by Jill Mansell
Chapter Fifty-Two
“Janey, it’s me. Can you come over here right away?”
At the sound of her mother’s voice, Janey felt the muscles of her jaw automatically tighten. Confiding her marital problems to Guy had been one thing, but she still considered Thea’s outburst in front of Alan to have been totally out of order. Even if she had been right, it was an unforgivable action.
They hadn’t spoken to each other since. And now here was Thea on the other end of the phone, expecting her to drop everything and rush over to see her. To add insult to injury, it was pouring with rain.
Squish went the mister spray in Janey’s hand as she aimed it at a three-foot yucca plant. “I’m busy,” she said, stretching past the yucca and giving the azaleas a shower. Squish, squish. “What do you want?”
“I need to see you.” Thea sounded quite unlike her usual self. “Please, Janey.”
Suspecting some kind of ulterior motive, Janey kept her own response guarded. “Why?”
“Because Oliver is dead,” said Thea quietly, and replaced the receiver.
• • •
He had died the previous evening, without warning, in her bed. Thea, having slipped out of the house at eight o’clock, had gone to the studio and worked for three hours on a new sculpture. Returning finally with arms aching from the strenuous business of molding the clay over the chicken-wire framework of the figure, and a glowing sense of achievement because it had all gone so well, she had climbed the stairs to her bedroom and found him. His reading glasses were beside him, resting on her empty pillow. The book he had been reading lay neatly closed on the floor next to the bed. It appeared, said the doctor who had come to the house, that Oliver had dozed off and suffered the stroke in his sleep. He wouldn’t have known a thing about it. All in all, the doctor explained in an attempt to comfort Thea, it was a marvelous way to go.
Thea, wrapped up in a cashmere sweater that still bore the scent of Oliver’s cologne, was huddled in the corner of the tatty, cushion-strewn sofa drinking a vast vodka martini. There were still traces of dried clay in her hair and beneath her fingernails; her eyes, darker than ever with grief, were red-rimmed from crying.
Having left Paula in charge of the shop, and feeling horribly helpless, Janey helped herself to a vodka to keep her mother company. Their differences forgotten, because her own unhappiness paled into insignificance compared with Thea’s, Janey sat down and put her arms around her.
“Bloody Oliver.” Thea sniffed, continuing to gaze at the letter in her lap. “I keep thinking I could kill him for doing this to me. How could he keep this kind of thing to himself and not even warn me? Typical of the bloody man…”
She had found it in his wallet, neatly slotted in behind the credit cards. The plain white envelope bore her name. The contents of the letter inside had come as almost more of a shock than his death.
“Are you sure you want me to read it?” Janey frowned as her mother handed it to her. “Isn’t it private?”
“Selfish bastard,” Thea murmured, fishing up her sleeve for a crumpled handkerchief as the tears began to drop once more down her long nose. “Of course I want you to read it. How can any man be so selfish?”
Janey recognized the careful, elegant writing she’d noted on Oliver’s visit to her shop as she now read his farewell.
My darling Thea,
Well, if you’re reading this you’ve either been snooping shamelessly or I’m dead. But since I have faith in you, I shall assume the latter.
Now I suppose you’re as mad as hell with me for doing it this way because, yes, I knew it was going to happen in the not-too-distant future. My doctor warned me I was a walking time bomb. And no, there was nothing that could be done either medically or surgically to prevent it happening. This time even money couldn’t help.
But think about it, sweetheart. Would you really have been happier, knowing the truth? I’m afraid I developed an all-consuming fear that you might try and persuade me to take things easy, maybe even not allowing me to make love to you as often as I liked for fear of overexerting myself. What a deeply depressing prospect that would have been. Now perhaps you can begin to understand why I didn’t tell you!
Right, now for something you do already know. I love you, Thea. We may not have had a vast amount of time together, but these last months have been the very happiest of my life. When I came to Cornwall, it was to see my grandchildren. How could I ever have guessed I would meet and fall so totally in love with a beautiful, bossy, wonderful woman who loved me in return? And for myself rather than for my money.
