The Inheritance

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Angela put her hands over her ears and screwed her eyes up tight, like a child hiding from monsters under the bed.

  ‘Stop!’ she begged him. ‘I don’t want to hear it. I’ll check into a hotel. You can have Hannah send a bag over later.’

  ‘Please don’t!’ Brett pleaded. He knew it had been madness to fly Tricia over. But the week she’d called him in London, he’d been so whipsawed with anger and frustration over Tati Flint-Hamilton, his reserves of self-control had been low. And then he’d got the pictures texted to his phone: Tricia, her legs spread and lips parted, staring right into the camera, right into his eyes. The ticket was booked, the deed done. He’d genuinely believed Ange would never find out.

  He grasped at straws, desperate to stop Angela from leaving. ‘What about Logan? What will I tell her?’

  Angela hesitated. She’d completely forgotten about their daughter. That complicated things. She needed to be alone, to think. But she couldn’t very well abandon Logie without any explanation. Her mind was racing so fast, it was hard to make any rational decisions.

  ‘Just tell her I’ve gone on a trip and I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  ‘Will you?’

  There was no mistaking the vulnerability in Brett’s voice. The need. Despite herself, Angela felt the tug at her heartstrings. But she was tired of being Brett’s mother, his security blanket, tired of being the one whose job it was to forgive and forgive and forgive. He was the one who’d betrayed her. This was her time to be comforted and cherished, not his.

  ‘Yes.’

  His shoulders sagged with relief.

  ‘For Logan, not for you,’ Angela added sharply. ‘I want you gone by the time I get back, Brett.’

  Brett nodded. ‘OK.’ He was hardly in a position to argue with her. ‘I’ll go back to London. Tell Logan it’s a business trip.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What about our guests?’

  Angela grimaced. ‘I suppose they’ll have to stay. I can’t very well kick them out with no explanation. But they’re going to have to fend for themselves. I’m not in the mood for entertaining.’

  ‘I truly am sorry, Ange.’ Brett tried to touch her shoulder but she shrugged him off. ‘It’s you I love. You do know that, right?’

  With as much dignity as she could muster, Angela walked away.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Angela checked into Le Yaca hotel. She’d just been handed her keys and was heading for the lift when she caught sight of Didier Lemprière, the French lawyer who’d been one of the guests at last night’s dinner aboard Lady A.

  Damn it, thought Angela. She vaguely remembered having liked Didier. He’d been more normal and low-key than most of the show-offs Brett had invited. Among other things he’d told a very funny story involving a camper van and a corpse that had reduced everyone to tears of laughter. But she was in no mood for small talk this evening.

  Putting her head down she hurried across the lobby, praying that he wouldn’t see her.

  For his part, Didier Lemprière was having a trying day.

  A successful tax lawyer from Paris, Didier was in St Tropez on business, visiting two wealthy clients. The first, Jason Morgan, was a decent enough guy. It was Jason who knew Brett Cranley and who’d invited Didier out to Brett’s yacht for dinner, a fun experience but one that had left him with a hangover this morning that could have felled a rhinoceros. Unfortunately, it was Didier’s other client, a boorish German industrialist by the name of Helmut Schnetzler, who had invited him to dinner at Le Yaca tonight. Helmut had already completely hijacked Didier’s day, insisting on an afternoon round of golf (a game Didier loathed). Helmut had arranged tonight’s dinner for the sole purpose of ‘talking through’ his issues with the French tax authorities. As if he and Didier hadn’t just spent the past week discussing nothing else!

  An attractive man in his late thirties, with dark hair, brown eyes fringed with long, jet-black lashes, and a strong jaw that no amount of shaving could ever completely rid of a faint shadow of stubble, Didier was funny and charismatic – unusually for a member of his profession. He enjoyed all the good things in life: wine, music, food, classic cars and beautiful women. But he worked hard and was not a liar, never promising his many girlfriends more than he could realistically offer, i.e. great sex and amusing company but on a strictly time-share basis. Didier Lemprière was not so much of a commitment-phobe as a freedom-o-phile. He loved his bachelor life, and had yet to be presented with any compelling reason to end it.

