The Inheritance

Autumn seemed to come and go in a blink that year. One minute Hyde Park was a riot of flowers and butterflies and sunshine, crammed with shirtless sunbathers and children leaping excitedly into the Princess Diana Memorial Fountain; and the next it was stark and bare, swathed in a grey blanket of frost and empty save for the few brave joggers prepared to endure the winter cold. There must have been a period in between, when the sycamore leaves turned to rust and fell, and a gleaming brown sea of conkers covered the ground. But Jason Cranley couldn’t seem to remember it.

In any event, winter had arrived now, and with a vengeance, plunging London into a cold snap that had already seen a few flurries of snow, and the inevitable delays on public transport that any change in the weather always seemed to bring. Walking up the King’s Road from his house on Eaton Gate, for his usual breakfast at The Chelsea Bun, Jason pitied the poor commuters crammed onto the number 19 bus, which was going nowhere fast.

Jason himself felt unusually cheerful. Swaddled in a heavy, black cashmere coat and scarf, he was protected from the cold, and could enjoy the childish thrill of watching his breath plume out in front of him, like a dragon’s smoke. The sky above him was that magical crisp, bright blue you only ever saw in winter, and the Christmas displays in the shop windows, put up preposterously early as usual, lent everything a cheerful, festive and happy air.

Or perhaps it was tonight’s concert that had put him in such a good mood? He’d landed the gig of a lifetime, playing a full hour-long set at the legendary Ronnie Scott’s jazz club. Well, perhaps it was a stretch to say that he’d landed it. The truth was that George Wilkes, the Cranleys’ art-dealer friend, was a close mate of the new manager there, and had pulled a veritable orchestra-full of strings to get Jason a slot.

‘Listen. They’re a business with a reputation to maintain. They heard your tapes. They wouldn’t have hired you if they didn’t think you were good,’ George had assured him, scores of times, as the date drew nearer and Jason’s nerves began to amp up. Jason clung to the idea that there must be some truth in what George said. This was Ronnie Scott’s, for God’s sake. Ronnie Scott’s! They weren’t in the business of disappointing paying customers.

I can do it.

George believes in me.

I just have to believe in myself.

Tatiana had been really sweet and congratulatory about it, and had promised to try to be there. Her work had been so manic lately, even more so than usual since the arguments with her board over a US school had begun to escalate, so nothing was certain. Secretly, Jason prayed that his wife didn’t make it. Not because they were at loggerheads. They’d been getting along better recently, arguing less and supporting one another more. In a weird way, they had Logan to thank for that.

Having a needy teenager in the house had turned out to be a far more positive experience than Jason had anticipated. For one thing, Logan’s presence had turned Jason and Tati into an instant family, albeit a rather unusual one, removing the unspoken pressure to think about having children of their own, at least for the moment. Then there had been the pleasure of seeing Logie mature and grow right before their eyes. Being away from Fittlescombe, from Brett and Angela, and village gossip, and that snobby school of hers, had done her the world of good. In so many ways, the fire at Wraggsbottom Farm had been the wake-up call that Logan needed. In the immediate aftermath she’d been too frozen with guilt to learn anything from her mistakes. But now, settled and happy in a new school, the changes were beginning. She barely drank any more and had given up smoking altogether. She’d written touchingly sincere letters of apology to Gabe and Laura, and to Seb Harwich, whom she knew she’d treated appallingly. Best of all, she seemed finally to have broken the spell of her obsession with Gabe Baxter and to have fallen in love properly with a sweet kid from school, Tom Hargreaves.

Today was a big day for Logan too. Laura Baxter had had her baby, a little boy they’d named Felix, and had emailed Logan, inviting her to come and see the baby. It would be the first time Logan had gone back to the village since storming out of Furlings, and the first time she’d seen Laura face to face since the fire. Jason had watched her set off to Victoria Station this morning looking white-faced with nerves. But she’d gone, and he was proud of her. He prayed things went OK.

His mind swiftly flipped back to tonight’s concert, and the likelihood of Tati showing up. The thing was, as much as Jason loved his wife, she had a way of making him feel nervous. It was his fault really, not hers. Somehow Tati always seemed to remind him of his own inadequacies. There she would be, poised and confident and beautiful and successful, willing him on. And there he would be, frightened and sweating and useless and disappointed, letting her down.

George Wilkes, on the other hand, was a face he desperately wanted to see through the smoky clubroom tonight. With his gentle manner, his unquestioning acceptance of all that Jason was, good and bad, George was like a human quilt. Either that, or a fortifying shot of whisky for good luck. Jason wasn’t sure which simile fitted his friend better. George, too, had promised to ‘try’ to make it.

Jason glanced at his watch.

Nine o’clock. Ten hours to go.

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