Conditional Love (4 page)

‘The main bits, please.’

‘Righto.’ Mr Whelan extracted a document and a small sealed envelope from the file. He pushed his glasses up his nose and cleared his throat. I held my breath.

‘Your Great Aunt Jane has bequeathed the bulk of her estate to you. You, Miss Stone, are the main beneficiary of her will.’

An estate! Visions of strolling through manicured gardens like someone out of
Pride and Predjudice
, against a backdrop of a Chatsworth-style mansion, on Marc’s arm, were somewhat dimmed with Mr Whelan’s next sentence.

‘There’s a bungalow in Woodby and several thousand pounds. We haven’t finalised the amount yet.’

Woodby? That was a village in the sticks somewhere north of Nottingham. A bungalow and some money. I repeated the words in my head. That was a house and some actual money-in-the-bank type dosh.

My chest had been getting tighter and tighter with lack of oxygen and now I was all panicky. Breathe, Sophie, in, out, in, out. I probably looked like I was in labour: face all red, and puffing like Ivor the engine.

A house. My great aunt had given me a house. Of my own. And that meant a home. How long had I been dreaming of my own home? Only all my life, that was how long.

Mr Whelan’s lips were moving. He was still speaking and I hadn’t been listening. Ninety-two… in her sleep… neighbour. He was telling me about Great Aunt Jane, who had seen fit to leave me all her stuff, and I wasn’t even paying attention.

I flushed a deeper shade of scarlet and focussed on Mr Whelan’s words, my shoulders bowed with shame. There was so much to take in. I was full of questions, but my brain was like a tangled ball of wool and I couldn’t find the start.

Mr Whelan was holding an envelope out to me. I took it automatically.

‘As I say, there is a condition to the inheritance, but I think it would be better if you read Mrs Kennedy’s letter yourself. I’ll leave you in private for a moment. Can I get you some coffee?’

‘Tea, please, two sugars.’

Condition? I wasn’t sure I could take any more surprises. Life was so much gentler without them. My heart rate was already registering at least a seven on the Richter scale.

‘Actually, make it three!’ I called to the solicitor’s retreating lanky form.

The envelope was cream with a flowery border. My name was written on the front in blue ink, the handwriting loopy and old-fashioned. I stared at it for what felt like hours. This was the first letter I had ever had from my father’s side of the family. The first
thing
ever.

The magnitude of what I held in my hands made my body tremble. This was more complicated than a straightforward inheritance from a distant relative. Opening this envelope would mean discovering a whole chapter of my own history. I wasn’t at all sure I was prepared for that.

And how was I going to tell my mother? Mum referred to Terry, her ex-husband, and his family as the dark side, and had done so since the day I was born.

Mind you, finding her husband in the arms of a barmaid – what a cliché – on the day she went into labour was hardly conducive to playing happy families. Mum had chucked him out and vowed never to have anything to do with him ever again. As far as we knew, he lived in America, which was close enough as far as she was concerned.

This would open old wounds for her and I knew from previous experience the lengths she would go to avoid confronting the past.

OK. All I had to do was read the letter. That was it.

I pinched my lips together, slid a finger along the flap to open the envelope and removed the single sheet of cream and flowery paper.

Dear Sophie,

The fact you are reading this means that I have finally shuffled off this mortal coil. I have had a long and mostly happy life. My only sadness is that I was not blessed with children and had very little family to speak of.

The chances are you won’t remember the time we met. You were with your mother in Market Square. You would have been about five. You took my breath away with your dark curls and pretty green eyes. It was so terribly sad that your parents couldn’t forgive each other. I was very cross with my nephew, I can tell you. But it wasn’t my place to interfere back then. Now I’m gone, I can be called a meddling old fool without fear of reprisal.

I want you to have my bungalow and what’s left of my savings. On the condition that you agree to meet your father. Just once, that’s all I ask. I hope you can forgive and indulge an old lady’s last wishes.

Your Great Aunt Jane

Meet my father. Just once. I shook my head vigorously. Impossible. No way. This Great Aunt Jane had no idea what she was asking.

I let the letter fall to my lap.

