was full of locals; she’d never get served. She hurried past the saloon-bar door and went round to the yard where the barrels were stored. A car seemed to be waiting, engine running. She slid quickly into the passenger seat. I watched as it sped off. Oh well, it was still early, I reasoned uneasily as I went inside. And she was sixteen now. Hardly a child. I didn’t want to make things hard for Frankie, and as Jennie kept reminding me whenever I raised it, she really wasn’t my problem.
I found myself dressing rather carefully for my meeting with my lawyer. I gave my hair two washes, wishing it was thicker but pleased it was still satisfyingly blonde from the recent highlights, and blew it dry with a round brush instead of just giving it a hasty blast of hot air. It hung in a fair sheet around my shoulders. Spun gold, Mum used to say when I was little. Then she’d brush it for me, my head in her lap. My face was a bit pale, but a spot of blusher and lipstick and a bright pink scarf improved it, although I did remove the silky skirt and replace it with a navy one. And my new boots, not bare legs. Years ago I’d still have been head to toe in black, I reminded myself, and this was a meeting, not a date. Nevertheless my heart quickened as I tripped lightly downstairs, one hand brushing the rail. I hesitated at the bottom. Ran back upstairs for some scent.
The heavy oak front door onto the high street had been varnished, I noticed, and there was a new sign on it: Sam’s name in gold letters picked out just below that of the senior partner. The stairs, as I climbed the two flights, had been carpeted in something cream and expensive, with gilt stair rods. Very Harley Street, or whatever the legal equivalent was. Wigmore? No, that was teeth. Very private practice, anyway. Maybe we could share a joke about that? Except we’d already done one about makeovers. Anyway, something quick and witty would come to mind, I decided, as I bounded up with a new authority and sailed into Janice’s waiting room. I was feeling decidedly sparky today.
Janice’s room was more than just tidy, it was freshly painted, with flowers on the desk. After she’d greeted me with a beaming smile I admired the decor and the flora, and then we indulged in a spot of girly chat about how we both loved lilies. She ushered me on through, assuring me Sam was waiting for me, and I noticed the new carpet continued seamlessly into his room, which was also immaculate. Although the half-empty packet of Orios on the desk, I decided with a small smile as I turned to shut the door, was a nice familiar touch. I wondered what pretext he’d manufactured for this meeting?
‘Poppy. Thanks for coming in again.’ He stood up with a smile.
‘My pleasure.’ I gave a dazzling smile back, taking the seat he indicated. I noticed the shirt was pink today with a button-down preppy collar and a dark blue tie. A good combination. No social peck on the cheek, but perhaps later, when we said goodbye. And Poppy was a very good start, not Mrs Shilling.
‘And I’m sorry if my message alarmed you in any way.’
‘It didn’t at all,’ I said, surprised.
His face, as he sat, was serious; devoid of laughter lines. I suddenly realized I should be alarmed. Very alarmed.
‘Why? Is something wrong?’
‘I’m afraid Emma Harding has crawled out of the woodwork. She’s making a claim on your husband’s estate.’
My heart plummeted. All the skippy excitement of the morning went with it. It seemed to me it seeped out of my boots and right through the creamy carpet and the spongy new underlay to the floorboards below. I felt old. Tired again. And not because of the claim. Not because of the money. But because suddenly I was plunged into a world where my late husband had been sleeping with another woman for years. A world I thought I’d left behind; one I didn’t want to return to. Not when I’d been happily choosing between Sam’s broad shoulders and Luke’s hair-tucking technique.
‘I see,’ I said miserably. I remembered Emma Harding’s scrubbed, anxious little face in my sitting room, saying she didn’t want a bean. Yeah, right. I crossed my legs, noticing a tiny ladder on the inside of my knee.
‘How much does she want?’
‘She wants half.’
‘Half!’
‘Well, she claims she’d been his partner – in the domestic sense – for four years, and in the professional sense for longer. Nine, in fact. Four at Lehman’s, and five at the new firm. She claims they left to set it up together, albeit under his name, and that during those years any wealth he accumulated was due largely to her, because she was responsible for new investment. Apparently she gathered most of the clients. She says your husband was only a success because of their partnership, ergo she’s entitled to half his estate.’
‘But that’s outrageous. She wasn’t married to him, hasn’t got children by him. God – I hope not!’
‘No, no children,’ he said quickly.
‘And if she was so instrumental in the business, how come I’d never even heard of her? She certainly wasn’t
