‘As you can see, I’m very real,’ he says warmly.
‘I mean, this… your firm.’ Mel makes a sweeping gesture with her hand. ‘If I’m honest, I originally threw your letter away. It just looked like some scam to me.’
‘I shall make a note to review our firm’s letterhead and branding, in that case,’ he says with a wink and a kind smile. ‘Make it less… scam-like,’ he adds. ‘But I’m very pleased you did call in to see us, Miss Douglas,’ Robert says, glancing at his watch. ‘Look, this may take a little while, so why don’t I get my secretary to bring us in a pot of coffee and some biscuits, after all, and I can tell you all about this rather… unusual matter.’
Nine
Mel stares at the solicitor, a biscuit halfway to her mouth, her lips parted from shock rather than the bite she was about to take. Robert Hedge’s words ring in her ears – alongside the thought that this must be a scam after all.
‘A hotel?’ she says when she’s finally able to speak. She places the biscuit back on her plate.
Robert gives a pronounced nod, leaning back in his chair, watching Mel as the news sinks in.
‘You’re saying I’ve inherited an actual hotel? Like, a whole one?’
The solicitor smiles warmly again, as if he’s thoroughly enjoying the moment. ‘Indeed you have,’ he replies. ‘A whole one. Like I said, it’s quite an unusual matter and, together with the hotel, there are significant funds due to be released, too. Plus several conditions that must be adhered to, as set out in the accompanying “Letter of Wishes”.’
Letter of Wishes? Mel thinks, her mind racing.
‘What’s that? I mean…’ She pauses, taking a sip of coffee. ‘I mean, what is any of this? I simply don’t understand. I don’t have any relatives, for a start, and even if I did, I doubt very much that they know about me.’
Mel suddenly feels tearful, convinced there’s been a mistake. It’s as if the solitude of her entire existence, the sense of never belonging, is suddenly under a spotlight – as though the abandonment and shame that she’s tried so hard to bury and forget have been dredged up and laid bare and raw in front of her. She doesn’t like it.
‘OK, let me explain further, Melanie. I know it’s a lot to take in, but it’s actually quite straightforward, if not a little unexpected. I understand that.’ He smiles again, reaching for a biscuit and sipping his coffee.
Mel doesn’t take her eyes off him.
‘The estate in question is being handled by another firm of solicitors in Exeter. They are the executors of the original will. Probate took a while due to the unusual nature of the matter. The reason being, the sole beneficiary actually refused their inheritance. It’s quite rare, but it does happen from time to time.’
Mel gives a small nod, a frown set firmly between her eyes. She still doesn’t understand. ‘Why would anyone refuse an inheritance?’
‘There are many reasons – sometimes it’s to do with tax implications, or jurisdictions and local laws, but most often it’s due to ill feelings between the deceased and the beneficiary. A large number of people die intestate and next of kin naturally benefit by default, though a small number do refuse if there’s been animosity or fallings-out and suchlike. Where there is a will in place, oftentimes it’s outdated and doesn’t always reflect feelings between the parties at the time of death.’
‘I see,’ Mel said, not seeing at all.
‘There are several ways in which a beneficiary can deal with their right to refuse an inheritance. First, they can simply disclaim it. They have to disclaim the entire gift, though, and get no say in who benefits instead. The executors decide this. Secondly, the benefactor can accept the inheritance but immediately gift it on to someone else, say, a child or other relative, for instance. There are tax implications there, though, and the benefactor must survive at least seven years for tax not to apply to the new beneficiary.’
Mel puts her hand to her forehead, closes her eyes for a moment. The churning feeling in her stomach swells as she tries to absorb what she’s being told. When she woke up this morning, dropped Kate at school, she had no idea that within a couple of hours she’d be suspended from work and sitting in a solicitor’s office discussing an inheritance.
‘Are you OK, Melanie? Would you like some water?’
‘Oh… no, thanks. I’m fine. It’s just been a strange morning, that’s all. I’m trying to take in what you’re saying.’
