The Inheritance

  Slipping her phone back into her coat pocket, Tati had started to walk faster towards the lawn when something made her stop and slink back into the shadows. It was a figure, a man, heavyset and silent, his black coat and hat silhouetted in the moonlight. He was standing about twenty feet back from the drawing room, stock still in the darkness, watching the figures within. Not like a burglar, casing the joint. More like a friend or a visitor. It was as if he were considering going inside, but was afraid to.

  For a brief moment, Tati wondered whether he might be a ghost. It seemed the right sort of night for it somehow. She wasn’t afraid, just curious, half expecting him to walk a few steps forward then evaporate into the winter air like a wisp of smoke. But instead he moved his arm slightly and shifted position, triggering one of the garden lights to switch on and glare up at him. There must be some sort of motion sensor. In that instant, Tati knew that this was no spirit. This was a man, as human and alive as she was, and just as lost and sad on this snowy Christmas Eve.

  The light only fell across his face for a moment before switching off, plunging him back into darkness. But it was long enough for Tatiana to see the abject misery in Brett Cranley’s eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Tatiana smoothed down her skirt and checked her make-up in the mirrored doors of the lift. Perfect. She was heading up to the eighteenth floor of Number One Angel Court in the City of London, to Hamilton Hall’s new business offices, for an important board meeting, and she felt terrific.

  The morning had begun well, with a negative pregnancy test. Sitting on the loo in her master bathroom, with Jason still asleep next door, it was all she could do not to weep with relief when the single blue line appeared in the little plastic window. She knew she wasn’t handling the whole baby thing well. She ought to sit down with Jason and tell him she’d changed her mind; that she categorically wasn’t ready for motherhood. But some sixth sense told her that such a declaration would mark the beginning of a conversation about their marriage that neither of them had the strength for. Too guilty to go back on the pill in secret, Tati spent each month playing a ridiculous game of Russian roulette. Each time the test was negative, she experienced a wave of euphoria and renewed energy, like a condemned prisoner awarded a last-minute reprieve.

  Today’s result couldn’t have come at a better time. This morning’s board meeting was going to be a battle of wills. Tatiana’s key opponent on the board, the infuriating Lady Arabella Boscombe, was implacably opposed to opening a New York school, and was spitting teeth that Tati had already verbally agreed a deal on a prime piece of Manhattan real estate without board approval. Lady Arabella used to be deputy editor of the Times Educational Supplement, and considered herself to be a grandee of the educational establishment. Her sense of entitlement wasn’t hindered by the fact that her family owned half of Chelsea, with property holdings second only to the Duke of Westminster A little bird told Tati that Lady Arabella had been ringing round her fellow board members, trying to whip up support for a vote of no confidence in their CEO and foundress.

  Tati, however, felt invincible. Not only was she not pregnant, but the figures had come in late last night for the new Clapham School. They were already at full headcount and running at a thumping profit. Meanwhile, the original Sloane Square School had just been nominated Private Co-Ed Prep of the Year by the Times Educational Supplement. Hamilton Hall Ltd’s coffers were awash with cash like never before. Even the exchange rate was in Tati’s favour. No one, not even that old battle-axe Lady Arabella, could argue that this wasn’t an auspicious time for British companies to be buying up US assets. Expansion was the future and the key to Tatiana’s next fortune. She wasn’t about to let her lily-livered board of directors hold her back.

  The lift doors opened and Tatiana strutted down the corridor to the Hamilton Hall reception.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Cranley.’

  The receptionist looked nervous. Clearly the tension surrounding this morning’s meeting was contagious.

  ‘Good morning Tracy,’ Tatiana smiled. ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’

  The views from the seventeenth floor were spectacular. You could see the famed dome of St Paul’s in the foreground, overshadowed by the phallic glass monstrosity known as ‘the gherkin’. Beyond these were the river, and a panoramic view of East London stretching to the horizon. In the distance, the impressive towers of Canary Wharf punctured a bright blue summer sky, as rare in England these days as a UFO sighting. The offices had cost Tati – cost Hamilton Hall – a fortune. But they were impressive, the sort of space that both reassured and enticed investors. Tatiana was a firm believer in the mantra that money beget money; that one had to spend in order to earn. The problem with dinosaurs like Arabella Boscombe was that they had no vision. No vision and no balls.

