The Billionaire’s Curse (3 page)

A sort of soft squeak emerged from behind her handkerchief. Vi’s shoulders heaved in spasms.

“Um…Dad?” Gerald said.

Gerald’s father was a large man with sparse red hair. His watery eyes sat like underpoached eggs on the front of his head, which, combined with a long blotchy nose that looked like someone had squeezed a raw sausage, gave him a face that resembled an uncooked breakfast.

“What is it, Dad?”

“Gerald,” Eddie Wilkins said at last, “I’m afraid I’ve got some news.” He stood up and took a step toward his son. “It’s about your great-aunt Geraldine, back in London.”

“Yeah, what about her?” Gerald asked, jiggling his head to get his thoughts straight. This is a bit random, isn’t it? The last day of school; I’m going to the snow with Ox tomorrow. Why are we here talking about Mum’s ancient aunt?

“Well,” his father said. “There’s been a phone call, and she’s…um…passed away.”

Gerald’s expression didn’t change. “And this affects me how?” he asked, not liking the direction things were going.

“I’m afraid your trip with Oswald will have to wait, son. We’ve got a funeral to go to.”

Gerald’s heart sank.

“Dead!”

The word shot from his mother’s mouth like a bullet.

Both Eddie and Gerald jumped at the noise. So did Mr. Atkinson, who had been listening with interest from across the room. The three of them stared at Violet as she lifted her face from her handkerchief. Tears streamed down her cheeks, streaking mascara in their path.

“I can’t believe she’s dead!”

Vi’s mouth tightened at the corners, then she sobbed:

“Isn’t it just…wonderful!”

In all his life, Gerald had never seen his mother look quite so happy.

G
erald nestled into the airplane seat and munched on some peanuts. He gazed out the window at the city of Sydney disappearing beneath him as the jet climbed into the sky. He knew that somewhere down there Ox and his family were stuffing last-minute things into bags as they prepared for the long drive to Charlotte Pass in the Australian Alps. A journey they would now make without him. He dragged out his beaten backpack, pulled out his notebook, and began doodling.

Seated across from him, his parents were deep in discussion. His mother seemed particularly agitated.

“Mum?” Gerald said.

“…which is why I don’t trust any of them, Eddie. That’s why I’ve asked for all the locks to be changed.”

“Mum?”

“I will not leave anything to chance. The Lord only knows I’ve waited years for this, and it’s not going to fall over now for the want of a bit of planning.”

“Mum!”

Vi exhaled as she turned to face her son.

“For pity’s sake, Gerald. It’s going to be a long enough day without you whining all the time. Keep quiet. Your father and I have important things to discuss.”

With that, Vi turned back to resume her one-sided conversation.

Gerald flopped back into his seat. This holiday wasn’t turning out the way he’d imagined at all. He was supposed to be trying out his new snowboard with Ox—they’d been planning it all year. But now he was on his way to England for the funeral of some great-aunt that he’d never even met. And then there was the little matter of the plane they were flying in. Long-haul flights are cramped and noisy and smelly and plain awful. So why, Gerald wondered, was he cradled deep in a soft leather armchair aboard a private jet? An enormous, luxurious Airbus A380 Flying Palace, on which, from what Gerald could see, he and his parents were the only passengers.

“Another drink, sir?”

Gerald was shaken from his thoughts by the flight attendant, who was carrying a tray of bottles and various multicolored snacks in packets. He was a robust, barrel-chested Englishman with a bushy moustache and a manner as starchy as his shirt. His short dark hair was parted in the middle and held in place with a slick of oil.

“I do beg sir’s pardon,” the attendant said, “but would sir care for some refreshment prior to luncheon?” The offer was delivered with the warmth of day-old porridge.

Gerald blinked up at the man, then shook his head. The plane had been in the air for barely an hour and already Gerald could tell that the flight attendant hated him. The Englishman affected a glazed response, then turned to Gerald’s mother.

“Some more champagne, madam?” he asked in an ingratiating tone.

Vi smiled at him. “Why thank you, Mr. Fry. That would be simply marvelous.”

Gerald hadn’t been able to break into his parents’ conversation to find out why a private Airbus was taking them to his great-aunt’s funeral. He had no idea how they could possibly afford the flight. His father was always complaining about the meager state of their savings. The sudden interest in family matters was another mystery. Gerald and his parents had emigrated from England when he was six months old. In all the years since, not one of his relatives had come out to visit them. He’d never even seen his great-aunt and now he had to miss out on snowboarding to go to her funeral.

