The Inheritance

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘Close them,’ Tati commanded grumpily.

  Brett climbed onto the bed and kissed her. ‘No.’

  Reluctantly Tati sat up and pushed the tangled hair out of her eyes. Brett looked so ridiculously handsome, and so happy, she couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half past eleven.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Tati threw back the covers. ‘I have to get home.’

  ‘You are home,’ said Brett, grabbing her round the waist and pulling her into his lap, cupping her naked breasts in his hands.

  Tati laughed. ‘One step at a time. The first thing I need to do is make an appointment with my banker.’

  Brett looked puzzled. ‘What for?’

  ‘What do you think?’ said Tati. ‘To figure out how I’m going to raise the extortionate amount of money you want for Furlings. Unless, of course, I can persuade you to lower your price?’

  Turning around she straddled him coquettishly, coiling her long, lithe legs around his waist.

  ‘Ah. About that.’ Brett extricated himself from her embrace with infinite reluctance. ‘I can’t sell to you, Tatiana.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ said Tati. Wrapping the sheet around her, she padded towards the bathroom. ‘Don’t even joke.’

  ‘I’m not joking,’ said Brett. ‘I can’t sell to you even if I wanted to. The house is Angela’s now. It was part of the divorce settlement.’

  Tati turned around to look at him. She could see at once from his face that he was quite serious.

  ‘But … last night,’ she stammered. ‘You said …’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Brett. ‘I was afraid you’d leave if I didn’t promise you something.’

  ‘I would have left!’ said Tati furiously.

  ‘Yes, and then where would we be?’ Brett walked over to her. ‘I love you and I know you love me. I couldn’t stand any more game-playing.’

  ‘So you lied to me?’ Tati shot back. ‘You think that’s how you stop playing games?’

  She stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Brett ran his hands through his hair in frustration as he heard the lock click shut.

  ‘Don’t be childish,’ he said through the door. ‘Come out and let’s talk about it, like adults.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Tati.

  ‘For God’s sake, woman. It’s “only a house,”’ said Brett.

  The door swung open. ‘Only a house? Did you just say it’s “only a house?”’

  Tati stood there glaring at him, naked and furious. It was a look he remembered well from Greystones Farm, that awful house Tati had rented when he’d first arrived in England. The image of Tati that had haunted his dreams from that day to this. Instantly he felt himself getting hard.

  Taking her hand he pulled her to him.

  ‘You’re a liar!’ Tati screamed, wriggling. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Not on your life,’ said Brett. ‘Not this time. I mean it, Tatiana. I am never letting you go again.’

  Then he kissed her, and Tati realized what she’d known deep down all along.

  She didn’t want him to let her go.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  Angela Cranley crunched her way through the deep snow covering Furlings’ lawn towards the apple tree that stood at the top of the drive. The air was so cold it hurt to breathe, but it was the sort of bright, joyful winter morning that couldn’t fail to lift the spirits. The cloudless sky glowed as azure blue as a tropical lagoon, and the sun shone brightly, making the carpet of snow sparkle like a billion tiny diamonds. Against the white background, all the colours of nature seemed more pronounced. The green leaves of the holly bush were the deepest, most intense green Angela had ever seen them, and its red berries looked as plump and enticing as cherries.

  She would be on her own this Christmas, for the first time ever. Unless you counted Gringo. Even Mrs Worsley had deserted her, to visit her sister (who knew?) in Edinburgh. But the prospect didn’t daunt her. Indeed Angela had turned down numerous offers, from old friends, from Jason and George, even from some of her fellow students on her Masters course to spend the festive season with them.

  ‘The first Christmas after divorce is always rough,’ people told her. ‘You mustn’t be alone.’

  No one seemed to understand Angela’s explanation that Furlings was company enough. Now that the house was hers, really, truly hers, it felt like a fitting celebration to enjoy it by herself. After all, it was here that she had learned how to enjoy her own company. Here that she had discovered a place she truly belonged, a place where she might be alone, but she was never lonely. Unlike during the long years of her marriage to Brett.

