The Inheritance (30 page)

As soon as she’d said it she felt guilty. Tatiana liked Angela Cranley. She liked Logan and Jason too, and felt bad using them as verbal weapons. It was only Brett she had a problem with. What had happened between the two of them last year should never have happened. As far as Tatiana knew, nobody knew about it, and she vowed to keep it that way. Just because Brett wound her up about her love life, it didn’t mean she should sink to his level. But that was what Brett did to her, every time they met: pulled her down to his level. With Brett Cranley she was the worst version of herself.

‘I’m not playing at anything.’ Brett spoke through gritted teeth. He was standing very close to her now. Tatiana could feel the anger coming off his body like heat rising from scorched earth. ‘I love my family.’

‘Uh huh,’ said Tatiana, deliberately echoing Brett’s sneering cynicism about Marco.

‘At least I have a family to love,’ Brett snapped. ‘What do you have, Tatiana? An invisible boyfriend and a job at a school. Bully for you.’

For a moment, they stood in silence. Brett knew he was being a jerk. That it was only sexual jealousy and the pain of rejection that were making him lash out. But he couldn’t seem to help himself.

Tatiana felt his eyes boring into her, stripping her down to nothing, to her soul. She looked away. At that moment Angela Cranley walked over, sliding an arm around Brett’s waist.

‘There you are!’ she kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’ve been hunting for you for ages. It’s time to cut the cake and make the speeches.’

‘Right,’ said Brett, staring at the ground.

‘Oh, hello, Tatiana.’ Angela’s smile was so genuine, Tati felt even guiltier. ‘Are you having a nice time?’

‘Lovely, thank you.’

‘I’m so pleased you were able to make it. Pleased you two are burying the hatchet as well.’ She gazed up lovingly at Brett. ‘It’s about time. Now, have either of you seen Jason? For some reason, I can never seem to get the men in my family in the same place at the same time. We’ll be cutting the cake at midnight at this rate.’

‘He was here a few moments ago,’ said Tati. She looked back across the garden. ‘Is that him, talking to Annalise Merrivale?’

‘Bloody gold-digger,’ grumbled Brett, glaring across the lawn at the two of them. Annalise was the very beautiful, very sought-after daughter of the lord lieutenant of Sussex, a frightful old bore by the name of Cedric Merrivale. ‘She’s only talking to Jason because she knows he just came into his trust fund.’

‘Or
maybe
it’s because it’s Jason’s birthday party, and she likes him?’ Tati couldn’t resist observing sharply. ‘Not everyone thinks of nothing but money.’

‘Come on,’ said Angela, pulling Brett by the hand before another argument erupted between him and Tatiana. ‘Let’s go and hijack him together, before I lose one or both of you again.’

The speeches were mercifully short. Jason gave a shy, stammering toast of thanks to the guests for coming and his parents for laying on such a fabulous spread, while Annalise Merrivale hovered proprietorially behind him. Angela said a few words about how proud she was of her darling boy, tearing up almost immediately, and Brett told a couple of blue Aussie jokes that went down remarkably well, probably because ninety per cent of his audience were three sheets to the wind.

‘Bloody crass.’ Dylan Pritchard Jones, sober and in a foul mood, whispered in Maisie’s ear after the roars of laughter subsided. ‘Cranley should know better in mixed company. There are children and old people here.’

‘Oh, do pull the stick out of your arse,’ said Maisie, slightly more loudly than she’d meant to, triggering sniggers from Santiago de la Cruz, the famous local cricketer, and his fiancée Penny, who were standing next to them.

‘Maisie!’ Dylan flushed indignantly.

‘Sorry, darling. But you can be such a teacher sometimes. Try and relax and enjoy yourself.’

‘Like you, you mean?’ snapped Dylan. ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice you “relaxing” with Danny Cipriani. You made a complete fool of yourself, you know.’

Maisie shot him a look of utter disdain.

‘Bugger off Dylan,’ she said roundly, and stormed off.

‘Dear oh dear.’ Gabe Baxter, a late arrival, appeared at Dylan’s shoulder like an unwelcome ghost. ‘Trouble in paradise?’

Despite being teammates from the village cricket eleven, there was no love lost between Gabe and Dylan.

‘Sod off, Baxter,’ Dylan snapped back. ‘I saw Chumley, the new bank manager, at the bar earlier. You’d better make a run for it, before he repossesses your dinner jacket.’

