by Hilary Boyd
*
‘Come in, come in.’ Rene ushered her inside. ‘I’ve made some tea.’
They picked their way through the boxes in the hall to the sitting room, which was partially packed up, pale dust-sheets making odd shapes of the furniture, more boxes piled by the windows, pictures stacked against one wall. Only the sofa stood uncovered, the dust-sheet folded neatly over one arm.
Rene poured the tea in silence.
‘All looks very organised,’ Flora commented, her eyes sweeping round the room, remembering the daily image of Dorothea sitting peacefully in her chair by the window. She felt a pang of loss.
‘Well, it’s getting there. Still a lot to do.’ Rene handed Flora a mug and took the other one herself, cradling it between her hands in the cold room.
‘Right … no point in beating about the bush. I’ve got something very important to tell you.’ Rene paused, her look significant. ‘I’d have told you before, but there were a number of things to sort out.’
Flora waited. ‘Dorothea has left this flat to you. And a small legacy to go with it.’
Flora’s mouth dropped open. ‘What?’ She felt a shiver down her spine, felt the blood drain from her face.
Rene nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes. Marvellous isn’t it? The flat is now yours. And fifty thousand pounds.’ She gave her a broad smile.
‘But … wait … to me? I don’t believe it. What about Dominic? I thought she’d left everything to him.’
‘She had. But she changed her will. She’s left him a substantial legacy, of course. He should be pleased, but of course he’s not.’
Flora was speechless, suddenly understanding why he’d snubbed her at the funeral. ‘Why? Did she think he was cheating her?’
‘She never said as much. You know Dorothea, she wouldn’t have said a word against him. She was just determined that you have the flat. She was extremely fond of you.’
‘I was very fond of her too.’ Flora’s eyes filled with tears. She swallowed hard. ‘But can I really have it? Won’t Dominic challenge the will?’
‘He certainly planned to. He was livid. He demanded a meeting at the solicitor’s. Called both of us some pretty horrible names. But I said we had proof that he’d been cheating his great-aunt for months, selling off her stuff for a fraction of what it was worth. I told him in no uncertain terms that if he made a fuss, all that would come out.’
‘But we don’t have proof … do we?’
‘Not as such, but it wouldn’t be hard to get. The clincher was when I asked to see the bills of sale from the auction houses for all the items. He went quiet after that.’
‘So you don’t think he’ll take it further?’
‘Look, she left him a hundred thousand pounds and all the most valuable furniture. More than he deserves. He’d be mad to risk his reputation – for what that’s worth – by taking us to court. Whatever his justification, he was nothing more than a common thief.’
Flora sat in stunned silence. She looked at Rene. ‘Let me get this straight. Dorothea has left the entire flat … to me. And fifty thousand pounds?’
Rene laughed, reaching over to pat her arm. ‘Hard to take in, eh?’
‘When did she do it? Change her will, I mean?’
‘About two months before she died. She suddenly got a bee in her bonnet about it. I had to arrange all the signing on a Saturday, when you weren’t here. Ironically it was Pia who witnessed her signature. And she’s left something to Mary and Keith. The flat’s leasehold, I’m afraid, it’s only got twenty-eight years to run. You’d have to renew the lease fairly soon if you wanted to sell it for what it’s really worth.’
Rene rattled on. ‘Obviously probate will take a while with regard to the money, but as Dorothea’s executor I can give you the keys to the flat now. I don’t know what you intend to do, but I would suggest you don’t leave it empty for too long. Houses quickly develop problems if they’re not lived in.’
Flora looked around the room. This is mine? This is really mine? It was impossible to take in. And it felt even stranger that she wasn’t able to thank Dorothea in person.
Rene got up. ‘You sit there for a bit, absorb the good news. I need to get on with things, tackle her bedroom. Then we should talk about what, if anything, you’d like to keep of the stuff not going to Dominic.’ She bustled out of the room.
