‘Is that so?’ said Tati. ‘And what should I wear to parents’ meetings, I wonder, in the world according to Brett Cranley? Crotchless panties and nipple tassels, I suppose?’
Brett couldn’t fully suppress a smile. ‘That’s a great mental picture.’
I hate you, Tati thought furiously. ‘Perhaps all the female teachers at St Hilda’s should be issued with stripper poles?’ she snapped.
‘Not all of them. Just you.’ Brett was still smiling. ‘You’re as out of place here as a whore in a nunnery, and you know it.’
The irony was, Tati did know it. But she wasn’t about to give Brett Cranley the satisfaction of hearing her admit it.
‘Yes, well, luckily I won’t be here for very long.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Brett.
‘After my inheritance is restored to me in September, I’ll be too busy undoing all the damage you’ve done at Furlings and reversing your shady land deals to stay on at school. Sadly.’
Brett rolled his eyes. ‘You’re living in a fantasy.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Tati.
‘I’m curious. What will you do when you lose?’ Brett leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. It was a small gesture of control, of power. Having let his guard down earlier, he was determined to reclaim the upper hand. ‘Stay on in the village and carry on the charade? Or crawl back to London with your tail between your legs?’
‘I won’t lose,’ said Tati.
‘Hypothetically.’
He was toying with her again now, with a disturbing hybrid of flirtation and disdain that made Tati’s mouth go dry, despite herself.
‘Hypothetically. If I lost the case? Then yes, I might well carry on teaching,’ she said defiantly.
‘Do you know,’ Brett smiled, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with less self-awareness than you, Tatiana. You could no more settle down to a quiet life as a village schoolteacher than I could settle down as a Buddhist monk.’
‘I agree, orange isn’t your colour,’ quipped Tatiana. ‘But you’re wrong about me. I love country life.’
‘Bullshit. You love money. You love excitement. I know what you love,’ Brett whispered, leaning forward so that he was close enough for her to smell his cologne.
How can someone so poisonous and hateful be so sexy? thought Tati.
‘Of course, if you were a man, or had any skills,’ Brett went on, enjoying the effect he was having on her, ‘I’d tell you to start your own business.’
‘Fascinating.’ Tati yawned pointedly.
‘But for a society party girl like you, marriage is really the only option.’
‘You know, you really need to be in therapy,’ Tati responded. ‘You’re not well.’
Brett laughed. The black eyes were turned on Tati in their full intensity now. She felt her stomach flip over unpleasantly and wished, not for the first time, that Brett Cranley didn’t have such an uncanny ability to toss her emotions like a pancake. He was a complicated man, more complicated than he appeared on the surface or liked to admit. But he was also an unreconstructed bastard, who would stop at nothing to deny her her inheritance. With an effort, she managed to keep her own gaze steady.
‘I’m just being honest,’ said Brett. ‘You should play to your strengths.’
‘And what are my strengths, Mr Cranley? In your warped opinion?’
Standing up, Brett reached across the desk, and ran one finger slowly across Tatiana’s cheek. Gently lifting a single strand of hair that had fallen across her face, he placed it back behind her ear. It was a small gesture, but it was slow and intimate and unbearably erotic. It took all of Tatiana’s willpower not to gasp out loud.
‘One of these days, Tatiana,’ Brett whispered, ‘I’ll show you exactly what your strengths are.’
Outside in the corridor, Max Bingley was still chatting to Angela Cranley, trying to talk her into sponsoring the school’s upcoming Gala, when Tati burst out of the classroom and practically knocked them both flying.
‘What on earth’s the matter, Tatiana?’ Max said reprovingly.
‘Nothing,’ said a thin-lipped Tati, exchanging only the briefest of glances with Angela, who could see at once what had happened. Brett must have picked a fight with her. Pushed things too far, as usual. ‘I need to get back to Year Two, that’s all. I promised Sarah I wouldn’t be long.’
