Don't Marry Thomas Clark

by Celia Hayes

  ‘Their brief encounter was enough to open her eyes to many previously obscure issues linked to the relationship between birds and bees. The prince explained to her immediately, for example, that cabbages are just a useless remedy for bags under the eyes, and the best you can hope for from storks is a blocked chimney and a couple of eggs in the guttering. Once she’d thanked the Prince for the many unexpected discoveries of that evening, Rapunzel gave up crochet and opened a little backroom gambling den. Its cabaret shows sold out every night, while holidays and weekends were split between poker, blackjack and baccarat tournaments. Things went on quite happily until somebody tipped off the police, who arrived with sirens blaring and a horde of disgruntled wives in tow.

  ‘Rapunzel was sent down, the Prince got five years probation and the witch was nabbed red-handed while she was trying to filch back the rampions. The only survivor was the mother, who had left the country. Moral of the story? Always have a small but select clientele.’

  After I’ve finished telling the story, we both collapse into a deep sleep, which is disturbed shortly after by my phone beeping to tell me I’ve got a message.

  Cursing the phone company under my breath for sending me another useless ad, I open it and find:

  What are you doing? Are you awake?

  Oh God, it’s Mike! This can’t be happening…

  Yeah, I’m watching a movie on TV.

  Sandy, really sorry, messaged you by mistake

  A wave of disappointment washes over me.

  No problem.

  I sit there waiting for Mike to answer, but nothing happens so I give up and go back to sleep even more miserable than before.

  Before even a couple of minutes have passed, the phone beeps again, and the Rio carnival explodes inside me.

  Do not miss this month’s great offer: this week only, two hundred free messages to all networks. Check our website for more details!

  ‘Oh, for f…!’

  Chapter 5

  ‘Mr. Clark will be with you in a few minutes. In the meantime, please follow me to his office,’ she says, gesturing to the corridor and smiling like a pin-up. I observe her carefully and come to the conclusion she must be Sir Roger’s secretary. She looks like something out of a fashion magazine and she’s at least ten centimetres taller than me. I doubt she was employed for her professional skills, I think, as I nod to her and let her lead me to an office fitted out with ultra-modern furniture. I walk past the metal shelving and a bookcase and dissolve into a comfortable black leather armchair like a spoonful of sugar in a cup of tea.

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ she asks from the doorway.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I answer looking around me.

  ‘As you wish. I’ll be next door – if you need me don’t hesitate to call me,’ and she disappears, leaving a vapour trail of Chanel N°5 behind her.

  Once alone, I decide to kill some time by enjoying the view of the park from the windows that illuminate the room. Lost in memories of my teenage years, I start wondering how that nice old man will look nowadays and running through various versions of him, some less complimentary than others, and not long after, I realize that my curiosity is about to be satisfied when I hear the door opening behind me. Happy to have the chance to embrace him once more, I turn towards him, a dazzling smile on my face, only to find myself looking at a thirty-year-old version of Thomas, that embalmed artichoke he has as a grandson. All the enthusiasm I’d been feeling about the idea of seeing him again evaporates and my expression turns into a tense scowl, as though I’d just received some terrible news.

  ‘Sandy!’ he exclaims immediately, stretching his hand out to me. I must admit, his genteel manners make me feel guilty for my cold, apathetic greeting.

  ‘Thomas…’ I stutter, trying to be as well-mannered as possible. I didn’t remember he was quite so tall. I have to lift my head just to be able to look him in the eye. I also didn’t remember he was so good-looking. No, wait, I did remember that. He’s so hatefully, shamelessly lucky! Not even a hint of baldness. Whatever happened to ‘just desserts’?

  So we end up face to face after more than five years and I feel like I’ve been catapulted back into the past. As though I’m once again that insecure little girl with those horrible pigtails, a nasty old pair of jeans and a mud-spattered T-shirt. I was a bit of a tomboy – while my classmates used to spend hours putting on make-up and nattering about boys, I used to spend all my time wrestling with my cousin Robert, playing basketball and hanging out in the park with my brother’s friends. I didn’t have my first kiss until I was fourteen. It was a disaster, and you’d never believe who the unlucky boy was.

