The Importance of Being Married (7 page)

“Um…that’s great,” I said, feeling my heart begin to slow slightly. I put the bottle in the trash bin. Then I realized how thirsty I was. “I might just go and…get some…water. From the cooler…” I said, standing up on unsteady legs.

“Jess?” I could hear Max behind me calling, but I didn’t stop. I felt out of control. I needed to splash water on my face, to cool down. Needed to get away from people. And then I heard my phone ring. My mobile phone. Which was on my desk.

Immediately I stopped, panic rising up through me again. Then I forced myself on again. It wasn’t going to be Mr. Taylor. Sure, my mobile phone number was on the card I gave him, but that didn’t mean that every time it rang it was going to be him. And even if it was him, no one would pick it up. It would go through to voice mail.

And then the ringing stopped. Too soon for voice mail to have picked up. Cautiously, I turned around; then I went white. Max had my telephone receiver in his hand, pressed to his ear. And he looked confused.

He caught my eye and looked over at me curiously. And suddenly I felt sick. Quickly I ran toward my desk, but already it was too late and as I ran I felt my legs begin to buckle under me. It was all over. Mr. Taylor was probably explaining right now why he’d asked to speak to Jessica Milton. Mrs. Jessica Milton. My life was over. Max knew. Anthony would know. Everyone would know. I’d be a laughingstock throughout London.

I reached for my desk anxiously, to steady myself. I couldn’t seem to breathe in and out; I was gasping, like a fish, my chest compressing my lungs and heart as I clutched them and fell to the floor.

“The phone. It’s for me?” I managed to say just before my head collapsed onto the ground beneath me.

“Jess? Bloody hell, what’s wrong?”

Max was looking at me strangely, but I ignored him.

“Who…was it? I can explain. I…” I gasped, but the words barely came out.

“Jess, slow down. Just breathe in and out. In and out. Get her a paper bag,” Max said firmly, snapping my phone shut. Marcia handed him the bag from her croissant and Max held it over my mouth; a few seconds later I was choking from a croissant crumb that got lodged in my trachea.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “I must have…um…” Gasping for breath, I felt Max pull me up. Then Anthony looked at me worriedly. “Jessica?” he said, his face filled with alarm.

“She needs to go home,” Max said seriously.

“No, I…” Max’s arms were wrapped around me and they felt soothing. “I’m fine.”

“See? She’s fine,” Marcia said.

“No,” Max said, looking at me uncertainly. “No, she’s not. Come on, Jess, let’s get you into a cab.” His arms tightened around me and he walked me toward the door; I just had time to grab my phone and bag on the way out.

“The…the call,” I managed to say, as he maneuvered me onto the pavement and hailed a cab. “Who was it?”

Max looked at me strangely. “Oh, right. Yes. It was someone called Helen wanting to ask you something about
Murder, She Wrote.
Seemed rather…vexed.”

“Helen?” I got into the cab, my face flushed with relief. “She’s my flatmate,” I said.

“And she’s at home?” Max asked.

I nodded.

“Good. Then maybe you should call her and let her know that you’re on your way. Who knows, you might get there in time to find out who dunnit.”

“I’m fine, really,” I said, attempting a smile. “I don’t need to go home.”

“I think you do,” Max said, closing the door, his face impenetrable. “Can’t have the staff collapsing on us like that. Bad for morale.”

I opened my mouth to say something, to try to explain, but there was nothing I could say and before I could even say
thank you
or
see you tomorrow,
the taxi moved away, Max walked back into the building, and I slumped back on the seat wondering what on earth I was going to do.

Helen was waiting for me when I got home, all wide-eyed and serious. I’d called her from the cab, but I hadn’t said much—just that I was on my way, just that I wasn’t feeling so good. She put the kettle on. Made some tea. Then we both sat down.

“You’re not…ill, are you?” she asked nervously.

I shook my head. “No, not ill.”