  ‘You’re the last to arrive, Mrs Cranley,’ said the receptionist meekly. ‘Shall I show you straight in?’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Tati. ‘I know where I’m going. I could murder coffee, though, if you wouldn’t mind. Black, strong, three sugars.’

  As it turned out, she was going to need it. The faces that greeted her around the table were almost uniformly disapproving. Lady Arabella, sweltering in a heavy tweed suit, looked the most thunderous of all, her bristly chin thrust angrily forward and her large matronly bosom heaving with indignation.

  ‘You’re very late, Tatiana,’ she boomed.

  She sounds like Queen Bee, Tati thought crossly. Who does she think she is?

  She looked at her watch idly. ‘Am I?’

  The lack of concern in her voice was like a red rag to a bull.

  ‘Yes. You are.’ Arabella Boscombe looked ready to spontaneously combust. ‘Some of us have been sitting here for forty minutes!’

  ‘Yes, well,’ Tati said dismissively. ‘I’m afraid that’s what happens when one has a business to run. A phenomenally successful business, I might add. I trust you’ve all seen the figures from HH Clapham?’

  A begrudging murmur of assent rumbled around the room.

  ‘Combine that new revenue stream with the figures from Sloane Square and you’ll see we’ve never been in a stronger position to expand.’ Tati walked around the table, handing printouts of the latest figures to each board member before returning to her own seat. ‘I’m excited about the future for Hamilton Hall, and I know you all are too.’

  ‘Tatiana.’ Eric Jenkins, a senior partner at one of the largest City accountants, and usually one of Tati’s most stalwart supporters, gave her a serious look. ‘The Clapham figures are a boost, certainly. But a number of us have concerns.’

  ‘Grave concerns,’ Arabella Boscombe echoed.

  ‘We feel that a period of consolidation is what the business needs.’

  ‘Stagnation, you mean,’ said Tati, rolling her eyes. ‘Come on Eric. We’ve been through this a hundred times.’

  ‘Yes. And you’ve ignored us a hundred times,’ Michael Guinness, one of Hamilton Hall’s largest individual investors, jumped in. ‘New York represents a huge outlay and a huge risk.’

  ‘The Manhattan site’s forty per cent cheaper than what we paid in London,’ Tati shot back.

  ‘Yes, but we know the London market. We know the British educational system. All our experience, all our brand awareness, is here.’

  ‘Because we’re not there yet, Michael,’ Tati said simply. ‘And we need to be. New York parents are climbing the walls trying to get little Chip, Chuck and Rusty into a decent school. They’ll pay anything. I’m telling you we could double our fees, maybe even triple them.’

  ‘That may be so,’ said Michael. ‘But we can’t just—’

  ‘Yes we can,’ Tati cut him off rudely. She addressed herself to the entire table. ‘I’ve been to New York. I’ve spent time there. And I’m telling you, you can smell the desperation wafting out of the admissions office at Avenues. All those rejected millionaire families, spat out onto Lexington with nowhere to park their children, or their money! The risk i
s in not doing this now, when we have the cash on our balance sheet and a perfect site at a knockdown price.’

  ‘A knockdown price?’ Lady Arabella was shaking with anger. ‘It’s twenty million dollars, Tatiana! And that’s before renovations. Then there’s the marketing spend we’d need to raise brand awareness …’

  ‘I know all that.’ Tati waved a hand regally, as if swatting a fly. ‘Trust me. It will be worth it.’

  ‘But that’s just it,’ said Eric Jenkins, the light reflecting off his bald head as he leaned forward over the table. ‘How can we trust you, when you keep making executive decisions behind our backs? We’re your board, Tatiana. You need to trust us. You need to let us do our jobs and advise you.’

