The Inheritance

Tatiana made the tea, scrubbing out a pair of filthy bone-china teacups in the chipped Belfast sink in Bee’s kitchen, and risking electrocution at the hands of Bee’s ancient kettle. She brought everything through on a tray, complete with teapot and cosy (Bee was a stickler for these things) and a plate of ginger nut biscuits a mere two years past their sell-by date.

‘Now,’ said Bee, cheering up at the plate of ginger nuts, which she proceeded to devour enthusiastically like an arthritic Pac-Man. ‘What’s going on in your life, my dear?’

‘Well, the school’s going well, but things have been completely frantic,’ began Tati. ‘I had to fire two teachers today, which was horrid, and I’m battling with—’

‘Tatiana, my darling girl, you really must listen,’ Bee chided gently. ‘I asked you about your life. Why are you telling me about your job?’

Tati laughed. ‘What would you like to know, darling Bee?’

‘Well. We could start with your unsuitable husband. The Cranley boy. How’s he?’

‘He’s well, I think,’ said Tati. ‘Better than he was, anyway. Less depressed. His name’s Jason, by the way Bee.’

The old woman shuddered. ‘Must you? I’ve been trying so hard to forget.’

‘Don’t be such a snob,’ said Tati, plainly delighted.

‘Why was he depressed?’

It was a good question, and one to which Tati didn’t really have an answer. ‘I’m not sure. It’s complicated. Jason’s quite a sensitive person.’

‘Piffle. He’s fed up because his wife’s always working I ’spect.’

‘Yes, well. One of us has to earn a living,’ said Tatiana, a little piqued by this brisk assessment of her marital issues.

‘Why?’ countered Bee, with her usual directness. ‘From what I read in the Sunday papers, you’ve got pots of money. Far more than Rory would have been able to leave you, even if you hadn’t been so difficult and forced him to cut you out of the will. To want even more money seems a bit vulgar. Can’t you just retire?’

‘I’m thirty-one, Bee. Jason’s only twenty-six.’

‘There you go again. “Only” twenty-six. There’s no “only” about it, child. Roger and I had three children by the time we were twenty-eight. Why haven’t you and … Cranley … had any babies yet?’

Tati rolled her eyes. ‘You sound like my mother-in-law.’

‘That’s not an answer,’ said Bee, helping herself to more Lapsang from the pot.

‘Maybe I don’t want to retire and have babies,’ said Tati. ‘Maybe Hamilton Hall is my baby.’

She was starting to feel quite emotional. It had been a rotten, stressful day. Firing people was the worst part of the job. She simply didn’t have the strength for one of Queen Bee’s grilling straight afterwards.

‘I see.’ Sensing perhaps that she’d upset her goddaughter, the old woman sat back in her chair and paused for a moment. But only for a moment. ‘May I give you some advice, my dear?’

Tati knew Bee well enough to understand that this was a rhetorical question.

‘Don’t take marriage for granted. If you love this husband of yours … I assume you do love him?’

‘Of course,’ Tati said quickly. She could never explain her feelings about Jason to Bee. He was more like a brother, or a son, than a husband. But she did love him.

‘Then don’t ignore him. Especially not for the sake of your career. A career is not a life, Tatiana. It is not a family. You must take an interest in his life, his aspirations, as well as your own.’

Tati thought about Jason’s music, and the set he was playing tonight at Ronnie Scott’s. She hadn’t intended to be there, and she was sure Jase didn’t expect her. But perhaps Bee was right? Perhaps I will show up, and surprise him.

‘And give the man a child,’ the old woman added, draining her teacup.

‘Jason doesn’t want a child, Bee,’ Tati said patiently.

‘Nonsense. All men want children. Some of them just don’t realize it, that’s all.’

Since 1959, Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club, on Soho’s Frith Street, had been the place to watch live jazz in London. An old-school establishment in every sense of the word, with dimly lit red leather booths and tables crammed into tiered circles around a central stage, Scott’s was still unparalleled not just for ambience and clientele, but for performers. The food was average, the drinks warm and the prices high. But the music was sublime, and that alone had kept the club on the top of its game for more than half a century.

Tatiana slipped in late. The doorman and hostess both recognized her. Tati was, once again, the toast of London society these days – not that that mattered much at Ronnie Scott’s, where celebrity patrons were ten a penny. But few looked as beautiful in the flesh as Tatiana Cranley. In a red Victoria Beckham cocktail dress, with a Rick Owens black leather bomber thrown casually on top, she’d abandoned her usual elegant businesswoman image. As a result she looked both sexier and younger, her long hair left loose for once and her flawless face betraying no trace of the day’s stresses or her earlier exhaustion.

‘My husband’s playing tonight—’ she started to explain, but the manager cut her off.

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