Conditional Love (3 page)

‘A mystery benefactor!’ squealed Jess. ‘How exciting!’

‘Come on, think! A relative, old friend of the family maybe?’ demanded Emma, flapping the letter in front of my face.

I racked my brains and shrugged. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Perhaps they’ve got the wrong person. Unless she’s from my dad’s side of the family.’

I shuddered. If that was the case, there was a whole new set of problems heading my way. Was it bedtime yet? Today had gone on far too long for my liking.

‘Well, at least that solves the issue of dinner,’ announced Emma gleefully, delving into the top drawer for the menus. ‘Takeaway – Sophie’s treat!’

‘Hold on a minute!’ I protested, ignoring for the moment the fact that my heart was practically thumping its way out of my chest. ‘I’ve probably inherited a button tin or a scrapbook or something. I’m not going to count my chickens until I find out what, or even who, I’m dealing with.’

‘Now, now, Sophie, calm down.’ Jess patted my arm and gave me a reproving look. ‘Today has been a difficult day for you. Marc finishing with you on Valentine’s Day is bound to knock your confidence. You’re probably going over and over it in your mind, trying to work out where you went wrong.’

‘Where
she
went wrong?’ screeched Emma. ‘The guy is an idiot! Anyone could see that relationship wasn’t going anywhere. Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? He comes round scrounging for money for a stupid second-hand car business and when she, quite rightly, says no, hey presto, a few days later, he moves on to find some other sucker!’

‘Er, hello, I am here, you know!’

The day was rapidly turning into a farce. All I really wanted was to crawl under the duvet and cry myself to sleep. Was that too much to ask? Now there was this weird letter to deal with, which would probably turn out to be a hoax and in the meantime, Emma and Jess, far from doling out tea and sympathy, were making me feel much worse and forcing me to spend money in a frivolous manner.

‘Sorry, babes. Emma, get the wine out.’ Jess smoothed my curls, in a gentle, motherly way.

That was more like it. A bit of TLC.

‘All I’m saying is that the day might have started badly, but that this letter,’ Jess stabbed at it with a sharp pink nail, ‘might be the start of a whole new adventure.’ She lowered her voice and fixed my eyes with hers. ‘This could be the key to your happiness.’

‘Exactly. So let’s drink to it.’ Emma plonked a large glass of wine in front of me. ‘Come on,’ she added, grimacing at my miserable expression, ‘it’s Valentine’s Day, none of us have got a date and we are the very definition of tragic spinsterhood. You wouldn’t deprive us of a teensy reason to celebrate, would you?’

‘Huh,’ I muttered, ‘you sound like Mum. It’s all very well for you and Jess with your normal family childhood, but growing up with a ‘celebrate each day as if it’s your last’ philosophy is not as easy as you might think. Remember that time I told you about when we had to do a moonlit flit after she’d spent the rent money on tickets to see Take That?’

I sighed. It had been worth it; that concert was one of the best nights of my life.

‘I take exception to being described as normal,’ said Emma haughtily. ‘Anyway, get your purse out, Stone, mine’s a chicken chow mein.’
She handed me the Chinese takeaway menu and stared at me until I caved in and picked up the phone.

three

First into the office for once. Excellent. I could wallow in self-pity, exhaustion and general confusion undisturbed for a few minutes.

I pressed the button marked ‘tea’ and the drinks machine churned out a cup of scalding grey sludge. I took it ungratefully and crossed over to my desk. While the computer was starting up, I checked my phone for the gazillionth time since getting up. Still no texts or voicemails from Marc.

My heart literally ached from missing him so much. Texting him had always been part of my morning routine. He didn’t used to text me back, but it was more difficult for him, in the noisy market, serving customers. He probably couldn’t even hear the phone. A thought struck me suddenly. What if he was missing me? He could be tying himself in knots with regret and was too proud to admit it. I could just send him one short text. Give him the opening he needed.

Emma would absolutely kill me.

I won’t tell her.

‘Huh! Glad to see at least someone at their desk.’

I jumped at the sound of my boss, Donna Parker, head of
The Herald
’s advertising department, striding across the office, her trademark platinum hair glinting like a beacon.