I remembered Mum and me bumping into an old lady in Nottingham once. She wouldn’t stop touching my hair for some reason and she gave me a five pound note. I had spent the lot on furniture for my doll’s house. A pang of nostalgia twanged at me; that doll’s house had been my pride and joy. The lady had asked my mum so many questions that she had got really cross and stormed off; I remembered having to run to keep up. We had moved house shortly after that.

It was no use. As amazing an opportunity as this was, Great Aunt Jane’s proviso meant that this was a Pandora’s box that I wasn’t prepared to open.

I stood up to put the letter back on the desk. The room spun unpleasantly and I felt faint. I squinted along the corridor through the open door.

Where was that sweet tea?

five

Despite my attempts at adding some homely touches with a vase of tulips, some Ikea cushions and four sandalwood candles, the living room still managed to look a bit studenty, with its lumpen sofas, mismatched curtains and drab carpet. The stacks of Jess’s school work and Emma’s ironing pile didn’t help. It was less
Elle Decoration
and more
Coronation Street
.

But right now it was home, and I had never felt more grateful to be in it.

Jess, in her cow-print pyjamas, looked up from her marking.

‘So come on then, tell us all about it,’ she demanded. She moved her
Wizard of Oz
pencil case and patted the sofa cushion.

I sank down wearily beside her and swallowed the lump in my throat. It had been a very long day and I was struggling to take in all this new information. It had only been a few days since Marc had broken my heart and my tear ducts were still doing overtime.

Mr Whelan had instructed me not to make any hasty decisions about the will, but I had been able to think of little else all afternoon. I had only managed to negotiate the time off to go to the solicitor’s by agreeing to return to the office and work late. With every space in the restaurant supplement filled and the main sponsor happy, I finally left my desk at eight thirty. By which time, I was trembling with tiredness and emotional overload.

I attempted to smile at Jess but my face felt all numb and rubbery with the effort of keeping my tears in check all day.

I eased my aching feet out of their high heels and wriggled my toes.

She tapped her red pen against the book on her knee. ‘Tell Aunty Jess.’

I sighed. ‘It wasn’t a hoax, she was my father’s aunt and I’m the main beneficiary of her will.’

‘Babes!’ gasped Jess. ‘That’s unbelievable!’

‘I’ll inherit her bungalow and some money.’

‘There’s a
but
coming, isn’t there?’ she said gently.

I nodded. ‘I’ve got to agree to meet my father. My great aunt even set money aside in the will to fly him over from the States.’

‘Oh honey!’ Jess grabbed me and gave me a tight squeeze. ‘It’s like in a film! What if you say no? What if he won’t come?’

‘He will. Mr Whelan, the solicitor, has already heard from him,’ I said, ignoring her first question.

Terry Stone, who had happily conducted the last thirty-two years of his life without displaying a jot of interest in his daughter, had apparently agreed to get on a plane and meet me. It was mystifying. I veered from curious to nervous to plain angry.

‘I’m so confused,’ I wailed into Jess’s furry shoulder.

She released me and gave me an all-knowing look which I recognised as the start of a lecture.

‘No wonder,’ she said firmly, drying my tears with her sleeve. ‘You’re very vulnerable at the moment. Marc has just finished with you. You’re bound to think that you’ll never get another boyfriend.’

My eyes blinked furiously. I hadn’t considered that at all. Was that what Jess thought, and Emma? I was still in that
he might change his mind
phase. The
I’ll be alone for the rest of my life
phase wasn’t due to kick in for another week. At which point, I was kind of assuming that Jess and Emma would convince me otherwise.

‘It’s natural to look for love from a boyfriend, from your father, from anyone. Who doesn’t want to be loved? But leaving the will out of it for a moment, would you have wanted to meet your dad if you had the chance?’

I opened my mouth, but Jess continued her diatribe. ‘No, you wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t blame you. It would break your mum’s heart.’

Jess smiled, a trifle patronisingly if I was honest, and patted my knee. ‘And this inheritance – money, a house – would force you to face up to the future. And I don’t think you’re ready for the future just yet.’ She picked up her red pen again to carry on with her marking.

‘Bollocks.’ Emma walked in, handed me a cup of tea and rolled her eyes. ‘Just meet the man, take the money and move on. Simple as.’