  As such, he’d been hoping to ditch Helmut early tonight and then settle in for an evening of flirtation at Le Yaca’s famous poolside bar, trying his luck with the myriad stunning young women who flocked to St Tropez each summer, as long-legged and exotic as flamingos in their pink Cavalli minidresses and spiked Gucci heels. But Herr Schnetzler had put paid to that. With his booming German voice and his fat cigars and his bottle after bottle of expensive claret, he was clearly settling in for a long night.

  ‘I hope I’m not boring you?’

  Didier looked up. Helmut was halfway through an interminable, boastful story about some deal he’d pulled off. Didier thought he’d stifled his yawn, but perhaps he hadn’t.

  ‘Not at all. I’m a little tired, that’s all. Not all of us have your stamina, Helmut.’

  ‘Ha!’ The old man laughed, gratified by the compliment. ‘Now, where was I?’

  Didier let his client’s voice wash over him, throwing in the occasional ‘oh’ and ‘hmmm’, and wondering when he could politely excuse himself, when a woman he recognized walked into reception. Slim and willowy, wearing an old-fashioned sundress in some sort of Liberty print, and with her blonde hair clipped up, it took Didier a moment to place her. But then he remembered. It was Angela Cranley, his hostess at last night’s dinner.

  He hadn’t paid Mrs Cranley much attention last night. They were sitting too far apart and she’d been rather quiet. Looking at her now, he realized that everything about her seemed to belong to a different, more elegant era – the Fifties, perhaps; or at least to belong in a different town. Amid all the attention-grabbing miniskirts and silicone breasts and flashy diamonds of St Tropez, Angela Cranley was as out of place as a librarian in a Bangkok brothel.

  Didier saw that she was checking in, which was very odd in itself. Who stayed at the Yaca when they had a palatial yacht moored offshore? But to show up at a hotel at so late an hour and with no luggage bar a small overnight case … something was up.

  She was heading towards the lifts, obviously in a hurry.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Didier interrupted Helmut mid-sentence. ‘I have to use the bathroom.’

  By the time he reached the lift, the doors were about to close. Didier rushed forwards, leaping into the tiny space with seconds to spare.

  ‘Mrs Cranley!’

  Angela looked up and smiled politely. ‘Monsieur Lemprière.’

  ‘Which floor?’

  ‘Oh, er … third. Thank you.’

  Close up she was older than Didier had thought last night, with a faint fan of lines around her eyes, but she was still extremely beautiful. There was a sadness about her, too, that somehow pulled at him.

  ‘I apologize for following you.’

  ‘Were you following me?’ Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  ‘Well, not following exactly,’ Didier corrected himself awkwardly. ‘I saw you checking in and I wondered if everything was all right.’

  ‘Everything’s fine, thank you,’ Angela lied. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep you from your guest.’

  ‘Oh, God, please keep me from him.’ Didier rolled his eyes. ‘He’s German and fat and so dull he brings tears to my eyes. Whereas you are absolutely stunning.’

  Angela was so surprised, at first she wasn’t sure how to react. It was a very long time, a decade or more, since a man had flirted with her quite so directly. Especially such an attractive man, and one who knew she was Brett’s wife.

  ‘Well, er … thank you,’ she blushed.
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  The lift lurched upwards, stopping with a judder at the third floor. Angela hoped it was that that was making her stomach flip over, and not the attentions of Monsieur Lemprière. A smooth, handsome Frenchman like him probably uses the same line twenty times a night, she told herself firmly. I expect every woman he meets is ‘stunning’.

  The doors opened and they both stepped out into the corridor. Angela’s room was immediately on the right. There was a moment of awkwardness as she stood outside with her key card and Didier hovered beside her. Surely he doesn’t expect me to invite him in?

  ‘Well, goodnight, Monsieur Lemprière’ she said at last, breaking the silence because one of them had to. ‘This is me.’

  ‘Have a drink with me,’ Didier blurted. ‘Downstairs, once you’ve settled in. And for God’s sake call me Didier.’

