The Inheritance

  ‘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. And 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.

  No!

  Brett clutched at the handrail, feeling his own knees start to give way.

  Dear God, please no.

  Stella Goye had been enjoying a typically relaxed evening at home with Max when the doorbell rang. Max and Mutley had returned from a long afternoon walk, and Stella had whipped up a chicken and chorizo risotto, which was rather a triumph – even if Stella did say so herself. She and Max had washed it down with a decent bottle of claret before retiring to the sofa to watch their DVD box set of The Bridge.

  Stella’s relationship with St Hilda’s Primary School’s headmaster was not what one would describe as passionate. Both Stella and Max had been married before, Max very happily, Stella less so. But at this point in their lives, neither of them had much appetite for the whipsawing emotional rollercoaster of an intense, sexual love affair. What they had instead was warm and comfortable and easy. They cared for one another, were interested in one another, and they made each other’s lives less lonely and infinitely more convivial. It was, by and large, enough for both of them, and more than they had expected to find at this point in their lives.

  Every once in a while, Stella would feel a pang that there was something missing – a momentary flash of mourning for the deep love connections of her youth. But tonight she felt nothing but happy with her lot. She loved Max and Fittlescombe and their beautiful cottage and their scruffy little dog and the studio at the bottom of the garden where she could make as much mess with clay as she liked. She loved Scandi Noir DVD box sets, and mugs full of M&Ms to be scoffed while she watched them, curled up in front of the fire.

  The ringing doorbell was an intrusion. Definitely not in the script.

  ‘It’s half past ten at night.’ Stella looked at Max accusingly. ‘If that’s one of your sodding PTA members moaning about school business, I warn you, I might be quite rude.’

  ‘Not as rude as I’ll be,’ grumbled Max. A small group of this year’s parents had been getting their knickers in a twist about everything from the most recent OFSTED report to the colour of the girls’ changing room. Max had kept his temper so far, but there were limits. He opened his front door with his shoulders squared, ready for battle.

  ‘Good God.’ His face went white. Angela Cranley stood on his doorstep, an overnight bag at her feet. Her face was grotesquely bruised and her arm was in a makeshift sling.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  An hour later, having put Angela to bed in the guest room with a strong sleeping pill, Max and Stella finally collapsed into their own bed.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Stella, staring at the beamed ceiling. ‘Do you believe her?’

  Max sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

  Angela had told them tearfully that she and Brett had had a terrible row. He’d convinced himself she was having an affair and had gone off the deep end. But she insisted her injuries were accidental, the result of a fall down the stairs.

  ‘I was lucky. It could have been much worse. The nurse at the cottage hospital said nothing’s broken.’

  Too drunk to drive, Brett had called a taxi to take Angela to A&E. According to her, he had wanted to come with her, but she’d refused. ‘I needed some space, to think. So I packed a bag and, after they discharged me, I came here. I’m sorry, I just … I didn’t know where else to go.’

  She’d started sobbing then and shaking, poor woman. Evidently she was still in fairly serious shock.

  ‘I think she’s covering for him,’ Stella muttered furiously. ‘I’ve a good mind to call the police. Arsehole.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Max. ‘But it’s not our place to get involved.’

  ‘How is it not our place?’ Stella’s voice was rising, along with her feminist hackles. ‘There’s a battered woman in our spare room, for God’s sake!’

  Reaching across the bed, Max took Stella’s hand and squeezed it.

  ‘The police can’t act unless she presses charges. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Stella grumbled. He was right, of course. But the anger inside her refused to be quelled.

  ‘We’ll talk about it more in the morning.’

  Max turned out the light.

  ‘Why do you think she came here?’ Stella’s voice drifted sleepily through the darkness. ‘I mean, we’re hardly close friends.’

  ‘No,’ said Max.

  ‘She must be very lonely, if we’re the only people she could think of to turn to.’

  Max paused.

  ‘Yes.’

  Stella drifted off to sleep. But Max Bingley stayed awake for a very long time.

  The next morning, Angela didn’t wake until almost ten. The sleeping pill had completely knocked her for six. Max had long since left for school by the time she came down to the kitchen, wincing with pain at every step.

