A Perfect Heritage

by Penny Vincenzi

  And then on the Sunday, after tea, Milly said she didn’t want them to go and see Mrs Blackman.

  ‘But why not?’ Patrick said.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ Milly said. ‘I don’t want you to. It’s just not a good idea. Because there’s no point. They’ll still win. Carey and the others.’

  ‘I doubt that, Milly. They should be expelled.’

  ‘They won’t be. They can’t expel a whole class. And every single one of them was doing it, don’t forget. Even the real losers. Even poor Tamsin.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, with the spots and the BO? I had her to a sleepover once. I thought it would be kind. She was obviously really grateful.’

  ‘Well, they can expel the ringleaders. Carey for a start.’

  ‘Carey is so clever, Daddy. And a brilliant actress. She’ll lie and lie and it’s her word against mine. And – well, the real point is, with bullying these days, it’ll go on anyway. You can’t stop it. Facebook, texts, Ask.fm. There’s no hiding place. Even if you move schools. And no one could make Carey feel ashamed. She’s a truly horrible person. I just don’t see the point. I’ve been thinking and thinking about it, and I just don’t want you to go.’

  ‘Milly, something has to be done. We can’t just let it go unpunished. And what do you propose to do? You have to go to school, and surely you, brave as you are, can’t consider going back?’

  ‘I might. In a week or two.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know, I know. But what I want to do is win. And if I leave, they have.’

  ‘But my darling, look at the state they’ve got you into. Look what’s happened to your life. You can’t handle this on your own. I hate to say it, but you need grown-up help.’

  Milly looked at him.

  ‘I know. But it’s got to be the right sort.’

  Her face wore its new steely expression; Bianca and Patrick were learning not to argue with it.

  ‘You are just so so special . . .’ Jonjo looked at Susie across the bed. They’d gone out to dinner and then, halfway through, they’d looked at each other rather intently, and that had been that really. Without saying a word, they’d known they were wasting their time, talking however happily, amusing each other however genuinely.

  ‘Shall we go?’ Jonjo had said and ‘Yes, I’d like to,’ Susie had said, and they’d had to explain to the waiter that there was nothing wrong with Susie’s fish or Jonjo’s steak, they were really very nice indeed, and they hadn’t been suddenly taken ill, and nor had they had some bad news, they simply had to go, and they were very sorry and Jonjo paid for the whole meal and left a huge tip and they found a taxi quite quickly, which was as well, since they were both so impatient to be together, mouth on mouth, skin on skin, eyes fixed on one another, learning each other still, yet beginning to grow familiar, to know what was good, what worked, what was tender, what would excite, and that in itself was lovely, to have even that much knowledge of one another, and finding it so very very good, while knowing there was so much more to come, to discover, to learn. And knowing that whatever more there was, was bound to be as good, if not better, than what they had already, so perfectly suited, so utterly attuned to one another they seemed to be.

  This must be love, Susie thought confusedly, pulling Jonjo to her, kissing him again and again, as if she had not been doing so for some time already; and she almost said it then, but then she didn’t, and neither did he: pulling back from her, pushing her hair away from her face, smiling delightedly at her, almost in surprise, as if he had just discovered some glorious treasure, rich and precious – as indeed he supposed he had.

  ‘So – what do you think?’ he said, by way of compromise; and she said, ‘Think about what?’ And ‘Us, each other,’ he said. ‘Do you think we’re important, do you think this is important?’ And ‘Of course it is,’ she said, ‘terribly important. And terribly lovely.’

  That was when he said she was special.

  Later they sat in bed watching some terrible movie, for it was still early, not even eleven, and she said, ‘I suppose I should go.’ He smiled at her and said, ‘Do you have to?’ She smiled back and said, ‘No, I don’t.’ And revealed that she had in her rather large bag, which he had noticed before but not remarked upon, feeling it might sound ungallant, a gorgeously new Joseph sweater and some clean underwear, and what she called her face stuff and he laughed and said she was a hussy, and she said nonsense, she was simply practical and he said yes, OK a practical hussy then; and then he said, ‘I’m so pleased, I love practical girls and let’s stop watching this.’ And they’d snuggled down and gone to sleep easily, and rather surprisingly, and she woke to hear his phone going off and him saying, ‘Oh fuck!’ and shooting out of bed saying, ‘That’s my second alarm call! Bloody hell, first one didn’t go off. I’ll get you some coffee when I’ve had my shower.’

