The Inheritance

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘We don’t do waiting lists. Never have, never will. We’ll take anyone prepared to pay our fees.’

  ‘But surely you’ll run out of space at some point?’ the reporter countered.

  ‘Hopefully,’ said Tatiana. ‘And when we do, we’ll expand.’

  Just weeks after that interview was published, Tatiana sold eighty per cent of the Hamilton Hall ‘brand’ to an investment consortium, mostly made up of American hedge-fund and real-estate entrepreneurs, with a smattering of aristocratic Brits thrown in at board level for good measure. The money from the sale had bought the Eaton Gate house, with a comfortable cushion of cash to spare. Tati and Jason retained a twenty per cent stake in the business and a lucrative three-year contract for Tati as CEO. She no longer had time for any teaching, still less to run the Sloane Square school as a headmistress, so she poached Drew O’Donnell, the brilliant headmaster of Colet Court to take her place – yet another, much-talked-about coup.

  New premises on Clapham Common were already under construction, a twenty-million-pound venture that was taking up immense amounts of Tatiana’s time. In addition she was scouting opportunities for growth of the Hamilton Hall model abroad, everywhere from the US to Asia. The school had become so successful, so quickly, it was tempting to look back on its foundation as a sure thing, some sort of fait accompli. In reality, however, starting Hamilton Hall had been a huge risk, one which Tatiana and Jason had taken together. She’d sunk her own modest savings into the first, flagship school. But it was Jason who had put the real money at risk. Every penny of his sizable trust fund had gone into the business, despite Brett’s best efforts to claw the cash back.

  ‘Hamilton Hall is your business as much as mine, you know. Your success as much as mine,’ Tati reminded Jason constantly. She was always very generous and inclusive in this regard. ‘Without your trust fund, and your belief in me, this could never have happened. You believed in me when no-one else would.’

  It was true. Yet to Jason, it always felt like a technicality. Hamilton Hall, both the school and the brand, had been Tatiana’s baby from the beginning She’d worked herself into the ground building and running a business that was, quite rightly, synonymous with its foundress. All Jason had done was write a cheque. A cheque he hadn’t even had to work for. As a result, their beautiful home, and his expensive clothes, and the free time he had on his hands, all felt as if they rightfully belonged to someone else. To Tatiana, in fact. Jason Cranley was a passenger in his own life again, just as he had been when he lived at home with his parents. The fact that the ship he was now sailing on was a super-yacht, and that his was the presidential suite, didn’t make him feel any better.

  ‘What about your parents?’ the therapist prodded gently. ‘Are you close?’

  ‘I’m close to my mother,’ said Jason. ‘My father …’

  The word hung in the air, like an unfinished road to nowhere. How to sum up his relationship – non-relationship – with Brett in a single sentence?

  ‘My father doesn’t approve of my marriage. That makes things difficult.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ The therapist nodded understandingly. ‘Your loyalties are with your wife.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jason said thoughtfully, surprised as he said it by how true this was.

  His loyalties were with Tatiana. And hers, he still believed, were with him. And yet there could be no denying that their marriage was not, and never had been, what a marriage should be. For one thing their sex life was close to nonexistent. Neither of them it seemed had the will or the energy to try to change this. Tatiana was consumed with the school, her expanding educational empire. And Jason? I have my music. The thought was so pathetic it made him laugh out loud.

  ‘Is something funny?’ the therapist asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  Thanks to Hamilton Hall’s huge success, Jason now had more than enough money never to have to work again. He was free to focus on his piano, to follow his dreams, just as he’d always longed to. In the beginning he’d given it his all, practising for hours each day, eventually working up the courage to put himself out there as a professional jazz pianist, looking for work. And he’d found it, sporadically, in third-rate bars and restaurants. But none of the jobs lasted. Put simply, Jason had learned the hard way that his father had been right all along: he simply wasn’t good enough, talented enough, to make it as a professional musician.

  If there was one single cause at the root of his current depression, Jason suspected this was it. He was a failure. Creatively. Professionally. Maritally. Meanwhile his wife, whom he loved despite their sexless marriage, his wife was a roaring success, the toast of London.