  ‘Gosh, here, let me help you.’ Stella jumped up from the table and her half-finished Times crossword and helped Angela into the armchair next to the Aga. ‘You poor thing. Can I get you some breakfast?’

  ‘No, thank you. You’ve been kind enough,’ said Angela.

  In a loose-fitting white sundress and flip-flops, she looked even more tiny, bird-like and fragile than she had last night. Big, ugly purple bruises on her arms and legs matched the ones on her face.

  ‘I don’t think I could eat a thing anyway. I must call a cab.’

  ‘There’s no rush,’ said Stella. ‘You only just woke up. I’ll put on some fresh coffee at least, and then you can see if you can manage a piece of toast.’

  ‘Really,’ Angela insisted. ‘I have to get home. Brett and I need to talk.’

  Stella stopped scooping coffee into the cafetière and looked at her pityingly. ‘You should report him, you know. You can’t let him get away with this.’

  Angela sighed wearily. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘You could have been killed!’ said Stella. But it was clear that Angela wasn’t going to change her mind. ‘Fine. Well if you really want to go home, I’ll drive you.’

  ‘Really, there’s no need,’ Angie started to protest. But Stella was having none of it.

  ‘I insist. I’ll drive you to Furlings and I’ll wait outside until I know you’re safe.’

  Too tired to argue, Angie nodded. ‘OK. Thank you. I’m so sorry for dumping my problems on you and Max like this. I should have gone to a hotel. I don’t think I was thinking clearly.’

  ‘Yes, well. Most people aren’t when their husbands have just tried to kill them,’ Stella said archly. ‘Anyway, you’re very welcome. Max is terribly fond of you, you know.’

  Angie tried to smile, but the effort was too painful.

  ‘He’s a lovely man,’ she said.

  ‘He is,’ agreed Stella. ‘Now where did I put those car keys?’

  It took Brett almost half an hour to get the bloody, hippy Goye woman to leave. She insisted on walking Angela to the door, glaring at him all the while as if he were some s
ort of axe-murderer, and made an elaborate point of reminding Angela that she was just a phone call away and would ‘check in’ on her in any case over the next few days, ‘just to make sure you’re safe.’

  But any irritation he felt towards Max Bingley’s girlfriend was instantly overwhelmed by the mixture of guilt and anguish that engulfed him when he looked at Angie’s face. Last night he’d been so happy she was alive and, OK, he’d barely noticed the bruises. Of course, he’d also been drunk as a skunk, which probably hadn’t helped his powers of observation. And it was dark. But today the full scale of Angie’s injuries hit home, each cut and bruise and swelling cruelly illuminated by the daylight.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Ange.’ He choked up. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She could see that he meant it. ‘I’ll live.’

  She took his arm and they went inside. Brett made some sweet tea and brought it to her in the drawing room.

  ‘I never meant to hurt you,’ he said softly, his head in his hands. Quite apart from the guilt, his hangover was brutal. He felt as if his cranium might explode at any minute. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not having an affair,’ Angela said wearily. ‘I almost did, once. But I decided not to.’

  Brett winced as if a wasp had just stung him in the eye.

  ‘When? Who with?’

  ‘A long time ago. In France. Does it matter?’

  ‘Not really,’ Brett agreed. ‘But I’m curious.’

  ‘His name was Didier Lemprière. He was a lawyer. We had him to dinner on the yacht in St Tropez, the night before I walked in on you and Tricia.’

  Brett groaned. He didn’t want to be reminded of that trip.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, awkwardly.

  ‘Me too.’

  They sat in silence for a while. Then Brett asked. ‘So why didn’t you have an affair with this guy? After all I put you through. Like you said to me last night, you’d have had every right.’

  ‘I’m not sure one ever has a “right” to an affair, exactly.’

  Angela’s mind flashed back to the day in Alfriston, when she’d run into Max Bingley at the pub where she and Didier were having lunch. She’d often wondered what might have happened had Max not been there that day. Would she have taken the next step with Didier? Had Max’s presence somehow shamed her into doing the ‘right’ thing? Into resisting temptation? Probably. She remembered strongly the feeling of not wanting to disappoint Max Bingley. Of not having Max think less of her.