Carrot and Coriander (15 page)
I shake my head. I don’t think I can do this.
“You
can
do it.” I must have been thinking aloud again, or maybe it was my expression doing the talking for me. In any case, Sally’s having none of it. She uses her best teacher voice and sternest expression to spur me into action.
“Just dial, and when someone answers say you want to talk to Mr Stephenson. And when you get him on the line, just say who you are, and that you’ve got his letter. And that you’re puzzled about why this Mr Parrish left anything to you in his will. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but…”
“Yes. So do it. When we’ve heard what he has to say, we’ll think again.”
“It’s a mistake, got to be…”
“Abigail! Dial the bloody number.” Sally has her teacher face on, and voice to match. Feeling not unlike one of her unruly year fives, I give in and obediently start to tap the sequence of numbers into my phone. I have to do it slowly, carefully, but I can manage. After a few seconds, I hear the ringing tone.
At least the number seems genuine.
Barely two rings later the phone is answered, “Good afternoon, Charles Stephenson.”
The crisp, male voice sounds very efficient, very—legal. I’m at a loss what to say now, despite Sally’s coaching.
“I… I…”
“Can I help you?” Mr Stephenson sounds marginally less official now.
“Hello. Yes, er, I— My name’s Abigail Fischer. You wrote to me…” Not terribly articulate. Still, I’m quite relieved to have managed to string a couple of words together.
“Ah, yes, Miss Fischer. Thank you for getting in touch. Yes, you’ve taken some tracking down, I can tell you.”
His tone is becoming chattier by the second. He does indeed sound genuinely pleased to be talking to me. If it weren’t for his comment about tracking me down I might even start to relax, just a little. Even so, maybe I can explain—whatever—and all this will be straightened out. Feeling slightly more confident now, I try for assertive, and failing that, I might settle for polite.
“Mr Stephenson, I think you must be mistaken. I don’t know Mr Parrish. There’s no reason for him to leave me anything in his will. I think you must have got me mixed up with someone else.”
Mr Stephenson seems quite unmoved by that prospect. “We don’t usually get this sort of thing wrong, Miss Fischer, but I do have some checks I could make with you, if that would reassure you at all?”
“Oh, right. Yes please.”
This should settle the matter.
“Your full name is Abigail Louise Fischer?”
“Yes.”
“And you were born in February 1991, the tenth to be exact, at Bradford Royal Infirmary?”
“Yes.” My heart’s sinking now.
“Your mother’s name is—was—Rachel Fischer. I understand she passed away three years ago.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“My condolences for your loss, Miss Fischer. You previously lived on the Ravenscliffe estate in Bradford?”
“I, yes. We did.”
“Then I’m reasonably certain we have the right Abigail Fischer. My client is the executor of the late Mr Parrish’s estate, his nephew, Mr Cain Parrish. Mr Parrish—the executor, not the deceased—asked me to invite you to meet with him and myself, at your convenience. Would you be able to come to our offices in Leeds, Miss Fischer?”
Meeting? Executor? Deceased? Offices in Leeds?
Despite Mr Stephenson’s amiable tone, I am overwhelmed, seized by a blind panic. I hit the ‘end call’ button. I drop my phone onto the desk with a clatter and gaze up at Sally who is just putting the finishing touches to piecing the letter together again. She’s re-attached the halves of the pages with sticky tape. The result is a bit crumpled, but passable I suppose.
“So, what did he say? Are we in the building trade then?” Her smile is bright, expectant.
Is she entirely mad?
I glare at my grinning, deluded friend, my body bristling with hostility and barely repressed panic. Attack is the best form of defense, I’ve heard, so I opt for that as a strategy. “No we’re bloody not. He wants me to go to Leeds to meet him and some other bloke. The nephew of James Parrish.”
“Right. When are you going then?” She’s not letting up.
“I’m not.” Me neither.
“Why not? What do you have to lose apart from your bus fare? You could go and listen to what they have to say. It might all make more sense then.”
I stare at her for a few moments, my sudden rush of angry defensiveness evaporating in the face of the sheer idiotic impossibility of this madness. My elbows propped on the desk in front of me, I cover my face with my hands.
“None of this makes sense, and I can’t see how it ever will. I don’t know anything about building, or about running a business. And I definitely don’t know James Parrish. So no, it stops here.”
I glance up at her as Sally opens her mouth to argue again, no doubt to bombard me further with her brand of supreme good sense. I should listen, hear her out. I should take my time, think this through, try to work out why Mr Parrish wanted me to have a share of his business. There has to be an explanation. But if there is, I don’t want to hear it. The more cornered I feel, the more stubborn I usually become. It’s always been a failing of mine. That and a belief that if I refuse to acknowledge something, tell myself it’s not happening, it will eventually go away. It worked with my leukaemia—it’ll work on Mr bloody Parrish.
I shove my phone back in my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “Look, I’ve got to go. Would you mind telling Dave I didn’t feel well and had to go home early?”
I don’t wait for her answer, but I trust Sally to cover my back at work. I’m out of there, and I deliberately leave the wretched, much abused letter behind on the desk. I want none of it.
About the Author
In 2010, Ashe escaped a career in the public sector and started to write. Now she counts herself one of the lucky few who spend their time doing what they love.
Ashe has been an avid reader of women’s fiction for many years—erotic, historical, contemporary, fantasy, romance—you name it, as long as it’s written by women, for women. Now, at last in control of her own time and working from her home in rural West Yorkshire, she has been able to realize her dream of writing erotic romance herself.
She likes to write about people, relationships, and the general cock-up and mayhem that is most of our lives. She often writes about places she’s known but her stories of love, challenge, resilience and compassion are the conjurings of her own imagination, with a hefty dose of kink to keep it interesting. We all need to have a hobby.
Ashe loves to craft strong, enigmatic men and bright, sassy women to give them a hard time—in every sense of the word.
When she’s not writing, Ashe’s time is divided between her role as resident taxi driver for her teenage daughter, and caring for a menagerie of dogs, rabbits, tortoises, and Colin the hamster.
Email:
[email protected]
Ashe loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at
http://www.totallybound.com
Also by Ashe Barker
What’s Her Secret?: The Three Rs
Totally Bound Publishing