  Jason’s mother had visited him and Tati at the Eaton Gate house a couple of weeks ago and unwittingly brought all his negative feelings to a head. Normally Jason enjoyed Angela’s visits, especially when she brought Logan along with her. Something about his sister’s energy was infectious, and pushed all thoughts of the absent elephant in the room – Brett – from Jason’s mind. Logan loved Tati too, which helped, and the feeling was mutual. Whenever his kid sister was around, Jason felt as if his two worlds, his two selves had collided. That made him happy.

  But this last time his mother had come alone. And one afternoon, quite out of the blue, she’d asked Jason about children.

  ‘You’ve been together five years now,’ Angela probed gently. ‘Tatiana’s thirty. You must have thought about it.’

  Well, they hadn’t thought about it. The subject had never come up between them. Not obliquely. Not in a jokey way. Not at all.

  Never.

  Because we both know there’s something missing.

  Something wrong.

  This realization – prompted by his mother’s innocent question – had pushed Jason over some sort of mental edge into his darkest mood of many years. After Angela left he felt exhausted and tearful and defeated, unable or unwilling to get out of bed. All the old demons were back. Concerned, Tati had pushed him back to therapy. But he really wasn’t sure he had the strength for it.

  ‘Tell me a bit about your marriage,’ said the therapist. ‘How do you feel about your wife?’

  Jason looked up at the clock like a condemned man waiting for the guillotine. Had he really only been in this room for fifteen minutes? The thought of another forty-five minutes of questions filled him with something akin to panic.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, standing up suddenly. ‘I’m afraid I … I have somewhere I need to be. I forgot. I’ll pay you. Goodbye.’

  He bolted out of the door and down the corridor as if the room were on fire.

  Poor thing, thought the therapist, who’d seen it all before. So much for the Cranleys’ glittering life and perfect marriage. That boy was proof, if one ever needed it, that money and fame could not buy one happiness.

  She wondered if she would see Jason Cranley again.

  Seb Harwich watched Logan Cranley’s perfect body gyrating to the music. He wished he weren’t so mesmerized by her. But the way her hair swung around her shoulders, and her back arched as she moved each long, lithe leg to the beat of the godawful German dance track she was playing had a totally hypnotic effect on him.

  They were in the barn at Wraggsbottom Farm, where Logan had decided to throw an impromptu party. ‘They’ included a gaggle of Logan’s spoilt, sixteen-year-old boarding school friends, Seb, and a smattering of locals, mostly boys in their teens, who buzzed around the St Xavier’s girls like horny bees around a honey-pot. At almost twenty-two, Seb was not only the oldest person present, but by far the most mature. He’d tried to convince Logan not to invite friends over.

  ‘Someone’s bound to get drunk and break something or have an accident. Gabe and Laura would hit the roof if they knew.’

  But Logan had pooh-poohed him, in her usual headstrong, thoughtless fashion. ‘Yes, but they don’t know, do they? And there’s no reason why they should. As long as someone doesn’t rat us out.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Seb fr
owned. ‘I’m not going to say anything. I just don’t think it’s a good idea, that’s all. Laura and Gabe put a lot of trust in you.’

  ‘Gabe put a lot of trust in me,’ Logan corrected him sharply. ‘Laura still thinks I’m an irresponsible kid. I know she tried to talk him out of letting me house-sit. She doesn’t want him to see me as an adult.’

  That’s because you aren’t an adult, thought Seb, watching Logan topple backwards onto a pile of hay bales, burst into a fit of giggles and pour herself another half mugful of Gabe and Laura’s Grey Goose. Seb knew Logan was a child, and a spoiled one at that. He also knew that she had the hots for Gabe Baxter and was only using him to try to make Gabe jealous. But he couldn’t seem to help himself. She was so gorgeous, and, when she wasn’t drunk or high or banging on about Gabe, such fun to be around. It was like asking a starving lion to walk away from a juicy gazelle that was practically throwing itself into his jaws.

