Chapter 8
LACHLAN
Lachlan parked in a space about fifty yards down from Huntington Farrell on West Regent Street in Glasgow’s city centre.
At least, he hoped it was an official space.
It was impossible to tell with the six inches of snow that was now lying on top of the road markings.
After leaving the airport, he’d taken a slight detour, much to the displeasure of his satnav, and nipped off the motorway at the Braehead shopping centre.
There, he’d dashed into an outdoor clothing store, so he was now the proud owner of a North Face jacket so thick it could lag an igloo.
He checked his watch. Twenty minutes until the meeting, and he was just going to wait in the car, because he had no desire to arrive early and risk exposure to his family.
He immediately corrected himself. Not family.
His brother. That was it. Jason was the last person on this earth he wanted to spend time with.
His stepmother didn’t count, because he barely knew her.
Demi had been – oh the cliché – his dad’s executive assistant and had consoled his dad when Mum had died.
Barely a year later, they were saying their ‘I do’s’ under a flower arch in the Bahamas, then moving lock, stock and barrel to Monaco, where they’d had four years of married life before his dad passed.
Despite the obvious gold-digging, thirty-year-age-gap, stereotype of it all, Lachlan was happy for them, because watching his dad drown in grief and solitude after Mum had died would have been awful.
Lachlan now knew exactly how that felt. Losing Tanya…
well, that had been the kind of heartbreak that he wouldn’t want anyone to suffer.
For a year afterwards, every song, every place, every flashback had been like a nail gun being fired into his gut, until the only thing to do was to leave, escape the memories and start again.
And now he was back and he’d rather be anywhere else than here.
To distract his mind, he put a call into his friend and client, Dax Price, to give him an update on the job he was starting for him later this week.
Dax had been Lachlan’s catalyst for the London move in the first place.
He’d been playing football for a Glasgow team, and Lachlan had transformed the star striker’s home in the suburb of Bothwell into the house of dreams for a talented kid who’d grown up with nothing and gone on to be one of the top professional footballers in the country.
The kicker was, though, that as soon as the house was finished, Dax had been transferred to a London team.
The timing had worked for Lachlan, however – a new start in a place with no memories.
So he’d packed up, moved down south, worked with Dax to find the perfect crumbling investment in Essex, then got to work creating a second dream home for his client.
A six-car garage. A swimming pool. An extension that included a high-tech fitness room and – a new one on Lachlan – a spa that was purely for his barber and skincare specialist to take care of his appearance.
Lachlan had also taken on other clients, building his company and his reputation, but now he was due to start work on converting the basement of Dax’s mansion into a games room and bar.
Should be pretty interesting, given that the player was all over social media today.
‘Hey Dax, just a reminder that we’ll be there Wednesday morning to start on the demo. If that doesn’t suit, give me a shout.’
He checked his watch again. Five minutes. Okay, time to go.
He grabbed his backpack, tossed it in the boot, locked the car and did a runner to the swanky glass office building that housed Huntington Farrell.
It was exactly the type of office he expected of a high-flying corporate firm.
The marble floors, the glass chandeliers, the water flowing over the glistening granite on the whole expanse of one wall – if he were a client, he’d definitely be contemplating how much they were overcharging him so they could maintain this place.
‘Good morning. I have an appointment with Jeremy Sprite,’ he told the receptionist. ‘My name is Lachlan Morden.’
She checked something on her computer screen, then issued him with a pass on a lanyard. ‘Mr Sprite is expecting you. The lifts are just there to your right, and he’s on the third floor. His assistant will meet you there.’
Last chance to run, but what was the point? He’d only have to do it again. So instead of fleeing, he followed the instructions and nodded gratefully to the smiling assistant who was there to greet him when the lift doors opened on the third floor.
‘This way, Mr Morden. They’re all waiting for you in the boardroom.’
He almost smiled at the passive-aggressive dig under the breezy welcome. Yes, he was last. He’d planned it that way. In, out, shortest time possible.
He managed to keep his heart rate under control, and his demeanour calm as she opened the door and he passed her into the boardroom.