Gerald tossed aside a gridlike pattern of squares and rectangles he had been doodling in his notebook and turned his attention to a copy of
Oi!
magazine that his mother had discarded. A line on the cover read: “The lowdown on London’s high life.” It contained page after page of photographs and gossip about the social lives of people he had never heard of.

He was about to dump it when a photo caught his eye. Under the heading “About Town” was a picture of an old man and a woman at some official function. The man wore a black dinner suit with white gloves and held what looked like a large glass egg. Gerald didn’t recognize him, but the woman was a different matter. She bore a striking resemblance to…his mother! He read the caption:

Gerald was astonished. Her hair was white and her chin sagged, but there was no mistaking it—the woman in the photo looked like an older version of his mother. He flipped to the cover. It was dated a week ago. He got out of his seat, waving the magazine at his father.

“Hey, Dad! Is this Great-Aunt Geraldine?”

Vi intercepted the magazine before Eddie could take it.

She looked at the page.

“Yes, that’s her,” she sighed. “More of her charities.”

Gerald caught the magazine on his chest as it was flung back. He looked again at the photograph of his great-aunt and then back at his parents, who had returned to their squabbling. He tore out the page and stuffed it into his jeans pocket.

“I’m going to the toilet,” he mumbled, and wandered toward the rear of the jet. Despite being irritated by his parents’ weird behavior and the grim start to his holidays, Gerald couldn’t help being impressed by his lavish surroundings. This certainly wasn’t like any plane he’d ever seen.

He walked by a cluster of leather armchairs positioned around a fully stocked bar, then past a lounge area complete with cinema seating in front of a huge flat-screen TV on the wall. Further on was a dining table big enough to seat a dozen people, already laid out with white linen and crystal stemware for lunch. Everything was smooth edges and sweeping designs—like something from those “house of the future” shows on TV. Beyond the dining area and to one side was a galley kitchen hidden behind heavy blue curtains, from which came the rattle of dishes. A rich aroma of something delicious wafted from within.

The thrum of the jet engines grew a little louder as Gerald neared the tail. At the rear of the plane, his path was blocked by an enormous set of black lacquered doors that stretched the width of the jet. They were inlaid with cherry-stained wood in a pattern depicting a man with a bow and arrow set against a radiant sun. Gerald ran his fingers across the smooth wood and marveled at the perfect fit of the inlay into the dark paneling. It made his woodwork projects at school look pretty lame. He glanced back over his shoulder, but there was no one around. He turned a golden door handle and slipped inside.

Gerald stood still as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. After a moment he let out a low whistle. He was standing in a fully kitted-out bedroom suite, complete with a king-size bed bearing an enormous midnight-blue quilt, sewn in gold cloth with the same elaborate archer design that was on the doors. The dark ceiling was speckled with pinholes of light that gave the impression that the bed was in the middle of the outback under a star-filled night sky. Gerald recognized his mother’s overnight bag on the floor by the bed and what looked very much like her pajamas laid out on a blue velvet couch at the far end of the suite.

“I guess I’m sleeping in a chair then,” he grumped. He gave the bag a sulky kick and it toppled onto its side. A few of his mother’s things spilled out. With a groan, Gerald knelt down and scooped up some toiletries and makeup. As he tipped them back into the bag he noticed something in a side pocket. He pulled out a bulky buff-colored envelope about the size of a large notebook. On the front was his mother’s name—Violet Wilkins—in ornate handwriting. Flipping it over, he saw that the flap on the back was sealed with a large splodge of red wax. There was a design pressed into the seal but it was too dark to make it out. Gerald was about to crack open the wax when there was a faint sound behind him. The sound of doors being opened.

Gerald moved quickly. In an instant he had stuffed the envelope back into the side pocket and pushed the bag half under the bed. He jumped up—the moment he regained his feet a stripe of bright light crossed his face as the doors from the main cabin were thrust open. In the doorway was the imposing shape of the flight attendant, Mr. Fry.

“So this is where young sir has been hiding.” The voice dripped with accusation. Fry’s eyes darted around the suite. They came to rest on the overnight bag, lying on its side by Gerald’s feet, half shoved under the bed.

