The Inheritance

Jason Cranley sat at his desk, staring through a grimy window at the grey London skyscape. It struck him that the city seemed somehow more right, more real, in the drizzle than it did in the sunshine. Tower Bridge had looked fake last week against a backdrop of blue sky and sunshine, like a prop from a movie set. The rain seemed in an odd way to suit it, to bring it back to life. Or perhaps it was just he, Jason, who suited the rain? He who needed the grey world outside because it reflected the grey world inside, the ever-present clouds inside his head?

Wearily, he dragged his attention back to his computer. Ever since his ‘epic fail’ with the pitch document for McAlpine, Brett had had him churning out market research, trawling through the internet and London newspapers looking for data on property transactions. It was perfectly obvious that no one, least of all Brett, needed this stuff; that it was a task Jason had been given to fill his time and keep him out of trouble. But he couldn’t really complain. It wasn’t as if he had a burning ambition to work at the sharp end of his father’s business, and at least the research gave him time to pursue the one aspect of London life that did interest him: music.

He’d discovered that a number of jazz venues within a ten-mile radius of Cranley Estates’ offices held open auditions for new performers on a fairly regular basis. Jason had played piano at a couple of tiny, coffee-shop gigs back in Sydney, before his depression had returned with a vengeance. The mere act of sitting at a keyboard soothed him, the way that lighting up a cigarette or sipping a glass of whisky or sinking into a hot bath soothed other people. But performing, on the rare occasions when he found the courage to do it, filled him with a sense of contentment and wellbeing and fulfilment that nothing else on earth could compare to. Having a room full of people applaud him for doing what he loved most in the world – no matter how small a room – was like having a brilliant surgeon restart his heart.

Surreptitiously opening the website for Joe’s Diner in Borough Market, and clicking on the ‘Performers’ tab, Jason allowed his mind to wander deliciously into fantasy as the rain drummed on the windowpane.

‘Buying restaurants now, are we? I didn’t know we’d diversified.’

The secretary’s voice was like a jug of ice cubes down his shirt. Jason jumped, accidentally shutting down his screen altogether in his clumsy attempts to close the web page.

‘Was that a porn-slam?’

Michelle looked at Jason archly. She was clearly joking with him. Ever since the day of his botched presentation, when Jason had accused his father of sleeping with her, he’d noticed Michelle’s attempts to make-nice. Part of him wanted to respond in kind. She seemed a sweet girl, and had always gone out of her way to be kind to him. And technically, he supposed, there was a possibility he was wrong about her and his father. But then he remembered the way they’d looked at one another that day and he knew he hadn’t been.

‘I don’t look at porn,’ he mumbled, refusing to meet her eye.

‘I know. I was only kidding. You just looked so guilty when I came in.’ Michelle grinned. ‘Planning a night out, were you? There’s nothing wrong with that. You should get out more, a bloke your age.’

‘Says who? My father?’ Jason snapped.

Michelle bit her lip awkwardly. ‘I’ve been to Joe’s,’ she said, trying to move the subject on. She’d only come in to check the printer, which had been playing up lately, and wished she hadn’t. ‘It’s a fun place. We could go together one night if you like.’

Jason couldn’t take the fake camaraderie a moment longer.

‘He’s just using you, you know.’ Swivelling around on his chair he fixed Michelle with a searing, intense stare. ‘He’ll take what he wants until he gets bored and then he’ll sack you and move on. You’re probably not the only one he’s ch-cheating on my mother with even now. You’re not special.’

Michelle’s mouth opened, then closed again. She looked as if she’d just had acid thrown in her face.

Jason knew he was being cruel. It pained him, because he wasn’t a cruel person. But he wanted to get through to her, to jolt her out of her complacency, or blindness, or whatever it was that made attractive, fun, decent young women like her fall for his bastard father.

‘You’re very sure of yourself,’ she said eventually. The words were challenging but her tone was quiet and defeated. ‘What makes you think you know?’

‘That there are other women, you mean? Besides you?’ asked Jason.

‘That we’re having an affair,’ said Michelle. ‘What if I told you that you were wrong?’

‘I wouldn’t believe you,’ Jason said, his voice devoid of emotion. ‘Brett’s sleeping with you because you’re there. Unfortunately, when it comes to my father’s extramarital tastes, that’s all he needs. Availability. He’s not looking for some perfect woman. He already has that in my mother.’

‘Perhaps he doesn’t think so,’ Michelle snapped back defiantly. But her lower lip was wobbling. Jason could see his words had hit home.

‘He does think so,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. I’m telling you the truth, for your own sake as well as my mum’s. You seem like a nice person.’

‘I am a nice person,’ said Michelle.

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