Emma pushed the ironing pile off the comfy chair by the window and dropped into the seat, slinging her long slim legs over the arm.

I groaned. They were both right. I was convinced that one day I would know exactly what to do with my life and then my nest egg would help me build a fulfilling and satisfying career and fund a home of my own – or our own, if I’d still been with Marc.

But while I waited for that moment of clarity, I was happy coasting along and procrastinating. If I inherited Aunt Jane’s money, I would have no excuse for not moving out of my comfort zone and getting on with it: a prospect that frightened the life out of me. Especially now I didn’t have Marc to hold my hand. Even
I
realised how pathetic that made me sound.

Emma had a point; even though meeting the condition of the will would mean going through a huge pain barrier, inheriting that house would change my life.

The two sisters were glaring at each other. I decided to change the subject.

‘Tell you what, if Great Aunt Jane is anything to go by, I’m in for a good innings,’ I said, taking a sip of tea. ‘She was nearly ninety and still living on her own. The solicitor said she refused all offers of help and was fiercely independent.’

‘She sounds as tough as old boots,’ said Emma. ‘Glad someone in your family has some balls.’

I stuck my tongue out at her. ‘She died peacefully in her sleep. Her neighbour went round the next day and found her in bed. Apparently they used to phone each other every morning to make sure they’d both made it through the night.’

‘Ah, that’s so sweet,’ said Jess, looking up from her books. ‘Will you call me when I’m old, Sis, to check I’m still alive?’

Emma raised an eyebrow. ‘I doubt very much that you’ll die alone. You’ll probably kick the bucket in bed with a toy boy.’

Jess smiled primly. ‘Well, you’ll be on your own, so I’ll phone you. Every day.’

‘At least I won’t need a Y-shaped coffin.’

I felt my eyelids droop. I yawned and heaved myself up off the sofa. ‘Goodnight all.’

Emma pulled a disappointed face. ‘I was going to crack open a bottle and toast your inheritance.’

My heart sank. I felt a bit churlish not being more upbeat about this unexpected turn of events, but it was too soon to start celebrating. ‘Sorry, Em, can we take a rain check on it for now?’

‘Finished.’ Jess snapped the final exercise book shut and put her pen down. Her face fell. ‘You’re not going to bed? Aww, I thought we could all watch
Fiddler on the Roof
tonight?’

I suppressed a giggle as Emma pretended to slash her wrists with an imaginary blade.

‘You’ll watch it with her, won’t you, Em?’

Emma narrowed her eyes and glared. ‘Traitor.’

six

With scented candles lit and the main light off, the mildew around the bath was hardly visible and I could almost forget that I was in the flat’s grotty bathroom. I relaxed down into the bubbles until only my head was above the water. I transported myself to another world, imagining that I was luxuriating in a roll-top bath like in chocolate adverts, surrounded by acres of marble tiles and piles of fluffy towels.

Perched next to me, on top of the loo seat, was the letter from Great Aunt Jane. I knew it off by heart now, but reading the old lady’s handwriting still made my heart flutter.

Mr Whelan’s words of wisdom had made me hang onto it.

‘I advise against any hasty decisions, Miss Stone,’ he had cautioned, as I shook my head, handed him back the letter and prepared to do a runner. ‘There’s no rush. I’ve been instructed to give you a set of keys to the property. Go and investigate for yourself and come back to me when you’ve made your mind up.’

He had made it sound so simple. Jess and Emma disagreed on what I should do, so it was no use discussing it with them, and my mother, well… I flinched. Mum didn’t know anything about it yet. I had been making excuses for not calling her, but at some point I was going to have to come clean.

My mobile phone beeped. Typical. I pushed myself up through the bubbles and ferreted through my clothes to find it. Blinkin’ Nora! It was a text from Marc! He was on his way over. Right now.

What did he want?

Duh, me obviously! Oh God, oh God, oh God! He wants me back!

OK, this is your chance. Be calm. Make yourself look irresistible. Don’t blow it and under no circumstances start hurling abuse or accusations at him.

I scrambled out of the bath, creating a tidal wave which extinguished the candles. There was a puddle on the lino and rivulets cascading off the basin. No time to mop them up now. Putting the light back on, I grabbed a towel and dashed out of the bathroom.