If, on the other hand, you’re reading this letter because you stole my wallet and were riffling through my credit cards, I trust you’re now ashamed of yourself.
That was a joke, sweetheart. No need to rip this letter to shreds. If I can keep my sense of humor, so can you.
I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but even though my motives were selfish, I still feel my decision was the right one to make. If you contact my lawyer (details in the black address book) he will organize the reading of my will. Maybe this will go some way toward making amends.
My darling, I love you so very much.
Oliver
“Well,” said Janey, clearing her throat as she folded the pages of the letter and handed them back to her mother. “I think he was right.”
“Of course he was right.” With an irritable gesture, Thea wiped her wet face on her sleeve. “But that doesn’t mean I have to forgive him. Did he think I wouldn’t want anything to do with him if I’d known he was about to keel over and die?”
“He’s explained why he didn’t want you to know,” Janey reminded her. “He wanted to enjoy himself without being nagged. He didn’t want you endlessly worrying about him. He didn’t want you to be miserable.”
“Well, I am,” Thea shouted. “Bloody miserable! After all these years I finally meet the man I’ve waited for all my life, and he has to go and do this to me. It isn’t fair!”
Nothing she could say, Janey realized, was going to help her mother. All she could do was be there.
“At least you met him,” she said, giving Thea another hug. “If you hadn’t, think what you would have missed. Surely a few months with Oliver was better than nothing at all?”
“In a couple of years, maybe I’ll think that.” Thea passed Janey her empty glass. “All I know right now is that it hurts like hell. Get me another drink, darling. A big one. On second thought, just give me yours. You have to drive.”
“It’s OK, Mum. I don’t have to go anywhere.”
“Yes, you do,” said Thea. “Someone has to tell Guy Cassidy his father is dead. He might not care,” she added bitterly, “but he still has to know.”
• • •
Guy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. And from Janey, of all people. So much, he decided, for mutual trust.
Maxine had gone to the supermarket, and the children were at school. Janey, sitting bolt upright on a kitchen chair with her wet hair plastered to her head, had refused his offer of coffee and had come straight to the point. She was also, very obviously, on Thea’s side.
“So what you’re telling me,” said Guy evenly, “is that your mother has been having an affair with my father. They’ve practically been living together. And you knew all about it.”
He was clearly angry. And Thea had been right, thought Janey. The fact that Oliver was dead wasn’t what was bothering him. The anger was directed solely at her. “I found out about it, yes.” Struggling to curb her impatience, she pushed a damp strand of hair away from her eye. “But is that really important? OK, so you had a quarrel with him years ago, but that’s over now. Guy, your father died last night. Josh and Ella will be upset even if you aren’t.”
“You knew where he was all the time.” It was as if he hadn’t heard her. “And you didn’t tell me
.”
Janey’s dark eyes flashed. The contrast between Thea’s terrible grief and this total lack of concern couldn’t have been more marked. “I thought about telling you,” she said coldly. “And I decided against it. I’m glad now that I did.”
“Did what?” Maxine, buckling under the weight of six shopping bags, and even more sodden and bedraggled than Janey, appeared in the doorway. “Am I interrupting something personal here?” Her eyebrows creased in suspicion. “Are you talking about me?”
Guy, assuming that Maxine was in on it too, didn’t say anything.
“Oliver Cassidy died last night,” Janey told her.
“Oh my God, you’re not serious!” For a moment, Maxine looked as if she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. One of the shopping bags dropped to the floor with an ominous crash.
“No, it’s a joke,” snapped Guy.
“So he wasn’t lying,” Maxine wailed. “I knew he wouldn’t lie to me! Bloody Bruno…!”
“What?” Guy demanded, sensing that he hadn’t heard anything yet. He glared at Maxine. “Come on, out with it! What else has been going on that I don’t know about?”
“Jesus,” he sighed, when she had finished telling him.
“Oh, calm down.” Maxine, having rummaged energetically through every bag, finally located the chocolate cookies. “He’s dead now, so what does it matter? I’m just glad I let him see the kids,” she added with renewed defiance. “Go on. Have a cookie.”
