‘Actually, google the solicitor’s first. Just in case it is.’
I do a quick search. ‘Yep. They’re a real firm. The contact details on their website are the same as on this letter.’
To my surprise someone picks up straight away. I ask to speak to Lawrence Kemp, the probate solicitor named in the letter, and I’m put through.
I can feel Josh’s eyes on my back as I explain to the solicitor why I’m calling.
He explains that he can’t reveal the details of what exactly I’ve been left without seeing some ID, but he makes me an appointment to visit him first thing on Monday.
‘Well?’ probes Josh when I’ve ended the call.
‘It’s true … she’s left me something. I just don’t know what, exactly.’
‘It could be some crusty old doll or one of those ancient rocking horses posh people used to have in their homes. Or it could be a fortune.’
‘I doubt it’s a fortune, Josh. I haven’t seen her in sixteen years. Why would a woman I spent one summer with, a million years ago, leave me anything substantial?’
‘Maybe it’s because of what happened after you’d stayed with her. Wasn’t it that autumn that your dad … you know …?’ He lets the rest of the sentence hang in the air, his eyes sliding away from mine, a sudden awkwardness between us.
Because we very rarely talk about why my dad is serving a life sentence.
For killing my mum when I was fourteen.
2
Dorothea didn’t leave me an ancient rocking horse or an old family heirloom. She left me her house. Her beautiful Regency villa in Bath.
Josh gasps and reaches over and grabs my hand, squeezing it in excitement. We’re sitting side by side in the solicitor’s office in Bath. It has high ceilings and views over the Georgian buildings opposite. I keep thinking Lawrence Kemp is about to tell us he’s made a mistake, that the house wasn’t meant for me after all, because how can this be true? Things like this don’t happen to me. They just don’t.
‘Ms Roe has some stipulations in her will surrounding the house,’ Lawrence says, pushing his little round spectacles further onto his face, turning away from the screen to give us his full attention. His beard is so thick and bushy it’s hard to see his lips unless he opens his mouth. ‘You cannot sell the house for a minimum of one year, which is fairly unusual. And she’s left you enough money for the continued upkeep. Congratulations, Imogen.’ He reaches into his drawer and pushes a set of keys across his desk. There’s a buzzing in my ears as I take them. Lawrence explains that I’ve inherited the bulk of herestate, with the rest going to charity, and I try and concentrate on what he’s saying but all I can think about is Dorothea’s house. The house that I’d loved so much as a teenager. The house my mum used to clean. It’s mine. It’s actually mine. I don’t care that I can’t sell it for a year. I don’t want to sell it anyway.
Lawrence hands me some paperwork to fill out. Josh is peering over my shoulder as I write down my bank account details. We have a joint account for the mortgage and bills, but we also have our own separate accounts too, which is the one I stipulate that I want the money to go into.
‘Thank you, Miss Cooke,’ says Lawrence when I hand him back the forms.
‘And how much money will she get?’ Josh asks, much to my irritation. I’m desperate to know too, of course, but I can’t help but feel it sounds greedy. Dorothea has already given me her house.
Lawrence glances at me for approval, and I give an embarrassed nod. ‘Let me have a look,’ he says, turning back to the screen. ‘Yes, it looks like there will be an initial sum of £250,000 and whatever her yearly royalties will be, which will, of course, change every year.’
Josh is tipping forwards in his chair and whistles in surprise. And then he’s standing up and I follow suit as though in a trance. Lawrence passes me a folder full of paperwork to take away, shakes our hands and then ushers us out, seemingly unconcerned that he’s changed my life.
It’s not until we are standing on the street outside that Josh begins to laugh. ‘Oh. My. God. This is crazy! We need to go there. I need to see this house for myself. Come on, Ims. What are you waiting for? Let’s go.’
He pulls my hand and tries to lead me down the hill, but I can’t move. ‘I just … I can’t believe it.’
His eyes light up. ‘Well, believe it, babe! Didn’t you hear what he said in there? You’re now a very rich woman. You never have to worry about money again.’
And then my emotions play catch-up and I squeal in delight – startling a couple walking by – and throw my arms around Josh’s neck.
I peer through the bars of the wrought-iron gates like an orphan from a Dickens novel, the rain falling softly on my hair. Everything around me feels hazy and slightly unreal, like I’m in a dream that I don’t want to wake up from.
‘Fucking hell,’ exhales Josh, his breath dissipating into the damp air. ‘Villa Oiseau.’ He reads from the inscription on one of the stone pillars to the side of the gate. ‘Isn’t that French for bird?’
‘Oh yes. I remember she always had birds in her art.’
It’s been over sixteen years since I was last here but my memories from that summer are pin-sharp: the lush green lawn out the back, Dorothea’s glass studio overlooking the Royal Crescent and the streets of Bath, the three hyper dogs, the fluffy grey and white Persian cat, Casper, flopped on the back of the sofa, my mum, happy and relaxed for the first time in years as she took a batch of cakes from theAga, a slant of sunlight picking out the red in her brunette hair, the wood fragrant with sweet scented honeysuckle, and Harry, the boy who used to live next door and who I’d had my first kiss with one night under a starry sky.
The villa is shabbier than I remember and the gravel driveway could do with re-laying. But the creamy Bath stone walls, the majestic portico and the sash windows with original shutters look as imposing as ever. I can’t see any evidence of the fire, although Lawrence told me at our appointment this morning that there is damage around the back of the house, mainly to the studio.
