‘Have you been drinking?’ Jennie hissed.

‘No, why?’

‘Because you’re behaving as if you are completely and utterly pissed. You’re being outrageous, Poppy!’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, and I end up looking like some ageist bigot just to get you off the hook!’

I stopped in the lane. Felt my forehead. I did feel a bit inebriated, actually. A bit light-headed. I was aware that my timorous desire not to rock the boat had been replaced in some fabulously epiphanic way by a desire to be true to myself whatever the consequences. The trouble was, my feelings had been suppressed for so long without the valve being even slightly loosened, that now the lid was off, the contents were not so much out, as all over the walls.

‘Sorry. Sorry, Jennie.’ I walked on, slower now. ‘But the thing is,’ I said carefully, feeling my way, ‘I feel the truth is so … well, crucial, suddenly. Of such vital importance, you know?’ I turned to face my friend earnestly. I felt faintly visionary about it; might even get a bit evangelical. ‘I mean, it’s so liberating, isn’t it?’ I urged. ‘Why don’t we all just say what we mean all the time? Always?’

‘Because polite society dictates that we don’t, that’s why,’ she said heatedly. ‘Just because you’re a widow, doesn’t mean the bridle can come off, you know. Doesn’t give you carte blanche to say whatever comes into your head. You still have to exercise restraint; can’t just trample on people’s feelings!’

I blinked, suitably rebuked. ‘No, I suppose not,’ I conceded. ‘Except … everyone tramples on mine?’

‘Phil trampled on yours,’ she reminded me. ‘Not everyone.’

‘Why are we going in here?’ I ducked as we made a sharp right turn and went into the pub under a low beam.

‘Because if you haven’t had a drink,’ she told me as she steered me into the snug of the Rose and Crown bar, ‘then perhaps you should. Two large gin and tonics, please, Hugo.’ This, to the barman, a local teenager in his gap year, as she parked me firmly on a bar stool. Still looking distinctly harassed she flourished a tenner at him. ‘And even if you don’t need one,’ she told me, collapsing in a heap on a stool beside me, ‘after that, I jolly well do.’




9

A few days later I received a surprisingly efficient missive from my solicitor in the form of an email, apologizing for our disorganized inaugural meeting and wondering if I had time to ‘pop in for a second attempt’. I did, as it happened, the following afternoon, and since he too was free, a meeting was arranged. As I sat in his supremely tidy waiting room, watched over by a pleasantly plump blonde matron with pussycat-bow chiffon blouse, navy skirt and red nails, I realized something of a sea change had occurred here since my last visit. When I was shown into his office it became all the more seismic as Sam Hetherington stood up to greet me, spotty tie firmly in place, suit jacket on, papers and files previously littering the floor now neatly aligned on shelves behind him, no half-empty mugs of tea, and no sign of the very dead spider plant wilting on his windowsill.

‘You’ve scrubbed up,’ I said in surprise as we shook hands across his desk.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Funny. I was thinking the same about you. Didn’t know one was allowed to voice it.’

I laughed. ‘I meant your room, actually.’

He looked taken aback. ‘Oh. Right. Sorry, it’s just Janice insists I wear a tie so I assumed you meant … However, you do look better,’ he concluded awkwardly as we both sat down.

I smiled. ‘Thanks. I’m feeling much better.’

I realized the last time I’d been in here I’d been sporting clothes that had seen better days and hair that hadn’t seen a brush for a while. It also occurred to me that his own dark wavy hair together with eyes the colour of good Madeira was my most favourite combination.

‘Janice makes you wear a tie?’ I said as I settled back into my seat.

He sighed. ‘Janice rules my life in very many ways. And thank the Lord she does. She has an uncanny insight into the mind of the prospective client and their sartorial expectations. Apparently shirt sleeves and an open collar simply will not do, suggestive as they are of a chaotic mind and careless approach to business and not a tireless toiling over the brief. So yes, she makes me wear a tie.’ He smiled. ‘Now. What can I do for you?’

‘You asked me to come in.’

His dark eyes widened in surprise. ‘So I did. So I did.’ He hastened to collect himself and shuffled some papers around. ‘It’s all coming back to me. Of course. There’s a will.’

‘And where there’s a will, there’s a relative,’ I quipped.

He frowned. ‘Sorry?’

‘Oh, er, bad-taste joke,’ I said hastily, remembering Jennie’s terse reprimand to behave. I sat up straight. ‘You’re right, I’m here about my husband’s will.’