It was like a jigsaw puzzle, thought Guy. Everyone had been holding different pieces. Maxine’s story was clearly news to Janey.
But the oddness of Janey’s presence in the house had apparently only just struck Maxine. Turning to her sister and speaking through a mouthful of cookie, she said, “I don’t understand. Why are you here?”
“Janey came to tell me about my father.” Guy couldn’t resist it. It was, he decided, his turn to spring a surprise.
Maxine frowned. “But how did she know?”
“Your mother sent her over here.” His eyes glittered with malicious pleasure. “My father, you see, was in her bed when he died.”
• • •
The funeral took place three days later. With typical thoroughness and attention to detail, Oliver Cassidy had made all the arrangements himself. Even he, however, hadn’t been able to organize the weather, which had gone from bad to atrocious. Trezale churchyard, cruelly exposed to the elements, was awash with freezing rain. The small funeral party had to struggle to stay standing against the force of the bitter, northwesterly gales as Oliver’s coffin was lowered slowly into the ground.
Back at Thea’s house afterward, the sitting room was warm but the atmosphere remained distinctly chilly. Guy, barely speaking to anyone, looked bored. Douglas Burke, Oliver’s lawyer, had traveled down from Bristol to preside over the reading of the will as instructed by his late client and was anxious to get it over with so that he might return home to his extremely pregnant wife. Thea was desperately trying to contain her grief. Only the presence of Ella and Josh, who had insisted on attending the funeral, brightened the proceedings at all.
“At least the food’s cheerful,” Maxine murmured in Janey’s ear. Oliver had organized that too, making a private arrangement with the head chef from the Grand Rock, where he had retained a room until the end, though seldom visiting it. The hors d’oeuvres, arranged on silver platters, were ludicrously over the top; each stuffed cherry tomato had been precision carved, each quail’s egg painstakingly studded with caviar. The sculptured smoked-salmon mousse, a work of art in itself, could have graced a plinth in the Tate Gallery. The champagne was Taittinger.
“There’s only us,” Janey fretted. “It doesn’t seem right, but the lawyer insisted it was what Oliver wanted.”
She had phoned him herself, on her mother’s behalf. Her suggestion that an announcement should be placed in the Telegraph had been firmly rebuffed. Not until after the funeral, Oliver had apparently instructed. He didn’t want his gaggle of ex-wives descending on Trezale and upsetting Thea.
“Look at Guy,” whispered Maxine, giving him a mischievous wink just to annoy him. “Moody sod.”
“I don’t think he’s ever going to speak to me again.” Janey tried to sound as if she couldn’t care less. “He said I’d betrayed him.”
“I suppose we all did.” Maxine grinned. “I still think it’s funny. It was like a mass conspiracy, except none of us realized we were all separately involved.”
“Poor Oliver. Poor Mum.” Janey sighed, toying idly with an asparagus canapé she didn’t have the heart to eat.
“At least you’re back on speaking terms,” Maxine consoled her. “That’s one family feud nipped in the bud. Speaking of which,” she added, “how are things going with you and Alan?”
Speaking of conspiracies, thought Janey drily… Aloud, she said, “Oh, fine.”
• • •
The will reading lasted less than fifteen minutes. Simply and concisely, Oliver had divided his amassed fortune into three equal parts, making Thea, Josh, and Ella instant millionaires. Thea, by this time beyond tears, called Oliver a bastard and said she didn’t want his stinking, lousy, rotten money. Josh and Ella, entranced both by her thrilling choice of words and by the prospect of such unimaginable riches, were less than overjoyed to learn that their own inheritances were to be held in trust until they were twenty-one.
“Bugger,” pouted Ella, because if Thea could swear, so could she. “Twenty-one’s ancient. I’ll be too old to ride a horse by then.”
“Don’t worry.” Maxine, fastening her into her emerald-green coat, winked at Janey. “You’ll be able to treat yourself to a solid-gold walker.”
“Dad didn’t get any money.” Josh looked thoughtful. “Does that mean we’re richer than he is now?”