Max watched Tati dash off, frowning slightly before returning his attention to Angela. ‘So you’ll be gone for the whole summer, then?’ he said. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘It is,’ Angela sighed in agreement. ‘Brett adores St Tropez, but to be honest I can take it or leave it. All those beautiful people, showing off. The smell of effort’s enough to put you quite off your Bellini.’ She laughed, then blushed, wondering if perhaps that was a crass thing to say to man like Max Bingley, who almost certainly holidayed in Cornwall and drank nothing more exotic than the local pale ale. ‘I hope you don’t think me a show-off,’ she began, awkwardly. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Nothing could be further from my mind,’ Max assured her.
‘I know our life probably sounds awfully glamorous. But the truth is, I’m afraid I’m old before my time. I can’t bear the thought of leaving my garden for six whole weeks. Sad, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all,’ said Max. Although he did wonder how this sweet, private woman had ever fallen for a shallow, party-loving shark like Brett Cranley. It was the oddest pairing he’d seen in many years.
‘Will Furlings be empty then, over the break?’ he asked Angela.
‘No. Jason will be there. He has to work. None of Cranley Estates’ junior staff get more than two weeks’ holiday allowance in their first year. It wouldn’t be fair to change the rules for Jase. That’s what Brett says, anyway.’
‘He’s quite right,’ said Max. ‘Well, we shall miss you. I shall miss you. But you can rest assured I’ll be roping you into Gala committee meetings the moment you return in September.’
Just then Brett emerged from the classroom looking highly pleased with himself, and as relaxed as Tati had seemed stressed. He snaked a possessive arm around Angela’s waist.
‘What’s this about September?’
‘I was just saying I look forward to seeing you both again after the summer,’ said Max Bingley. ‘Your wife tells me you’re off to the South of France for the duration.’
‘That’s right. Can’t wait,’ Brett grinned. ‘My yacht, the Lady A, should be in St Tropez by this weekend.’
Pompous arse, thought Max. And why not ‘our’ yacht?
Aloud he said, ‘How lovely. Well, I’d better get on. Lots of parents to see and all that.’
As Max walked off down the corridor, Brett turned to Angela.
‘I don’t like that guy,’ he said abruptly. ‘He’s such a stiff.’
‘Oh, he’s all right,’ said Angela. ‘He’s kind.’
‘Hmmm.’ Brett sounded unconvinced. ‘He was all over you like a rash.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Angela laughed, taking Brett’s arm. ‘And don’t try to distract me either. What happened in there after I left? With Tatiana?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What did you say to upset her? She came out looking as if someone had squirted lemon juice in her eyes. You promised you wouldn’t cause trouble today, remember?’
‘I didn’t cause trouble,’ said Brett. ‘I told the girl the truth, that’s all. It’s not my problem if she doesn’t want to hear it.’
Jason Cranley gazed out of the train window at the glorious Sussex countryside as they hurtled towards London. He’d worked from home today, while his parents were at Logan’s school, finishing up some meaningless and deathly dull research project his father had given him on retail rental yields. Now he was taking the five o’clock train back up to town.
Graham Jones, an irksome, rabidly ambitious VP at Cranley Estates, only a few years older than Jason and clearly one of Brett’s ‘favourites’, had ins
isted that Jason present the file in person at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.
Graham Jones drove a pillarbox-red Audi, had loud telephone conversations in public places, and used hideous corporate speak around the office, asking Jason whether or not he had the ‘bandwidth’ to perform such-and-such a task, and assuring him that he was eager to ‘blue-sky’ any ideas that might arise from Jason’s rental yield research. Rather than face the prospect of a 5.30 a.m. train from Fittlescombe tomorrow, followed by a stressful sprint across London to the office to present to the odious Jones, Jason had decided to head up to town tonight and stay at his father’s flat. At least that way he could make it into the building early and try to come up with a single idea about retail rental yields that didn’t involve suffocating himself with a plastic bag out of sheer, mind-numbing boredom.
Switching his iPod to a new recording of Shostakovich’s Piano Quintet in G Minor that he’d downloaded last night, he allowed the rolling waves of music to crash over him and flood through him until all thoughts of work and Graham Jones and his father had been washed away. Jason loved commuting, and the train journeys back and forth to town were often the best parts of his day. He enjoyed the romance of train travel, especially on the Victoria to Brighton line where they still used the old, 1950s rolling stock, with its roughly upholstered seats, wooden tables and windows that you could slide up and down to open and that rattled rhythmically and constantly as the train trundled along. Most of all, though, he enjoyed the peace of it. The sense of being alone, and yet not lonely – sitting in a carriage with other travellers made it companionable, yet there was never any danger of being drawn into unwanted conversation or bothered in any way. For one and half glorious hours Jason had nothing to do but listen to the sublime piano, admire the idyllic scenery, and be lulled into a state of profound calm by the gently rocking movement of the carriage.
