The Inheritance (38 page)

But for once, he listened to Angela when she told him this was impractical.

‘I wouldn’t mind her going to a state school. Brockhurt Comprehensive is actually fine academically. It’s her living back here that’s the problem. She won’t do it.’

‘She’ll do what she’s bloody well told,’ said Brett.

‘It’s all very well saying that,’ Angie sighed. ‘But the fact is, she won’t. She went to Jason and Tatiana’s because she was miserable here after the fire. She can’t face Gabe and Laura, or Seb, or all the whispering in the village. She’s mortified.’

‘As she bloody should be.’

‘I agree,’ said Angela patiently. ‘But if we drag her back, she’ll only do another runner.’

‘Maybe,’ Brett admitted grudgingly. ‘But I don’t like her under that woman’s roof. I don’t like it one bit.’

As ever when Tatiana was mentioned in a conversation, however tangentially, Brett’s temperature started rising. Only by using every ounce of her tact and diplomacy had Angie been able to persuade Brett to allow Logan to stay on at Eaton Gate for now. By shamelessly dropping the Hamilton Hall name, Jason had managed to secure Logan a place at MPW, the famous sixth-form college on Queensgate. It wasn’t a perfect scenario. Privately Angela shared some of Brett’s fears about Logan living with Tati and Jason. What if they let her run wild? If the fire had proven anything, it was that Logan needed boundaries. Jason was depressed, and Tati was always working, which made them far from ideal as parental substitutes to a troubled teenage girl. Plus, if her own teenage years were anything to go by, Tatiana was hardly the best role model for Logan.

Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Jason was convinced Logie had learned her lesson after the accident at Wraggsbottom and turned over a new leaf. And maybe some time alone together at Furlings would help her and Brett to resolve the problems in their marriage?

At five o’clock, tired of gardening and with a sore lower back from so much bending down –
I’m getting old
– Angela decided to take Gringo for a walk. Grabbing the lead from a hook in the kitchen, she waited for the elderly, arthritic basset to waddle over to her, tail wagging excitedly.

‘You’re even older than I am, boy.’ She ruffled his floppy ears affectionately. ‘Don’t worry. We won’t make it a long one.’

It was a pretty afternoon. The air was still warm and the light had faded from its harsh noon brightness to a mellow, honey-coloured glow. Walking down the driveway from Furlings towards the village, Angie could smell wood smoke from the cottage fireplaces. Rooks cawed overhead, and a sweet scent, either honeysuckle or jasmine, wafted over from the hedgerows, mingling with the smell of freshly mown grass from the village green in a heady cocktail. Closing her eyes and breathing in deeply, Angie felt suffused with peace, and gratitude. Whatever mistakes she’d made in her life, whatever heartbreaks she might face, this place remained beautiful and unchanging.

She took a left turn at the start of the High Street, up Foxhole Lane, towards Wraggsbottom Farm. A number of long walks started here, with footpaths snaking up into the Downs, some going almost as far as the coast, although Gringo was too decrepit for such far-flung adventures these days. Taking one of the gentler paths through the woods, towards Brockhurst, Angela soon became lost in a daydream about Australia and her childhood friends. It was only after about twenty minutes that she looked down and realized that Gringo was no longer trotting faithfully at her heels.

Irritated, with herself more than the barmy old basset, she began calling his name, whistling and clapping loudly. The dog was so deaf, he wouldn’t hear her unless she made a serious racket, and even then the odds weren’t good if he’d gone too far.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then an hour. Angela crisscrossed all the paths in the vicinity and had gone twice up to the main road. She’d passed a number of fellow walkers in that time, but none of them had seen Gringo.

It was cooler now, but Angela dripped with sweat, a combination of exertion and anxiety. As much as she moaned about him, she’d never forgive herself if anything happened to that dog. In desperation she was about to head home – perhaps he’d somehow made his way back there, and if not she could call around locally and put the word out that he was missing – when a piercing scream stopped her in his tracks.

‘No! STOP IT! I said get
off
!’

She recognized the voice as belonging to Penny de la Cruz. Come to think of it, she must be near Woodside Hall, Penny and Santiago’s idyllic house nestled deep in the Brockhurst woods.

‘Penny!’ she shouted out, hurrying down the track. ‘Are you all right?’