  Tati bit back her irritation. She liked Eric, but really it was tiresome to be surrounded by such pygmies. All these people operated in a culture of ‘no’. Their every decision was based on fear, on hesitation, on an ingrained pessimism that was the very worst side of Britishness.

  ‘You have advised me,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘But I know I’m right about this. I’m flying back to New York this afternoon. I suggest we meet again at the end of next week when I’m back and I can update you all on developments.’

  Eight mouths fell open simultaneously. Even Arabella Boscombe was rendered temporarily speechless. In the end it was Michael Guinness who found the board’s collective voice.

  ‘You’re flying back to New York? You do understand that we unanimously oppose the purchase of this building?’

  Tatiana stood up. ‘I built this business. I did. It was my vision, my hard work that you all bought into. There is no Hamilton Hall without me.’

  Her arrogance was breathtaking, but no one contradicted her.

  ‘Perhaps I should remind you that you all opposed opening a second London school too, in the beginning?’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Eric Jenkins, reasonably. ‘But that was a little different.’

  ‘No it wasn’t,’ said Tati, arrogantly. ‘It was exactly the same. I’m sorry, but you were wrong then and you’re wrong now. I will return from New York armed with the figures to prove it. Now, if you’ll all excuse me,’ she picked up her briefcase, ‘I have a plane to catch.’

  It was a full minute after Tatiana left the room before anybody spoke.

  ‘We have to do something.’ Lady Arabella Boscombe’s voice was calm but determined. ‘You do see that now, don’t you Eric?’

  The accountant nodded grimly. ‘Yes. I do.’

  He’d always liked Tatiana. He admired her energy, her courage, her youth. By contrast he’d always found Arabella Boscombe to be a shameless snob, self-important and far too fond of her own voice. But Tati had gone too far this time. She was making fools of them all.

  ‘She’s right about one thing though,’ he observed. ‘There is no Hamilton Hall without her.’

  As they filed out of the room, stony-faced, Michael Guinness could be heard muttering under his breath. ‘We’ll see about that.’

  Jason Cranley watched Tati’s black cab pulling up outside their house from the bedroom window. He felt a sickening churning in the pit of his stomach and ran to the bathroom.

  Calm down, he told himself as he sank to his knees on the tiled floor. For God’s sake calm down.

  The nausea subsided, thank God, but was immediately replaced with a throbbing headache, the same one that had been coming and going all morning. Jason still couldn’t quite believe that he was going to do this. His spirit was willing – desperate even – to tell Tatiana the truth. But his flesh was weak, his body rebelling in every possible way against the idea. Staggering back to his feet, he ran the cold tap over a flannel, wrung it out and pressed it to his forehead and temples, like a Victorian heroine in the throes of some sort of fit. His skin alternately burned and tingled and his throat felt dry. He had never been more afraid in his life.

  This is Tati, he told himself. Your wife. Your best friend. You can tell her anything.

  ‘Jason? Darling? Are you home?’

  Tati’s voice reverberated up the stairwell. Jason felt his chest tighten. For a moment he found it hard to breathe. Before he could reply, Tati burst into the bedroom.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek and apparently not noticing his greyish-green pallor, or the flannel still clutched in his hand. ‘I just had a bloody irritating board meeting. Really, there’s no pleasing some people. You’d have thought, after the financial results we just got in from Clapham, they’d be patting me on the back, but oh no. Bloody Arabella Boscombe’s whipped everyone up into a frenzy about New York and the price I negotiated on the Seventh Avenue site.’

  Oh dear, thought Jason. She’s on a roll. He knew this version of his wife well. Talking quickly, her voice raised, a ball of excitement and indignation and nervous energy.

  Tati carried on, without drawing breath.

  ‘I mean, don’t these people read the sodding business pages? For a building that size in that position, twenty million’s a fucking snip! We only got it because we’re cash buyers and the vendor’s desperate. And the exchange rate’s never been better. Have you seen my cabin bag, by the way?’ She began opening and closing cupboards without waiting for an answer. It was if a tornado had swept into the room. ‘Ah, there it is. You know, sometimes I feel like screaming, “Wake up, morons!” Opportunities like this don’t come along every day and they don’t wait either. I can’t just sit in London dithering until Lady Arabella untwists her capacious knickers and gets on board, can I?’

