In this latter observation, however, Brett was correct. Jason was a good, solid pianist, but he lacked the talent and flair to make it professionally, at concert-level. The idea that a person might want to play the piano for pleasure, without making any money from it, was anathema to Brett Cranley.
‘Why don’t you do something useful? Something you can make a living at?’ Brett would ask his son. Jason had long ago given up trying to reason with his dad. It would be like an eagle trying to communicate with a gorilla. Utterly futile.
The doorbell rang again. People were seriously social in this village. Jason hesitated – he was still in his pyjamas – but he knew if he didn’t get it, Angela would heave herself out of the bath like something out of The Kraken Wakes and run dripping down the stairs. She’d probably open the door stark naked, she was in such a bloody state about Dad and the house.
Skidding back into the hallway, sliding along in his socks like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, he opened the door.
‘Oh my goodness. Hello.’
The most beautiful woman Jason Cranley had ever seen stood before him, looking him up and down, curling her upper lip with a combination of amusement and disdain.
‘Do you know who I am?’
No, thought Jason. But suddenly, I want to. The girl was tall and slim, with a cascade of honey-blonde waves falling onto her shoulders and down her back. She was wearing tight jeans tucked into riding boots, a dark green cashmere sweater that clung unashamedly to her large, pert breasts, and aviator sunglasses that hid her eyes but could not conceal the chiselled beauty of her features. Her cheekbones looked as if they could cut through glass.
‘I’m Tatiana Flint-Hamilton,’ the goddess announced, without waiting for an answer. Just as well, as all Jason seemed able to do was to open and close his mouth like a guppy. ‘I’m here for my painting.’
Pushing past him, Tati strode into the hall. She’d both longingly anticipated and dreaded coming here today to face Furlings’ new owners. Or rather, to face the imposters who had, temporarily, appropriated her birthright. Tati would never, ever view the Cranleys as anything other than squatters, no matter how many pieces of paper they or their lawyers waved in front of her. This was her home. She had no intention of giving it up without a fight, and indeed had already engaged a solicitor to contest Rory’s will on her behalf.
She clung tight to her indignation now, as a tumult of emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Nostalgia. Grief. Regret. Ignoring Jason completely, she stormed off down the corridor, pushing open doors into rooms that were either bare or filled with strange, jarring, modern furniture. Other people’s furniture. Tati found herself fighting back tears. She’d stayed here herself only a few weeks ago for the fete, and it had still felt like home. She’d inhaled the smell of stone and wood, faintly infused with smoke from last winter’s fires, and run her fingers lovingly along the heavy, damask curtains in the drawing room. She used to like to hide behind those curtains as a child, eating Carlsbad plums she’d stolen from the pantry, much to Mrs Worsley’s fury. But now the curtains were gone and the house smelled of lavender and some Godawful room spray from The White Company. Like a bloody hotel!
Tatiana turned on Jason, who’d been following her around silently like a confused puppy since she arrived.
‘Where’s Mrs Worsley?’
She said it accusingly, as if Jason had kidnapped the housekeeper, or murdered her in her bed and concealed the body.
‘She took the day off.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. She never takes days off. To do what?’
‘Erm, I think her sister …’ He left the sentence hanging, both intimidated and enthralled by Tatiana’s beauty and her astonishing confidence. She hadn’t asked if she could come in, or even inquired as to his name. She’d simply swept past him, like a queen reclaiming her castle.
‘Is there anything I can help with? I’m Jason by the way.’
Tatiana deigned to remove her Ray-Bans. ‘Jason. How do you do? I would say it’s nice to meet you but, under the circumstances,’ she smiled thinly, ‘I won’t bother. When will Mrs Worsley be back?’
‘I’m back now.’
The disapproving Scottish voice that Tatiana knew as well as her own rang out behind her, filling the room that until a few months ago had been Rory Flint-Hamilton’s study.
‘What do you want, Tatiana?’
Tatiana looked at the housekeeper with narrowed eyes. She was certain the old witch must have known about the changes to her father’s will. She’d probably encouraged him. God knows she’d had enough opportunity to sow the seeds of doubt in Rory’s mind. Tati could hear her now:
‘It would be tragic to think of Furlings going to wrack and ruin.’
‘Poor Tatiana’s her own worst enemy. The last thing she needs is more cash in her hand.’
She probably thought Daddy would leave her something as a token of his appreciation. The sanctimonious, money-grubbing, scheming old shrew.