Jeremy Sprite, his father’s lawyer for many years, was at the head of the table, with his brother and Demi next to each other on the faraway side, in front of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the stunning winter view of the city.
His internal dialogue kicked into damage-limitation mode. Act cool. Calm. You’ve got this.
Demi started to rise, so he automatically went round to their side of the table and kissed her on each cheek, as any dutiful stepson would do, despite the obvious fact that they were almost the same age and if they’d gone to the same high school, they could have been classmates.
Next, he shook Jason’s hand, ignoring his brother’s predictably knuckle-crunching squeeze, but clocking the slight wariness, or maybe apprehension, in his eyes as he said, ‘Glad you made it.’
In his impeccably cut suit and red tie, Jason looked exactly what he was – a successful property developer who was all about business.
When Lachlan had seen him at the funeral, the focus had been on their father’s passing, and they’d managed to keep their distance and avoid contact during the service.
Lachlan had wondered how he’d feel today, facing him in a room, and now he knew.
Jason’s general air of entitlement. His raised chin of superiority.
His smug face. Lachlan had never hated him more.
And judging by Jason’s refusal to meet his eye, the feeling was mutual.
Lachlan shook Jeremy Sprite’s hand, then sat down opposite them, on a camel leather chair with a chrome frame that probably cost more than his couch at home.
The lawyer got straight to it, taking the lead.
‘Thank you all for coming today and I want to reassure you that this won’t take long.
Your father took the unusual step of insisting that you all be present today for the reading of the will, and the reason that he did so will become apparent as we continue. ’
Lachlan noticed that a pulse was throbbing on the side of Jason’s face – his lifelong tell that he was focused and ready for battle.
Lachlan had no idea what there could be to fight about, but he didn’t much care.
He’d be na?ve if he didn’t think there was a significant inheritance coming.
Their father had been driven. Relentless.
Focused. Like Lachlan, his dad had also started his working life in as an apprentice joiner on a building site.
His street-smarts and ambition needed no further evidence than the reality that he’d ended his working life with considerable wealth, a substantial property portfolio and a reputation for being a savvy businessman who trusted his gut and reaped the rewards.
‘I have had the privilege of being your father’s lawyer for almost thirty years and what I’m about to read is your father’s wishes for the dispersal of his estate.’
He then went on to spout a whole lot of legal jargon, before getting to the point of it all.
‘As you know, Martyn liquidated substantial assets before purchasing the house in Monaco, and that home is hereby bequeathed in entirety to his wife, Demi.’
Demi sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a hanky and Lachlan could be wrong, but he was pretty sure Jason rolled his eyes.
‘In a similar vein, and in accordance with Scottish law, Demi is hereby awarded fifty per cent of his moveable estate, approximately ￡250,000 pounds sterling.’
So his dad had half a million in the bank when he died.
‘That’s all he had? Half a million?’ That astonished outburst came from Jason, and the pulse on his cheek was beginning to look like a gobstopper that could explode at any minute.
‘Your father did anticipate that you would question that amount, but he wanted you to know that he has taken considerable and deliberate steps to spend his wealth over the last few years. I believe that after the death of your mother, he made the decision to – as he put it – enjoy every day like it was his last.’
Lachlan smiled – he’d heard his dad say that on every occasion they’d met up since Mum died, so that wasn’t a surprise.
‘He does also have a substantial overseas property portfolio, with a current value of over a million pounds, which has also been bequeathed to you, Demi.’
Another big sniff and more cheek dabbing, but this time there was a good chance it was tears of joy. Demi was now set up for life. And if that was the cost of giving Dad his last few years of happiness, then good on her.
‘No way! Fuck that,’ Jason spat.
Jeremy shut down the objection. ‘I understand your surprise, but I can assure you that was your father’s wish.
But please let me continue. I now turn to your father’s assets in the UK.
Technically speaking, under law, the offspring is entitled to fifty per cent of the moveable estate, which in this case is the cash reserves only, and it would be split equally between you both,’ he said, addressing both Jason and Lachlan now.