Moments later, she saw what the commotion was about. Penny, wearing a pair of men’s pyjama bottoms, Ugg boots and a Greenpeace T-shirt covered in motor oil stains was standing in the garden at Woodside Hall waving a broom and shrieking at the top of her lungs. At first glance, she looked like a card-carrying lunatic. However, closer inspection revealed that the object, or rather objects, of her ire were Gringo, and Penny and Santiago’s wire-haired dachshund bitch, Delilah. Gringo, God bless him, was enthusiastically humping Delilah, who seemed by no means displeased by his attentions.

Catching sight of Angela, Penny waved frantically. ‘Can you get him off? If she has another litter of mongrels, Santiago’ll hit the roof.’

Angela giggled. ‘It seems rude to interrupt them. Poor Gringo.’

‘Poor Gringo my arse,’ said Penny, also laughing despite herself. ‘Your bloody dog is the Jimmy Savile of Fittlescombe. He must be ninety years old! Delilah’s only two.’

‘And living up to her name already, the hussy,’ said Angela. ‘She enticed him.’

‘Seriously, please help me!’

With both women in fits of giggles, and neither dog minded to cut short their happy union, a farcical few minutes of collar-tugging, barking and snarling ensued. Once they were finally separated and Delilah had been locked in the study while an exhausted Gringo collapsed contentedly in front of the Aga, Penny made herself and Angela a deserved pot of tea.

‘Do you think we caught them in time?’ Penny asked nervously, plonking a plate of Hobnobs down on the kitchen table on the one spot not covered with newspapers and half-finished works of art. ‘I really will cry if Delilah’s up the duff again.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Angela. ‘I can’t imagine Gringo’s sperm are up to much at this point. He is, as you say, ancient, though Brett and I like to think of him as more of a Bamber Gascoigne – “I’ve started, so I’ll finish”.’

Penny grinned. ‘How is Brett?’

Angela’s face visibly clouded over. ‘He’s OK. He’s travelling a lot.’

‘Do you miss him?’ asked Penny.

‘Sometimes,’ said Angela cautiously. ‘Not always. Things haven’t been …’ she left the sentence hanging, not sure herself quite what she wanted to say.

‘It’s not easy when you’re apart a lot,’ said Penny, understandingly. ‘Santiago’s gone for months at a time on cricket tours, or doing promotional stuff for sponsors. I long for him to come back, but as soon as he does we start getting on each other’s nerves almost immediately. He calls it the “bumpy re-entry period”. It doesn’t mean you don’t love each other.’

‘No,’ said Angela. ‘I suppose not.’

She suspected that her twenty-plus-year union with Brett, complete with all the scars of his many betrayals, bore little resemblance to Penny’s honeymoon-stage marriage with England cricket’s most lusted-after hero. But it seemed ungracious to say so, so she didn’t.

As if reading her mind Penny said: ‘Listen, I was married to a complete shit before Santiago. It wasn’t Paul being gay that I minded. It was him being a selfish, heartless, cheating liar. Not to mention a skinflint.’

‘He sounds terrific.’ Angela smiled over her mug of Earl Grey. ‘A real winner.’

‘Yes, well, he gave me two lovely children. Or one lovely child and Emma, depending on how you look at it.’

Angela gasped, ‘You can’t say that!’

‘Oh yes I can,’ said Penny. ‘Believe me, Logan’s little stunt at Wraggsbottom is nothing compared to some of the shit Emma’s put us through. If I didn’t have Sebby, I think I’d have wound up in a loony bin long before now.’

It was awful, but Angela felt better hearing someone else complaining about their children, especially someone as lovely as Penny.

‘What about Santiago? Doesn’t he support you?’

‘He’s lovely,’ Penny sighed. ‘But you know, I’m a realist. He’s a lot younger than me. Girls throw themselves at him all the time. And he’s away a lot.’

‘You don’t trust him?’ Angela was surprised. She’d always thought that Penny and Santiago de la Cruz were the epitome of marital bliss.

‘I do trust him,’ said Penny after a pause. ‘But I don’t rely on him, if that makes any sense. At a certain age, and after you’ve been burned once, or more than once … I think you develop a certain self-sufficiency. Wouldn’t you say?’

Angela nodded.

Later, walking home with an exhausted but visibly chipper Gringo, she thought again about what Penny had said.
Am I self-sufficient?
she wondered.
Or do I still rely on Brett? I might fantasize about it sometimes. But would I really survive without him?

She realized she had no answer.

Back at Furlings, Brett sat at the desk in his study, a full tumbler of whisky in his hand. He was drinking too much. At some point he’d have to get a handle on that. But not today. Not now.

