He went back to his steak, shrugging her off, dismissing her point of view, just like her parents had. ‘But you’re a bit of a hothouse flower. Not exactly hardy. No, you’d do better to wait for the right bank manager to come along. Or doctor, or accountant. Do right by your mum and dad.’
And, somehow, she’d found herself flinging his bitter resignation back in his face. ‘Rubbish! And don’t tell me I’m a hothouse flower; I’m perfectly resilient. I’m not like my parents, valuing people for superficial reasons.’
He let his eyes lock with hers, took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘So you’ll marry me, then?’
‘Yes!’ The word had spurted from her in triumph. How victorious she’d been as she stalked in to demonstrate to her parents and, perhaps, to Gareth, that she wasn’t to be dictated to. ‘We’ve something to tell you. Gareth proposed tonight and I accepted.’
She’d felt the first stirrings of uncertainty as her father’s face went puce and the newspaper slipped from his lap.
Gareth even went forward to offer his hand. ‘I know I’m not what you want for your daughter, you’ve made it quite clear. But we’ll stick together and have a bunch of kids and give them a grand life. Not like me, who never knew his father.’
‘Oh, my God,’ breathed Karen, through fingers spread across a horrified mouth.
And there were no congratulations or sherry or questions about the future. There was just that horrified, disappointed hush. And a squirming in Diane’s belly that wasn’t completely joy at her betrothal.
That very night, they planned a wedding for six months ahead, at the register office, of course, because Gareth had never been christened and never went to church. It all felt quite unreal but, fuelled by her parents’ anger – ‘We’re waiting for you to come to your senses!’ – Diane took to the marriage a determination to make it work, a savings account just big enough for the deposit on an ex-council house in Purtenon St. Paul, and a green Mini.
From time to time she’d actually been impressed at the unremitting, freezing bitterness with which her parents treated her husband and, to a large extent, herself.
‘I’ve been brought up to take a few knocks. I can cope,’ Gareth said, often. ‘Don’t fall out with your parents over me.’ He’d been good about years of stilted Christmases with his parents-in-law, the only time they ever shared with Diane and Gareth, and later Bryony, their cushioned existence in their big house with cleaners and gardeners, new cars and all the status symbols. He’d been there for Diane when her mother had died, the rift between them unhealed.
When the time came, at her father’s graveside Gareth had stood beside her, although he’d later told her that it was just to be certain that he saw the mardy bugger safe underground.
Anticipation had been shining from his eyes when she arrived home a few days later after talking to Freddy about the estate. ‘Straightforward, is it, the will?’
Diane hung up her camel-coloured coat. ‘Very.’ She turned, slowly, slowly, reluctant to face him. ‘I’m not in it.’
His face turned to stone. ‘You’re joking.’
Her hair was up behind her head, tightly, making her head ache. She began to drag out the clips, her scalp prickling as the strands unwound. ‘It’s all there in black-and-white. The whole lot goes to Freddy. Freddy’s embarrassed.’ She reached over to her coat and extracted paperwork from one of the large front pockets, tossing it on the table between them. ‘He’s even provided me with literature about how to contest a will under the Inheritance Act.’
Gareth snatched at the papers, relief sweeping his face. ‘That’s very fair of him. Your dad was always investing in things, wasn’t he? He must have been worth a few bob.’
‘Oh yes. The estate is valued at about two million, including the house.’ She dropped down into a chair. Nausea had held her throat in its hands for most of the day as she’d tried to come to terms with what her parents had done. She was weak with disbelief. Grief. And such bitter disappointment, not over the money that had been withheld, but the love.
Gareth’s face flushed. ‘My God, we’re millionaires, bar the formalities. Fucking millionaires! We’d better get a solicitor. How long do you think it’ll all take?’
‘I’m not contesting the will. Freddy has offered to cut me in for half. All he has to do is sign a thing called a deed of post-death variation.’
Gareth sank into his chair. ‘You gave me a few nasty moments. But there you are, it’ll be sorted in a few weeks. Freddy’s all right, we might’ve known he wouldn’t try and snaffle the lot.’
Diane stared. Blinded by pound signs, Gareth wasn’t getting the point. Fury burned in her gullet and she spoke the words that changed her world and had made their marriage, for the past ten years, an empty thing. ‘I refused. My parents have disinherited me. I don’t want their stinking money.’
It was fully ten seconds before he spoke, his eyes horrified. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he managed eventually, hoarse in disbelief. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid! Money, even some money, even if you only accept forty per cent, or twenty, it’ll make all the difference to our lives. We’re still talking hundreds of thousands, Diane. It’s your right, it’s your inheritance. It’s yours! Don’t you see? Taking the money is the very thing to dobecausethey don’t want you to have it. We’ll be getting back at them.’
Her guts melted with misery as his voice climbed, but she didn’t waver. ‘I have my pride, Gareth.’
And then he was lunging across the table, roaring into her face. ‘We can’t afford fucking pride! You’re entitled to that money. Pride’s all very well for you but it’s me who’s working my balls off, scrounging for every hour of overtime.’
Tears flooded from her eyes but she hadn’t wavered. ‘They’re my parents and it’s my decision.’
Chapter Five
Trembling, Diane filled a waxed paper cone with the cold, crystal water as the dispenser gulped and glugged. Tiny sips moistened her mouth but didn’t ease the thudding in her chest. Her fingers shook as she drained the cone and refilled it. Money. So much trouble in her life had been over money.
Like the ugly little scene over her mother’s jewellery when she and Freddy had pitched in to help their father after their mother’s death, she processing the debris of the funeral and Freddy going upstairs with his father to help sort out Karen’s things.
But when she’d carried cups of tea up to the others she’d heard Freddy sputter, ‘Of course I can’t accept it!’
