The Inheritance (47 page)
Authors: Tilly Bagshawe
‘Of course. Yes,’ Leon stammered.
‘Good. Is tomorrow afternoon convenient?’
Twenty seconds later, Leon slumped back against his pillow, physically and mentally exhausted. Had that conversation really just happened?
Then again, after the day he’d had today, perhaps nothing should surprise him?
He slipped back into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Max Bingley’s wedding to Stella Goye was Fittlescombe’s most talked-about event of the summer. With the village fete and the annual Swell Valley cricket match both now over and done with (both had been drearier affairs than usual thanks to some dismal spring and summer weather), the wedding became the focal point of the entire village. In early August the skies had finally cleared, and a belated summer descended over the South Downs. Temperatures for the Saturday of the wedding were expected to soar into the high eighties, lifting local spirits still further and prompting a run on Pimm’s, the like of which the village off-licence hadn’t seen in a decade.
Rumour had it that the wedding would also be the first time since Jason and Tatiana’s elopement that the entire Cranley family, both generations, would be gathered under the same roof.
‘Poor old Reverend Slaughter only just got St Hilda’s roof fixed,’ Gabe Baxter joked to Seb Harwich, filling his vintage MG up with petrol at Vick’s garage in the village. The MG had been an extravagant birthday present from Laura, whose happy hormones seemed to have gone mad with breastfeeding Felix. ‘Shame to see the top blown off it so soon.’
‘You think there’ll be fireworks then?’ Seb asked, checking the oil on his decrepit Datsun. Seb was back in Fittlescombe briefly, in between trekking in the Andes and going on what he reverently described as a ‘cricket pilgrimage’ to India, Australia and the West Indies in September. His so-called year off was beginning to look more like a decade, but he was such a nice lad, it was hard to hold his lack of industry against him. And at least he was finally over Logan Cranley. Gabe had caught a brief glimpse of Seb’s latest squeeze in The Fox last weekend, a stunning blonde with the sort of legs guaranteed to cure any twenty-three year old of heartbreak within minutes. ‘I don’t think even the Cranleys would air their dirty laundry on Old Man Bingley’s special day.’
‘It’s not the Cranleys,’ said Gabe. ‘It’s Tatiana and Brett. They won’t be able to help themselves. They’re like two cats in a bag.’
‘I thought you liked Brett?’
‘I do,’ said Gabe. ‘But I also know him. He hates Tati Flint-Hamilton’s guts.’
‘I disagree.’ Santiago de la Cruz, Seb’s stepfather, came out of the garage shop looking thunderous with a copy of the
Daily Mail
under his arm. Yet another scandalous piece about Seb’s sister Emma has been printed in the gossip section, upsetting poor Penny dreadfully. ‘I reckon Mr Cranley’s protesting too much. He fancies her.’
‘Tatiana? No way,’ said Gabe. Once cricketing rivals, Santiago and Gabe had become good friends over the years.
‘Well, we’ll see at the wedding I suppose, won’t we?’ said Seb. Pulling the paper out of his stepfather’s hand, his eyes widened at the piece on his sister. Emma’s antics didn’t upset him the way they did his mother, but this latest sex scandal was more salacious than most. Apparently she’d been caught on video trying to sell sex to a Middle Eastern sheikh for some insane amount of money.
‘I’m not sure we’ll be going to the wedding,’ Santiago told Gabe.
‘Why not? You must have been invited.’
‘We were, and we accepted. But Penny can’t face it. Not now.’ Retrieving the newspaper from Seb, Santiago passed it to Gabe.
‘Shit,’ said Gabe, skim-reading the article.
‘Yeah,’ Santiago muttered darkly. ‘Shit. I tell you, compared to my wife’s darling daughter, Tatiana looks positively saintly.’
‘I’m not sure anyone could make Tati look saintly,’ said Gabe. But his mind was already wandering back to Santiago’s earlier comment, about Brett Cranley lusting after her. If that were true, if Brett was secretly falling for his own son’s wife, it would really set the cat amongst the pigeons.
Max Bingley’s wedding was looking set to be one big fireworks display.
Gabe Baxter could hardly wait.