  Oh, all right, I’ll tell you who it was, then. It was him. The same hateful creature who is staring at me right now as though I were some dear old friend of his. The only person who can make me feel like someone with a wheat intolerance who’s just eaten their way through a whole packet of Weetabix: stomach spasms, migraines and dizziness. And right now it feels like I’m in the final stage. I’m not sure what’s happening to me, but I can’t think straight. There’s a whistling in my ears, so I quickly shake his hand and take a few steps backwards to distance myself.

  As I do, I can’t help taking a better look. Time hasn’t changed him much: still neat, athletic, elegant. He’s got a bit of stubble now, which softens the lines of his face, and his hair is longer than I remembered, but the eyes are the same. With that vaguely oriental shape and the colour of a stormy sea, I’d recognize them anywhere. If it hadn’t been for those eyes, I think, Thomas Clark would have just been an annoying summer mishap that I could have forgotten about straightaway. And instead…

  ‘You look really well. Please, take a seat,’ he says, indicating the armchair and walking around the desk. He doesn’t seem to notice my hesitation, nor does my obvious diffidence make his mask of kindness slip. ‘This is Frank Wright, he’s a pretty well-known lawyer here in town. He’s also one of my consultants, not to mention an old friend.’

  Only now do I notice that there’s someone else in the room. He must have been standing there with his hand stretched out for me to shake for God knows how long. He’s vaguely Nordic-looking, with a hooked nose and a faint smile, and he’s holding a very self-conscious pose. The same one many of Thomas’ friends always seem to adopt.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ he says, and out of nowhere kisses my hand.

  ‘So, Sandy,’ Thomas resumes, placing his interlocked fingers on the desk. ‘How are you doing? I didn’t expect to find you in London. I thought you’d moved to the US.’

  I don’t understand why he’s so interested in my private life – it’s not like him at all.

  ‘I have been away for a while, actually, but I’m working in town at the moment,’ I reply vaguely. ‘Anyway, what a coincidence meeting you here… Have you stopped by to say hello to your grandfather?’ I ask, hoping he’s only here for a quick visit.

  ‘Unfortunately my grandfather passed away a few days ago,’ he answers, looking embarrassed.

  Oh God – foot straight in mouth!

  ‘I’m… I’m sorry…’ I stammer.

  ‘Didn’t your father tell you anything about it?’ he asks, and I have the impression he’s relieved when I shake my head in a sorrowful ‘no’. ‘Well, he was quite old. It wasn’t really a surprise,’ he says quietly.

  ‘I’m absolutely mortified,’ I mumble, wishing I could sink into the carpet and forget my awful blunder of a few seconds ago.

  ‘No, don’t worry. You couldn’t have known.’

  I nod slightly, but I don’t feel any better. Poor Roger. He was such a kind, cheerful person. One of those old-fashioned grandfathers, with his Brylcreem and that kindly expression of his.

  ‘Can I offer you something?’ asks Thomas.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I reply with a shrug.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asks attentively.

  Overwhelmed by such gentle manners, I just whi
sper an embarrassed, ‘Whatever you’re having will be fine.’

  ‘I’ll have a tea,’ a voice behind me says.

  ‘Fine – three teas then.’ He puts his phone to his ear and pushes a button. ‘Ally?’ he says, never taking his eyes off me.

  I don’t like being the centre of attention. I instinctively turn towards Frank, who smiles at me and seizes the opportunity for a bit of unsolicited small talk.

  ‘So you work in London. What’s your job?’

  ‘I’m involved in various projects, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘What sector?’

  ‘At the moment I’m concentrating on real estate.’

  ‘I see. Buying and selling or developing?’

