The Inheritance (21 page)

Her attention was caught by an item in Baz Bamigboye’s gossip column about Tatiana Flint-Hamilton and her latest squeeze, described as ‘City whizz-kid, Marco Gianotti’. Whizz-kid or not, judging by the picture of the two of them leaving Annabel’s arm in arm, he was certainly very good looking. How odd it must be for Tatiana, flitting between her two lives as village primary schoolteacher and ‘It girl’ about town. The former took up considerably more of her time than the latter, but clearly someone at the
Daily Mail
believed that Tati’s photograph could still sell newspapers.

‘What are you doing down here on your own?’

Brett appeared out of nowhere. Angela hastily folded the paper and put it aside. Tatiana Flint-Hamilton was not a subject likely to be conducive to marital harmony. In white linen shorts and an open-necked, cornflower-blue polo shirt, Brett looked fit and tanned, far younger than his forty-five years. Angela had never stopped wanting him, even after all the storms and heartaches of their marriage.

‘You startled me.’

He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Come up and join the party. Jeremy and Miriam just sat down to breakfast.’

Angela folded her newspaper disapprovingly. ‘All the more reason for me to stay down here. Poor Rachel. She’d be horrified if she knew.’

Brett rolled his eyes. ‘You’re not still on about that, are you?’

Rachel and Jeremy Curzon were old friends from Hong Kong. The Curzons had married the same year as Angela and Brett, and the couples became instant friends. This was back in the early days of Cranley Estates, when they were all still in their twenties. Then, last year, Jeremy had walked out on Rachel and their four children and set up home with a twenty-four-year-old Persian model named Miriam Kashani. Angela had choked on her cornflakes when Brett announced he’d invited the two of them on the yacht for a week.

‘Jeremy and Rachel are separated,’ Brett said wearily.

‘So?’

‘They’ll be divorced by Christmas, Ange. It’s not like Rachel doesn’t know the marriage is over.’

‘Yes, and why is it over? Because of that bloody tart,’ Angela said angrily. ‘And you expect me to have breakfast with her? Make small talk over the frittatas, as if I approve?’

‘You don’t have to approve,’ said Brett gently. ‘You just don’t have to
dis
approve quite so pointedly. After all, it’s not going to change anything, is it?’

No. I suppose it isn’t.

Angela closed her eyes. Brett was massaging her shoulders, being unusually affectionate. She didn’t want to start the holiday off by fighting with him.

‘Besides,’ he said smoothly. ‘
I’d
like to have breakfast with my wife. Especially as you’re sodding off to the mainland without me later.’

Angela had quite forgotten. It was market day today, a jolly affair in the Place des Lices. Local artisans sold everything from soap to hand-sewn baby clothes, lavender oil and stinky, unpasteurized cheeses. Over the years they’d been coming to St Tropez, Angela had scored some surprising bargains at the market, including kilim rugs and antique jewellery. She adored pottering around the square, soaking up the atmosphere of France and the local flavour of the Var, but Brett had always hated it.

‘Who wants to waste time on bloody tourist tat when you could be enjoying a nice cold flute of Bollinger at Nikki Beach?’

They had long ago made a pact to split up on market day, regrouping in the evening for dinner on the yacht, mutually refreshed after a day pursuing their respective pleasures.

Cheered by the prospect of a whole day in town to herself, Angela agreed to join Brett for breakfast.

‘I suppose I can manage a slice of toast. But I’m not sitting next to Miriam.’

‘Damn right,’ said Brett, kissing her. ‘You’re sitting next to me.’

A few hours later, weaving her way aimlessly through the market stalls, Angela felt deeply happy. Breakfast had not been the ordeal she’d expected. Jeremy’s mistress had had the good sense to keep her head down and contribute little or nothing to the conversation. And the other guests had been good company, Johnny Gassingham in particular regaling the table with hilarious stories of his recent trip to India, where he’d somehow managed to fall foul of local police and get himself arrested for shoplifting. (Worth comfortably north of a hundred million, Johnny was apparently suspected of stealing a banana.)

More importantly, Brett had gone out of his way to make her feel comfortable and happy. One of the reasons Angela had always disliked St Tropez in the past was that it seemed to bring out the very worst, most insecure side of her husband’s nature. Brett became louder, brasher, more bullying, less considerate from the moment they set foot on the yacht. But this time he seemed genuinely to be making an effort. He’d even arranged for Logan to spend the day at Luna Park, a local funfair, so she wouldn’t be bored while her mother was in town.

