A Rather Lovely Inheritance (6 page)

“I never met them,” I said.

“No? Well, Dorothy’s rich beyond reason but won’t give tuppence to Rollo Jr., so he always touched our side of the family.” There it was again, that dark cloud around Rollo. “And it’s not as if Rollo’s dad didn’t leave him money,” Jeremy added, sounding perplexed. “Plenty, but it’s doled out in a monthly allowance. Goes through his fingers like sand.”

“Junior must be in his early sixties, right?” I asked curiously. Jeremy nodded.

I thought it over. “Aren’t all people vultures when it comes to inheritances?” I said. “Picking at the remains of another person’s life?”

He smiled at me. “You couldn’t be a vulture if you tried,” he said. It didn’t sound like an insult, but I felt somehow that it was. After all, he hadn’t seen me in years. How did he know that I couldn’t be a predator if I put my mind to it?

Jeremy’s mobile phone rang, and he quickly scooped it out of a pocket and spoke quietly but urgently, mostly saying, “Right. Okay. Right.” When he put it away he looked distracted, then caught my glance and nodded to me apologetically.

“Sorry, but I’ve got to get over to the office. Here’s the address for the reading of the will. It’s Aunt Penelope’s apartment. Belgravia. It’s best that we meet there instead of arriving together. I’ll leave the car for you downstairs so you can’t possibly get lost, and I’ll grab a cab.”

The mention of the car prompted a question that had been nagging at me.“Jeremy,” I asked hesitantly,“I hate to ask, but—who’s paying for all of this? The hotel and the car...”

He looked straight at me. “Why, you, of course,” he said with a grin. I made a face at him to indicate that while I may appear somewhat gullible in unfamiliar circumstances, I am not a total idiot.

He reached out and ruffled my hair. “The office, child,” he said. “Your father insisted on paying for your flight over here, but the rest is on my account.Your parents are clients, after all. Best not to take too long washing up and getting out.We start at nine.”

I appreciated his offhanded generosity, yet his admonitory tone about punctuality jogged my memory of how there were moments when his superior coolness used to annoy me. Something about all those in-your-face good manners had the effect of making me want to shock him by acting like an ill-mannered American delinquent—which, damn it, I’m not—just to make him drop that polite mask. I remembered that when I was nine I gave this a great deal of thought, and suspected that he actually wanted me to play the role of
provocateur,
to bring out his alter-ego, the person who wished so desperately to be bad. Instead of taking the bait, I learned to banter back and forth with him, like a game of table tennis.

“Believe it or not,” I said in my own light, superior teasing tone,“I am perfectly capable of attending to deadlines. I do, after all, work in movies, and time is money. Frankly, I think it awfully rude of you not to inquire about my line of work. I’m rather fascinating.”

He looked surprised, then shook his head in mock disapproval. “Only Americans immediately ask you about your line of work,” he informed me as he headed for the door. “We Europeans think about it, of course, but we bide our time before broaching the subject. However, since you mentioned it, do you know any sexy actresses you can introduce me to?”

“Larima,” I said automatically. “Just finishing up a picture she’s starring in.” He raised his eyebrows, suitably impressed.

“Really?” He cocked his head as if considering a serious offer. “I don’t believe I’m her type,” he said thoughtfully. “No yacht for her birthday parties.” He grinned. “Well, I’m off. See you at nine. Don’t be tardy,” he couldn’t resist warning. He shut the door softly behind him.

I glanced at the clock, which was an ornate gold affair on the marble mantelpiece, with a round mother-of-pearl dial surrounded by some sculpted, vaguely Grecian figures. He was right.There wasn’t much time. I’d slept very well in my elegant bed. I headed for the shower.The water pressure was good, and it beat some sense into my head. Or perhaps it was just that once Jeremy was gone I was able to resume thinking clearly again. In any case, it occurred to me that I’d failed to ask him a crucial question: What did Great-Aunt Penelope bequeath to us?

Furthermore, I thought, rubbing myself fiercely with the plush cream-colored towel, Jeremy hadn’t volunteered the information. Maybe there was some legal rule about not spilling the beans before the reading of the will. Or maybe, with that European finesse, he’d been waiting for me to broach the subject, and then he’d have told me. Perhaps I’d already failed my first exam, to test how smart and grown-up I was.Then I told myself that Jeremy and his parents always made you feel inferior; the trick was not to get all tongue-tied and klutzy.