‘You’d better be a bit more focussed today,’ continued Donna, pausing briefly at my desk. ‘You were a complete waste of space yesterday.’

To be honest, I was impressed that she had noticed any difference. Let’s face it, I was never especially enthusiastic.

I immediately started to shuffle a pile of papers on my desk, desperately trying to conceal my mobile. I laughed gaily. ‘Oh yes, Donna, I’m completely on top of everything. Been here ages already.’

Donna raised a perfectly arched eyebrow and bore her skeletal frame onwards towards her office, leaving a trail of Poison behind her – the perfume, that is. I wafted the air in front of my nose. She used it to mask the smell of Benson and Hedges. I didn’t have the guts to tell her it didn’t work.

At least she had gone. On top of the new neat pile of papers was the envelope from the solicitor, reminding me why I was in early.

Receiving that letter was one of the most curious things that had happened to me in years. I would need to ask for some time off to get to the bottom of this Jane Kennedy mystery.

I contemplated my approach. Judging by this morning’s mood, it wasn’t likely to go down well at all.

Coffee. That would soften the blow. I scuttled back to the drinks machine and this time selected the brown sludge labelled Cappuccino.

It would be fair to say that relations between Donna and us, her long-suffering team, didn’t run smoothly. Part-time Maureen referred to her as Cruella de Vil. Jason said she was an acid-tongued, bullying witch who did nothing except wine and dine advertising clients over long lunches. I wasn’t quite so disparaging, although I did see their point. There was a touch of
The
Devil Wears Prada
about her, but I couldn’t help but admire her steely glare; I could never keep it up like she did, day after day.

Donna was in her late fifties and rumour had it that she had clawed her way up from secretary in a time when the newspaper industry was almost exclusively male, lunch was two pints in the Nag’s Head and you couldn’t see from one side of the room to the other through the smoky fug.

That probably explained the ruthless management style and relentless ambition. But Donna seemed permanently stressed and angry. If that was what success did for people, I was happy to be languishing in the ranks of the terminally unambitious.

Knocking and poking my head round the office door failed to draw a response so I coughed and stepped inside. The plastic cup was doing nothing to protect my fingers from its two thousand degree contents.

‘Excuse me, Donna,’ I said, aiming for a recently bereaved tone.

Still nothing.

I placed the scorching hot liquid on the desk in front of her.

‘There’s been a death in the, er…’ Where was the death exactly? Family? Family friend? Friend’s family? I wished I’d rehearsed this properly, I sounded like a contestant in front of Ann Robinson: ‘You are the weakest link, goodbye.’

I tried again.

‘Someone close to me has died and I’ll need some time off this week to sort out the will and everything.’

Not strictly the truth, but I could hardly say I needed time off to see to the affairs of a complete stranger, could I?

‘Oh no!’ muttered Donna, pinching her lips together like a duck-billed platypus. The perfume was even more cloying in this confined space. I could feel my eyes starting to water, which wasn’t altogether a bad thing given the circumstances.

‘Thank you, it has come as a complete shock,’ I began. That bit was certainly true.

‘The restaurant supplement is due to go to print on Friday and we’ve still got five slots to fill, plus the main sponsor is quibbling about his space allocation. This is terrible timing, terrible… If it’s absolutely unavoidable,’ she added sourly, ‘keep it brief and you’ll have to make the time up.’

She fixed me with her beady eyes and flicked her head, indicating that the meeting was over. Sometimes that woman really did herself no favours at all. I dropped back into my chair, clenching my teeth, and reached for the solicitor’s letter.

Five minutes later I had booked an appointment with Mr Whelan for Thursday afternoon.

four

A smiley female receptionist ushered me through to a small office with an exceptionally high ceiling.

‘Mr Whelan will be with you shortly,’ she whispered in hallowed tones, as if I’d been granted an audience with the Pope. She pointed to a chair, swivelled round on her court shoes and left.

I smiled in thanks at the back of the woman’s head.

My nerves were jangling. I pressed my lips together to prevent myself from whistling the theme tune to
Suits
.

I was a solicitor virgin. The experience so far fell somewhere between being summoned to the head teacher’s office and being interviewed by the police. Not that I had ever caused either of those particular institutions any trouble. Even so, I was finding the whole thing extremely nerve-racking.