  Ironically, she and Brett were getting along better than ever now. But not for a moment did she regret their split. At fifty years old, Angela Cranley had at last understood the meaning of the word ‘home’. It was the most wonderful Christmas present she could have asked for.

  Clasped in her mittened hands was a large bag of birdseed. A bird feeder hung from the lowest branch of the apple tree. Reaching up, Angela carefully unhooked it and had just begun to refill it when a voice from behind startled her.

  ‘Hello.’ Max Bingley was wearing a Barbour jacket, teamed with a ridiculously bright, stripy woolly hat and knitted gloves, and a pair of black boots with green frogs on them. It was a ridiculous outfit – children’s television presenter meets lunatic – but teamed with Max’s trademark smile and unfailing bonhomie, it somehow suited him. ‘On a robin rescue mission, are we? Not much fun for the birds, this weather.’

  ‘I know,’ said Angela, dropping the seeds. ‘Poor things. They look so forlorn.’

  She looked at Max and he looked at her, and for some reason she found her heart beating unpleasantly fast and her stomach starting to churn. All sorts of polite, conversational questions formed in her mind.

  How are you?

  Did you want to see me about something?

  Can I get you a cup of tea?

  But she couldn’t seem to produce a single syllable. Staring back at her mutely, Max Bingley appeared to be suffering from the same affliction.

  ‘Stella’s left me,’ he said suddenly, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush, like spilled marbles.

  ‘Oh!’ said Angela.

  ‘Yep. She’s run off with Dylan Pritchard Jones.’

  ‘Oh!’ Angela said again. She couldn’t seem to come up with any other response. ‘But isn’t he, you know, a lot younger?’

  ‘He is indeed.’

  ‘And married?’

  ‘Not so as you’d notice.’ Max grinned.

  ‘You don’t seem awfully upset by it,’ observed Angela. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘I’m not upset, really,’ said Max. ‘Stella and I have been on the skids for a while, to be frank with you. Although I was a little surprised by the Dylan thing. I fear that Pritchard Jones’s interest in my soon-to-be-ex-wife has more to do with the preposterously valuable painting Stella’s just inherited from her Great Uncle Stanley’s estate than with her own, not inconsiderable charms. He’s always been a prize shit.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry anyway,’ said Angela. ‘You and Stella always seemed so relaxed together. So content.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Max rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Did we? The thing is, I was never in love with her. Not like I was with Susie.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Angela. She didn’t know why, but she felt suddenly deflated.

  ‘Stella and I married for companionship,’ Max went on. ‘But I realized after a while that that wasn’t enough. I suppose this fling with Dylan is a pretty clear indication that she realized that too. It’s for the best.’

  Not sure what else to say, or do, Angela filled the birdfeeder and hung it back on the branch. As soon as she and Max stepped away, a flurry of sparrows, robins and tits swooped down onto the feast. Angela watched them, trying to regain her former happiness, but it seemed to have floated away on the wind.

  She tu
rned to Max. ‘I suppose once you’ve had one true love in your life, it’s hard to settle for less.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Max.

  ‘And two true loves is probably rather too much to ask.’ Angela smiled.

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Max.

  He looked at her, with those lovely eyes of his that Angela had always associated with laughter and fun. But they were deadly serious now. ‘The thing is … I love you, Angela.’

  Angela felt her heart drop into her boots with a thud.

  ‘And I daresay that complicates things, and I don’t expect you to feel the same, but I had to tell you,’ Max couldn’t seem to stop talking. ‘I can’t stand the thought of bumping into you in the village for the rest of my life and making small talk and you not knowing and—’

  Angela removed her mittens and placed a finger gently on his lips.

  ‘I love you too, Max,’ she said. She thought about kissing him, but somehow it didn’t feel quite right. Life with Max would not be about grand, romantic gestures. It would be about small, everyday joys, shared and cherished. It would be about peace. Slipping her bare hand into his gloved one, Angela turned towards the house – her other true love.

