Poppy is leaning right back in her seat, long, skinny legs elegantly crossed in front of her, dark hair sleek and shining, perfect in a designer suit and stupidly high heels. A woman that tall doesn’t need heels, but he knows that for certain ladies, they give a level of confidence he’s never quite understood. If he was a woman, he’d be one of the Birkenstock brigade, he thinks.
She’s trying to look relaxed, in control. As though she isn’t even remotely out of her comfort zone. The only thing giving her away is the constant crossing and uncrossing of the fingers of her right hand, like she needs to be doing something – texting, or writing, or – if everything her mother said about her is true – rolling a cigarette.
Rose is looking around her and twitching, her beautiful eyes – her mother’s eyes – taking in the deep-green walls and the framed oil paintings of local landscapes and, of course, the picture of him and Andrea on his bookshelves. It was taken on the day he took her for a hot-air balloon ride over the hills, and she still looks giddy with excitement. Rose’s gaze lingers on that longer than anything else, and he sees another tiny strip of skin get torn from the side of her thumb.
In fact, the poor thing is looking everywhere except at the person sitting next to her. She’s shuffled her chair a few inches further away, as though she’s scared she might catch something – it’s like she’s physically afraid of being near her sister. She’s even more nervous now, because she’s been stripped of her bodyguard – Joe (lovely lad) has been left in the waiting room, where he is drinking lemonade and looking forlorn.
Poppy is equally observant, but in a calmer way. At least on the surface. She, though, is taking sneaky sideways glances at Rose, her eyes widening each time, like she can’t believe she’s real. Like she might be a Rose-shaped mirage.
He clears his throat, and peers at them over his glasses. He actually only needs his glasses for reading, but has decided they give him an air of authority. He’s playing a part here – one Andrea wrote for him – and he needs to do it well.
‘So, Rose, Poppy,’ he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as drunk as he feels, ‘it’s wonderful to meet you both at last. I just wish it had been in more pleasant circumstances.’
Or, he adds silently to himself, any circumstances at all, you selfish young fools. He’d dearly like to give them a piece of his mind, but that’s not what he’s here to do. He’s here to give them a piece of Andrea’s mind, and they’re bloody lucky to get it.
‘There are some estate matters to clear, but nothing too taxing. The cottage is fully paid for, and you two are the sole beneficiaries. Andrea also left a life-assurance policy made payable to you two, to be shared equally. Apart from a few small items which she bequeathed to friends, the contents of the cottage are also yours – and it’s entirely up to you to determine what to do with them. I have the keys here, which I’ll pass on to you when we’re finished. She also left around £30,000 in savings.’
He notices the look of surprise on both their faces, and studies them hard looking for the telltale signs of greed. He’s seen that so many times, sitting here in this exact same situation – grieving relatives whose eyes light up with cartoon dollar signs the minute that money is mentioned.
But no, he thinks, after a brief pause, not this time. They are both taken aback – they obviously didn’t expect their mother to have saved so much, clearly not being aware of how well Penny Peabody had provided for her in later years – but it’s surprise rather than excitement.
‘She has asked,’ he continues, ‘that you use part of that for the special project she has left behind for you – I will be able to advance whatever you need to you until the formalities are sorted – and that the remainder is put into trust to help fund Joe’s university education, should he choose to go down that path. If not, it will be made available to him on his twenty-first birthday. Does that sound agreeable?’
Rose, he sees, is starting to lose the plot a little. There are beads of sweat on her forehead, and she is clenching back tears. Again, he’s seen that before – people who hold themselves together until something, often small or intangible, simply sets them off.
She seems incapable of speech, wringing her hands and physically trembling, but luckily Poppy – cool, calm, controlled Poppy – steps in.
‘That’s perfectly agreeable, Mr Clarke-Smith. As far as I’m concerned Joe can have everything that’s been left. But I would like to know more about the “special project” now, if you don’t mind?’
Her fingers are still crossing and uncrossing, and her right eyelid is twitching, but her voice is very professional. Very polite and business-like, very bossy. She’s used to being in charge, he thinks, and this is difficult for her on so many levels. She might not look it, but she’s just as much of a Lost Girl as tatty-handed Rose.
‘Indeed,’ he says, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers in front of him. The waistcoat of his suit is a little too tight, and he’s itching to pull off his bow tie, but he still has his part to play.
‘I believe she called it the A–Z of Everything, didn’t she, in that video we made? She wasn’t happy with that, but I find it quite a satisfying title. She – we – worked extremely hard collating all the different parts, and it’s very much a labour of love. There will be some travelling to do, and some interesting …activitiesis probably the simplest word to use. Do be prepared to deal with your mother’s sense of humour on top of everything else – I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how wicked that could sometimes be.
‘Anyway, I have some printed information here,’ he says, sliding sheets across the desk for them, ‘and the rest has been emailed to you.
‘Once you’re at the cottage, you’ll find much more. This, if you do it the way your mother intended, will not be a quick rummage through a few boxes – so I’d suggest that unless you have other plans, you both go home, and make arrangements for some time off work, and sort out any domestic necessities. A couple of weeks should do it—’
‘That won’t be possible,’ interrupts Poppy, quickly, ‘not right now, I’m afraid. Can this be done later?’
Rose gasps audibly, and Lewis gives Poppy a look that, he hopes, might literally turn her to stone. Then he could smash her to tiny pieces with a hammer.
‘I see,’ he says slowly, gazing at her over his specs. ‘Is there some kind of dog food advertising emergency that you need to sort out? A cat collar campaign that needs overseeing? Heaven forbid that your mother should dare to die at such an inconvenient time. You really should have sent the cancer a memo, then perhaps it could have been rearranged.’
Poppy tries to meet this look with defiance, and Rose stays quiet and shuffles, and for a few seconds the only sound in the room is that of his antique carriage clock ticking on the mantelpiece. It is a battle of wills, and one which he knows he will win – because he is right.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Poppy eventually replies, redeeming herself slightly by looking suddenly and unexpectedly tearful. She’s just a child, he tells himself – a damaged child. A child that Andrea loved.
‘Splendid. I’d suggest you meet back at the cottage in two days’ time – can I say midday, to give you both enough time to make it here from your respective dwellings, and me enough time to give everything a final check-over?
‘There are several packages, and the information you have includes all the instruction you’ll need, pass codes, that kind of thing. I hope you’ll find it illuminating. I know I did – or at least as much as I was allowed to see.’
‘What do you mean?’ asks Poppy, frowning as she drags the papers towards her with long, painted fingernails. ‘I assumed you’d been the one helping her put all of this together? Surely she wasn’t well enough to do it on her own?’
There is a slightly accusing note in her voice, and he shrugs it off. It’s not him she’s angry with, it’s herself. And quite right too.
‘I helped her with much of it, but some things, she said, were meant only for your eyes – so I respected that. She only had one proviso – that you do this together, or not at all. One of you can’t take possession of the items without the other’s permission, and all of the various tasks and scenarios that she has laid out for you must be completed in each other’s company.