  And then, then it happened. Feeling safe for five minutes, hating what she was doing, but knowing she must, for it had been nagging somewhere deep down in her subconscious, she reached for her bag and pulled her phone out of it, and God, oh God, there were about a dozen texts, all from Henk, all saying the same thing, that he meant it, he was going to do it, he was going to kill himself, and unless he heard from her that day, that would be it, it wasn’t a game, he meant it, he couldn’t face life without her, that he loved her and knew she loved him; and while she was sitting there, her stomach churning, her face clearly showing what she was feeling, the terror and the guilt, she frantically called his number and she was just saying, ‘Henk, Henk, are you there, it’s Susie, are you all right?’ when she heard Jonjo say, ‘What is it? What the fuck is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ she said, stupid with misery and shock. ‘I – I can’t.’ She looked at him. ‘I’m sorry. I must – must finish this call.’

  ‘Well, go ahead,’ he said, his voice harsh and angry suddenly, ‘don’t mind me. I’m out of here anyway, in five minutes. Or maybe it wouldn’t be too much to ask you to wait till I’ve gone.’

  ‘Yes – no – yes, of course I will,’ she said and more than anything in the world she wanted to explain, but how could she, now, and what would he think of her if she did? That she was, to a degree, two-timing him, that there was still a man, another man in her life, that she had lied about, denied; a man who was threatening to kill himself if she did not go back to him.

  It would all sound so flimsy and so ugly, set against what they had been sharing for the last glorious hours, the closeness, the happiness, the edge of love. What explanation could she possibly give that would satisfy him, make him understand? The truth perhaps? But what would that do to him, to them, now?

  In the scruffy flat he was now sharing with some friends, Henk brewed up a strong coffee while he waited patiently for her next call. He had lots of time and not a lot to do. And he could see he had her seriously rattled now.

  ‘No. I don’t know how many more times we have to spell this out to you, Bianca. There is no more money. I know it’s the most brilliant idea since the wheel, but if it costs two or three million then it ain’t going to happen. Sorry.

  ‘And if your success, and indeed Farrell’s success, depends on this in the way you say it does, maybe you should rethink your whole strategy. It might seem a little fragile. Now, we have another meeting, so if you could . . .’

  Bianca stood up, reached for her coat. It was a measure of their exasperation with her that neither Mike nor Hugh helped her on with it.

  She walked out into the cold, dark February evening, feeling she simply didn’t know what to do. It was becoming a rather familiar sensation.

  She decided to go home. It was early, only five, but she was making a huge effort to be home for Milly and she could do most – if not all – of what she had to do later, when things were quiet.

  She called Patrick, who was working at home, and told him what she proposed: ‘And I’d love to talk to you about something else, nothing to do with
Milly, a problem I’ve got here . . .’

  She used to do that a lot: talk her problems through with him. He never did much more than listen, occasionally throwing in the odd observation, but time and again she found it helped. Since Saul – well, Saul was taking a back seat for a few days at least.

  ‘Sounds nice,’ he said, ‘but actually, you’ll have to count me out. I was just going to call you. I’ve got to go into the office, only for a few hours, but Saul just emailed me, wants to go through some stuff with me and—’

  ‘Patrick, not tonight! Surely tomorrow will do?’

  ‘Of course it won’t,’ he said, his voice patient, as if he was talking to a child. ‘Tomorrow I have to go down to Exeter.’

  ‘Exeter! You didn’t say, why?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t know. Bianca, I’ve been around a lot the past few days, and Saul’s been very good about it—’

  ‘Is that right? I must call and thank him.’