‘I understand,’ Robert says in a soothing voice. ‘So, as I was saying, the other option for refusing an inheritance is to redirect it, if you like. This requires something called a Deed of Variation, which is a legal document that effectively alters the intended beneficiary, almost as if it was done before the deceased passed away. Are you still with me?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ Mel replies. ‘Though I don’t really see what any of this can possibly have to do with me. Like I said, apart from my daughter I don’t have any family. I grew up in children’s homes and with foster parents.’
‘Right, so this last option is what has happened in this particular matter. The original and sole beneficiary of the entire estate refused to accept the inheritance, but also wanted to direct who should benefit from it instead. The Deed of Variation makes this possible.’
‘OK,’ Mel says quietly, all she can manage.
‘And you have been named as a beneficiary, Melanie, with all taxes previously settled.’
‘OK,’ she repeats nervously. She looks past Robert and out of the window behind him, the view overlooking a small car park. A man gets into an expensive-looking white car while another vehicle pulls in and takes several attempts at parking. Normal people going about their normal lives. ‘Why?’ she asks, turning back to the solicitor.
‘That is a question I can’t answer, I’m afraid,’ he says, clasping his hands under his chin. ‘Not because of confidentiality or because I don’t want to. Rather because I simply don’t know. The original beneficiary who refused the inheritance has asked to remain anonymous, as well as keeping the benefactor’s identity private too. Again, this sometimes happens when… well, when there have been ill feelings within families. I would suggest applying for a copy of the will, but without a name to search for, that makes it tricky.’
Mel gives a little nod as she tries to find the right words. ‘But I’ve told you, Mr Hedges, I don’t have a family. None at all. I don’t have any friends or acquaintances who have died and certainly none who owns a… a hotel.’
‘Perhaps it would help to imagine them as a long-lost relative. Someone who’s got your back and wanted to give you a gift, shall we say?’ Robert breathes in heavily, nodding his head a few times while holding Mel’s gaze.
Kind eyes, she thinks.
‘Maybe,’ she says. But then adds, ‘What if I don’t want the inheritance or gift or whatever it is, either? I mean, what am I supposed to do with a hotel? And where is it…? Plus you mentioned conditions. It all sounds like a lot of trouble to me.’
‘Before you make any big decisions, let me tell you a little more.’ Robert puts his hand over his mouse and clicks several times, leaning towards the screen. Mel sees his eyes skimming over a document as if he’s reading fast. Then he sits back again.
‘The hotel is located on the South Coast. In a place called Halebury, close to Lyme Regis, I’m informed. It’s currently trading but I can see from the latest accounts that business hasn’t exactly been booming the last few years, and it’s barely keeping afloat now. It’s a smallish place with fifteen bedrooms, and has a skeleton staff currently.’
‘Halebury?’ Mel says, racking her brains. She’s heard of Lyme Regis, of course, but has never been. But she’s certainly never heard of Halebury. ‘I don’t know anyone down that way. It’s in Devon, right?’
‘No, West Dorset, actually. The hotel is called Moreton Inn. I don’t have any photographs, I’m afraid, but you could google it,’ Robert adds. ‘If you decide you’re interested.’
Am I interested? Mel wonder
s, confused. I could always sell it, buy another place, somewhere safe and easy to manage for Kate and me.
‘You mentioned… funds, too?’ Mel doesn’t want to sound mercenary but it’s cash she needs most now.
‘Indeed.’ Robert clicks a few more times. ‘After taxes, the cash sum to be transferred along with ownership of the hotel is £378,542.’
Mel hears herself gasp involuntarily, feels her eyes widen to bursting point. For a moment, she doesn’t feel real.
‘What?’
‘And twenty-eight pence, to be precise,’ Robert adds with a smile.
‘Three hundred and seventy-eight thousand pounds?’
Robert nods.
‘For me. Like, mine to have?’
He nods again.
‘There surely must be some mistake.’
‘We will have to undertake further ID checks, of course, a bit of paperwork to complete, but nothing too complicated. And I can assure you, there is no mistake.’