Luckily I’d packed my killer silk suit, black and expensive and, for once, perfectly fitted to me, making me look slim and actually even ruthless. I keep it for emergencies. And an ivory silk scoop-neck blouse under it, very nice, and those high, sharp black pumps. New pair of good stockings in a package I now busted open for this occasion. And a good Italian leather handbag I’d picked up at a special price that made it affordable. A marvellous old makeup lady I once worked with years ago taught me how to do my face, so I made it up slowly and restrainedly with eyeliner, white highlight, and just the lightest touch of blush to make me look healthy enough for a fight. My hair is behaving itself today, I thought.This is good. Absolutely no perfume, and minimal jewelry—just diamond stud earrings and the decent-sized diamond pendant my parents gave me when I graduated. The sort of delicate combo that looks as if you are being understated on purpose, not because you’re broke.

There. I stared in the mirror. Everything looked fine, except my eyes, which looked frightened and much too sincere. “Take it easy,” I told my reflection. “No need to get all hopped up over costume jewelry and a few nice bonds.”

The eyes that looked back at me betrayed that all I really wished to do was just not look like a fool in front of our relatives.They’d probably never see me again and I did not want to live on in family lore as a dope. Poor Penny, for instance.Wasn’t she pathetic? She didn’t know how to behave. No, no, no. I vowed to keep my dignity, no matter what happened.

W
E GOT STUCK IN TRAFFIC, SO I BEGAN TO SWEAT. THEN, KNOWING that I was sweating made me panic a little, sitting there in the back of that discreet, dark, luxurious automobile from Jeremy’s law office. But the elderly driver wove his way expertly through busy, workaday London, leaving all the soot and noise behind as we went partway around a lush green park and into a quiet residential neighborhood full of discreet mews and tree-lined squares ringed by immaculate sidewalks and elegant old town houses. We pulled up to a Victorian house with white pillars, and double doors with frosted glass panes.

“Here we are, miss,” the chauffeur said encouragingly, as if talking to a shy cat that wouldn’t come out of its box right away. He was a small, wiry old man, with a calm, reassuring manner. I nodded, embarrassed that he’d seen through my attempt at poise.

I checked my wristwatch. Seven minutes to nine. Not late, but not a moment to spare. Thanks-very-much, Jeremy, for making me worry about time, I thought. I reminded myself that I was representing my mother here and I simply was not going to mess this up. So, when the driver scurried around to open the door for me, I valiantly plunked my high-heeled foot firmly on the pavement, and, although I wobbled a bit at first, I marched myself up the pretty, clean white steps of Great-Aunt Penelope’s town house.

An eager-beaver type of guy in his mid-twenties opened the front door as if awaiting my arrival. He was bright and alert, with obediently short hair, a well-cut suit that somehow made him seem even younger, and a perfectly educated accent. You would never mistake him for a doorman. He stepped aside to let me into the vestibule, where there was a door for the first-floor apartment, and to the right a staircase for the other two flats.

“Miss Nichols? I’m Rupert. I work with Jeremy.” His voice was low, as if we were in church. “Go right up to the library, second floor, please.” The staircase had a gleaming polished banister and wine-colored carpeting held with gold braces. The carpet didn’t keep the stairs from creaking a little as I stepped on them. I stopped at the small second-floor landing.

The door to Great-Aunt Penelope’s apartment was ajar, in a way that no living person would leave it unless she were just moving in or out.The inside hallway had a tulip-shaped lamp on a small table, which stood beside a sliding panelled door that was partially open. I hesitated, then slid the door farther open. It moved noiselessly in its tracks.

The library was a charming room, full of light from two sets of bay windows, each with its own window-seat. The furnishings were mostly turn-of-the-century pieces—the twentieth century, that is, Great-Aunt Penelope’s heyday. There were deep blue curtains at the windows, tied back with giant gold tassels. The opposite wall had built-in bookcases filled with gold, black, and dark green elegantly bound books protected by glass doors. All the furniture was small but pretty—a walnut roll-top desk and chair in a corner; a “swoon” sofa for delicate ladies prone to sudden fainting spells; and, by the tiny fireplace, two wing chairs with a low, round Queen Anne table.