I wished I’d brought someone with me for moral support. I had toyed with the idea of asking Marc. A good excuse to ring him, I thought. Mind you, he more than likely
would
have had experience of the inside of both head teachers’ offices and police stations, so may well have run a mile.

I dropped my handbag on the floor and clasped my hands together. The desk in front of me was large and old-fashioned with an inset leather blotter and one of those brass reading lamps with a green glass shade. Haphazard piles of manila folders obscured most its surface. Behind the desk was a run of bookcases stuffed to the gunnels with lever arch files. Whoever Mrs Jane Kennedy was, she had certainly picked a very untidy solicitor.

In the centre of the desk lay an open file. I shuffled forward to the edge of my seat and managed to read my own name at the top of the page. I inched closer still, squinting to read more.

‘And you are?’

The deep voice made me jump so much that I panicked, slid off the chair and down onto one knee. Thus greeting the tall, thin man with dark hair, glasses and a bushy beard in some sort of weird marriage proposal stance.

I scrambled up off the floor, mortified, and sat back down. ‘Nothing! Just waiting for Mr Whelan.’

His lips twitched and he gave his beard a scratch.

‘I’m Thomas Whelan.’ He extended a hand towards me. ‘And you are?’

‘Oh! Sophie Stone.’ I took his hand and pulled up the collar of my coat to hide my glowing cheeks.

‘Ah yes,’ he said, settling himself at his desk. He glanced at the file that I’d had been trying to read. ‘You’ve come about your aunt’s will.’

I processed this new information, hitherto unaware I had an aunt. Alive or dead.

‘My aunt?’

Mr Whelan blinked furiously, referred back to the manila file and adjusted his glasses.

‘My apologies, Miss Stone, your great aunt.’

Well, that was that then. She had to be one of my father’s relations. There were definitely no great aunts in Mum’s family. There was no one at all in her family. I sighed. I had been hoping… well, I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d been hoping. Maybe that she was an old lady I’d done a good deed for when I was in the Brownies, or something. Although I couldn’t think what I’d done to warrant a mention in anybody’s will.

But any tenuous link would be better than being a relative of Terry Stone’s. Still, I’d better be absolutely sure.

‘Could you… would you mind just running me through the family tree?’

‘Of course,’ said Mr Whelan, pushing his chair back and standing up abruptly. ‘But first, have you brought your passport?’

I jumped to my feet. ‘Why? Where are we going?’ I had been told on the phone to bring my passport when I arranged the appointment and the request had been troubling me ever since.

‘Only to the photocopier,’ he chuckled. ‘Need to verify you are who you say you are before we continue with the reading of the will.’

Thank heavens for that! I had had visions of having to jump on a plane at a moment’s notice to take ownership of some mystery item.

Identity checks complete, we resumed our positions either side of the desk. The solicitor took off his wristwatch, set it to one side and then, elbows on the desk, clasped his hands together and made a steeple with his forefingers, resting his long nose on the tip.

‘This office holds the last will and testament of Mrs Jane Kennedy. She was Terence Stone’s maternal aunt. Your great aunt.’

I stared at him, mesmerised by the end of his nose which was protruding over his fingers.

I should stop him from going any further. There was no point in hearing what he had to say. My father had been absent for all of my thirty-two years. Mum and I had managed perfectly well without his or his family’s help, thank you very much, and I knew instinctively that she would resent any intervention at this stage in the game. Besides, why would the old dear leave anything to me? It didn’t make sense, we’d never even met.

‘Long and tedious documents, wills.’

My eyes must have glazed over for a moment. I shook myself and Mr Whelan’s eyes twinkled at me.

‘‘There’s been a misunderstanding,’ I said, scooping up my bag as I stood. ‘My mother is estranged from her ex-husband. I’ve never met Jane Kennedy; in fact, I’ve never met my father.’

‘I’m aware of all that,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘However, it falls to me to ensure that you are fully informed as to your inheritance. Please sit.’ He flapped a hand at the empty chair. ‘Would you like me to read the whole thing or cut to the chase?’

I blinked my green eyes at him. Was he allowed to say things like that? I sat back down obediently.