Flora leant back against the cushions and closed her eyes. Dorothea, she called silently into the ether, her hands pressed together in her lap. Dorothea … please be there, please hear me. Thank you a million times for what you’ve done. It’s unbelievable. You’ve literally saved my life. There was no sound in the still room, but she fancied, in her euphoric state, that Dorothea did hear her, her kind smile lighting up those pale old eyes. The tears were hot behind Flora’s lids, but she welcomed them, her sense of relief too much to contain.
*
For the next two hours, she and Rene worked side by side, a roll of bin bags between them gradually being filled with all that remained of Dorothea’s life. But Flora felt disassociated from her actions, her speech. They went on automatically while she floated separate, buoyed up by the first breath of hope she had experienced in months.
‘You’ll have to get insurance sorted out. I’ll send you a copy of the lease and one of the will. You should come in and talk to Andrew Houlting, my solicitor, the one who’s dealing with probate. He can tell you roughly when the money will be available, and arrange the necessary paperwork if you need a loan against it.’
Flora listened and nodded and agreed, all in a daze.
When she left Rene, she didn’t know what to do with herself. She walked up towards the bus and home, then changed her mind. She didn’t want to go and sit alone in the flat, bursting with the incredible news she’d just received, and no one to share it with. So she walked back down to the arcade and Waitrose. She would treat herself, buy some decent food for a change. Her heart wouldn’t slow down; every time she thought about the flat, the money, it leaped and jumped in her chest as if it were doing a jig.
She rang Fin as soon as she got home. She was dying to tell someone.
‘Flo?’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m great! Been on one, exercising like a bloody nutjob. When you’re in the zone the rest of the world doesn’t exist.’ He drew breath, obviously hearing what he’d just said. ‘Not you and the baby of course … I didn’t mean you don’t exist …’
‘It’s OK, Fin. Listen, something amazing has happened to me.’
‘Amazingly good or amazingly bad?’
‘Amazingly amazing.’ She found herself laughing to herself.
‘So are you going to tell me?’
‘Dorothea left me her flat.’ Flora spoke the words with complete disbelief. ‘And some money.’
‘Christ, that is amazing! So the old lady came through.’ There was a long pause. ‘Will you sell it?’
She didn’t answer at once. There had been no moment when they had made a finite decision about their future together. And she had no idea what he was thinking.
‘No,’ she said, suddenly very clear about what she herself wanted. ‘I think I’ll live there.’
‘OK.’ He went silent. ‘So you and me … does this mean …?’
‘I don’t know.’ She could hear his breathing on the line and didn’t know what she wanted him to say.
‘I can’t … it’s hard to think we won’t be together. I’d sort of thought you’d be here, with me. You and the baby. You still could be, Flo. You know I love you. If it’s the Prue thing …’
For a very long time neither of them spoke.
‘I think we want different things from life, Fin.’
‘I suppose we do,’ he muttered eventually.
Flora ended the call awash with conflicting emotions: the bubbling excitement about Dorothea’s flat, relief at the thought of the legacy, and a leaden sadness that she and Fin couldn’t make it work together.
CHAPTER 21
&
nbsp; 4 June
In the weeks since Flora had got the keys to the St George’s Court flat, she had gradually, with the help of Bel and Keith, and recently Simon Kent, begun to transform the cluttered and tatty interior into a clean, light space. She’d been sleeping in the flat for a couple of weeks, and Dorothea’s old bedroom was now bright and clean, the ancient carpet long since consigned to a skip, the floorboards sanded, polished and covered in a colourful rag rug, the heavy curtains replaced by a calico blind. The rest of the flat still had a long way to go.
It was Flora who had made the decision to get in touch with Simon again. She knew they would be neighbours and would bump into each other in the street, but she thought they could also be friends and had wanted to dispel the awkwardness that was so apparent when they’d seen each other in the park café.
One morning, a month or so after she had got the keys to the flat, she’d left a text on his mobile: Give me a ring when you have a moment. Flora.