“Oh, thank God. Okay, then,” she breathed. “So, what is it?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“You
look
ill,” Helen said seriously. “Actually, you look awful. Are you sure you don’t have some horrible disease or something? There was a program on yesterday on Living TV about people who died from illnesses they didn’t even know they had…”

“I’m not ill,” I said firmly. “Not physically, anyway.”

“You’re ill mentally? Oh, God. Okay, so what is it? Depression? Psychosis? Look, so long as you’re not dangerous, I’ll totally help. I worked on a documentary about psychologists once, so actually I know quite a bit about—”

“I’m not mentally ill, either,” I interjected. I could feel my breath quickening. “I…”

“Yes?” Helen’s eyes were huge now, and curiosity poured from her every pore.

“I did a bad thing.”

“A bad thing?”

“And now I’m in trouble and I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh, God. Okay. I think I know what this is.” Helen stood up and nodded, seriously.

“You do?” I asked curiously.

“It’s to do with the rings, isn’t it?”

“The rings?”

Helen nodded. “I saw the rings in your jewelry box the other week. Diamond rings. You stole Grace’s jewelry, didn’t you? Oh, Jess, I was worried this might happen. So what, was her lawyer here last night looking for them? Look, it’s fine—we’ll get you a really good lawyer. I mean, you really shouldn’t have taken them, but I’m sure you won’t have to go to prison.”

“Prison?” I looked at Helen incredulously. “I’m not going to prison. And I didn’t steal Grace’s jewelry.”

“But the rings. I saw them,” Helen said, wide-eyed. “And then that man turned up…Oh, God, is it worse than that? Have you been smuggling diamonds or something? Was Grace running a crime ring?”

I raised my eyebrows. “I think someone’s been watching a little bit too much television,” I said.

“Fine, so tell me what it is,” Helen said impatiently. “If you didn’t steal the rings or smuggle them, then why have you got an engagement ring and a wedding ring in your jewelry box? And why are you home from work early? You never come home from work early.”

I sighed. “I bought the rings.”

“You bought them? But you’re broke. I thought you were broke?”

“They’re paste.”

Helen frowned. “Paste? Jess, I don’t understand.”

I took a deep breath. Then I let it out and took another one, and another one. And when I was sure that I could open my mouth without my chest clenching up, I told her. Slowly, but surely, cringing as I spoke and avoiding Helen’s eyes entirely, I told her about the lie that had gotten out of hand, about the fake wedding, and the lawyer; about the estate and all the money. And then Helen didn’t say anything.

Perhaps I should have mentioned that Helen wasn’t known for her silence. She talked during films. She talked to the television when I wasn’t there (I knew this because I’d walked in on her several times having quite fierce debates with the newsreader). She called me up at work when she was bored and had been known to keep me on the line for over an hour. The girl had things to say, all the time, about everything.

Except now.

Instead Helen leaned down and picked up her tea, taking a big swig.

“So, let me get this straight,” she said eventually. “Grace was Lady Hampton. She left you her entire estate worth in the region of, what, four million pounds?”

I nodded. “Four million or thereabouts.”

“Or thereabouts,” Helen said, nodding, pulling back her long brown hair, her deep brown eyes slightly dazed. “Only, she thought you were married to your boss, so the money was left to Jessica Milton. Mrs. Jessica Milton. Who you aren’t. Who doesn’t actually exist. Stop me if I’m getting any of this wrong…”

I shook my head. “So far, pretty much spot-on.”

“And you have a moral obligation to claim the money, because otherwise Grace’s lovely house will get sold off by the government and turned into flats. Or a casino. Right?”

I nodded. “It’s the most beautiful house in the whole world. It’s been in her family for generations. She wanted someone to live there, the lawyer said. To raise a family.”

“Of course,” Helen continued, slowly. “A family. With your imaginary husband, I suppose?”

I smiled nervously.

“And you can’t actually claim the inheritance because you’re not Jessica Milton? I mean, the house, all that money…and you can’t get your hands on it?”

“That’s pretty much it,” I said, attempting a smile. I was putting on a front, trying to make light of the situation, but I was still covered in a light sweat and finding it problematic to just breathe in and out.

