Chapter 19
Lewis is, he suspects, ever so slightly tipsy. He has just walked into the corner of his desk, banged his hip, and then laughed about it like a teenaged girl. Sure signs of inebriation.
That, he supposes, is what happens when you start the day with a glass of port, and follow it up with too much champagne at an altogether very jolly funeral reception.
He fully intends to continue drinking for the rest of the day. He might end up stripping naked and running round the green, or climbing the church tower and screaming ‘I’m on top of the world, Ma!’ at the sheep in the surrounding fields.
He can risk waking up with a hangover – or possibly an arrest record, or a pet sheep – tomorrow morning, at least. Because, by tomorrow, his main part in all of this will be over.
He’ll still have the legal stuff to do, of course – sorting out the estate, dotting the ‘i’s and crossing the ‘t’s on probate, finalising all the paperwork and the finances.
But he can do that kind of thing in his sleep.
The tricky stuff, though? The family stuff?
That, he hopes, will have been well and truly passed on to the two lost souls sitting in front of him, on the other side of his antique desk.
They might still need him to answer questions – Poppy, for sure, will probably insist on it; she’s that type – but mainly, it’ll be over to them to do with as they will.
Then, he hopes, he can get on with the small matter of grieving for his lost and most beloved of friends. He might take a small holiday, or run away to join a commune in the foothills of the Himalayas, or simply lock himself away in his little house and continue to drink himself stupid.
The funeral went as well as these things can, as did the little celebration afterwards.
Andrea had choreographed it all, down to the last detail.
She’d been quite specific – no actors, no show biz, no old luvvies.
Apart from her, of course, the star of the show.
And no obituaries to be submitted until after the funeral, as she didn’t want Helen Mirren or one of the other dames turning up and stealing the limelight.
He thought she was joking on that one – she’d never mentioned acting with Helen Mirren before – but who knew?
Andrea was always something of a mystery.
He was secretly disappointed at her insistence – he’d have quite enjoyed meeting the still-famous and the once-famous, and matching their realities up to the incredibly naughty stories Andrea had often told.
But insist she had, and of course he had carried out her commands. In death, as in life, he was her devoted servant.
Now he felt off-kilter – that strange blend of euphoria and sadness that a good funeral can invoke; where the party goes swimmingly until you remember that the guest of honour isn’t even there.
Still, no matter how weird he feels, it is clearly nothing compared to what these two are going through. Rosehip and Popcorn – the legendary Lost Girls – finally here, in the flesh.
Between them, he thinks, they have the flesh of two normal human women.
But Rose has too much of it, and Poppy doesn’t have enough.
Rose is perched on the edge of her chair, pulling absently at the skin at the sides of her nail, even though it is already bloody and sore.
The toes of her shoes are tapping on the parquet, and she is looking around her as if she expects men with flaming torches and pitchforks to rush out and drag her away at any second.
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 …
activities is 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—’