178
Hayley
Living in the squat with Jono is worse than camping. I’m in despair. I won’t be able to tolerate this level of discomfort much longer. If I don’t get a job soon I’ll ask Mum for the money to fly home. But I’m not sure she can afford it. She has a job at the Four Square supermarket in Queenstown. She works long hours but doesn’t have much to show for it. It’s a good thing my dad and my brother Sam bring in a bit of cash from strapping up bungee jumpers. But every penny they bring in gets spent on food and rent.
You promised me a good reference, but you can’t have kept your word. The agency haven’t offered me a single interview. The nights are drawing in. It’s October now. The squat is cold. We have no electricity. We go to the pub every evening to keep warm. And charge our phones. We make a pint of cider and a plate of chips each last all evening. When we return, we go straight to bed. Except it isn’t a bed. It’s a saggy mattress that Jono acquired from a friend who works at the tip. We dive into our sleeping bags fully dressed.
Tonight has been no different. I’m shivering as I pull my sleeping bag over my head. My mobile beeps. A text. I press the screen and it lights up so that I can see it. Mann and Mann Solicitors, 25 Newport Street, Esher. Hayley Manville Smith. Please visit our premises with proof of I.D. We have possession of a legal document we need to inform you of.
My heart races. What is this about? Am I about to be accused of something? Is it a class-action scam? I can’t guess. And I can’t sleep. The night is torture. The bare windows offer no protection from darkness or light. Moonlight burns into my eyes and spills across my face. An owl hoots. Jono is lying on his back snoring. I thought he was too young to snore. The cold drills through the sleeping bag and permeates my bones. And then somehow, despite all the discomfort, my eyes open and Jono is rousing from his sleeping bag, rubbing his eyes and groaning. I must have dropped off, in the end. Sleep came as suddenly and terminally as I imagine death. The miracle is that from such sudden nothingness, I am now awake.
‘Oh God, what time is it?’ Jono is asking.
I scowl and look at my watch. ‘Nine o’clock,’ I reply.
‘Shit. I promised Barry I’d be there at 7.30 a.m. We’ve got a big job to finish from yesterday.’
He pulls himself out of his sleeping bag, still wearing his Kid Rock T-shirt, and his black oil-stained jeans. I watch my unsavoury boyfriend and tell myself for the hundredth time, I must be mad to live here with him.
‘See you later, Hayley,’ he shouts as he leaves.
I don’t reply. The roar of his motorbike vibrates into the distance.
We do not have running water in this derelict cottage, but I managed to travel to Euston station yesterday and have a shower. This morning I wash myself with facewipes and apply copious amounts of perfume and deodorant. I dress myself in clean clothes. I manage to apply some make-up using the cracked mirror in the bathroom.
As I stride through Esher, the sting of the crisp, cold autumn day, pushes the damp smell that permeates the flat from my nose. From my head. And even though I am worried about what Mann and Mann are going to say, it’s good to be out. Along Esher High Street. Past the Good Earth Chinese restaurant. Past the Giggling Squid, Red Peppers and the post office.
I stand in front of Mann and Mann Solicitors. Floor-to-ceiling tinted windows. Grey canopy. Gold lettering. I step inside. The reception area boasts wide grey leather sofas either side of the path to a young woman in a sharply tailored suit, who is beaming at me from behind a welcome desk. I look around. The dusky peach walls are adorned with well-lit modern art. Coloured brushstrokes. Sunsets that tone perfectly with the sofas and walls. Seascapes. Mountains. You can only tell what they are by their names. The air is thick with silence.
I move towards the receptionist. She looks so manicured. I look down to check that I don’t look too much of a sight. At least my jeans, T-shirt, and ankle boots are clean. That’s all I can say about my drab outfit.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks.
‘I’m Hayley Smith. I was asked to come here to see Mr Mann.’
She nods her head. ‘I’ll let him know you’re here. Please sit down. Can I get you a coffee?’
‘That would be lovely. Yes please.’