‘Fuck,’ Mel says, standing up and going over to the window. She leans on the sill and stares out, her forehead against the glass. ‘Sorry,’ she adds, her breath misting the glass. ‘I didn’t mean to swear. It’s just… I honestly can’t believe this.’
‘I mentioned a Letter of Wishes, Melanie,’ Robert continues.
Mel returns to her seat, trying to compose herself. She doesn’t know whether to jump for joy or freeze in disbelief.
‘The first condition is that some of the money must be spent on improvements to the hotel. Moreton Inn must also continue to run as a hotel.’
‘What if I want to sell it?’
‘It’s a bit of a grey area, to be honest. A condition of the will, which has been included in the Letter of Wishes from the original beneficiary, states…’ Robert turns to his screen to read. ‘“Moreton Inn shall remain in the possession of the new beneficiary, Melanie Douglas, and not be sold or transferred at any time in the future. The property must continue to run as a trading hotel, restaurant and bar, and works carried out on the property as per the attached schedule as a minimum requirement.”’
Robert slides his glasses onto the end of his nose, looking at Mel over the top of them. ‘If conditions in wills are what we term impossible, then it’s likely that a judge would allow them to be set aside. However, I’d say these conditions are more loosely uncertain, so it may prove trickier to get them removed.’
‘But how on earth am I supposed to run a hotel? The nearest I’ve come to anything like that was serving cream teas when I had a Saturday job in a café aged sixteen.’
‘There is one more condition,’ Robert says.
Mel looks at him, raises her eyebrows slightly.
‘There is a permanent resident at the hotel. A woman. The condition states that she be allowed to continue living there for as long as she requires, at no cost. Meals, laundry and cleaning to be provided.’
‘A woman?’ Mel says. ‘Who?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know further details at this point, Melanie.’
‘So I’m expected to take over the running of a hotel that sounds as if it’s on its last legs. Undertake renovation work and build the business back up. Never sell the place, likely spending the rest of my days there, and cook and clean for some woman who I’ve never met but I have to live with?’
‘Yes,’ says Robert, removing his glasses and pushing back in his chair.
Ten
‘Come on, come on…’ Mel says under her breath, cursing as the engine turns over but doesn’t start. She waits a moment before trying again. On the fourth attempt, the engine of the old Fiesta finally goes, making her release the breath she’s been holding.
She doesn’t particularly remember the drive home – her mind all over the place as she attempts to take in the morning’s events. And her suspension from work now doesn’t feel quite so threatening – though it all boils down to whether she adheres to the conditions set out in the legal documents and accepts the inheritance. And if she does, she can tell Josette to go do one. Not that she won’t miss The Cedars and the residents she’s grown fond of, especially Bob.
‘I just can’t believe it,’ Mel whispers to herself as she circles the block near home looking for a parking spot. There’s Kate to consider for a start, she thinks, reversing into a tight space. She pulls on the handbrake, gathers up her belongings and heads over the road to the entrance of her flat, flicking a wave to Tony in the fish bar.
Three hundred and seventy-eight thousand pounds echoes inside her head.
It’s as she’s halfway up the stairs that Mel stops, sniffing the air. At first she thinks it’s maybe burnt toast from earlier, but she and Kate scoffed down a bowl of cereal before they left. She goes up another couple of steps and takes another deep breath.
‘No,’ she says to herself, the back of her neck prickling. She knows it’s not toast, and not quite the same as the cigarette smoke she thought she smelt the other day, either. It’s more fragrant and earthy than that.
‘Weed,’ Mel says through a sigh, wondering where on earth it could have come from. Tony doesn’t seem the type and, even though, as her landlord, he has a key, she knows he wouldn’t come inside uninvited or without notice. She wonders if it’s one of his staff popping out for a sly one, but her flat doesn’t have windows facing the small courtyard out the back of the fish and chip shop where someone might have a quick smoke. But she’s all too familiar with the unmistakable smell. God knows, she put up with it long enough when she was with Billy.