  ‘Light another joint for me, would you angel?’ Logan blew him a kiss from the hay bales. ‘I’m so hyper right now.’

  ‘You’re not hyper, you’re drunk,’ said Seb. ‘And none of you should be smoking in here. One stray spark and this whole place would go up like a box of fireworks.’

  ‘Oh, give it a rest, Granddad.’ Liam Docherty, the new gardener’s boy up at Furlings, sidled up to Logan with a fat, ready-rolled joint in his hand. Lighting it for her, he inhaled once deeply himself before handing it over. ‘Who invited this killjoy anyway?’

  Like most of the boys in the village, Liam fancied the pants off his boss’s daughter. Unlike most of them, he had daily opportunity to get close to Logan, and hadn’t given up hope of eventually charming her into bed. Liam was eighteen but looked younger, thanks to a pale complexion and freckles that gave him the look of a naughty schoolboy. But all Logan’s friends agreed there was something sexy about him, a certain cocksure Irish confidence.

  ‘I did,’ Logan sighed, looking at Seb Harwich with studied boredom. ‘But I’m beginning to wonder why.’

  ‘Come on. Let’s get this party started.’ Lavinia Creek, a particularly obnoxious schoolfriend of Logan’s, stripped off her T-shirt to reveal a bright pink bra. ‘Everyone has to take off at least one item of clothing. Last person on the dance floor goes naked!’

  Lavinia was blonde and might have been described as buxom. She was inordinately proud of her large breasts, despite the fact that they came as part of a package that also included a roll of belly fat and a big, wobbly bottom. Seb kept reading that men were supposed to go wild over figures like Lavinia’s. Personally he found the sight of her white flesh spilling over the top of her underwear and miniskirt borderline repulsive, especially when she jiggled it around in what drunkenly passed for dancing.

  ‘I’m game.’ Not taking his eyes off Logan, Liam Docherty removed his shirt to reveal a surprisingly taut and toned six-pack. The other girls swiftly followed suit, the prettier ones shimmying out of dresses, screaming with laughter as they jumped around in only bras and knickers. Everybody was drunk, but no one more so than Logan. Not one to be outdone on the exhibitionist stakes, she staggered back to her feet, turning up the volume on Gabe’s ancient boombox and dramatically peeling off her bra, which she proceeded to toss provocatively into Seb’s lap.

  ‘Come on, Sebby.’ She threw her arms in the air and spun around like some Bacchanalian goddess. ‘Dance with me.’

  Seb stood up and pulled Logan into his arms, more to shield her naked breasts from Liam and the other boys than out of any desire to be there.

  ‘You’re hammered,’ he whispered in her ear, trying hard not to be distracted by the silken soft skin of her bare back. ‘And you’re making an arse of yourself. Tell this lot to go home and I’ll make us some coffee.’

  ‘Can’t hear you,’ laughed Logan, shimmying out of his arms and bending down to turn the music up even louder. As she did so, one of the girls took a picture on her mobile phone.

  ‘I bet that’ll get a fuck of a lot of “Likes” on Facebook tomorrow,’ whistled Liam.

  ‘And I bet gorgeous Gabe will be one of them,’ added Lavinia, loudly and for Seb’s benefit. Like most of Logan’s friends, Lavinia fancied Seb Harwich madly and knew he was jealous of Logan’s crush on Gabe. Lavinia would have liked nothing more than to see Seb and Logan break up. ‘I could be his beaver to cry on,’ she’d told the other St Xavier’s girls with a cackle.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Seb, grabbing his jacket angrily. ‘I’m going home.’

  It took Logan a few moments to realize he was serious. By then he was halfway across the farmyard. Grabbing her T-shirt, she ran after him.

  ‘Come on, Seb. Don’t go.’ She did her best to sound conciliatory. ‘It’s only a bit of fun.’

  Seb turned on her angrily. ‘No, it’s not. It’s fucking irresponsible. Poor Laura thinks you’re keeping an eye on the place.’

  Logan’s face instantly darkened. ‘Poor Laura indeed. If she’d had her way, Gabe would never have let me house-sit.’