“Tsk, tsk. How did this get under here?” Fry said. He hauled the bag out and settled its contents back into place. He zipped it shut and bent down so he could look Gerald square in the eye.

“Now, will sir be joining his parents for luncheon or does sir have some more snooping to do?”

“I wasn’t snooping!” Gerald protested. “I was looking for the, um, toilet.”

Mr. Fry regarded Gerald as he might a hair floating in his soup.

“Yes, of course sir was.”

Gerald screwed up his face and pushed his way back into the main cabin. He found his parents at the dining table, Vi holding a fresh glass of champagne. Gerald was surprised to see a small balding man sitting opposite his mother. A row of documents was set out in neat piles on the table between them. The man’s head, his shoulders, even his manner, all seemed shrunken. He was dressed in a pale gray suit at least two sizes too large, and he had a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of what could best be described as a beak. In another life, the man could well have been an owl.

Gerald sat next to his father and studied the small man with interest, wondering where he had been until now.

“This must be Gerald,” the man said pleasantly, half standing and extending a tiny hand, which Gerald shook softly for fear of crushing it like a dried leaf.

“Yes, this is him,” Vi said, as if identifying a bag snatcher in a police lineup. “Gerald, this is Mr. Prisk. He’ll be helping us with your great-aunt.”

“What help do we need?” Gerald asked.

Mr. Prisk smiled at him from across the table.

“Gerald, I have been your great-aunt’s solicitor for many years. She left specific instructions in the event of her death—quite specific instructions.”

“Uh…instructions?”

“From what I am told”—the lawyer gave Vi and Eddie some sharp glances—“you are unaware of the extent of the situation.”

Gerald saw an opportunity at last to get some answers. He cleared his throat, and said in his politest voice, “By ‘situation’ do you mean my parents coming to school yesterday to tell me that the high point of my holiday will be going to a funeral? Do you mean being driven home at twice the speed limit, told to pack a bag and get to bed early because we have a flight to catch first thing in the morning? Then today getting picked up in a stretch limo longer than our house and being taken to the airport where no less than a private jet is waiting? Being told to shut up and sit quietly in my seat, where I’m treated like an infestation of head lice by that guy?” Gerald jerked his thumb at Mr. Fry, who was laying out plates of poached salmon on the table, impervious to Gerald’s tirade. “And all the while my mother’s acting like she’s been named the next queen of England. Would that be the ‘situation’ you’re referring to?”

Gerald looked at Mr. Prisk, who had removed his glasses and was cleaning them with a corner of his napkin.

“Gerald!” Vi was livid. Her eyes blazed from beneath her lacquered helmet of hair. “How dare you speak in that tone!”

Gerald crossed his arms and sank back into the chair, glaring at the salmon on his plate, and what looked suspiciously like a thumbprint in the potato mash.

There was an awkward silence, then Mr. Prisk cleared his throat.

“Yes…well, perhaps there are a few questions that need to be answered.” Turning to Vi, he ventured, “Would you like me to provide some family history?”

Gerald’s mother sniffed sharply and drained her champagne glass, which was refilled almost immediately by Mr. Fry, who had been hovering in the background.

“Thank you, Fry. You are a dear,” Vi said.

The attendant bowed low and, with an almost inaudible “Madam is too kind,” withdrew to a serving cart at the rear of the dining area, still within earshot of the conversation around the table.

“Gerald,” Mr. Prisk began, picking up one of the piles of documents on the table and consulting the top sheet through his glasses, “your great-aunt was a most interesting woman.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know. I never even met her,” Gerald said. “But I get to go to her funeral. Oh joy.”

“Gerald!” His mother spluttered through a mouthful of salmon.

Mr. Prisk raised an eyebrow. “Gerald, your great-aunt was a woman of many dimensions,” he continued. “Tomorrow she will be buried in a small cemetery in London. There will be a great number of people there to say their farewells. She was a unique woman.”

“Unique? In what way?”

“Well, Gerald,” Mr. Prisk said, clearing his throat. “There is probably no tactful way of saying this, so I guess I’ll have to say it straight out. Your great-aunt was—”

“Just about the richest woman in the whole world!” burst out Vi with a gleeful shriek. She banged her champagne glass on the table, sending a fountain of bubbles over Mr. Prisk’s papers.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Gerald marveled at how happy his mother looked.