Gabe’s financial troubles were well known in the village. Only last week he and Laura had had a furious row in The Fox, which ended in Laura storming out in tears and Gabe lashing out and causing a few hundred quids’ worth of damage with a bar stool. Everybody in Fittlescombe knew that Gabe had overstretched himself to buy that huge chunk of the Furlings estate the year before ago. Now, mortgaged to the hilt, and under pressure to pay for private IVF for Laura, who still hadn’t succeeded in getting pregnant, Gabe could barely afford to keep himself in baked beans.

‘Go after your wife,’ he told Dylan, choosing to ignore the jibe. Dick-Hard Jones was an arsehole, but his wife Maisie was sweet.

‘Why should I?’ Dylan pouted. ‘She was flirting outrageously with that little oik.’

‘So what?’ said Gabe. ‘You’re the worst flirt in Fittlescombe.’

‘Second worst.’ Dylan looked at Gabe meaningfully. ‘Talk about pot calling the kettle.’

‘Whatever. Maisie’s a bloody good wife to you and you know it. More importantly, if you don’t go after her, the next time you’ll see her she’ll be in
Heat
magazine, falling out of China White at four in the morning with her knickers round her ankles and rugby boy in tow.’

Dylan hesitated, glared at Gabe, then hurried up the hill towards the house.

‘Maisie! Maisie! Wait!’

His voice was swallowed by the roar of chopper blades overhead.

Gabe looked up.

‘Who do you think that is?’ he asked Laura, who’d returned from the bar to join him with two flutes of champagne. They were late because they’d had yet another row, followed by incredible make-up sex on the dilapidated farmhouse stairs.

‘Paparazzi I should think,’ said Laura, kissing him. She knew she looked flushed and dishevelled in a green taffeta evening gown that was a good decade past its prime, but she was too happy and sated to care. ‘Trying to get a shot of David Beckham’s new mistress, I imagine.
Alleged
mistress, I mean,’ she added with a wink.

‘The
Sports Illustrated
chick?’ Gabe brightened visibly. ‘Really? Is she here?’

Laura sighed. You couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks. Even if it was your dog.

‘Yes, darling. She was in the Ladies’ loo a few minutes ago, boosting the Colombian economy. Either that or she’d had a serious accident with the talcum powder.’

Gabe grinned and hugged his wife tightly.

As the chopper noise faded, Logan Cranley sauntered over, doing her best ‘grown-up’ impression in a stunning,
very
short red dress.

‘Logan.’ Laura’s eyes widened. ‘I hardly recognized you.’

Over the past year Logan had become a semi-regular presence over at Wraggsbottom Farm, often popping in to ‘help’ or chat just when Laura was finally sitting down to write, or about to make an important telephone call to a producer in London. It was hard enough to carve out any time in the day for her own career. Life as a farmer’s wife, especially a poor farmer’s wife, meant early starts and constant mucking-in. Having to deal with Gabe’s pre-teen groupies didn’t make life any easier. But Logan was a sweet girl at heart, affectionate and funny and, Laura sensed, a bit isolated up at the big house with only her mother and much older brother for company. She felt sorry for her, and liked her, despite her all too obvious passion for Gabriel.

‘My goodness, you look gorgeous.’

‘Thanks.’ Logan smiled.

‘Doesn’t she, Gabe?’

‘Mmm.’ Gabe nodded. ‘Very sophisticated.’

The smile turned into a mile-wide grin. ‘It’s Topshop.’ She tossed her long dark hair back with a devil-may-care insouciance that she hoped made her look like Selena Gomez. ‘Mum thinks it’s too short, but I like it.’

I’ll bet she does
,
thought Laura.

‘Can I have a sip of your champagne?’

‘No,’ said Laura.

‘Sure,’ said Gabe simultaneously, earning himself a reproachful look from his wife and an adoring one from Logan.

‘She’s eleven!’ Laura protested.

‘Nearly twelve,’ Logan corrected.

‘It’s only a sip,’ said Gabe. He handed Logan his glass. Laura could have sworn the girl’s hands were shaking as she tasted the forbidden bubbles. Or perhaps it wasn’t the champagne that was exciting her?

‘Thanks,’ Logan handed the glass back. ‘I’ll see you both later.’

‘You encourage her,’ said Laura to Gabe, once she’d gone. ‘You do know that, right?’

Gabe nuzzled into his wife’s neck. Sex earlier had been amazing, and a much-needed stress reliever. They were fighting too much. Gabe hated it. He shuddered to think where he’d be without Laura. ‘Why don’t
you
encourage
me
?’ he whispered, sliding a hand down over Laura’s taffeta-clad bottom. ‘Just a little bit.’

