–’
‘Christie’s. Yes, I know Simon.’
‘Do you? Oh, well then, you know! His mother practically lives in a mansion – I’ve seen it – and he’ll inherit it, apparently. She can’t take my money and live in the lap of luxury with him, surely!’
‘I’m afraid she can. I’ll look into it, Poppy, but his wealth has nothing whatsoever to do with hers. And marriage, however swift, is not an impediment to claiming on an ex’s estate.’
It was said kindly, but the wind was completely buffeted out of my sails.
‘He wasn’t her ex. He was mine.’
‘I know,’ he said gently. And perhaps with a hint of pity.
I wondered, suddenly, what sort of figure I cut: this wronged, cheated wife, whose husband’s lover was even now greeting her guests at her wedding reception, whilst I was left panicking breathlessly. Rather a pathetic one, that’s what. Someone Frankie might call a loser. All at once my life swam before me. I saw my younger self, charging confidently around London in the Renault Five Dad had bought me and which I’d painted pink, managing three parties a night sometimes, the object of some attention, usually with gorgeous Ben. A winner, surely. How, then, had it come to this? This breathless little widow, still in her coat, hands tightly clasping her mobile, voice getting shriller as she complained to a man she held in some esteem, a man she might even have been looking for an excuse to ring … complained that it simply wasn’t fair? How had I lost so much of myself over the years? Where had it all gone? I felt detached, like a spectator, watching myself seep through holes, like sand disappearing through a clenched fist. Only a tiny bit remaining in the palm.
‘It would be invidious, you see,’ Sam was saying as I sat very still, ‘to discriminate between a woman who was likely to get remarried, and one who was not. A judge can’t possibly say: well, you look like the back of a bus, no one would want you, so we’ll give you lots of money; and to someone like Miss Harding: you can’t have much money because you have every prospect of remarrying.’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘No, of course not.’
But he was imagining her. And he was right. She was good-looking. Not beautiful, but foxy. Sexy, a man would say.
‘But, as I say, I’m not instantly familiar with the law on this. The fact that she and your husband made the money together makes it quite an unusual case. I’ll look into it and get back to you. Steady, Tess.’
‘Tess?’ I blinked. Who was he sharing my most shaming secrets with?
‘My horse,’ he laughed. ‘Sorry, I’m in the saddle at the moment. Riding out with the Armitages. But don’t worry, I hung back when you rang. They’re out of earshot.’
‘The Armitages?’
‘Yes.’
‘The American ones?’
‘Yes, Chad and Hope. They’re keen to go hunting next week so I said I’d lend them a couple of horses from my yard. See how they get on.’
My head swam in bewilderment. I shook it briefly. ‘You’ve lent them …’
‘Two hunters I’ve got spare. They need the exercise, frankly.’
I stared at a damp patch on the wall opposite.
‘Where do you live?’
I couldn’t help it. It just popped out.
‘Mulverton Hall,’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘It’s near Leighton Park; not that far from your village, actually.’
I knew it. Of course I knew it. And I knew the story too. Old, pretty, not exactly derelict, but crumbling. And tenanted, because the owner, who no one had ever met, lived in America. Except recently he’d returned, minus his beautiful American wife, who some years ago had left him. Even more recently he’d given up the London house and returned to the one he’d grown up in, in the country. Ditched his City career to work locally, have a different sort of life. He was a lawyer, Angie thought. But no one really knew, as I say, much about him. Besides the fact that he kept horses. I took a deep breath; let it out shakily. The reality that was Sam Hetherington’s life paraded before me in glorious technicolor, like an Easter Parade, with decorated floats, marching girls twirling batons, whistles and drums: an American tradition, of course, but how appropriate. A glorious spectacle. This wasn’t a faintly shambolic solicitor in a chaotic office at the top of some creaky stairs, one that, in a