Angie wouldn’t let him touch her. She jumped and shuddered whenever he came near, as if his fingers had turned into red-hot pokers. Downing his drink in three swift gulps, Brett poured himself a second, then a third, nursing his hurt feelings like a parent nursing a child. Outside it was growing dark, the gathering twilight reflecting the creeping blackness in Brett’s heart. The oak trees lining Furlings’ drive looked bleak and sinister in the shadows.

Brett turned back to his computer.

He wasn’t sure what time it was when he heard the front door open and close again, indicating that Angela was back.

Brett walked downstairs to meet her, gripping tightly to the banister rail for support. He was fully drunk now, conscious of the adrenaline coursing through his veins and of Furlings’ grand hallway spinning like a fairground ride around him.

‘Where’ve you been?’

It was an accusation, his tone ugly and raw. Angela looked up. She could tell immediately that Brett had had too much to drink. His dishevelled hair, flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded, scowling expression all spoke volumes. Her heart sank. She hadn’t seen this side of him in quite a while, and had dared to hope it might have been gone for good.

‘Out for a walk,’ she said briskly, letting Gringo off the lead. ‘Gringo ran off. It took me forever to find him.’

‘You’ve been gone for hours.’

‘I just told you. The dog ran away. I found him having it off with Penny de la Cruz’s bitch and we ended up having tea together.’ She resented the fact that she was forced to explain herself.
So much for self-sufficiency.

‘Why are you lying to me?’ Brett had reached the bottom of the stairs by now and stood swaying in front of her. He looked curiously vulnerable, like a young tree in the wind. ‘You never used to lie to me, Ange.’

‘I’m not lying to you,’ she replied, with a calmness she didn’t feel. ‘Don’t do this, Brett. It’s degrading to both of us.’

‘Don’t do what?’

‘You’re drunk.’

‘Are you having an affair?’

She almost laughed, but the furious look in Brett’s eyes stopped her.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘You are, aren’t you? You’re fucking cheating on me! That’s why you won’t let me touch you. Have you just been with him now?’

‘Let go of me!’ The anger in Angela’s voice masked her fear. Brett was a big man, and though he’d never hurt her, there were many times when she’d felt intimidated by him.

‘Let go of you? Why? So you can run to your lover? I don’t think so.’

‘I don’t have a lover, Brett,’ said Angela, thinking of Didier and how easy it would have been all those years ago for her to jump into his arms and into his bed. Perhaps she should have? But she didn’t. Like a fool she’d put her dysfunctional wreck of a marriage first, as she always did. And for what? For this?

‘I said let go!’

They were three-quarters of the way up the stairs now, but Angela was still resisting Brett, trying to wrestle free from his vice-like grip.

‘How could you?’ Brett demanded, ignoring her. ‘How could you cheat on me?’

‘I haven’t cheated on you ever!’ Angela shot back angrily ‘But my God, why
shouldn’t
I, Brett? You tell me that. After all your bloody affairs! Why shouldn’t I cheat?’

‘It was different with me,’ mumbled Brett.

‘How? How was it different?’

‘Because I never loved them. If you had an affair it would be for love.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ Angela muttered.

‘I never loved any of those women,’ Brett went on.

‘Well, they were lucky then, weren’t they?’ said Angela. ‘Because you loved
me. A
nd I can tell you, Brett Cranley, that being loved by you is a crock of shit. Being loved by you
sucks
.’

With a sharp cry of effort, she finally wrenched herself free from his grip.

‘I’m not cheating on you. I’ve never cheated on you. But I could have, once. And I
wish
I had. I
wish
I had, you selfish bloody hypocrite!’ She screamed at him, all the pent-up emotion of the past few months spewing out of her like lava. ‘Go to hell, Brett!’

‘If I’m going to hell I’m taking you with me,’ Brett yelled back. He lunged out, trying to catch hold of her wrist again. Angela leaned back to avoid him. As she did so, she slipped off the lip of the stair, losing her balance.

From that point on, it all happened in slow motion. Brett watched in horror as it dawned on both of them exactly what was happening. Angie began to windmill her arms frantically, trying to regain her footing, her fingers clutching vainly for the banister rail. Brett reached forward, trying to grab hold of her and stop her from falling, but it was too late. She tumbled backwards down the steep stairs, limbs flailing like a puppet whose strings have just been cut. A piercing scream was followed by a series of sickening thuds as her skull cracked down against the hard wood,
boom, boom, boom.
Brett closed his eyes. When he opened them, Angela was lying in a foetal position at the foot of the stairs, as still and lifeless as a ventriloquist’s dummy.