Lovely indeed. Since I moved in with Jono I only have hot drinks when I’m out. I sink into the sofa and sigh with pleasure at the feel of a comfortable seat. I’ve hardly sat down when the receptionist places coffee and a biscotti, a miniature jug of milk on the side, on the glass table in front of me.
‘Thank you,’ I simper.
I sit drinking, relishing every sip.
After the sumptuous reception area, Mr Mann’s office is a pigeon-hole. Small and stark. Neat. Cream walls, cream carpet. Pale ash desk with a laptop attached to two large viewing screens. He sits behind his desk. I sit in the chair in front of it, stupefied as to what’s coming. I cannot even begin to guess.
I sit, eyes fixed on Mr Mann. He is elderly, thin on top, but with lank grey hair flanking his ears and framing the sides of his face. Small, sharp pinprick eyes and a slender, pointed nose.
‘I’m acting on behalf of the estate of Caprice Jackson. You are a beneficiary, but it’s complicated. If her daughter-in-law, Saffron, dies within six months of Caprice’s own death, half of her estate, minus the first £100,000, which Miles has been awarded, will go to you, rather than him.’
This can’t be real. I must be dreaming. But I pinch myself and it hurts. ‘Why would Caprice leave me anything, under any conditions? This is really, really strange.’
Mr Mann smiles. The wrinkles around his eyes tighten. His skin looks like walnut shells. ‘She had a very high opinion of you.’
‘But even so …’ I pause. ‘Does Saffron know about this?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. I informed both of Caprice’s sons – Miles and Aiden. As she isn’t a beneficiary, I’m not obliged to tell Saffron. And Miles and Aiden do not want her to know.’ Mr Mann hands me two envelopes. ‘This is your copy of the will. Any questions, don’t hesitate to contact me. And a private letter to you from my client. Her personal goodbye.’
I feel choked. ‘Thank you,’ I mutter, then pause. ‘How much would my stake in the will be worth, if it came to fruition?’
‘It’s hard to say exactly until her affairs have been verified by her accountant. But I guess it will be somewhere in the region of four million pounds.’
Even though I’m sitting down, I have to put my head between my legs to stop myself from fainting.
179
Hayley
Envelopes trembling in my hand, I walk back to the squat. The world moves past me in a blur of colour. So distracted, I find my way like an automaton. I open the door that is falling off its hinges and move into the hallway. The cold dank air assaults my nostrils and makes me sneeze. I throw myself onto the saggy mattress. It is still daylight so I can see to read. I wrap my sleeping bag around me like a blanket and digest every page of Caprice Jackson’s will. Then, hands trembling, I open my personal goodbye.
Dear Hayley,
I left money to you because I know in the event of Saffron’s death, you will be able to make Miles fall in love with you, and marry you. This way Miles ends up with the wife he deserves to spend his inheritance with. All you need to do is deal with Saffron, and my world is your oyster. I know you love him. Go get him. Please destroy this letter.
With all my love and respect,
Caprice
I cannot believe this. Was she mad? How could she expect this of me? I’m not a cold-blooded murderer. I couldn’t kill anyone, let alone a woman who has always been kind to me. ‘Deal with Saffron’ as a beneficiary of the will and immediately get banged up. The cancer must have affected her brain. Made her irrational. I crumple up the letter and put it in the sink.
And yet … and yet … Mum telephoned me yesterday in tears because she might lose her job. The supermarket she works for are relocating and getting serve-yourself tills. They d
on’t need as many staff. Four million pounds. Four million pounds. My family could have a new life with this.
I get the matches for Jono’s smokes and set fire to the letter. Yellow and orange flames engulf it and it is destroyed. If Saffron did meet with a random, fatal accident, how would anyone know what I had to do with it? Surely it would be possible to cover my tracks?
180
Saffron
After my brief sojourn at home I’m feeling well. Recovering from the trauma of my time in prison. And the way you tried to stitch me up, you bitch. The first tranche of your money has come in and so we’re opening BPC up again. Miles and I decided we couldn’t face sharing our house with another person yet. So he’s working from home for a while to look after the children.
