Chapter 14

Love doesn’t make you flaw­less.

Love doesn’t make you rich or smart or funny.

Love takes away the fear that holds you back from be­ing the best that you can be.

“Youth is wasted on the young.”

March 2010

It was a typically cold March morning. A sharp frost covered the lawn outside Meadowview Cottage, making it sparkle in the weak, early morning sun that strained to penetrate the mist which hung low over the Westhamptonshire countryside like a cold, grey blanket. The alarm clock on the bedside cabinet clicked and switched on Radio 4, rousing Will from his slumber. His dream faded quickly in the grey light that seeped in through the curtains. He’d been dreaming about his past a lot recently. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if yearned for his school days. Perhaps it was his age. He was thirty-eight and felt even older. Work was getting on top of him. The previous night he’d been out on the town with his colleagues, but he’d had a hard week and been too tired to enjoy himself.

Youth is wasted on the young, he thought as he stared at the ceiling. Stifling a yawn, he forced himself out of bed, opened the curtains and looked out of the window. Meadowview Cottage was so named because when it had been a farmhouse it looked out over one of the farm’s meadows. It was Will’s understanding that the last farmer to live here had kept his prize bull and a herd of heifers in the meadow so he—or more accurately, his wife—could keep a close watch on them. But Will had bought the cottage for the view of the sea just beyond the meadow, rather than the meadow itself.

He breathed deeply, trying to sniff the sea air through the closed window, and stretched. For all that was wrong with his life, his cottage by the sea was the one perfect thing.

He took a long hot shower in the en-suite, luxuriating in the powerful jets of water, billowing clouds of steam and soapy lather as he washed away the grime. After towelling himself dry, he pulled on his thick robe and traipsed downstairs where he picked up the mail off the floor, carried it into the kitchen and tossed it onto the breakfast table. It lay there while he buttered some toast and made strong, sweet coffee. Then he set about opening the letters.

“Dear home-owner, have you ever considered consolidating all your debts into one low-cost loan?”

He tore the first piece of junk mail in two. Two more loan ads and a “not-to-be-missed-buy-one-get-one- free” double-glazing offer went the same way. He nearly choked on his toast when he saw the size of his mobile phone bill. He was glad he didn’t pay it, but he knew the office accounts manager would be asking him a few questions come Monday morning. That trip to Paris had proved expensive when he suddenly had to deal with a crisis back at the office.

The last letter in the bundle had a real stamp instead of a franking machine mark and the address was handwritten in elegant, feminine script. He peeled it open. Inside was an invitation card. The opening line was written in big, bold letters.

KING GEORGE’S COMPREHENSIVE SCHOOL

CLASS OF 1990 - TWENTY YEAR REUNION.

The rest of the card gave the details of when and where. “Good God. Twenty years. Maybe that explains all the dreams.”

Will wasn’t surprised to see that Lizzie Archer had signed the invitation. She’d been chair of the student committee, after all. The card gave RSVP details: her address, telephone number and e-mail. At least he wouldn’t have to speak to her to tell her where to stick the reunion. He put the phone bill and invitation in his ‘to do’ pile and threw the junk in the recycling. As he approached the stairs to go and get dressed, his mobile phone beeped. He picked it up and read the text message he’d received.

Will keyed in a reply and sent it.

By the time he’d climbed the stairs, the phone beeped again.

He typed in another reply.

Twenty minutes later, he was dressed and driving his Audi R8 to Westmouth to pick up his colleague. Jeremy and Will had become good friends over the past three years, ever since Jeremy had transferred from the Head Office in London. He was ten years Will’s junior but was possibly the brightest young lawyer in the whole firm. Will knew without any doubt that Jeremy had a big future in front of him.

He pulled up outside Jeremy’s house and tooted his horn. His friend appeared a few seconds later, climbed into the passenger seat and Will set off.

“Where are we going again? And what exactly have you talked me into?” Jeremy asked.

“I didn’t talk you into anything. You volunteered. It’s not my fault you were too drunk to remember.”

“Whatever. Just tell me so I don’t look stupid when we get there.”

Will grinned. “You? Look stupid? Never.”

“I don’t know why I bother doing you favours. It’s not as if you’re ever nice to me as a result.”

“You do me favours because I’m a partner, you’re an associate and you know it’s good for your career to kiss arse every now and then.”

“Oh, yeah. That’d be it.”

“Do you remember Fanny McCarthy?” Will asked, suddenly serious.

“Little old woman. She used to run the Post Office in East Milton? Yeah. I sold the business for her when she retired.”

“Then passed her on to me to write her will because you don’t do wills.”

“Well, I don’t. I do small business, corporate and commercial property. You do all that people stuff.”

“Yeah, well. She sort of took a shine to me...”

Jeremy laughed. “Old women tend to do that for some reason.”

Will ignored him. “She gave me Lasting Power of Attorney because she thought she might lose her mind and wanted someone she trusted to look after her interests.”

“Makes sense. You must be Attorney for loads of old biddies these days.”

“Yeah. Too many. She also made me the sole executor of her will. I advised against it, but she said that was one of the reasons to do it anyway. She said she trusted me more because I obviously had her best interests at heart.”

“Twisted logic.”

“Quite. Anyway, she passed away last week, and now that the funeral is out of the way, I’ve got to assess her assets so we can file for inheritance tax with The Revenue and get probate.”

“And that’s where we’re going now?”

Will nodded. “The old bird built up quite an antique collection. Apparently. Andy Rogers from Hammersmith’s is meeting us there. We’re going antique hunting.”

“Great. What a wonderful way to spend a Saturday morning.”

“And what else would you be doing?”

“Sleeping. Or shagging.”

“Don’t you need a woman for the second option?”

“Ha bloody ha. Just hurry up so we can get this over with and go for a beer. It’s a Six Nations weekend and I don’t plan on missing any of the matches.”

A white Ford Transit waited for them outside the large former farmhouse where Mrs McCarthy had lived out her final years. A well-dressed man got out of the passenger side as Will pulled onto the gravelled driveway.

“Nice place,” said Jeremy. “Worth much?”

“Should be. But it’ll be hard to move it in this market. I’ve advised the family to hold onto it for twelve months and hope things pick up, but they want it sold as quick as we can so it’ll probably go for less than its worth.”

“I can understand that. They don’t want to live with the painful memories, right?”

Will snorted. “Hardly. Most of them haven’t spoken to the old girl for a long time. Even her eldest son. They just want the money, as quickly as they can their hands on it.”

“Nice.”

Will killed the engine and they climbed out of the car.