  ‘I appreciate the offer, Didier,’ said Angela. ‘But I honestly can’t. I’ve had a very long day.’ An image of Tricia, lithe and naked, sprawled out on her bed, popped unbidden into her mind. ‘I’m afraid I’m exhausted.’

  Didier’s face fell. ‘Tomorrow, then?’

  Angela hesitated. She’d told Brett she’d be back on the yacht by tomorrow. It was the last thing she wanted to do – she desperately needed space – but with Logan on board she had little choice.

  Impulsively, Didier grabbed both her hands and clasped them to his chest. ‘I have to see you tomorrow. Please. Lunch, at least.’

  ‘I’m married,’ Angela heard herself saying. ‘You know I’m married.’

  ‘I also know you’re checking into a hotel at nine at night on your own,’ said Didier. ‘Besides, married people still have to eat lunch, don’t they?’

  Angela smiled. ‘I suppose so.’

  There was something so earnest and endearing about him. Or maybe she was just flattered by the fact that he appeared to find her genuinely attractive? Perhaps as a by-product of Brett’s affairs, Angela had long felt frumpy and middle-aged. Compared to the pneumatic perfection of girls like Tricia Hong, a forty-two-year-old mother of two had little to offer.

  This whole encounter is ridiculous, she told herself, gently removing her hands from Didier’s and sliding her key card into its slot, opening the door to her room.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at noon, then, shall I?’ said Didier firmly, pressing his advantage

  ‘Hold on. I never said I—’

  ‘In the lobby. Just lunch.’

  Angela hesitated, then nodded. What harm was there in one lunch, after all?

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Sleep well, Mrs Cranley,’ said Didier.

  ‘Angela,’ she corrected, then closed the door to her room and leaned back against it, her heart pounding with adrenaline, as if she’d just robbed a bank. What on earth had just happened? Looking down at her left hand, she twisted her wedding ring round and round on her finger. Then, to her own surprise, she burst into laughter.

  Downstairs at the dinner table, Helmut Schnetzler was getting impatient.

  ‘Better?’ he asked gruffly, as Didier returned to his seat.

  ‘Much,’ said Didier, smiling broadly.

  He wondered how long it would take him to crack Mrs Angela Cranley.

  Didier took Angela to a tiny fish restaurant, up in the hilltop village of Ramatuelle.

  ‘I thought you might prefer to be out of town,’ he said as they took their seats on the balcony, overlooking the rooftops of the village with the sparkling blue sea beyond. ‘It’s more peaceful up here, don’t you think?’

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ Angela sighed.

  She was waiting for the guilt to hit her, or at least the absurdity. What was she doing, having lunch with some French playboy at least ten years her junior? But in fact she felt sublimely content. Yes it was unreal, surreal even, to be sitting across the table from a handsome stranger while he poured from a bottle of chilled rosé. But after the events of yesterday, the reality of Angela’s life had lost every shred of appeal.

  To think, just yesterday morning she’d been sitting on the yacht eating breakfast and thinking how lucky she was. What a joke! All Brett’s affection, all his warmth had been a front, designed to lure her into a false sense of security. All along he was just waiting for her to leave, so he could smuggle that whore into their bed. Angela felt a wave of nausea wash over her. The thought of going back to the yacht, of putting on a brave face for Logan and trying to act naturally in front of Brett’s friends filled her with a lurching dread.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Didier asked.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She forced a smile. Brett was the one who should bloody well be feeling sick and anxious, not her.

  Didier ordered for both of them, langoustines in white wine and garlic with a side of cold poached artichokes and a delicious selection of local cheeses. He talked easily and naturally about everything from his life in Paris to politics, music and art. Before long Angela felt as if she were lunching with an old friend. By the time he brought the conversation around to more personal matters, they’d already started a second bottle of wine, and Angela was feeling considerably more relaxed.

  ‘So. You’re married,’ Didier observed casually, helping himself to more of the richly oozing Brie.

  ‘Yes.’ Angela swirled the pale pink liquid around her glass.

  ‘Happily?’

  She shrugged. ‘Sometimes. Not always.’

  ‘How about now?’