It’s a cold November morning, and I scrape ice off the car before I can drive to the office. Breath congeals into mist in front of my face as I walk from the car to the office. I step inside. The familiarity of our compact office space wraps itself around me. I flick on the lights and turn the heating on full blast. The cleaners have been in, and it smells of bleach and polish. I’ll soon rectify that. At lunchtime I’ll go and buy some flowers with a heady scent. A pile of post is stacked neatly on the reception desk. I take off my coat and begin to flick through it. Most of it is junk mail. Nevertheless, I feel alive and energised.
Ted arrives, dressed more appropriately than he used to. A suit without a waistcoat. A single-cuffed shirt instead of a double. I hold him against me and hug him. ‘So good to see you.’
And now Julie is here, wearing a pink woollen dress with matching lipstick, brightening up our ivory office. She hugs me too and surrounds me with the scent of gardenias.
‘It’s so good to be back, Saffron. I have missed all this so much.’ She steps back.
‘How’s Miles?’ she asks.
‘Still pretty cut up about his mother.’
‘And what about Aiden? He didn’t even talk to me at the funeral.’
‘He’s more philosophical about his mother’s death. But I think he’s still finding it difficult.’
‘You’d think it would be the other way around,’ Ted quips, ‘since Miles is the philosophy professor.’
Julie raises her eyes to the ceiling. ‘That’s enough, Ted. Save your jokes for our trip out to celebrate, tonight.’ She pauses. ‘Let’s get down to business. What are your plans for the day, Saffron?’ she asks.
‘Well, this afternoon I’ve a marketing agency coming in to pitch. And at 4 p.m. Aristos is popping in. He’s getting divorced again,’ I tell them with glee. ‘Every cloud has a silver lining, sometimes even gold. Surely our business can only go from strength to strength now?’
181
Hayley
You texted. You want to meet me for lunch. I feel like dancing on the ceiling, or walking on sunshine; any cliché you can think of.
182
Miles
You are having your first day back in the office. You were so excited about it; like a child at Christmas. I am working from home. Husband. Nanny. I have dropped Ben and Harry off for their first day at school of the new term. Being polite to the school gate mums was a struggle. One of them was boasting about her son’s IQ. Another asked me whether I wanted to be on the PTA Committee and seemed most perturbed when I refused. Then I spent two hours at home working on my research project. Modus tollens again. My brain is aching thinking about P and Q.
And now I’m in The Bear waiting for Hayley to join me for lunch, a year after she first started with us, sitting at a small table pushed against the wall, in the corner. I’m nervous. I don’t want anyone I know to see us. Saffron, what will you say if you find out I’m having lunch with Hayley? We will have one of our terrible arguments. I will end up sleeping in the spare room, because I won’t be able to tell you the truth. It would make you worry too much. That is why I have chosen this uncomfortable table, with no leg room, right in the corner. So we are tucked away, out of sight of prying eyes.
Hayley is here, walking towards me looking as wholesome as ever, wearing a short dog-toothed shirt and clinging white jumper caressing the curves of her generous breasts. Pantomime boots that reach to her thighs. She sits down opposite me, and crosses her legs. Our knees touch.
‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Why do you want to see me?’ she asks, brown eyes holding mine.
I pull my eyes from her gaze and hand her a menu. ‘First things first. What do you want? We can order on my app.’
She puts the menu down on the table in front of her. ‘I know the menu here off by heart. Jono and I come here most nights.’
‘So it’s not much of a treat for you.’
Her eyes sparkle into mine. ‘Is it supposed to be a treat?’
I don’t reply.
‘I know what I want,’ she continues. ‘Prawn cocktail, steak and chips, and a large glass of Merlot.’
I tap the order into my phone.
‘What are you having?’ she asks.
‘Pie and chips.’
She folds her arms and her chest protrudes across the compact table. ‘So come on, what did you want to see me about?’
‘I just wanted to know you were OK.’
‘I’m fine,’ she replies, lips in a line.
‘Where are you living?’
She stirs uncomfortably. ‘With Jono, here in Esher.’
‘That’s nice.’
She laughs. ‘Not really.’
I frown. ‘Do you mean the boyfriend or the place?’