  ‘Neither, actually,’ I say, trying desperately to end the interrogation. I can’t admit that I’m unemployed, not to someone like him. I know how he’d look at me if he knew: like a flea sitting on an armchair that’s probably worth more than my entire flat, furniture included. And the sad thing is that he’d be right.

  ‘And what about you, what’s your… sector?’ I ask, not really caring what he answers.

  ‘Company agreements, banking transactions…’

  I don’t even listen to the rest, just nod and try to look very interested. When the never-ending list of lucrative activities he’s involved with is finished, I manage a feeble, ‘That must be really fascinating,’ my usual gambit when I don’t know, understand or like what my interlocutor is talking about.

  ‘Our teas are on their way,’ says Thomas as he hangs up. ‘Sandy, first of all, thank you for accepting my invitation…’

  It would be rude to tell him that I only accepted because I thought I was meeting his grandfather, so I just smile and trot out a few random clichés, like, ‘Don’t mention it,’ ‘No problem at all,’ and ‘It’s a pleasure to be here.’

  We go on with this ridiculous chit-chat until Ally, the same girl who brought me here not long ago, enters the room, all clicking high heels and low neckline and as graceful as a fashion model even while holding in one hand a silver tray containing three cups. She reaches the desk, bends over fluidly and starts distributing plates, sugar cubes and little cartons of milk like the perfect hostess. I can’t stop staring at her and think, if that was me I’d have already poured half the contents of the tray over his keyboard.

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’ she asks her employer in a flirty voice.

  That’s another thing that hasn’t changed much apparently – like flypaper in the countryside, he still attracts women. It’s something that’s always unnerved me. Not because I’m jealous, just to be clear, but because I don’t think it’s fair. And it’s not! There they all are, eyeing him up like hungry cats staring at ten acres of catnip, and it just feeds an already overdeveloped ego. He thanks them, enjoys their attentions and then never chooses any of them, or if he does, he just uses her to show off to his friends and, after a while, dumps her to focus on some new, more exciting adventure. I’ve seen him do it hundreds of times, but it’s a phenomenon that never ceases to amaze me.

  I watch Ally’s moves with increasing dismay until she finally leaves, and only then do I take one of the cups, in an attempt to think about something less irritating, like the reinvigorating aroma of tea.

  ‘Sandy, as I was saying, apart from the pleasure of seeing you, there’s another reason I got back in touch with you after all this time.’

  I sense something peculiar about this last sentence. ‘And what is that?’ I ask directly.

  ‘It’s a delicate matter, and one that I’ve been forced to face unexpectedly, for reasons that I’ll explain directly.’

  I instinctively look over at Frank, wondering for the first time if the presence of a lawyer is entirely casual, and I’m overcome by such a weird feeling of anxiety that my thirst completely disappears. I put my cup, still full of tea, back on the desk, cross my arms and wait to hear the rest. Thomas hesitates, probably noticing my sudden hostility. I don’t know how it happens, but whatever it was he was about to say, he decides to postpone it and his face becomes calm and confident again.

  ‘I mentioned to you before that my grandfather has passed away, and, in fact, that’s what I would like to talk to you about. His will, to be precise. As you can imagine, since neither of my parents are alive, I’m the sole heir to the entire family fortune, apart from a couple of smaller bequests. The only exception is the old Canterbury property, Garden House. I’m sure you remember it – it’s where we used to spend our summer holidays.’

  ‘How could I forget it?’ I say. ‘But I really don’t see what all this has got to do with me.’

  ‘I completely understand your confusion,’ he says sympathetically in response to my perplexity. ‘Let me explain. The property is excluded from the inheritance until I fulfil a clause, and this clause is, unfortunately, ineluctable.’

  ‘What kind of clause?’

  ‘That I get married,’ he concedes finally. I don’t move a muscle.

  ‘Without wishing to sound repetitive, what’s that got to do with me?’

  They look at each other. Then they look at me. They then look at each other again. A terrible suspicion starts to grow inside me, a terrible suspicion that… Oh come on – it can’t be!