A sharp tap on his shoulder made him jump a mile. Accidentally yanking the cord of his headphones, they fell out of his ears, pulling the iPod with them off his lap so it fell with a clatter onto the train floor.
‘I’m so sorry. I startled you.’
Tatiana Flint-Hamilton stood over him. Still wearing the trousers and sweater she’d had on for the parents’ meeting earlier, she had loosened her top button and let down her hair, which cascaded around her shoulders now, as shiny and inviting as golden syrup.
‘Oh, no. Please. It’s fine. Please. How are you? Sit down. I mean, if you want to, obviously,’ Jason babbled stupidly. He wasn’t the most socially adept of young men at the best of times, but around Tatiana he always seemed to regress to a state of complete, dribbling idiocy.
Tati took a seat in the empty seat opposite him. The five o’clock train up to town was almost empty. Only two other people shared the carriage, both of them elderly and deep in their books.
‘You’re going to London?’ Jason scrabbled on the floor for his iPod, stuffing it back into his bag.
‘Yes.’ Tati smiled. She was amused by his awkwardness, but the smile was kind rather than mocking. ‘Unless I’m on the wrong train.’
‘Of course. Silly question.’ Jason blushed. It was a wonder the rest of his body still functioned, with so much blood rushing to his cheeks.
‘I’m actually going out for dinner and drinks with a girlfriend tonight,’ said Tati, helping him out. ‘I hardly ever get up to town any more, but there’s a teacher-training day tomorrow and I decided I needed a break.’
‘Bad day?’
Tati considered lying, but in the end decided there was no point. ‘I’m afraid so,’ she said. ‘Mostly thanks to your bloody father.’ Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out a cigarette and lit it, ignoring the disapproving look she got from one of the pensioners.
‘I don’t think you’re supposed to do that in here,’ Jason said gently, gesturing towards one of the many ‘No Smoking’ signs underneath their window.
‘You aren’t,’ Tati said cheerfully. ‘But at this point I’m afraid I couldn’t give two hoots. If they fine me, I’ll send the bill to your old man.’
Jason grinned. How he wished he had even a fraction of Tatiana’s chutzpah, especially when it came to Brett.
‘Sorry,’ she added. ‘It’s not personal.’
‘Please, don’t apologize. My dad makes my life miserable – and I’m his flesh and blood. I get it, believe me.’
‘Hmmm.’ Tati studied him more closely. ‘Yes. I suspect you do.’
Inhaling deeply on her cigarette, she released the smoke in a slow, sultry trail through her pursed lips, looking at Jason all the while. Anyone who thought of smoking as a dirty, unattractive habit clearly hadn’t seen Tatiana Flint-Hamilton doing it.
It had been a stressful day. Brett’s comments about marriage to a rich man being her only option had been no more than a childish attempt to put her down. Playground spite. And yet deep down Tati feared there might be some truth to them. He was certainly right that she could never settle down as a teacher in a sleepy Sussex village. That she needed excitement, and drama, and that she missed the high life she’d left behind in London.
The problem was that having always expected to inherit Furlings, and a fortune to go with it, she’d never given much thought to making her own way. But now the question had become pressing. If she didn’t win her court case in September, what would she do? What would her future look like? Brett had been typically scathing about her ability to start her own business. Then again, Brett Cranley was so sexist he probably believed women were incapable of tying their shoelaces without a man’s help.
Tati told herself firmly that if an intellectually challenged emotional retard like Brett Cranley could become a self-made millionaire, then so could she. Besides, she wasn’t going to lose the court case. But the lingering feeling of self-doubt and depression refused to leave her. She was coming up to London to escape.
‘So, what takes you up to town?’ she asked, turning the conversation back to Jason.
‘Work.’ He sighed heavily.