He hadn’t responded for two days, and she was saddened at the thought that he didn’t want any contact with her. But on her way to work at the agency, walking from Holborn Tube station in the din of the rush-hour traffic, her phone rang.
‘Flora, hi. It’s Simon Kent.’ He didn’t sound unfriendly exactly, but as if he was in a hurry, his breath quick as he walked.
‘Hello … How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
Though discouraged by his tone, she’d ploughed on. ‘Um … I just called because I thought you should know, we’re going to be neighbours.’ She told him about Dorothea leaving her the flat.
‘How wonderful. She obviously adored you.’
‘We’re just giving it a basic makeover.’
‘Well, good luck with it all. I hope you’ll be very happy there.’ He’d paused. ‘Probably see you around and about then.’
‘Drop in if you have a moment. I’m sort of living there now, although it’s a mess because there’s still masses to do. Keith’s helping.’
For what seemed like a long time, he hadn’t replied. Then eventually he said, ‘And Fin too, I expect.’
‘Fin and I aren’t together any more.’
Another silence. ‘Oh … I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘So you’ll be living there by yourself, then.’
‘Yup.’
There was a pause.
‘OK … well, I’m good at wielding a paintbrush if you need more help.’ His reserve had finally softened. ‘And the baby?’
‘The baby’s fine.’
Since then, Simon had often come round, sometimes to help paint or clear things out at weekends. He’d occasionally accompanied her and Bel to choose baby clothes and equipment – being the only one with previous baby experience, he said. He’d even driven them both to IKEA for nursery furniture – the real test of friendship in Flora’s book. But although she felt totally at ease with him and the three of them were never short of things to say to each other, sharing a lot of laughter, she and Simon were still nothing more than friends. Flora sometimes caught him looking at her in his quiet, intense way, and wondered how he really felt about her. For her part, she knew only that she had come to look forward to seeing him, that his presence was becoming an essential part of her life.
*
‘It’s a bit of a creepy colour.’ Bel pulled a face as she eyed the paint tin sitting on the dust sheet.
‘“Creepy”? What on earth do you mean? It’s just a very soft green. I thought it would be restful in the sitting room.’
‘Hmm. S’ppose it might look better when it’s on the walls.’
‘Well, let’s finish the baby’s room first. You can’t object to Linen White!’
They were sitting on sofa cushions on the recently sanded floor of the sitting room – the rest of the furniture was still stacked in the hall – each sipping from a takeaway carton of mixed-berry smoothie from the café opposite.
‘So how’s it going with Mum?’
Bel rolled her eyes. ‘Pretty rubbish. She’s stopped shouting all the time. Now she just wanders about, looking as if she’s going to cry. Hate it.’
‘And your dad?’
‘Yeah, I see him a lot, but never with Mum. He says she still won’t speak to him. And when I asked Mum if they were getting a divorce she just said ‘Of course not’, as if it was, like, totally obvious they wouldn’t. I wish she’d just tell me what went wrong.’
Flora shifted uncomfortably on her cushion. ‘They’ll sort it out, Bel, I’m sure they will. It’s horrible for you, but give them time.’
‘So you keep saying. But she’s not even talking to you – you haven’t seen her for months – so it’s got to be really, really bad.’ Her niece eyed her suspiciously. ‘You must know what happened, Flora. Please … please tell me.’
Flora met Bel’s pleading glance. It wasn’t the first time Bel had asked her, and each time she was forced to fob her off with some platitude about things being alright in the end. Eventually Bel had given up asking, but she wasn’t stupid.
‘Look, Bel, I’ve said before, it’s complicated. Your mum’s going through a difficult time. I don’t think it’s any one thing, just a weird phase in her life when she’s not coping with stuff.’ Her words, as usual on this subject, sounded thin and evasive.
Bel raised her eyebrows. ‘Yeah, well, that’s pretty much what Mum and Dad always say … basically nothing, nada, zip.’ She sighed, sucking the last of her smoothie noisily through the straw.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, I get it. You all think I’m a dumb kid who’s too young to hear the truth. But hey, I’m fifteen. And it’s my family.’