Guy, darkly handsome and decidedly impatient, was already waiting at the front door to take them home. Janey, pretending she hadn’t noticed him there, bent down and gave Josh a hug. “Probably. Just think, you may have to start giving him pocket money in the future.”
“But only if he makes his bed and washes the car.” Josh beamed at her, highly diverted by the prospect. Then, sounding startled, he said, “Oh!”
His gaze had dropped. He was no longer looking at her face.
Janey, smiling, said, “What?”
“Um…nothing.” Josh’s long-lashed blue eyes clouded with confusion as natural good manners vied with surprise. Tentatively, he reached out and touched the sleeve of her ivory silk shirt. “You’re wearing Mummy’s bracelet, that’s all.”
“Janey!” wailed Ella, barging past and almost knocking him down. “Maxine won’t tell me. What’s a walker?”
Chapter Fifty-Three
It was ten o’clock in the evening by the time Janey let herself into the flat. Alan, for once not out at the surf club, had fallen asleep in front of the television with the gas fire blazing and both living-room windows wide open. Three empty lager cans and the remains of Indian takeout littered the coffee table upon which his feet were propped.
In the dim light, his enviable cheekbones seemed more pronounced, and the corners of his mouth appeared to curve upward as if in secret amusement. His blond hair gleamed, and his eyelashes, not blond but dark, cast twin shadows upon his cheeks. Watching him sleep, Janey wondered how anyone could look so beautiful—almost angelic—and still snore like a pig.
He woke with a start when she switched off the television.
“Oh. You’re back.” Rubbing his eyes, he pushed himself into a sitting position. As Janey bent to pick up the empty cans, he added, “Leave that. I’ll do it in a minute. So how did it go this afternoon?”
“Like a funeral.” Since Alan’s idea of “in a minute” was more like next weekend, she continued piling the empty curry and rice containers onto his dirty plate. In the kitchen, the sink was crammed with more unwashe
d plates and coffee mugs, and the sugar bowl had been tipped over, spilling its contents onto the floor. Sugar crunched beneath her feet as she chucked the lager cans one by one into the bin.
“Don’t worry. I’ll clear it up,” Alan called from the living room. “How’s Thea, OK now?”
“Oh, absolutely fine.” Janey wondered if he had any idea what a stupid question that was. “She’s almost forgotten what he even looked like.”
Alan appeared in the doorway, looking shamefaced. “Hey, no need to snap. You know what I meant.”
“She’ll get through it,” said Janey briefly.
“Come on, sit down and relax. You look exhausted.” He took her hand and the bracelet—Véronique’s bracelet, thought Janey—brushed against his wrist. When Alan had remarked upon it last week, she’d simply told him that it had been a birthday present and he had assumed she’d had it for years.
“So what’s the news?” he asked when Janey had shrugged off her coat. “You said the lawyer was coming down to read the will. That’s unusual nowadays, isn’t it? Did Thea get anything?”
She looked at him. “Any what?”
“Sweetheart, you aren’t even listening to me!” Smiling and shaking his head in gentle reproach, Alan opened another can of lager. “I asked you if he left Thea anything in the will. After all, from what you told me he seemed pretty smitten. The least he could do was show his appreciation with a nice little legacy.”
“He did,” said Janey tonelessly.
“Well, how much?”
“About one and a half.”
“Thousand?” Alan looked faintly disappointed. “That’s not much. I thought he was supposed to be loaded.”
“One and a half million,” said Janey.
• • •
After the endless, churning turmoil of the past weeks, finally making the decision was easy. Having listened to Alan for over an hour now, Janey knew it couldn’t go on any longer. While he had been crowing over her mother’s inheritance and excitedly planning how they should spend the money Thea was bound to hand out to Maxine and herself, she had reached the point of no return. His shameless assumptions both appalled and sickened her. His greed revolted her. The realization that she was about to do what she had told Guy Cassidy she could never risk doing, left her feeling… Well, Janey wasn’t quite sure how she felt; presumably that would come later. Right now, all she had to do was say the words.