‘You don’t sound too thrilled about it!’
‘I’m not.’ Partly out of nervousness, and partly because he liked Tatiana and she seemed genuinely interested, Jason started to elaborate on how much he hated working at his father’s company and how useless he was at anything connected to business. He described Graham Jones to her, reducing Tati to tears of laughter, and did his best to convey the almost indescribable tedium of his work at Cranley Estates.
‘Wow,’ she said when he finally stopped talking. ‘That does sound ghastly.’
‘It is.’
‘Almost makes me feel lucky to be stuck making the tea at a village primary school. Although your father was kind enough to suggest today that I quit my job, and my court case, and focus on snagging myself a rich husband.’
Jason shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. He’s a Neanderthal.’
‘Why is that?’ asked Tati.
Jason looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t really know. It’s odd because in one way he loves women. He’s always been much closer to Logan than to me, and he loves Mum, even though he sometimes doesn’t act like it. The only time I’ve ever seen him cry was talking about his own mother. But then, in another way …’ He trailed off. ‘I don’t think he likes to be challenged.’
‘That’s an understatement,’ said Tati. ‘Not that I give a monkey’s what your father thinks about me. But I do feel sorry for Logan. I was trying to tell Brett today about how bright she is, if she just had the right help. But he didn’t want to hear it.’
Jason felt the anger rise up inside him, hardening into a solid ball in his chest. The idea of Brett stifling Logan the way he’d stifled him filled him with impotent rage.
‘Doesn’t he want his children to succeed?’ Tati questioned.
‘Oh, he does,’ Jason said bitterly. ‘It’s almost funny; family is everything to him – but he doesn’t quite know what to do with us. But only on his terms. His definition of success.’
‘Which is?
’
‘Dad wants me to be an entrepreneur, the next Sol Kerzner, and Logan to marry a prince.’ Jason laughed, but there was no joy in the sound. ‘I’d say Logie’s got a better chance than I have.’
Tatiana looked at Jason more closely. She still couldn’t entirely decide whether or not he was handsome. He had huge, soulful eyes, beautiful in a sad sort of way, but also strange-looking, too big for the rest of his face, like a possum’s eyes. His skin was pale like his mother’s, with delicate features and a sensual, expressive mouth. He’d be a stunning girl, Tati found herself thinking. It was bizarre how all the male traits that Brett exemplified – confidence, charm, ambition – seemed to have been inherited by his daughter; while his son and heir was a gentle lamb who completely broke the mould.
Tati found herself empathizing with Jason. They might not have much in common in other ways, but they both knew what it was like to have a father who was constantly disappointed in them. Who wanted them to be someone else, someone they were intrinsically incapable of being.
‘What would you like to do?’ she asked Jason. ‘For a job, I mean. If it were entirely up to you?’
His face lit up. ‘Perform.’
‘At what?’
‘The piano. But unfortunately I’m not good enough to play professionally.’
‘Says who? Your father?’
‘Well, yes. But I’m afraid he’s actually right on that one. I would never make the grade as a concert pianist.’
‘I bet you would.’
Jason shook his head and gave her a small, self-deprecating smile. ‘Nah. But even just a gig at a jazz club or a little wine bar somewhere would be incredible. All I really want is to play. I could teach music on the side maybe, for extra money. I don’t know.’ He blushed, as if this modest little scheme were a preposterous pipe dream, like becoming an astronaut or discovering Atlantis. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not gonna happen. Not in this life.’
They fell silent as the train made its way through the outskirts of London. After East Croydon they began to make more frequent stops, moving slowly through ugly suburbs. The mishmash of architecture fascinated Jason: Victorian red-brick terraces, their walls stained black from years of coal pollution, stood cheek-by-jowl with sixties tower blocks in unforgiving grey concrete, and modern office buildings, gleaming, sterile behemoths of glass and steel. London was like a living museum, a pop-up history book that never ceased to surprise and amaze him. Compared to Australia, everything here was on a tiny, doll’s-house scale. But he appreciated the city’s quirks and idiosyncrasies, and he loved the feeling of it being a genuine melting pot – economically, ethnically, culturally and in every other way.
The Inheritance Page 15