‘Get
off
!’ she slapped him away.

‘Come on,’ teased Gabe. ‘You know you want to.’

And of course Laura did.

On the verandah, where the cake was being dissected into slices and handed out, Jason Cranley pulled his mother aside.

‘I’ve hardly spoken to you all evening,’ he said, leaning back against the wall and feeling the cool bricks through the cotton of his dress shirt. He’d been dancing, very unusually for him, with Annalise and some other girls, and had discarded his DJ and bow tie somewhere in the vicinity of the dance floor. His blond hair was spiked upwards with sweat and his cheeks were flushed. Angela remembered this look from his boyhood, running to the car after soccer matches or cross-country runs, invariably the loser, but always cheerful in those days, before his teens and the depression that had blighted all their lives. She felt a pang of love for him so sudden and deep that it made her clutch her chest.

‘I can’t believe you’re twenty-one,’ she sighed. ‘A grown man.’

‘You’re not going to blub again, are you?’ teased Jason.

‘No,’ said Angela, brushing away tears.

‘Listen Mum,’ said Jason, suddenly serious. ‘I want you to know I love you. And I’m really, really grateful for tonight. It’s been amazing.’

‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it,’ said Angela, slightly nervously. There was something about his solemn tone that she found jarring.

‘I love you,’ Jason said again, this time hugging her tightly.

Angela frowned. ‘Is everything all right, Jase?’

‘Of course,’ he laughed, releasing her.

‘You’re quite sure? You’d tell me if something was the matter?’

‘Nothing’s the matter, Mother,’ he assured her. Gringo, the family basset hound, picked the perfect moment to wander over, tail wagging, with the remnants of a priceless silk cushion wedged between his teeth. Seeing his mother about to explode, Jason grabbed the dog by its collar. ‘I’ll deal with this,’ he said. ‘You’d better go and rescue Dad.’

‘What do you mean, rescue him?’

Jason pointed outside, to where Brett was standing by the bar, surrounded by a gaggle of local mothers from the church committee, no doubt hitting him up for a new roof. ‘Come on, Gringo. Let’s find you something to eat that’s made of food, fella.’

Angela watched as Jason disappeared inside, with Gringo trotting merrily at his heels.

Banishing her worries, she headed back outside.

The party rumbled on into the night. At around midnight, Gabe Baxter began looking around for Laura, wondering if they ought to make a move. He realized guiltily that he hadn’t seen his wife for almost an hour, and hoped she was OK. She’d commented earlier that one of the few advantages of finding you were
not
pregnant, yet again, was that you could drink as much as you liked at parties. Gabe suspected that Brett Cranley’s assertion that it was impossible to get a hangover on really good vintage wine was going to be put to the test tomorrow morning at Wraggsbottom Farm.

He collared Max Bingley. ‘Have you seen my Laura recently? I can’t find her.’

‘She was on her way up to the bathroom about fifteen minutes ago,’ said Max. ‘She looked a bit green round the gills to be honest,’ he added. ‘I daresay she was after some Alka-Seltzer.’

Gabe weaved his way upstairs and along a winding corridor that led to a series of bedrooms. He’d been to numerous Furlings’ parties over the years, but unfortunately he’d been drunk at all of them, so had no idea which door might lead to a bathroom.

‘Laura? Are you up here?’

Opening the first door on his right, he was greeted by an ear-piercing scream. Emma Harwich, stark naked and sprawled out on a four-poster bed, was going at it hammer and tongs with an older, blond man whom Gabe vaguely recognized.

Wasn’t he one of Brett Cranley’s business partners? And didn’t he have a wife downstairs?

‘Sorry,’ Gabe mumbled, hastily shutting the door.

After that he started knocking before he tried different rooms, calling out Laura’s name, but no joy. At last he found a bathroom, with a packet of Alka-Seltzer open next to the sink, beside an empty bottle of prescription pills. Curious, Gabe read the label.

Lexapro.
Wasn’t that an antidepressant?

He saw that they were Jason Cranley’s.

‘I’m in here.’ Laura’s voice drifted through from an adjoining bedroom. Gabe found her perched on the edge of a neatly made bed. Not drunk, as it happened, but looking anxious. She was holding some sort of paper in her hands.

‘You all right?’ he asked her. ‘I was thinking about going home. Max Bingley said you weren’t feeling too chipper.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Laura. ‘But I’m not sure Jason Cranley is. Look at this.’

Gabe sat down next to her as she handed him what she’d been holding – two sealed envelopes, one addressed to ‘Mum’ and the other to ‘Dad’.