  ‘Let’s go inside and talk about it, shall we?’ she said, happiness flooding through her as their fingers entwined. ‘I’ll make us a lovely pot of tea.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to everyone at Harper Collins, especially my tireless editor Kim Young, but also Lucy Upton, Jaime Frost, Liz Dawson, Claire Palmer and the amazing sales team, Laura Fletcher, Sarah, Tom and Lisa. Also to my agents Luke Janklow and Hellie Ogden, and to everyone at Janklow & Nesbit, especially Kirsty Gordon in London and Claire Dippel in New York. Writing is the best job in the world and I am very aware of how lucky I am to be able to do this for a living. With this in mind, I would like to thank all my readers, new and old, and everyone who has helped me along the way, including: Lydia Slater who gave me a chance at the Sunday Times; Kate Mills, my wonderful first editor at Orion; the unique and lovely Wayne Brookes; Sarah Ritherdon, who had the original idea for a Swell Valley series; Fred Metcalf and my sister Louise, for telling me I could write in the first place; Tif Loehnis, for making it happen; and Luke Janklow (again) for continuing to make it happen, and more importantly, for making it fun.

  Finally, as always, a huge thanks to my family for putting up with me, especially my husband Robin and our children, Sef, Zac, Theo and Summer. I love you all so much.

  The Inheritance is dedicated to my lovely friend Sarah Hughes and her husband Kris. Thank you for everything you have done for Sefi, and for me, this past year. You are friends indeed.

  TB 2014

  About the Author

  Tilly Bagshawe is the international bestselling author of eleven previous novels.

  A single mother at seventeen, Tilly won a place at Cambridge University and took her baby daughter with her. Now married to an American and a mother of four, Tilly and her family divide their time between the bright lights of Los Angeles and the peace and tranquility of a sleepy Cotswold village.

  Before her first book, Adored, became an international smash hit, Tilly had a successful career in the City. Later, as a journalist, she contributed regularly to the Sunday Times, Daily Mail and Evening Standard before turning her hand to novels, following in the footsteps of her sister Louise. These days, whenever she’s not writing or on a plane, Tilly’s life mostly revolves around the school run, boy scouts and Peppa Pig.

  See more at www.tillybagshawe.com

  Also by Tilly Bagshawe

  Adored

  Showdown

  Do Not Disturb

  Flawless

  Fame

  Scandalous

  Friends & Rivals

  Sidney Sheldon’s Mistress of the Game

  Sidney Sheldon’s After the Darkness

  Sidney Sheldon’s Angel of the Dark

  Sidney Sheldon’s The Tides of Memory

  To find out more about Tilly Bagshawe and her books, log on to www.tillybagshawe.com

  If you enjoyed this Tilly Bagshawe Swell Valley novel, why not try the Swell Valley short stories?

  Welcome to Tilly Bagshawe’s Swell Valley, where the scandal is in a class of its own.

  ONE CHRISTMAS MORNING is not the time to get your heart broken … Dumped by the love of her life and in need of some time to recover, screenwriter Laura Tiverton retreats to the idyllic village of Fittlescombe where she used to spend time as a girl. Maybe lending her expertise to the annual nativity play will be just what she needs. But with two gorgeous men on the horizon and a disastrous night at the ball, on the night before Christmas, who will be able to persuade her that the show must go on?

  As ONE SUMMER’S AFTERNOON rolls around, the annual Fittlescombe vs Brockhurst cricket match is older than the Ashes, and every bit as hotly contested – and is more exclusive than the Buckingham Palace Summer Garden Party and more star-studded than Cartier Polo. The Fittlescombe team have their hopes pinned on local boy Will Nuttley, but 24 year-old Will has his heart set on winning back the love of his life, Emma Harwich. As the champagne goes on ice and the sandwiches are being cut, little do the Swell Valley residents know that Emma is intent on sleeping with the enemy, and it’s throwing Will into a spin …

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