St Hilda’s Church, lovely as it was, was tiny, only seating eighty at a pinch. Happily, the garden at Willow Cottage was big enough for an enormous marquee. Well over two hundred friends and well-wishers were there to welcome the bride and groom back from the wedding, and to begin the serious business of celebrating.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Laura Baxter, who’d left Felix with a babysitter for the evening, wandered entranced through the white, candle-lit tables. Stella had gone for a ‘summer’s orchard’ theme, with tall glass vases holding blossom-laden branches, and smaller, simple jam jars stuffed with cottage garden flowers: sweet peas and roses and softly overblown peonies in various shades of dusky pink, white and purple. ‘It’s like
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.’
Willow Cottage’s lawn sloped down to the river, and the end of the marquee was open so that the bottom tables nestled right on the banks, by the water’s edge. The central beam holding the tent aloft had been decorated as a maypole, painted in bright candy stripes and with silk ribbons tied around it. Max’s granddaughters, Celia and Martha, danced around it in their bridesmaid’s dresses, along with some of the village children, like a scene from a Kate Greenaway book, while their parents got stuck in to the Pimm’s and fresh mint cocktails on offer.
‘Half the price of champagne and ten times as delicious!’ proclaimed the bride, helping herself and handing one to Max as she kicked off her church shoes and let down her hair. ‘Are you happy, darling?’
‘Of course.’ Max kissed her, a trifle stiffly. All the bare feet and fairies weren’t really his thing, but he was glad Stella was happy.
He was happy too. Happy and relieved. The run-up to the wedding had been stressful. What had started out as a low-key, intimate affair had somehow ballooned in the planning into a major social event, with pretty much the entire village invited. Quite apart from the expense, the scale of the thing made Max feel faintly embarrassed. They weren’t young, after all. Truth be told, he’d only proposed in the first place because his daughters had confided in him that Stella really wanted to get married. Max had been quite happy muddling along as they were. The last thing he wanted was a big hullaballoo.
‘You should take it as a compliment,’ Stella told him. ‘It shows how much the village has taken you to its heart, the fact that everyone wants to share your happiness.’
Privately Max thought it showed how much Fittlescombe villagers appreciated a free bar. But now that the ceremony was over and the party was under way, he determined to enjoy it.
Brett Cranley was enjoying it too, until he saw the seating plan. In the two weeks since he and Angela had got back from New York, he’d been working flat out. He’d been looking forward to the Bingley wedding as a chance to relax and unwind a little, until he learned that Jason and Tatiana had also been invited and had accepted, damn them both.
Angela had calmed him down, assuring him that it was a huge reception and he’d be able to avoid Tati easily enough if he wanted to. But someone, presumably the meddlesome Max Bingley, had other ideas.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Brett hissed in Angela’s ear. ‘Have you seen this? Some maniac’s put us all on the same bloody table.’
Angela looked at the hand-drawn plan in dismay. All the tables were named after Shakespeare plays. There, on
Hamlet
, were she and Brett, Logan and Tom and Jason and Tatiana, along with Dylan Pritchard Jones and his wife Maisie. If this were Max’s idea of diplomacy, a well-meant attempt at family bridge-building perhaps, it was as subtle as a sledgehammer.
Still, there was a chance that fireworks might yet be averted. Jason and Tatiana had been invited to both the service and the reception, but had been no-shows at the church. Angela had tried Jason’s mobile twice since, but it went straight to message.
‘Keep your voice down,’ Angela chided Brett. ‘They’re probably not coming anyway. Something’s obviously happened or they’d have been at the church.’
‘You were saying?’ Brett scowled.
Angela followed his gaze to the marquee entrance. There was Jason, standing hand in hand with a green-looking Tati. Angela felt her stomach lurch with a combination of love – Jase looked so handsome in his morning coat – and nerves. Today was Max and Stella’s day. It mustn’t be allowed to become about the Cranleys and their internecine warfare.
‘Don’t make a scene, Brett. Please. You promised.’
‘I’m not going to make a scene.’
Brett squeezed her hand. The last thing he wanted was to upset Angela now. Last week the purchase had gone through on their house in the Hamptons, a stunning nine-bedroom beachfront estate with gardens to rival Furlings’. Brett had anticipated a long, protracted battle to get Angela to even entertain the idea of moving to the States, but to his astonishment she’d already agreed to consider a trial period of a year. They could rent Furlings out and ‘see how things go.’ It was more than Brett had dared hope for. Now was not the time to rock the boat.
He pulled a Cuban cigar out of his jacket pocket.
‘If you want me I’ll be outside by the river, having a smoke.’