But then, totally out of symmetry, was a cluster of chairs with high, ornately carved wooden backs and seats with maroon damask cushions. They looked as if they’d been dragged out of the dining room and awkwardly grouped in this semicircle at the center of the room. I figured that only lawyers would stomp in and do such a thing. And, indeed, there were three such likely candidates facing me right now—but none of them was Jeremy.

Dressed in dark suits and ties, immaculate white shirts, and enormous, expensive-looking cuff-links, they struck me as the sort of businessmen who always hunt in packs.The three of them were huddled protectively around a narrow cherrywood table with a glass top, where they shuffled some official-looking files and glanced up at me intently as I entered. They were silver-haired men with mistrust permanently etched onto their faces, and hard, marble-blue eyes that revealed no emotion, making them look like porcelain dolls, the kind that in horror movies invariably run amok and start killing the real humans. One of them flashed the quick, charming smile of an elderly crocodile.The other two simply returned to their papers, indicating that I’d failed to impress them. But I saw that they were excruciatingly conscious of my presence, which only confirmed my significance here. I felt a trifle uneasy.

Two more people entered the room—a petite, spidery old lady in an ash-blue coat and hat that matched, and a middle-aged guy in a navy blazer and beige flannel trousers. This simply had to be Mom’s cousin, Rollo Jr., and his mother, Great-Aunt Dorothy. I nodded to them, but they pretended that they didn’t notice. The lawyers sprang into deferential action, making an elaborate big deal of getting the old lady seated in one of the chairs, then conferring with Rollo in a low, unintelligible murmur. I decided that it was time for me to stop waiting for permission to sit down. So I went to the window-seat at the bay windows that fronted onto the street. I gazed out imploringly. Where the hell was
my
lawyer? He was late, that’s what.

Every time I sneaked a peek at the others from under my lowered lashes, they glanced away, which meant they’d been sizing me up, too. I couldn’t help thinking that we looked like a fairly ghoulish family oil painting. First, Rollo Jr., who’d loomed so large in the family lore, sounding so vaguely diabolical and threatening that I’d expected him to be tall and shadowy, lean and mean. I was completely unprepared for a paunchy, rather dissolute-looking, somewhat pathetic aging-playboy type with overly wavy graying hair, and bags under the eyes, his stomach hanging over his belt, altogether looking a bit like, well, actually like Elvis in his later “fat” years as seen in those old record-collection commercials. He was decorously attentive to his mum. Great-Aunt Dorothy was a little birdlike lady with silver hair teased into the bubble shape that women of her generation favor. She seemed dainty but not fragile, with one of her tiny bird-claw hands clutching a silver-topped walking stick. I could see how she might indeed have been a formidable sister-in-law to Grandma and Great-Aunt Penelope. And finally there was me, little Penny Nichols, trying to appear all grown-up, but probably looking as if I was waiting to be interviewed for a job I knew I wouldn’t get.

Jeremy and his associates entered just seconds later. It felt like an eternity, but technically I suppose they were spot-on time.The atmosphere in the room changed tangibly.There was no mistaking the shift in power, revealing that Jeremy’s team was in charge of this meeting. He introduced me to Harold, the senior partner, an older gray-haired guy with confident gray eyes. Then Severine, their French legal expert, an attractive woman in a bold white silk suit and white pumps, with huge brown eyes and shiny dark hair pulled into a perfect twist; she looked to be Jeremy’s age and had the confidence that comes first from being a French female and second from having enough expertise to impress her male colleagues. Rupert, the younger guy who’d let me in, was told that he could go back to the office, once it was clear that all the necessary papers were here. He gave me a bashful smile, as if his lesser importance had suddenly been revealed to me. All in all, a good team to look after my mother’s interests, I thought.

Jeremy politely introduced me to Great-Aunt Dorothy and Rollo. Now that I was being formally presented, Rollo looked up with a blameless expression and said, “Yes, of course,” with a tolerant kind of nod. His mother, forced to acknowledge my presence at last, gave me a wide smile of exaggerated delight, as if she’d just been presented with a new parlor maid.

Subtly but forcefully, Jeremy and his team took over the glass-topped table with their papers, and put three chairs behind it, where they sat. Severine settled in with the calm attitude of one who will participate only if called upon. Grudgingly, the other lawyers withdrew to the remaining chairs in the semicircle. One was empty, which made it mine. Jeremy saw me hesitate, and gave me an infinitesimal but reassuring nod.Then Harold began to read the will aloud, starting with a preamble about where Great-Aunt Penelope resided, the date, et cetera.