  ‘Because she thought you might pull something like this’ said Seb, exasperated. ‘And she was right, wasn’t she? Laura was the one who got you the job at the stables, you know.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It is true. Gabe told me. He didn’t want you around every day, but Laura felt sorry for you.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ said Logan.

  Seb knew he was hurting her but he didn’t care. It was true, and besides, she didn’t care how much she hurt him.

  ‘She’s so fucking kind to you,’ he went on. ‘And what do you do to repay her? Abuse her trust and spend every waking hour trying to get her husband into bed.’

  ‘I don’t have to try to get men into bed,’ said Logan, blushing scarlet at Seb’s accusation. ‘It’s easy.’

  Seb looked at her, stricken. How could he have fallen so in love with such a horrible, selfish person?

  ‘Go back to your friends, Logan,’ he said sadly. ‘I’m going home.’

  Laura drove through the deserted lanes, blinded by tears of anger and frustration.

  How had they managed to have a row, tonight of all nights? And over something so stupid, too.

  Up until dinner tonight, her romantic minibreak with Gabe had been going perfectly. They’d slept and cuddled – after so many miscarriages they were both too scared to have sex while she was pregnant – and gone for long country walks along the river. They’d talked about the farm, and her idea for a new TV series, and their future together as a family. But then, this evening, the conversation had turned randomly to education. Gabe had mentioned something about boarding school; Laura had said she didn’t like the idea of their son being sent away from home – a son who hadn’t even been born yet, never mind expressed his educational preferences! – and before they knew it things had descended into a vicious, knockdown drag-out fight. Gabe had accused Laura of everything from snobbery to trying to turn their child gay. In response, Laura had branded Gabe a sexist and a moron, and it had all gone downhill from there. Gabe paid the bill and they returned to their room, but the fight raged on. In the end Laura got so angry she packed a bag, grabbed the car keys and drove off into the night back to Fittlescombe. Fucking Gabe could get a fucking taxi in the morning on his own. She hoped it cost him a fortune.

  She first saw the smoke from about a mile away, as she rounded the top of the hill that wound down into the valley at Brockhurst. Odd time for a bonfire, she thought. And no one burns stubble in July. It was only as she drew nearer to the village that she saw the flames leaping into the night sky and realized with horror that the fire was coming from their farm.

  Pulling up outside, she jumped out of the car and was immediately hit by a wall of hot air that made her gasp. Thick black smoke poured out of the hay barn. The two stables nearest to the barn were also on fire. Within minutes it would reach the house.

  Instinctively Laura ran into the stable yard to check the horses, but all the stalls were empty. Thank God. Logan must have
taken them out to the paddock already. That meant she would have called the fire brigade as well. But where the hell were they? Running back to the car, Laura pulled out her mobile and dialled 999.

  ‘Fire!’ she panted. ‘At Wraggsbottom Farm in Fittlescombe.’

  The operator assured her a crew was already on its way. They’d had two calls from neighbours, apparently. Laura hung up and ran into the house. Grabbing the fire extinguisher in the kitchen, she shouted upstairs for Logan, but there was no reply. Perhaps she was still out in the field, dealing with the horses?

  Running back out as fast as she could with her pregnant belly, she heard the sirens of the fire engines coming down the hill from the main road. They would be here in moments, but the fire seemed to be intensifying and spreading with each passing second. Getting as close to the front door of the barn as she dared, Laura pulled the pin on the extinguisher and began to spray white foam at the entrance. The flames immediately receded, replaced by black smoke so thick it almost felt solid, like a deathly, choking cloth.

  That was when she heard it. A scream, loud, shrill and terrified.

  ‘Logan!’ Laura yelled back into the blackness. Still spraying foam in front of her, and with a hand clasped over her mouth, she moved into the doorway of the barn. ‘Logan! Are you in there?’

  No words, just another scream. This one louder than before and blood-curdling. The sound came from somewhere very close, only feet away. But both the heat and smoke were utterly disorienting. On instinct, Laura moved to the right, coughing violently as she tried to hold the extinguisher aloft. She heard the sirens behind her, very loud now. Were they here?