‘Thank you,’ said Angela, visibly relieved. ‘I know this is hard for you, darling, but it’s only for one night. I know it would mean a lot to Logan too if we can keep things civil.’
Brett nodded. ‘Just see if you can shuffle the name cards around while I’m gone, so I’m not right next to them. All right?’
‘All right,’ agreed Angela. ‘I’ll try.’
‘Can I get you anything?’ Jason asked Tati. ‘A glass of water?’
She shook her head miserably. ‘Go and talk to your family. I’ll find a quiet corner and die somewhere. I’m not fit to be seen anyway.’
‘What are you talking about? You look lovely,’ Jason lied loyally.
‘I look horrendous,’ said Tati.
It was true. The nausea had come out of nowhere. From the moment she woke up this morning she’d felt like death, not just sick but puffy and bloated, her skin sallow and sweaty. The dark green, brushed silk dress that had looked so cute and eighties retro in the changing room in New York, now made her look like a tree-frog that had somehow ingested its own poison. Her hair stuck limply to her head beneath a wilting green-feathered fascinator, and her swollen feet felt like pigs’ trotters squeezed into black patent Manolo pumps.
Of course she had to get stomach flu on the one day she was certain to run into Brett, not to mention all her old friends and colleagues. She’d felt judged enough at Christmas, but the pitying looks she was receiving now were almost worse than the envious glares she’d got then.
Look at Tatiana Cranley
,
she imagined them all thinking.
Talk about losing her looks!
Having missed the entire wedding ceremony doubled over on the verge of the A3 puking her guts out, Tati had insisted on soldiering on to the reception, despite Jason’s objections. If she didn’t show up, Brett would think she was running scared, and she couldn’t have that. Now though, dizzy and seasick and wilting in the afternoon sun, she was already starting to regret her decision.
‘Are you sure I can’t get you something?’ Jason sounded worried. ‘Max is bound to have some Alka-Seltzer in a bathroom cupboard somewhere.’
His concern only made Tati feel worse. Ever since she’d got back from New York, Jason had been kindness personified, cooking her meals and listening for hours while she poured out her frustrations about her board, who
still
hadn’t signed off on the Manhattan site and were using any excuse to stall the deal. In return, Tati had tried to be affectionate, and had even attempted to kick-start things sexually between them, with disastrous results. Their lovemaking was so awkward and forced it was mortifying, like a scene from a bad
Carry On
film. At least Tati’s sudden mystery illness would buy her a few days off sex, she thought guiltily.
I must try harder.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she told Jason. ‘I might go and lie down for a bit, see if I can rally for dinner.’
Dinner was a living hell.
Tati forced herself to sit down and eat, but by now she had spots in front of her eyes and felt borderline delirious. Brett and Angela, thankfully, were on the opposite side of the table, far enough away to make conversation impossible. The downside was that this left Tati between Tom, Logan’s adorable but by now completely drunk boyfriend, and Dylan Pritchard Jones, her old enemy from St Hilda’s.
‘Hullo, Tatiana.’ Dylan smiled smugly. ‘It must be ages since we last saw each other. Do you know, if I hadn’t read your place card, I don’t know if I’d have recognized you.’
Clearly this was code for ‘you look like shit.’
Arsehole.
Tati decided to take the high road.
‘Hullo Dylan. How are things going at St Jude’s?’
‘My lord, you are out of date!’ Dylan laughed, a loud, braying, donkey-like sound.
I’m sure he didn’t used to laugh like that
, thought Tati.
Wasn’t he quite attractive when I first met him?
‘I left Jude’s years ago. Got the headship at Lancing. I’m having the time of my life.’
With his sun-bed tan, mouthful of white veneers and once naturally chestnut curls now dyed blonde to cover the grey, Dylan looked more like a television presenter than a headmaster these days. He reminded Tati of a Ken doll: vain, obnoxious and above all fake. If it hadn’t been for the gallon and a half of Gucci aftershave he must have sloshed over himself this morning, Tati was sure she could have smelled the insincerity on his skin.
‘You should drop by some time. It’s a gorgeous campus.’ Under the table, Dylan slipped a hand onto Tati’s bare thigh and squeezed, while flashing his teeth. ‘I’d be happy to show you around, for old times’ sake.’
Oh my God!
She shuddered.
Is he serious? He actually thinks I might be interested?