‘Which I’ve got right here.’

He picked up a wad of papers from his desk and flourished it triumphantly, almost as if that in itself was something of an achievement. Then he put it down and gazed reflectively. Glanced up and met my eye.

‘You’re a wealthy woman, Mrs Shilling.’

I blanched. ‘Am I?’

‘Well, compared to me you are. Compared to most people. Your husband ran a flourishing private-equity firm and made a lot of money which you’re now entitled to. Added to which he also took out an insurance policy in 2002 which has quadrupled in value in the last eight years.’ He passed a piece of paper to me across the desk, swivelling it simultaneously. A sea of figures swam before my eyes. ‘Bottom right,’ he said kindly, pointing.

There, nestling in the column he indicated, was a figure so colossal I wondered for a moment if it had been translated into drachmas. If Phil, who after all had had a secret mistress, was also secretly Greek? But there was a pound sign before it.

‘Good grief. Have we always had that much?’

‘No, it falls in on his death. It’s insurance.’

‘And is it all mine?’

‘On an annual basis, yes.’

‘Annual. You mean … not a lump sum?’

‘No, that’s what you’ll receive every year.’

I looked up. Stared. He gave me a level gaze back.

‘Blimey,’ I said somewhat inadequately. ‘I had no idea.’

‘He provided for you very well.’

‘Yes. Gosh. Didn’t he?’ I said humbly. I realized I’d been less than complimentary about my late husband recently. ‘But you’re sure it’s all entailed on me?’

He retrieved the paper. Whisked it around to peruse it. ‘ “In the event of my death,” ’ he read out, ‘ “all my estate to be bestowed on my wife.” ’ He looked up. ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Seems clear enough.’

‘No other dependants?’

‘Well, your children, obviously, if you die.’

‘Obviously.’

‘But no bequests to other relatives, no.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s not a detailed will, but then it wouldn’t be. People don’t expect to die at thirty-four.’ He started to shuffle it all back together.

‘You’ve read all of it, have you?’ I said nervously. He was a bit more on the ball today but he had struck me as slightly shambolic, previously.

He paused. Looked up. ‘Yes, I’ve read all of it. I passed my law exams too.’

‘Sorry. It’s just …’

‘There’s a mother?’

‘Well, yes, but –’

‘There often is.’ He glanced at the papers again. ‘No, not provided for.’

‘A sister too,’ I said, playing for time. ‘Cecilia Shilling?’

He ran his eyes over it again. ‘Nope.’

‘And, um, someone called … Emma Harding.’

‘Emma Harding.’ He frowned. ‘Why do I know that name?’ He read again. Took his time this time. When he’d finished, he looked at me more intently. ‘Not here.’

‘Sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘May I see?’

‘Be my guest.’

He passed the relevant page across and I scanned it quickly. Then I breathed out slowly. When I looked up, he had his head on one side. He was regarding me closely, brown eyes watchful.

‘Relieved?’

‘Very.’

‘Special friend?’ he said gently.

‘So … I was led to believe.’ I swallowed. Passed the will back. There was a poignant silence.

‘Mrs Shilling …’

‘Poppy.’

‘Poppy. Often people – well, men, in particular – promise all sorts of things, all kinds of – provision, and then never follow through. I’ve seen it before. Family, inevitably, comes first. Most people are careful about that.’

‘So it seems. In fact it seems …’ I hesitated, ‘that he’s been extremely … careful.’ I felt a stab of guilt, remembering how I’d recently maligned him. Very publicly. In church, no less, to Angus. Said I was delighted he’d gone. Told Mrs Cripps in the shop I felt blooming marvellous. I had felt marvellous. Euphoric even. But suddenly I felt wretched. Could feel myself shrivelling. Life was so complicated. My feelings were so complicated. Mood swings, violent ones, flung me this way and that as if I had no control, as I lurched from one revelation to the next. A good revelation, in this case: Phil had more than provided for us. But when would I find an even keel? A little perspective? It was all so exhausting.

Sam’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘He has indeed. Temperament, of course, is key. Was he a methodical man?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tidy?’

‘Oh God, yes. Obsessive.’

‘Those are often the ones who squirrel money away. And if they do it early – in your husband’s case the moment you got married – it mounts up quickly.’ He sighed. ‘People who live by the seat of their pants, on the other hand, often discover there’s nothing for their dependants in the kitty when they look. See my ex-wife on this one.’