Helen nodded slowly. “You can’t just claim it as Jessica Wild?”

“He said I needed to show him my marriage certificate.”

“What if you told him the truth?”

I shook my head. “I can’t,” I whispered. “I just can’t. It might get out. It would be so humiliating. And I probably wouldn’t be able to claim the money anyway. There’s a fifty-day rule—if it isn’t claimed within that time frame, it’s all forfeited.”

“So the money will just…disappear?”

“To the government. Yes.” Deep breath in, I told myself. Now breathe out.

“All four million pounds?”

I nodded, focusing on my breathing, and Helen let out a long, deep sigh.

“Bloody hell,” she said, taking another swig of tea. “I mean, seriously. Bloody hell. I can’t think of anything else to say.”

“There is nothing to say,” I said morosely. “I’m an idiot.”

“
Idiot
doesn’t come close,” Helen said, shaking her head incredulously. Then her eyes lit up. “You say you’ve got fifty days?”

I nodded.

“Okay,” Helen said excitedly. “In that time I bet you can change your name by deed poll.”

I stared at her. “Deed poll. Of course! Oh my God, Helen, you’re a savior. Deed poll! Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Jessica Milton. Actually, it’s a nice name,” Helen said. “So can I come and live in your big house? Can we have a butler? Oh, please, Jess, let’s have a butler. A good-looking one. And we can have parties all the time…”

She caught me shaking my head and frowned. “What? What’s the matter? Fine, no butler. But we can still have parties, right?”

I sighed. I was looking at the folder Mr. Taylor had left me.

“Mrs.,” I said, glumly. “It specifically says Mrs. Jessica Milton.”

“So change your name to that, then,” Helen suggested. “First name Mrs.”

“First name Mrs.? Now who’s being an idiot? And he said he needed a passport or driver’s license. I’ll never get it in time. Anyway, I told him I hadn’t changed my name. If I suddenly turn up with ID for Jessica Milton, don’t you think he’ll smell a rat?”

Helen slumped back against the back of the sofa. “Okay, but there has to be another way. Come on, Jess, this is huge. We have to work out a way to claim the money.” She caught my eye and blanched slightly. “To claim
your
money, I mean. But seriously, if we think hard it’ll come to us. It has to.”

She frowned, suddenly picking up the phone, dialing a number, and, when I looked at her worriedly, waving me away. “Rich? Hel…Yeah, hi…! I know, sorry, been really busy. Listen, I’ve got a quick question for you. You know about wills, right?…Yes, I know you’re a banking lawyer, but you must have done family law at some point, no? Fine. So, look, let’s imagine that a will’s been written, leaving the money to a…oh, I don’t know. A Mrs. Jones. And let’s say that Mrs. Jones isn’t actually Mrs. Jones at all; she’s Sarah Smith. Only the person who left her the money thinks she’s called Mrs. Jones. Could Sarah Smith still claim the money?…Uh-huh…Right…Okay…Well, great. Thanks, Rich…. Yeah, a drink would be lovely. Give me a call? Okay then. Bye.”

She turned to me. “That was Rich.”

“I gathered that. And Rich is?”

“Richard Bennett. The lawyer I slept with a couple of weeks ago.”

My eyes widened. “He’s a lawyer? What did he say?”

Helen grimaced. “He said Sarah Smith could get the money if she could prove that she was in fact the person that the will maker considered to be Mrs. Jones, but it would probably have to go to court.”

“Court?”

Helen bit her lip. I, meanwhile, pulled up my knees and wrapped my arms around them. “I can’t go to court. And anyway, there’s no time to go to court. God, I can’t believe I’m such a total loser.”

“You’re not a loser. I mean, not a total one. Just a little one,” Helen said, trying to look reassuring and failing completely. “I can’t believe it, though. You, the total cynic, the woman who hates men, and all the time you had this little fantasy marriage going…”

“I don’t hate men,” I said, sighing. “I just think relationships are a waste of time. And I didn’t have a fantasy marriage going. I just did it for Grace. It was her fantasy, not mine.”