The Inheritance

‘Hopefully tomorrow,’ said Angela, carefully tying the tip of the balloon with twine and looping it around the chandelier with the others. ‘There’s a chance he might be late though.’


‘He wouldn’t miss the party, would he?’ Logan looked stricken. Brett had only been gone for six days, but she always missed him terribly when he travelled. In the rare moments when Angela imagined life without her husband, one look at Logan’s face banished the thought from her mind utterly.

‘Definitely not,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Dad will be here.’

Brett had spent a small fortune on this party, which had morphed from being about Jason into a showing-off-Furlings event, a chance for Brett to flex his muscles in the local community and establish himself properly as Fittlescombe’s new lord of the manor. No way on earth would he miss it now. For an Aussie boy with humble beginnings, the truth was that Brett could be a terrible snob. Having a court validate and uphold his inheritance was one thing. Being accepted by the local British upper classes was quite another. Angela had long wondered whether her husband’s bizarre, negative fixation with Tatiana Flint-Hamilton had something to do with insecurity on that score. Tatiana may have lost her inheritance to Brett but, poor as a church mouse or not, she was still resolutely, unquestionably ‘top drawer’ socially. Brett Cranley, on the other hand, an Australian entrepreneur, would always be considered a ‘nouve’, unflattering British slang for nouveau riche. Angela couldn’t have cared less. She was proud of her heritage and thought the English obsession with class amusing to the point of ridiculousness. But image meant a lot to Brett.

‘Did you tell Dad about my new dress?’ Logan asked archly.

‘No.’ Angela rolled her eyes.

One of the mums from school had taken Logan shopping last weekend in Chichester, along with her own daughter Tamara. The girls had come back with matching red party dresses from Topshop. Both dresses were a size eight, but whereas on Tamara the hemline hovered demurely above the knee, on Logan it stopped a good three inches higher.

‘It’s only because I’m tall,’ Logan pleaded, when Angela suggested she opt for something less revealing. ‘It’s the same exact dress.’

‘I know that, darling. But I can almost see your knickers! Dad will have a fit if I tell him you’re wearing a minidress to your brother’s party.’

‘Don’t tell him then. He won’t care if he doesn’t know beforehand. Once all the guests get here, he’ll be far too busy to notice what I’m wearing.’

Angela looked doubtful.

‘Oh, come on Mum, pleeeease.’ Logan twirled around, stroking the fabric of the dress lovingly as it clung to her skinny, almost-twelve-year-old figure. ‘You have to admit it looks good.’

It did look good. That was the problem. That and the fact that Angela knew for a fact its intended audience was Gabriel Baxter. A year on, Logan’s crush on their handsome, married, thirty-something neighbour showed no signs of abating. All the boys at St Hilda’s fancied Logan, as did a number of their elder brothers from the village. Still not yet twelve, her height and confidence made her seem older than her years. Brett seemed oblivious to the dangers. In his eyes Logan was still completely a little girl. He couldn’t imagine anyone seeing her differently. But Angela fretted constantly, every time an adult male so much as said hello to her daughter.

Despite this she’d given in on the Topshop dress, worn down by days of constant pleading. She hadn’t said anything to Brett, and prayed that Logan was right and that he’d be too distracted to notice.

Climbing down the ladder, she took both Logan’s hands, pulling her up to her feet.

‘Just please make sure you wear the low heels, not those ridiculous spiky things. And if I see you spending the whole evening following Gabe and Laura around like a shadow, I’m going to put you to work in the kitchen.’

‘I won’t,’ said Logan breezily. ‘I never do.’

Just then, Angela’s phone rang. It was Brett, calling with the details of his flight.

For the first time in a long time, Angela realized that it wasn’t only Logan who missed Brett. She missed him too. This weekend would be all about family. Logan was thriving, Jason was happier than ever. Perhaps the pain and drama of the past few years could now finally be put behind them?

Tatiana stood up and shook hands with the three suited men across the table.

‘Thank you all for your time,’ she smiled warmly. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

In the grand eighteenth-floor lobby at Angel Court, in the heart of the City, it was all she could do not to hug herself and jump for joy as she waited for the lift. She was glad she’d restrained herself, however, when one of the suited men followed her out and tapped her on the shoulder.

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