Dylan dashed off to his art class while Tati headed to the library. On the rare occasions she was actually allowed to help with teaching, she felt flashes of happiness and confidence. But most of her days were spent on menial chores such as today’s, when she was scheduled to spend the morning re-cataloguing the school’s library books. It was a boring, mindless job. But it gave her much-needed time to think about her legal battle and the all-important next steps.
Tatiana’s challenge to her father’s will was due in court in September, only three months hence. Raymond Baines, Tati’s lawyer, had asked her to put together a dossier of all emails, letters and conversations in which Rory had alluded to her inheritance of Furlings. She was also supposed to be getting him detailed research on the estate’s history, particularly anything that might smack of an historic entailment; and a list of villagers prepared to attest to the fact that they understood the local manor would always be owned by a Flint-Hamilton and who were actively supporting Tati’s claim. So far she had about thirty definites on the list, including Mr and Mrs Preedy at the Village Stores, Danny Jenner, the publican at The Fox, who’d always fancied her, Harry Hotham, St Hilda’s ex-headmaster, and Lady Mitchelham, a prominent local magistrate. Will Nutley, Fittlescombe’s cricketing hero, was a highly probable, and a smattering of other families had agreed to help Tati in her fight to oust the Cranleys. She was touched by their support – she’d worked hard for it – but the case was still a long shot at best. Collating the documents her solicitor needed was a painstaking, time-consuming and frequently frustrating job, which was already monopolizing all Tatiana’s evenings and weekends. Just how she was supposed to fit in a boat-load of St Hilda’s paperwork on top of all that, she had no idea. But she had to try, or the money would stop dead. And it might help her win round some of the staff to add to her list of supporters.
So far her trustees had been as good as their word and released a monthly income to her as soon as she accepted this poxy unpaid job at the school. Tatiana’s father had what he wanted – for now. She was back in the village, working with children, keeping out of trouble.
But not for long, she told herself, pulling stacks of the Oxford Reading Tree down from the shelves and dumping them on one of the library tables for sorting. After September I’ll have my life back. First Furlings. Then all of the rest. This whole period will seem like a bad dream.
An image of Brett Cranley’s arrogant, taunting face popped into her mind, strengthening her resolve. This would be her first and last term at St Hilda’s, putting up with the backstabbing and bitchiness of Ella and Sarah and the rest of them.
Thank God for Dylan Pritchard Jones. Without his kindness and good humour, Tati wasn’t sure she could survive even that.
‘What the hell is this?’
Brett Cranley waved the presentation document in his son’s face furiously, as if it were a weapon. Which, in some ways, it was.
‘I put you in charge of this. I gave you more responsibility, which you said you wanted. And this is the best you can come up with? Jesus Christ, Jason. It’s embarrassing.’
Jason stared out of the window of his father’s London office, wishing he were somewhere else.
Had he said he wanted more responsibility? He certainly couldn’t remember doing so. It seemed most unlike him. Jason viewed coming to work in the family business the way that most people needing root-canal surgery viewed a trip to the dentist. As something deeply and profoundly unpleasant that could not be put off forever.
Brett’s office had great views across the Thames to Tower Bridge. All Brett’s offices had had killer views. The one in Sydney, looking out across the harbour towards the iconic opera house, had been jaw-dropping. Jason assumed it was a power thing, this need for a big, swanky corner office and huge windows and a view that said, Look at me, world. I’ve made it.
Most of Cranley Estates staff worked in modest cubicles on the floor below, with the little natural light coming from windows overlooking the car park and council estate housing blocks to the rear of the building. As they had in Sydney. Brett might have changed things up geographically, but he was still the same bullying megalomaniac he’d always been.
‘I’m sorry you don’t like it.’ Jason spoke in a monotone.
‘It’s not a question of me not liking it,’ Brett goaded. ‘This isn’t a matter of taste. It’s crap. It’s full of typos. The artwork’s shit and what there is of it is out of focus. I’ve seen school kids put together more professional-looking work on Photoshop. This is for McAlpine, for fuck’s sake. They’re a huge potential client.’
‘I know. I’m sorry,’ Jason said again, staring at his shoes.
‘Look at me when you’re talking to me,’ Brett commanded. ‘You really don’t give a shit, do you?’