Flora saw the tears and reached over to take her hand. ‘Come on. Let’s paint. It’ll take your mind off your stupid parents.’ She hoped Bel never had to hear about her mother and Fin.
For a while they painted. The walls were done, it was just the gloss along the skirting boards and around the sash-window frames that needed finishing. The room would be lovely: light, airy, calm. Flora thought of her baby lying cosily in the cot – which was still in a flat-pack awaiting Keith’s construction skills – and felt a frisson of anxiety.
‘Is Dr Simon coming round?’ Bel asked, as they paused to check their progress.
‘He said he’d try and drop by later, but he’s on call.’
Bel was suddenly fixing her with a strange look. ‘He’s so totally cute.’
Flora laughed. ‘Simon?’
‘Doh … yes, Simon. Who else?’ Her niece was still eyeing her. ‘Don’t you think he’s cute?’ Bel obviously liked the doctor, they had developed a teasing friendship over the previous weeks while helping with the flat.
Flora didn’t answer for a moment. ‘OK … yes, he is very cute.’
Bel looked triumphant. ‘So?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘So what are you going to do about it?’
Flora shook her head, pointing down to her swelling stomach. ‘Bel, I’m pregnant, in case you hadn’t noticed. You can’t think about that sort of thing when you’re pregnant.’ She saw Bel raise her eyebrows. ‘Trust me, you can’t. Simon and I are just friends. And anyway, who says he’s interested in that way?’
‘I says,’ her niece grinned broadly and turned back to the paint tray.
That night, as she lay in bed, Flora thought about that conversation. Was Bel right about Simon? Flora had seen those looks he gave her sometimes, but no one would consider romantic involvement with a heavily pregnant woman, or relish the prospect of dealing with another man’s child … would they …? She loved his dark eyes, his kindness; he made her laugh. But surely if he’d felt anything more for her, he’d have said something by now. She wondered how she would feel if he did.
*
Oxford Street on a Saturday morning was a dumb idea, Flora realised, as they wove their way through the crowds. But she was working all week, she didn’t have much choice.
‘Do I really nee
d all these things?’ she asked Simon, gazing at the bewildering array of safety equipment, from socket covers to fridge locks to door-slam stoppers. Simon picked up a starter pack of safety equipment.
‘Not sure you need to worry about it raiding the fridge any time soon.’
‘Or banging its head on the corner of the table. Did you have all this stuff for Jasmine?’
Simon gave her a wry smile. ‘We had a nanny instead.’
He seldom talked about his four-year-old daughter, but Flora knew that Carina, his ex-wife, made it really hard for him to see her.
‘I’m not going to get any of this stuff.’ She made the decision, putting the packet firmly back on the shelf. ‘The flat isn’t big, I’ll hear her cry without a stupid monitor. And all this stuff won’t be needed till she’s way older, if at all.’
‘Good plan. Parenting’s just another marketing scam these days,’ Simon said. ‘Come on, I’ll shout you tea at Sketch. It’s got comfy armchairs and deliciously decadent macaroons.’
Once in the plush, exotic surroundings of Sketch, Flora sank into her chair with relief. ‘Shall we share a cream tea … and some macaroons? Eating for two!’
‘And a blueberry éclair?’ Simon grinned up at the waitress taking their order. ‘Even though I’m not.’
‘Oh, I think pregnant dads can indulge as well as pregnant mums,’ the waitress joked. As she disappeared towards the till, there was a brief awkwardness between them.
‘I suppose we do look like a couple,’ Simon said.
Flora gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘I suppose.’
They sat in silence, during which Flora suddenly realised that she would love it if they were. But the realisation made her even more self-conscious; she couldn’t even meet the doctor’s eye.
‘Have you thought about what sort of birth you want?’ Simon asked eventually, obviously searching for a safe topic of conversation.