‘Both. But the place is a dump. It makes Rik Mayall’s flat in the Young Ones seem like a palace.’
‘You’re joking aren’t you?’
She shakes her head sadly. ‘I wish I was.’
‘And where are you working now?’
Her jaw stiffens. Her eyes harden. ‘I’m not.’
‘That surprises me. Any interviews coming up?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve given you a good reference, really first class, so it shouldn’t be long before the tide changes.’
Her prawn cocktail and wine arrive. She falls on the prawn cocktail and soft brown bread on the side, as if she hasn’t eaten proper food for weeks. I sit sipping Diet Coke. She takes large gulps of the Merlot, as we plough through an awkward silence. She finishes her prawn cocktail and wipes her mouth with her serviette.
She looks straight at me. ‘You sacked me because Saffron had decided to stay at home, and look after the children. But I know she’s back at BPC full-time now.’
My insides tighten. ‘How did you find that out?’
She smiles. A small flat smile. ‘I happened to be walking past and I saw her wearing work clothes, unlocking the door to her office and stepping inside. It wasn’t a difficult guess.’
Happened to be walking past your office, fifteen miles away? She must be spying on you, Saffron. Panic rises inside me. ‘Well I’m taking care of the children now,’ I inform her, voice flat.
She leans across the table and puts her hand on my arm. ‘But … but … what about your job, Miles?’
‘I’m working from home for a while.’
‘Well if you need me, I’d come back anytime.’ She pushes her knees closer to mine. I wriggle away.
‘Actually, working from home at the moment is fine with me.’
Fortunately our conversation is interrupted by the main courses arriving. I eat my chicken and mushroom pie, which tastes like frozen pastry and tinned meat. Nothing special. She demolishes her steak. We lean back in our chairs, replete.
‘That was delicious,’ she says. Her cheeks are red. Drinking at lunchtime has made her flushed. ‘I need to pop to the loo,’ she announces.
She shimmies away, swinging her behind provocatively. I look down. She has left her iPhone on the table. This is it. This is my opportunity. This is why I wanted to meet her.
As soon as she has walked around the corner, I grab her iPhone. I know her passcode. I had to borrow her phone once and she gave it t
o me; a contortion of her birthday – easy to remember. Hands trembling, stomach tight, worried she will return too quickly and catch me, I manage to put the iPhone tracker on her phone, and synch it with mine. I sigh inside with relief. Now I will know where she is at all times. If she goes anywhere near you, Saffron, I’ll be there to protect my you, my love. Hayley will not get away with anything. As soon as she makes a move, I will jump.
183
Hayley
Miles, lunch was rather stilted, a bit awkward at times. You are stringing me along, arranging to meet me, without making a proper move yet. But you wouldn’t have arranged to meet me if you weren’t interested. You wouldn’t take the risk. What if Saffron finds out?
You asked me how I knew about Saffron being back at work full-time. I smile inside. I have my secrets. No need to divulge too much information yet. You sounded scared. Overprotective. Don’t worry, Miles. When she’s dead I’ll make you happy. Grief is just a process. You’ll get through it in the end.
184
Saffron
Julie has just shown in my new client, Crispin Montague. He first made money in the mining industry in South Africa. When he moved to the UK he bought a string of nightclubs, restaurants and high-end fashion retail outlets. He is beginning to acquire stately homes, which he turns into luxury hotels: Grantley Hall, Ripon, the Castle Leslie estate, County Monaghan, Ireland, and Leeds Castle in Kent.
He is settling into the leather armchair in front of my desk.
‘Can I get you a tea or coffee?’ Julie asks.
‘Skinny vanilla latte,’ he requests.
And I know Julie will have to dash to Starbucks around the corner, because we do not have a machine that makes fancy drinks. She disappears. He crosses his legs and smiles at me. He is white-blond, so pale that I can’t see his eyebrows or lashes. Skin like Caribbean sand. His eyes are a piercing cornflower blue. His pale suit complements his eyes. Extravagant cream leather boots with triangular toes, painted-on flowers, like curvy embroidery. A supercool combination of masculine and feminine.
The Unwelcome Guest Page 25