Assuming it must have seeped in under the less-than-draught-proof door out on to the street, Mel continues up to the flat. She dumps her bag and hangs up her coat before going to the kitchen and filling the kettle. She doesn’t think she’s ever needed a cup of tea more.
Mel drops down into the old sofa, careful not to spill her drink. As she puts her mug on the little table beside her, she spots her cards, reaching out for them. She’s not looked at them in a few weeks, wonders if they would have predicted today’s events if she had. Using both hands, she shuffles them deftly, closing her eyes as her mind buzzes with everything that’s happened.
The tarot cards had been a gift from Sue, her last and favourite foster mother. Despite being in and out of children’s homes, and living with various other foster parents, Mel is ever grateful for her time with Sue and her partner, Patrick. The three years she’d spent with them from age fifteen to eighteen were some of the happiest years of her life. Finally, she’d felt wanted. Accepted. Needed.
One of the cards drops from Mel’s hands as she’s shuffling, so she places it on the sofa beside her. Never ignore the cards that escape, Sue had said when she’d first explained the tarot to Mel. They’re the ones trying to speak to you most.
What had struck Mel when she first arrived at Sue’s home – a suitcase and holdall to hand, her entire worldly possessions – was that the extraordinary was simply the ordinary. Whether it be family tarot readings around the dining table with the other kids Sue fostered, or open chats about sex or relationships for the older ones, listening to alternative music at full volume, no restrictions on how any of her charges dressed or expressed themselves – even that little tattoo on her shoulder Mel had proudly presented to Sue one day, aged seventeen – none of it had provoked a bad reaction. Sue was accepting of all her foster kids for who they were, not what society expected them to be.
When she’s finished the shuffle, Mel draws two more cards from the pack, repeating the process twice more in order to form a basic spread of nine cards in three columns. ‘Immediate past, present and near future,’ she says, just about to draw the final couple of cards. It’s at that moment she hears a phone ringing. And it’s not hers.
‘That’s odd,’ she says, standing and tracking the sound. It seems to be coming from Kate’s bedroom, although she knows her daughter took her phone to school. She always checks that she has it with her.
As she goes inside Kate’s room, the ringing stops. It’s dark so she pulls the
curtains open and, when she glances around, Mel can’t see any sign of a phone. She picks up a school blouse and several bits of underwear off the floor before opening the bedside cabinet. But there’s no phone inside. Then she has a quick look in the bedding – under Kate’s black and purple duvet cover, under her pillows, too. She checks a couple of coat pockets, moves aside a few schoolbooks on her little desk that’s mostly taken up by her precious gaming PC. No phone.
‘Weird,’ she says, using her own phone to dial Kate’s number. If she’s in lessons, she knows it’ll be silenced. As suspected, it rings out to voicemail, so Mel hangs up. No phone rang in Kate’s bedroom – not even a vibrating sound anywhere. She shakes her head, puzzled, and goes back to the living room, taking several large sips of tea. Then she turns over the final two cards of the reading – indicating the outcome, the future.
She’s not sure if it’s The Tower card immediately following Death that makes her shudder, her skin prickle with goosebumps as she tries to understand the huge implications the pair of cards represents – cataclysmic life changes, endings and unstoppable events – or the sight of Billy’s name on her phone beside her as it lights up from his call.
Eleven
The old-fashioned bell on the shop door tinkles as Mel goes inside, holding it open as Kate follows.
‘Hello, my lovelies,’ Michael says, appearing from behind the counter – a reclaimed mirror-fronted bar he’d bought from an auction room years ago. Similar to its owner, Michael’s shop is eclectic and curious in its decor, as well as being crammed full of unusual and collectable music – whether vinyl, CD, cassette, sheet music or even 8-track.
‘You two are a sight for a pair of very sore eyes.’ He briefly lifts the Lennon-style green-tinted shades perched on his hooked nose. The deep cuffs of his crisp white shirt cover half of his hands, while he wears a mauve bow tie at his neck.
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