Picking up a beautiful lace tablecloth, Angela began to haggle with the stallholder in broken French. It took a few minutes to agree on a price. Reaching into her wicker shopping basket for her purse, Angela’s stomach suddenly lurched.

‘Oh god,’ she blanched. ‘It’s gone! Someone’s taken it.’

The woman stallholder looked at her curiously.

‘
Voleur
,’ said Angela. ‘
Mon sac à main
. Stolen.
Volé
.
Vous avez vu quelqu’un?
’

The woman shook her head. Angela tried not to be suspicious, but one read so many stories about sellers at French markets being in cahoots with local pickpocketing gangs. There wasn’t much cash in her purse, but she felt quite sick. Violated, as if the beautiful rose she’d just been smelling and admiring had suddenly erupted with maggots.

Pushing through the crowds, she made her way back to the harbour. She was about to call Brett and have one of the tenders come and pick her up when she caught sight of Danny Michaels, one of
Lady A
’s crewmembers.

‘Danny!’

‘Mrs Cranley! I thought you were at the market.’

The boy seemed unaccountably nervous.

‘I was.’ Angela told him what had happened. ‘It’s lucky you’re here. You can take me back to the boat. Come to think of it, why
are
you here?’

‘I was dropping the other guests off, ma’am. The ladies have all got spa appointments at the Byblos and the gentlemen are lunching at the beach.’

‘And my husband?’

‘Mr Cranley … er … Mr Cranley is still on board. I believe.’

Working
,
thought Angela. You couldn’t part Brett from his precious deals for long, not even here.

‘OK. Well let’s head back. I’ll cancel my cards and get some cash, and then you can bring me back to town again.’

The boy hesitated. ‘Shouldn’t we tell the local police first? As we’re here.’

‘Oh, they’re not going to do anything,’ Angela said dismissively. ‘One more robbed tourist. They couldn’t care less.’

‘Still,’ Danny persisted. ‘If no one reports these guys, it’s hopeless, isn’t it? They can act with impunity.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Angela. ‘But I really don’t feel like trudging up to the gendarmerie. I’ll call them from the yacht.’ Stepping past him, she began to climb down into the waiting speedboat. ‘Better yet, I’ll get Brett to do it. He’s bound to have more joy than I am. The French are such sexists, they won’t take a woman seriously.’

Danny stood frozen on the dock for a moment, as if unsure what to do next. Angela looked at him curiously.

‘Is something the matter?’

‘No, Mrs Cranley.’

‘Well come on then!’ Angela laughed. ‘I don’t know how to pilot one of these things by myself. The sooner we get back to the yacht, the sooner we can turn around again.’

The boy climbed in and started the engine.

Five minutes later, Angela was climbing the stairs up to the
Lady A
’s lower deck and the entrance to the family living quarters. Dropping her basket in the TV room, she headed towards the study.

‘Brett?’

No answer. Pushing open the door she saw his computer open on the desk, but he wasn’t there.

Everything on the boat was quiet. Danny must have been wrong. Had Brett joined the others for lunch at the beach after all? Walking down the corridor, she opened the door to the master suite.

‘Oh my
God.
’

At first she thought she was seeing things.
It can’t be her. Not here!
She closed her eyes and opened them again, but the apparition was still there, sprawled out on the bed in a pair of tiny Agent Provocateur knickers.

Tricia Hong, Brett’s mistress from Australia, was exactly as Angela remembered her. The same tiny, gym-toned body, the same smooth golden skin and silken black hair, the same tiny, perky breasts like two glued-on apples. And the same ruthless look of naked hatred in her beautiful, snake-like eyes.

Tricia neither moved nor spoke. Both women remained frozen, like actresses in a play who’ve forgotten their lines. From the en-suite bathroom, Brett’s voice ricocheted off the walls like a stray bullet.

‘Hold on a minute, angel. I’ll be right there.’

He was opening and closing cabinets.
Looking for a condom
, thought Angela numbly. She should probably scream or cry or throw something, but she was in absolute shock.

