“How do I know I can trust you?” she whispers. Then, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re being so kind and understanding…” And that’s it: This is the problem, Sally realizes. Corinne took no convincing that Champ was innocent, or that he might be killed unless urgent action is taken—lawfully executed, like innocent Timothy Evans of 10 Rillington Place. Surely a sound, truth-seeking person would think, “But what if Champ did it?” Sally would resent Corinne forever if she thought or said that, but she would probably trust her more.
“Okay, look, I’m going to lay it all out for you,” Corinne says. “Let’s pull out all those freaky rumors and have a good look at them. You’ll have heard that I pretend to be a philanthropist when I’m not really. The people spreading that rumor aren’t lying; they think it’s true. I disagree. Here’s the deal: The sole recipients of my philanthropy are my three kids and their spouses-slash-partners. I give away hundreds of thousands a year but never, or only very occasionally, to anyone other than those six people. I’ve bought them homes, cars, holiday homes, stays in private maternity hospitals, several holidays a year at the world’s best resorts. The likes of Michelle Hyde don’t think that counts as philanthropy.”
Corinne smiles. “That’s fine. She’s allowed to have her opinion, and so am I. I call it charitable giving to those less fortunate than myself, which is the original Greek definition of ‘philanthropy.’ The word means ‘love of humanity.’ I love the humans I grew, and their significant others, most of all. I don’t see anything wrong with that. Find me a dictionary definition of ‘philanthropy’ that specifically excludes loved ones as recipients. You won’t be able to; no such thing exists.”
Sally can’t take it all in. It’s as if the words are bouncing off her and disappearing before she can grasp them.
“From a legal point of view, my children are independent adults,” Corinne goes on. “And…as adults in their own right, are they underprivileged and at a disadvantage compared with most people? Hell, yeah—and then some! Let me explain why the adult offspring of the super-rich are most likely, out of everyone, to end up with very little.”
Sally would rather do this another time. Or not at all. She doesn’t care.
“They grow up with money; they have everything they want,” says Corinne. “Never suffer or go without, never need to strive in order to stand a chance of having a good life. Plus, chances are their parents are so busy with whatever wealth-creating activity they’re engaged in that they have no time or energy to spend on their children at all, let alone to push them to achieve. Those kids miss out on all the existential dread and desperation poor people get as motivators to spur them on. Not only that—they’re also deprived of the other main pressure that creates successful people: the “I never achieved my full potential so now you have to or else I’llfeel worthless” approach to parenting that’s fueled so much brilliant scientific innovation. I mean, come on! How many genius scientists do you know who bitch about their pushy parents from their architect-designed mansions in the leafy Buckinghamshire countryside?”
“None,” says Sally.
Corinne frowns, as if this can’t be the right answer. “My point is: Rich high-achievers don’t need their kids to perform well in order to feel successful. We’re like, ‘Please, no one else in this household try and achieve anything massive apart from me, because I honestly don’t think I could take the stress of caring about two careers.’”
Sally stands up. “I’m ready,” she says. “Let’s go.”
But there is no escaping the rest of Corinne’s lecture, which continues in her Range Rover on the way to the Hayloft to pick up Champ, even though Sally would much rather hear more details of her plan for getting far away from Swaffham Tilney and beyond the reach and remit of Cambridgeshire Police. She would feel better if she knew where she and Champ were going to be spending the night.
“How many stories do you hear about people who started with nothing and became billionaires? Oh, shut up; we’ll be there in less than a minute!” Corinne snaps at her car as it makes its “You’ve forgotten to put on your seat belt” noise for the second time. “Endless stories, right? The have-nots who strove hard and became haves? Think of Oprah! She had to learn how to hustle, big time. Well, my kids never did. They never had to do anything in order to be whisked off to exotic destinations or have a swimming pool in their back garden—and that’s not their fault; it’s mine. So. Reparations.”Corinne chuckles. “I love that. I’m going to start calling it reparations as well as philanthropy. Please make sure to mention that to Michelle Hyde and Jemima Taggart next time you’re chatting to them.”
“I don’t really ever—”
“If I didn’t continue to donate generously to my children now, they might end up living in moldy bedsits,” says Corinne. “The leeches who steal all our money and call it ‘progressive’ no longer care about whether most young people can buy decent houses or start families—have you noticed?”
