“I don’t suppose she could, client confidentiality and all that.”
“It turns out he had a will, which is news to me. My sisters and I have been summoned to hear the reading of it on the third of December.”
“Maybe he was a secret millionaire.” Joe raised his eyebrows.
“I think that’s called very wishful thinking.” She smiled ruefully. It would take more than wishing to sort out her financial problems. It would take a miracle. Her landlord—Gareth Gilbert of Gilbert & Marks Holdings and Lettings—had been trying to get her out of the greengrocer’s shop and the maisonette above for the last couple of years. She had managed—just—to meet his rent hikes, designed to force her into moving. But six weeks ago, he’d pulled out the big guns and served her an eviction notice. Her home and business, which had been her mother’s before her, was to be converted into a boutique hotel, and she and her two kids would be homeless by the end of January.
She ought to have begun packing by now, dismantling the life they’d built here for the last decade. But she hadn’t told the children; she didn’t want to ruin Christmas for them. She’d simply boxed those worries up and stuffed them down with all her other anxieties. She didn’t have time to be homeless!
The eviction wasn’t the only thing haunting her, though. She hadn’t expected her dad’s death to hit her as hard as it had. Sure, she’d not seen him for five years before he died, and even before that, she could count on one hand the number of months he’d spent at home in the last decade. And yet his death had left a hole in her heart she could swear she heard the wind whistling through.
“Mags?” Joe brushed her arm, and she snapped back to the present.
“Sorry. Miles away.” She shook herself. What had they been talking about?
“Do you think your sisters will come to the will reading?” He asked.
She sighed. Another complication. “It doesn’t look like they’ve got much choice. Steele & Brannigan have been instructed to tell us that the will cannot be read unless all three of us are present.”
Joe raised an eyebrow and quipped, “That’ll please Simone no end.”
* * *
The letter dropped onto the doormat just as Simone was grabbing her keys, ready to head out of the door. She was running late because she had started her period, early this time, and then spent ten minutes crying and another ten fixing her makeup, and now she was late. Her last two rounds of IVF had been unsuccessful—as had the two before that—and now she was out of time and out of money, and every period felt like a betrayal, her body mocking her for being unable to fulfill the task that millions of women all around the world seemed able to manage with ease. She had turned forty this year, still “vibrant” according to Cosmopolitan magazine, although the eggs collected during her last retrieval might beg to differ.
“Was that the post?” came Evette’s voice from the kitchen.
No, Evette, that was the sound of my leg dropping off. Of course it’s the bloody post! She took a deep breath. “Yes,” she called, holding back the scream that lived in her throat. When had she become this rageful person?
Evette strolled into the hall, a piece of toast in one hand. She took another bite. “Anything for me?” she asked.
Evette was petite, with short blond hair that kinked in all the wrong directions and eyes so blue that even after thirteen years together, Simone still wanted to dive in and swim in them. They were opposites in almost every way. Simone was tall with poker-straight black hair, dark skin, green eyes, and a determination that until very recently had seen her achieve every goal she’d set her sights on. By contrast, Evette was relaxed, friendly, and open in a way that endeared her to everyone she met. Lately Evette’s sparkle had dulled to a matte finish, and Simone was painfully aware that she was probably the cause.
Even someone as patient and gentle as Evette could only take so much. They had known the stats, the success and failure rates when they began the process, but nothing had prepared them for the way the disappointment would crush them. IVF chipped away at their united front, splitting the rock they’d built their lives upon in two.
Every loss had stripped away more of Simone’s spirit until she was a walking wound, raw inside and out, and even kind words burned.
She dealt with her grief by bottling it and venting the excess pressure through anger. When Evette wanted to talk, she shut her down. When she expressed her need for closeness, Simone was an iceberg. Little by little, she had driven away the person she loved most in all the world, ruthlessly mining her sparkle until her wife’s reserves had finally run dry.
Simone picked up the expensive-looking envelope. “It’s for me,” she said, carefully running her finger beneath the self-adhesive strip and pulling the missive free. She swore as she read the contents.
“What is it?” asked Evette, still crunching her toast. Simone tried not to care about the crumbs dusting down onto the hall carpet.
“It’s a solicitor in Rowan Thorp. I’ve been summoned to hear Augustus’s will being read.”
“That’s a bit old-fashioned, isn’t it? I didn’t think gathering for will readings was a thing these days. How very Agatha Christie! Rather intriguing, isn’t it?”
Simone was frowning at the small print. “Doesn’t look like I can get out of it.”
“Surely you would want to go?” said Evette, her head quirked to one side.
“Why?” She was sure these formalities could be done via email, or Zoom if Vanessa was going to be really picky.
“Don’t you want to hear your dad’s final words?”
She sighed. Of course she did. Augustus hadn’t been a traditional parent in any sense of the word, but he was kind and she had loved him and now he was dead. The problem here was that she was already replete with sadness and if she let in the loss of her father as well, she might lose the control she’d fought so hard to maintain.
Instead of telling Evette the truth, she rolled her eyes. “My father never said a sensible thing in his life.”
“For your sisters, then.” Evette searched her face as though trying to find her wife hiding behind the eyes of this imposter.
She gave a derisive snort. “I don’t have much choice, do I? I’ll book a room at the pub we stayed in for the funeral. I only need to be there for one night.”
Evette fell quiet and then said, “Maybe you should look at doing an Airbnb; there’s plenty of little holiday cottages around there. You could stay a bit longer. Have a little break.”
“What do you mean stay a bit longer? A little break from what?” She could feel the dread rising up into her throat, cold and thick. She swallowed and waited for the blow that she’d been dodging for the last six months.