whim.
Dad never learned that life can’t always go the way he wants it to, especially other people’s lives.
I sit back down in my armchair with resignation. I have to make a plan to survive the forthcoming year. If I really have to tolerate Jamie’s presence in my house, I will have to establish some strict rules, and I already know that they are going to be tough. I want to make his life difficult.
My mood is as miserable as the weather outside: the rain, the greyness, the cold. How could I be so naïve again?
2
Holding the front door key doesn’t give me the same satisfaction that I thought it would. I know, I should look at the positive side of the situation: I can still sleep in my bed, nobody’s going to kick me out of the apartment and the rules will hopefully limit Jamie’s ability to annoy me. Everything could work out ok after all.
When I walked out of that diabolical solicitor’s office – I realised that Mr Orwell really is a diabolical man – I found out that Mrs Rochester, the lawyer who’s going to have to assess our progress on living together, is the woman who was in reception and introduced me to Mr Orwell. I bumped into her as I was heading to the lift and a glance into her eyes made me understand immediately that she’s going to be a tough referee. It will be impossible to fool her by lying about my cohabitation with Jamie, so I aborted my preliminary plan to just pretend we were sharing the apartment; I thought about doing this soon after hearing the final part of the will. Dad’s grave isn't going to receive a single visit from me for at least the next ten years, that’s for sure. As for flowers – forget it!
Jamie is in the lift with me on the way out. We don’t say a word, he stands next to me impassively, and the lift (which seemed so beautiful on the way up) now feels like a horrible cage I want to escape from immediately. I glance at him in the mirror, hoping he can’t tell that I’m fuming.
“We’re going to establish some rules.” I announce.
“That’s for sure.” Jamie replies with a sneer.
“The apartment is big so we can definitely share it without stepping on each other’s toes.” I explain calmly. “Obviously, you’ll have my father’s suite with its own bathroom, I’m pretty sure that’s all you’ll need. The other three bedrooms are all mine, and so are the bathrooms. The garden and the living room are off limits for you, but you can walk
through them of course. As for the kitchen, we’re going to split the storage and the space in the fridge. We’re going to decide on specific hours when we can each use the kitchen. Everything clear?”
“I hope you’re joking.” Looking at the hint of a smile on his face, he’s enjoying seeing me struggle. I turn towards him, I’m not afraid of standing up to him.
“I’m not joking at all.”
“How can you even think that I’d accept such an unfair arrangement? I seem to remember the word ‘sharing’ from the reading of the will. Is my memory failing me?” Jamie carries on in the same annoying tone while he stares at me. Does he really think that he has an ace up his sleeve in this situation?
“Yeah, your memory fails you. In an ideal world, you would have half of my house, and I would have half of your company. But you don’t want this to be an ideal world, right?” I say. He seems to be pondering the meaning of this. I’m sure he knows what I mean.
“Are you just determined to make my life difficult?” Jamie asks. He takes a defensive step backwards. Yeah, that’s exactly the reaction that I want from him.
“I’m a peaceful woman. Dad was completely fooled by you but I have no intention of falling into the same trap: your manners and your tricks won’t work with me. Keep your damn company and stay away from me.” I stare at the lift doors as they open to let me out.
I walk decisively towards the exit and raise my hand to hail a taxi. It’s still pouring down outside and my mood is even more miserable than the weather.
“My car’s parked right here,” Jamie says behind me, as if nothing had happened.
“Good for you.”
I hear him sigh impatiently, then the sound of his steps on the pavement tells me that he has finally decided to retreat. I’m glad that I won’t have to stand his oppressive presence on the journey back home.
The Inheritance: A feisty, giggle-inducing romance Page 2