This is getting cryptic and intense. No one has ever stolen money from Sally, as far as she’s aware. Perhaps Corinne has had to contend with fraudulent business associates in the past—but if she has, Sally can’t see why those white-collar criminals ought to care about how hard life is for the young. Everyone should care about such things, obviously, Sally corrects herself, but anyone going through life expecting decency from crooked business cheats is going to be disappointed.
“So, am I going to carry on calling it philanthropy, the way I take care of my kids?” Corinne says. “Yes, I bloody well am, because it’s a fuck-ton of money I give away every year, when I’m under no obligation to do so. I could be selfish and keep it all, but Idon’t. Because I’mnice,Sally.”
Did she say that last bit in a threatening way, or was she just being emphatic?Sally wonders.
“I’m kind, caring, and sharing—that’s my definition of me. No one else needs to subscribe to it. I learned a valuable lesson from all that Agatha Christie Book Club aggro: Never try to coerce anyoneinto sharing your definition of anything. Behave in accordance with your own definitions, and let everyone else get on with being wrong. Like with Champ now: We know he’s innocent, right?”
“We know, because the cop told you exactly when Tess got bitten outside her house that Champ was walking on the lode path at the time. You were with him. You know he’s not guilty. So, we’re not going to debate that unarguable fact with anyone. We’re not going to waste our time on any…legal or judicial process in which the opposite perspective—that he’s guilty—is evenheard.”
“Right. Exactly.” Sally has decided she trusts her new friend and savior completely. She is happy to pledge eternal allegiance to her.
“So let’s see, what other crap might you have heard about me?” Corinne mutters. “How about me divorcing my husband because he wasn’t an entrepreneur? That’s true—I say it myself sometimes, because it gets people’s attention—and it’s also bollocks. If he’d been happy teaching history at Newmarket’s most dysfunctional school, fine. I’d have been thrilled for him. But he was miserable. Kept saying how much he’d love to start his own business as a personal trainer or nutritionist or something like that, but he was convinced it was the riskiest thing in the world. Even though he was married to me, so, you know…the money was never going to run out. But he was scared to become, in his own mind, someone who didn’t have a job, so he kept choosing misery and stagnation. That’s why I left him. Someone who thinks like that drags you down after a while; it’s a weird, creeping defeatism that infects everything if you let it. I still love and like Ronan, we’re still good friends, but I realized I didn’t want that kind of negativity in my home. Though he knows I’d still back any company or venture he ever wanted tostart—that hasn’t changed. I like to remind him of it constantly, not because I’m mean but because I like to show people, every chance I get, that there’s a different and better way to think.”
Sally notices she is already thinking more defiantly and…yes, victoriously (though she hasn’t won anything yet) thanks to Corinne; whirling desperation is hardening into determination.
Corinne takes the turnoff for Bussow Court. “That just leaves the weeds,” she says, and Sally realizes she’s talking about village rumors that paint her in an unflattering light. “Yes, I deliberately don’t do anything about the weeds growing against my wall—not because I don’t care how my property looks from the outside. Actually, I hate the way those weeds make my house look all scruffy and neglected. Ihatemess. Beauty and order are two of my core values.”
Ought Sally to have core values too? She’s never thought about it.Champ. Ree, Tobes, Furbert.They’re her core values.Love.
“Do you know what I hate even more than ugly weeds?” says Corinne. “People who make snide remarks, when you’ve been so busy for weeks that your head’s nearly falling off, about how you’re letting down your neighbors and the whole community when all you’ve done is miss one tiny weed while you were pulling out the rest. And do you know what I love? Annoying all the right people. So we are where we are. Where can I…? I’m just going to park here.”
It feels like an emergency stop, immediately outside the Hayloft’s front door. Corinne turns to Sally with a grin. “You should be pleased. It’s thanks to those weeds that I offered to help you today when I saw you staggering around the green like the sole survivor of an apocalypse.”
“How do you mean?” Sally asks.
“Last summer. You’ve probably forgotten, but you yelled at Mark not to let Champ wee against my wall. Just because everyone else took their dogs there to do their business as a deliberate spiteful gesture, you said—”
“I remember,” Sally tells her. “How on earth did you hear that?”
“I wasn’t in the house. I was outside, hiding behind my big hedge, sorting out a flower bed.”