  Jason watched silently as Tati chucked a suitcase onto the bed and began throwing clothes inside it, willy-nilly. Soon she’d be grabbing her passport from the bureau drawer and running out of the door again. He couldn’t let her leave for New York without saying anything. By the time she got back, whatever small shreds of courage he had would have deserted him for sure.

  ‘Tatiana, I … there’s something I need to talk to you about.’

  ‘Can it wait?’ Tati asked absently, flinging a pashmina shawl and a pair of red Louboutin pumps into the case before zipping it up. ‘I’m super-duper late.’

  ‘Not really.’

  For the first time since she walked in, Tati noticed how ashen Jason was looking. It was a look she remembered well from before they married, back when Jason had been his father’s emotional punch-bag. Each time Brett put Jason down, or imposed his will, ignoring the boy’s feelings, Jason had worn the same bloodless, terrified expression.

  Tati sat down on the bed. ‘What’s the matter? Has something happened?’

  Jason opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He’d gone over this speech in his head hundreds, maybe even thousands of times. But now that the moment had finally arrived to deliver it, the words stuck in his throat. ‘I-I-I …’ he stammered. ‘You see, the thing is …’

  Tatiana’s mobile rang. The noise was loud and insistent, as if an angry bee had flown into the room. She looked at the screen. It was Jenna Finch, her PA. Jenna knew better than to bother Tatiana if it wasn’t important.

  ‘Sorry, darling.’ She made an apologetic face at Jason. ‘I have to take this. I’ll be quick, I promise. Standing up, she walked back to the window, cradling the phone in her hands. ‘Jenna. What’s up?’

  By the time she got off the phone, Jason’s mouth had turned to sawdust. Rivers of sweat poured down his back and chest.

  ‘Sorry,’ Tati smiled, swinging her suitcase down off the bed. ‘You wanted to say something?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s not that important.’

  He hated himself but he couldn’t do it, not rushed and frantic like this. The moment had passed.

  Tati kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry. Today’s just been a crazy day, that’s all. When I get back we’ll spend more time together.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘We can talk properly then.’

  ‘OK.’

  He watched as she swept out, the lingering aroma of Chanel
Cristalle the only sign that she’d been there at all, and listened as the front door slammed shut.

  When she’s back, he vowed. I’ll tell her when she’s back.

  But deep down, not even he believed it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Lying back on a blue and white striped sun-lounger at the members only Maidstone Club in East Hampton, Angela Cranley enjoyed the warm feeling of the sun on her legs. Truth be told, she hadn’t really wanted to come on this trip. But Brett had insisted, and for once Angela was thankful that he’d bullied her into it.

  Angela and Brett had reconciled for the umpteenth time in the New Year. There were a few awkward weeks when he first moved back to Furlings, but since then things had been much better between them. So much so that Logan had moved back once her A-level exams were over, along with the lovely Tom. They’d both taken summer jobs at a fruit farm near Fittlescombe to save up for their year-off travelling together. Angela had expected Brett to throw his toys out of the pram at the mere suggestion of Logan’s boyfriend staying under their roof, but he’d surprised her. The time spent away from his family seemed to have mellowed him. Brett appeared to be as pleased as Angela that Furlings once more felt like a family home, and he and Tom got on well from the beginning. In return, Angela had respected Brett’s wishes and agreed not to invite Tatiana to the house again. She would see Jason in London, or at his and Tati’s new country house in nearby Brockhurst, a run-down Elizabethan manor that Jason was about to start renovating. It was a compromise that suited everyone.

  The one lingering problem that remained was the amount of time Brett spent travelling for work. In particular he seemed to be spending more and more time in the States, with his business trips often extending for two weeks or more. After his last jaunt, he’d floated the idea of buying a home there, a place where he and Angela could both stay when he travelled.