  ‘Bianca, please, don’t even think of—’

  ‘Patrick, for Christ’s sake. Your sense of humour is becoming as non-existent as his. But I do actually fail to see why you shouldn’t work at home from time to time, when he told us both specifically that could be part of the deal.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but it doesn’t work like that in practice. As I’m sure you know. And at least I’ve been here a lot more than you have, in spite of all your fine words.’

  ‘Oh, just shut up!’ said Bianca. ‘It would have been impossible for me, I’ve got a complete nightmare on my hands.’

  ‘How very unusual. Well look, it would be helpful if you did get here fairly soon, because I’d promised Ruby I’d help her with her project so maybe you could take over. And Fergie has a lot of test papers to go through, and—’

  ‘Yes, all right, all right, I’ll come. I can see my problems can’t begin to compete with Saul’s!’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, do we have to have this, every time, even now. It’s so childish, Bianca. I never, ever complained about any of your bosses, or backers, and the hours you need to keep. But I’m not the automatic go-to for domestic backup any more, we have to share it, more than ever now with the Milly situation.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Bianca wearily. She could feel Patrick slipping back very fast from his position on the Milly day, as she thought of it. He really wasn’t the Patrick she had been married to even six months earlier. She wasn’t sure what her predominant emotion was, but there was certainly some fear within it somewhere. And she felt horribly alone.

  Susie had agreed to meet Henk in a wine bar, her local, just a few doors down the street. It was dangerous in one way, but she’d feel safer in another, knowing that she could get home quickly if he turned nasty.

  She had googled suicide and read various websites, and the only thing she properly took in was that there was a rise in suicides among the young, and that there was a suicide helpline. God, she needed some help through this.

  She was even more frightened of losing Jonjo – and he had been scarily silent all day, no texts, no emails, except one cancelling an arrangement for the following evening with no explanation. God, it was all so horrible. So unfair.

  She felt worse as the afternoon went on; half wishing she’d not made the arrangement with Henk at all, wondering if she could cancel, knowing it was impossible.

  She’d agreed to meet him at half past six and at half past five she went to the ladies’ to get ready. She wanted to look the opposite of sexy so she wiped off most of her make up and tied her hair back. A wave of terror hit her, as she looked at herself in the mirror; terror and nausea. How had she ended up like this? How?

  The door opened and Jemima came in; she smiled at Susie in the mirror.

  ‘You look tired. Been burning the candle at both ends?’

  ‘A – a bit.’

  ‘Lucky you. Wish I had.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ said Susie, and overwhelmed by a new flood of fear, she suddenly started to cry.

  ‘Susie, Susie, whatever is it? You’ve been so much happier lately – you haven’t gone back to the boyfriend, have you? The one who beat you up?’

  Susie stared at her. ‘I – well, not exactly. But how . . . ?’

  ‘Oh honestly!’ said Jemima, putting her arm round Susie’s shoulders. ‘I’m not a complete moron. I was so worried about you. So glad when it all seemed to have stopped.’

  ‘Oh, Jemima . . .’ Susie looked at her helplessly. ‘Jemima, I’ve made such a hash of things. A total, utter hash.’

  ‘But why, how? Look, everyone’s gone home including Bianca. Let’s go into my office and I’ll get us a coffee or something.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Susie. ‘I’ve got to – got to meet someone at half past six.’

  ‘Well, text and say you’ll be half an hour late. Go on. You can’t go out in that state. Who’re you meeting, anyway, new boyfriend?’

  ‘No,’ said Susie and started crying again. ‘There isn’t a new one. There might have been if I wasn’t so stupid. Oh, Jemima, it’s all such a filthy mess.’

  ‘Look,’ Jemima gave her a gentle shove in the direction of her office, ‘go and sit down, I’ll get the coffee.’

  Jonjo, having spent a wretched day grieving over what had promised such happiness and had become such misery, hurt and shocked beyond anything, almost more than when he had discovered his wife was being unfaithful to him, was waiting for Patrick in his office.

  He hadn’t seen Patrick since the night of the private view, when he had met Susie for the first time and the sight of him brought it back rather vividly.