How could Tricia be
here
, now, in France? On her boat? In her bedroom? She was supposed to be in Australia, thousands of miles away. There was a time and a place for every enemy, a time and a place where Angela might have felt prepared for such a betrayal. A year ago, back in the Sydney apartment, she could have made sense of it. But not now, not like this. It was like going for a walk down the High Street in Fittlescombe and finding yourself face to face with a tiger. The unexpectedness of the situation almost trumped the fear.

Brett burst into the room, a smile a mile wide plastered across his face. Then he saw Angela.

‘Oh, shit,’ he said quietly. There didn’t seem much else to say.

Ashen-faced, Angela turned and ran staggering down the corridor.

Brett ran after her. ‘Ange wait! Please.’

She quickened her pace. Tears bleared her vision, but she kept going, knocking against the walls as the yacht rocked gently from side to side on the water.

‘Angie!’ Brett grabbed her by the arm. She tried to wrench herself free but his grip was too tight.

‘Let go of me,’ she sobbed.

‘No. I won’t. I can’t. Ange, I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry you did it? Or sorry you got caught?’

‘Both,’ said Brett truthfully.

‘She knew you’d be here! You’ve been in contact.’

Brett said nothing.

‘Oh my God,’ Angela shook her head in disbelief. ‘Did you fly her out here?’

Again Brett didn’t deny it.

‘You
planned
this.’

The pennies dropped one by one, like acid on Angela’s skin.

‘Look, Ange, she called me. She was relentless. I know it was stupid of me and weak. She doesn’t mean anything to me.’

‘I have to get out of here,’ Angela said quietly.

‘Please! Don’t go. I don’t mean anything to her either, and that’s the truth. She’s got a new boyfriend. They’re getting married …’

Angela put her hands over her ears and screwed her eyes up tight, like a child hiding from monsters under the bed.

‘Stop!’ she begged him. ‘I don’t want to hear it. I’ll check into a hotel. You can have Hannah send a bag over later.’

‘Please don’t!’ Brett pleaded. He knew it had been madness to fly Tricia over. But the week she’d called him in London, he’d been so whipsawed with anger and frustration over Tati Flint-Hamilton, his reserves of self-control had been low. And then he’d got the pictures texted to his phone: Tricia, her legs spread and lips parted, staring right into the camera, right into his eyes. The ticket was booked, the deed done. He’d genuinely believed Ange would never find out.

He grasped at straws, desperate to stop Angela from leaving. ‘What about Logan? What will I tell her?’

Angela hesitated. She’d completely forgotten about their daughter. That complicated things. She needed to be alone, to think. But she couldn’t very well abandon Logie without any explanation. Her mind was racing so fast, it was hard to make any rational decisions.

‘Just tell her I’ve gone on a trip and I’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Will you?’

There was no mistaking the vulnerability in Brett’s voice. The need. Despite herself, Angela felt the tug at her heartstrings. But she was tired of being Brett’s mother, his security blanket, tired of being the one whose job it was to forgive and forgive and forgive.
He
was the one who’d betrayed
her.
This was
her
time to be comforted and cherished, not his.

‘Yes.’

His shoulders sagged with relief.

‘For Logan, not for you,’ Angela added sharply. ‘I want you gone by the time I get back, Brett.’

Brett nodded. ‘OK.’ He was hardly in a position to argue with her. ‘I’ll go back to London. Tell Logan it’s a business trip.’

‘Good.’

‘What about our guests?’

Angela grimaced. ‘I suppose they’ll have to stay. I can’t very well kick them out with no explanation. But they’re going to have to fend for themselves. I’m not in the mood for entertaining.’

‘I truly am sorry, Ange.’ Brett tried to touch her shoulder but she shrugged him off. ‘It’s you I love. You do know that, right?’

With as much dignity as she could muster, Angela walked away.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Angela checked into Le Yaca hotel. She’d just been handed her keys and was heading for the lift when she caught sight of Didier Lemprière, the French lawyer who’d been one of the guests at last night’s dinner aboard
Lady A
.

Damn it
, thought Angela. She vaguely remembered having liked Didier. He’d been more normal and low-key than most of the show-offs Brett had invited. Among other things he’d told a very funny story involving a camper van and a corpse that had reduced everyone to tears of laughter. But she was in no mood for small talk this evening.