  ‘What Thomas is trying to explain to you,’ cuts in Frank, ‘is that there is still a chance to obtain the property. The only thing he needs to do is fulfil the requirements of his grandfather’s will. Unfortunately, in his last months of life Sir Roger was affected by senile dementia. He was getting more and more mixed up, and decided to modify his last will and testament, adding some rather regrettable clauses. We don’t want it to end up in court, because we want to protect the count’s memory as much as possible from any unpleasantness. To be honest, Garden House isn’t worth a huge amount, but it’s of enormous sentimental value.’

  ‘Exactly,’ adds Thomas, ‘I could just forget about it, but it’s all I’ve got left of my family…’

  ‘It would be only a formality anyway,’ the lawyer explains.

  ‘Nothing more than a signature on a document,’ echoes Thomas.

  ‘A way to sidestep this obstacle, as it were.’

  ‘And of course you would be generously compensated for your participation.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ I explode. ‘I’m not sure what you’ve got in mind, but I already know that I don’t want any part of it. Thomas, I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I have no intention of marrying you. I’m sorry for being so direct, but you should know that I used to hate you when we were young, I didn’t like you as a teenager and I must admit that as an adult you actually scare me.’

  ‘Marry me?’ he says, and bursts out laughing. ‘No, hang on, I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick.’

  I realize that I was the first to unequivocally underline that I wasn’t interested in him, but I still find his spontaneous, almost vulgar laugh a bit inappropriate. Is the idea of marrying somebody like me really so ridiculous? If I was unwilling to cooperate before, I’m up in arms now.

  ‘Thomas, let me continue,’ says Frank, smiling kindly. ‘Sandy, can I call you by your first name?’ and he waits for me to agree before continuing. ‘Sandy, you see, nobody is asking you to sacrifice yourself for a property. That would be unthinkable, wouldn’t it? Absolutely not.’

  His words make me feel even more stupid for having thought it was possible, even if only for a fraction of a second.

  ‘You’d just have to move to Garden House for the next six months, respect a few rules of cohabitation and take part in some selected social events while pretending to be Thomas’ current partner. After a brief period, we’ll organize an engagement party and afterwards we’ll decide a date for the wedding. And on that occasion you can make up some kind of credible excuse and dump him.’

  ‘The clause won’t be effective if I’m not the one who calls off the wedding. With your help I could inherit the property without having t
o ruin my grandfather’s memory by dredging up all his mental health issues,’ Thomas concludes.

  ‘But why me? Couldn’t you ask anybody else?’

  ‘I could have, but I needed someone I could trust. As you can see, it’s a very delicate matter. If our agreement should go public, I’d lose the property, and that would be the least of it. The press would start digging up old dirt and hounding my family, who are already suffering because of my grandfather’s death.’

  ‘I can see that,’ I say before he can add anything else. I feel quite touched by this faith in me. I didn’t realize he had it. ‘But we’re talking about six months, not a few days. I’d have to move to Canterbury, leave my job, my flat…’

  ‘We understand that perfectly, and that’s why we would cover any necessary expenses,’ Frank repeats.

  ‘You’re going to pay me?’

  ‘Rather than a payment, I’d consider it a way of thanking you for your help,’ declares Thomas, carefully choosing a more tactful definition.

  ‘We’d also give you an advance payment to allow you to move there immediately. Our aim is to free you up as soon as possible,’ continues Frank, piquing my curiosity. I want to ask how much this advance payment would be, but I don’t have the courage. I don’t want them to think I’m some opportunist looking for easy money. And anyway, however much it is, it still wouldn’t be enough to solve all the problems I’ve accumulated since I lost my job as a researcher.

  But they must be able to read my mind, because Frank quickly opens a yellow folder and passes me something that looks like an actual contract. I read through it eagerly, line by line, and almost have a heart attack when I eventually get to the sum they want to give me for my cooperation. Enough money to buy the whole bistro and then go for a cruise around the world.