  Her tongue loosened by the alcohol, she ended up telling him the whole story, from walking in on Brett and his mistress yesterday, to the history of the affair in Australia, and all the affairs that had preceded it.

  ‘We moved to England to make a fresh start,’ she laughed bitterly. ‘Like a fool, I thought we had. But Brett hasn’t changed. He arranged this whole thing.’ She drained her glass.

  Didier looked at her for a moment, weighing his words before he spoke.

  ‘Well. Maybe now, you will change.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just what I say. Maybe you will grow tired of this life, waiting for the next affair, the next betrayal.’

  I am tired, thought Angela.

  ‘Look,’ he took her hand. ‘I am in no position to pass judgement on your husband. I ’ave not always been faithful to girlfriends.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re not married,’ said Angela. ‘You don’t have kids. It’s not the same.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ said Didier. ‘A lie is a lie. Pain is pain, non? All I’m trying to say is, each one of us has our strengths and weaknesses, and we each justify our decisions to ourselves. Your husband may change, or he may not change, but you can’t change him. You can only change yourself. So I am wondering … will you?’

  Didier was caressing the underside of her wrist with his thumb. Will I what? thought Angela. Will I change? Or will I have an affair with you?

  ‘You’re very attractive,’ she said, truthfully, withdrawing her hand. ‘And I’m flattered. But my life is complicated enough right now without …’

  She left the sentence hanging.

  ‘Without what? Happiness?’ Didier prompted. ‘Without pleasure?’

  Angela shrugged. ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right.’

  ‘So what will you do?’ Didier asked after a while, leaning back in his chair and sipping at his wine.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Angela. ‘Go back to the boat. Take care of my daughter. But beyond that … I don’t know.’

  She couldn’t imagine leaving Brett. She’d been with him her whole adult life. He was her life, in so many ways. But she also recognized the truth in what Didier was saying. The only way to break a cycle was for one person to change. And if it wasn’t going to be Brett, it would have to be her. They couldn’t go on like this forever.

  Didier paid the bill and walked her back to his car.

  ‘Can we keep in touch?’

  He hadn’t given up hope of seducing the lovely Mrs Cranley. But he sensed that coming on too strongly now would be a mistake. He must go slowly with
this one, break her in gently like a frightened young foal.

  ‘I’d like that.’ Angela smiled.

  For now, it was enough.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tatiana fiddled with the strap of her watch and looked awkwardly around the restaurant. Daphne’s on Draycott Avenue had been her choice, an old favourite from her ‘It girl’ partying days. But she regretted it now. It was so small and intimate, she felt as if every table of diners were watching her, wondering who it was who’d stood her up and how long she’d be hanging around at the bar like a spare part, waiting for him.

  Of course, they probably weren’t thinking anything of the kind. No doubt they had bigger fish to fry than worrying about a society has-been’s romantic entanglements. Or lack of them. The truth was, it was so long since Tati had been on a date, she felt as wired and nervous as a racehorse on Derby Day morning.

  Two more minutes. Two more minutes then I’ll go, and never speak to that self-important dickhead again.

  ‘Hello. Oh my God I am so sorry I’m late. There was a pile-up on the Embankment, it was insane. Please tell me you haven’t been here long?’

  And there he was. The self-important dickhead, aka Marco Gianotti, an Italian-American investment banker whom Tati had been introduced to by her friend Katia a few weeks ago, the same day she’d bumped into Jason Cranley on the train, and who hadn’t stopped calling her since.

  ‘I was about to give up on you,’ she said, more frostily than she’d meant to, but only because she’d forgotten just how unbearably attractive Marco was. Tall and broad shouldered with thick, wavy black hair and a flawless olive complexion, he looked more like an aftershave model than a banker. Although Goldman Sachs were known for hiring ridiculously good-looking employees. Back in her heyday, Tati had bedded quite a number of them.

  ‘Please, don’t do that.’ Marco smiled. ‘Not after keeping me hanging for almost a month. That would be too cruel.’

  Tati felt the blood rush to her head then straight back down to her groin. It had been too long, far too long, since she’d had a decent man. Her abortive encounter with Dylan was hardly a night she wanted to remember.