  ‘Hi,’ he said rather listlessly.

  ‘Hello,’ said Patrick. ‘How’s it going?’

  Jonjo was too miserable to lie. ‘Badly. Since you ask.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Patrick without inquiring what.

  ‘Thanks. You?’

  ‘Er, fine. Yes.’

  How would it ever be otherwise, Jonjo thought, for Patrick with his perfect wife, his perfect family, how could he know about rejection and deception and pain?

  ‘You coming or going?’ he said.

  ‘I was waiting for Saul. But he’s been held up, got to cool my heels for a couple of hours.’

  ‘You haven’t got time for a drink I s’pose?’

  Patrick looked at his watch, hesitated, then said, ‘Oh, why not? Otherwise it’s research on Georgian architecture.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound too much like Saul.’

  ‘No, no, it’s for Ruby. She’s working on a project.’

  Jonjo managed half a smile. ‘I thought Saul had liberated you from projects. Come on, quick one won’t hurt.’

  In the bar, halfway through his beer, Patrick said, ‘So everything OK, then?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Really? Come on, Jonjo, you haven’t asked me down here to discuss the weather.’

  ‘No, I know. But I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Well, start, see how you get on. We can always switch to the weather.’

  ‘That is just so appalling,’ said Jemima. ‘You poor, poor thing. Oh, Susie, no wonder you’re in a state. And you’re going to meet him? That’s awfully brave.’

  ‘I know. But I thought it might help. I don’t see what else I can do. I can’t get any advice from any of the professionals, they all say they don’t give second-hand advice. And I can’t just ignore it. I know everyone says people who threaten it never do it, but I don’t know that, I certainly can’t be sure.’

  ‘No,’ said Jemima, ‘you absolutely can’t. He already feels abandoned, it would simply be making it worse.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘You thought right. How ghastly. How totally unfair.’

  ‘I know. But Jemima, what can I do?’

  ‘What I would suggest,’ said Jemima slowly, ‘is try and persuade him to see a psychiatrist, or a therapist, not just the counsellor he says he’s seeing. I know it won’t be easy but that’s the best thing you could do.
And maybe offer to go with him, if he’ll let you. It would show him you were properly concerned. Although it might encourage him to think you still cared about him.’ She stopped, looked at Susie, then said, slightly hesitantly, ‘You know, Susie, suicide is the most aggressive act possible. It forces everyone to think about that person for the rest of their lives. What they’re saying is: I can’t bear this any longer, you’re going to have to bear it now. He’s massively envious that you’ve got your life together, as he sees it, and he’s turning his aggression on whatever has attacked him – in this case you.’

  Susie stared at her. ‘You seem to know an awful lot about it.’

  ‘I should do,’ said Jemima with a sigh. ‘I’ve been training as a psychotherapist for years. Keep failing my exams,’ she added.

  ‘No!’ Susie was jolted out of her misery. ‘Jemima, that’s amazing. Why didn’t you mention it before?’

  ‘I didn’t want everyone to know. Specially Bianca – she’d have thought I wasn’t going to be properly committed to the job. So I’m trusting you not to say anything.’

  ‘Of course I won’t. God, you’d be a wonderful psychotherapist. Wish you were mine!’

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t even be playing at it,’ said Jemima, ‘because I’m not qualified. But I have learned a lot. And I do know quite a lot about suicide – one of my case studies was one.’

  ‘Well – well, I’m glad you think I’m at least on the right lines, doing what I am.’

  ‘I do. But I also think the whole thing is a bit dangerous. Walking on a field of landmines, doddle by comparison. Would you like me to come with you this evening?’

  ‘No, he’d just freak out.’

  ‘Well, ring me, the minute you feel you can’t cope. I mean, he’s violent, Susie.’

  ‘Well, he says he’s having counselling for that. And ever since the last time he’s shown no signs of it at all. Except for almost knocking my door in,’ she added, ‘when I told him there was someone else.’

  ‘What! You should have gone to the police.’