Don't Marry Thomas Clark (3 page)

Thomas slumps down into his chair, exhausted. He's known Frank since they were at school together: if there was even the slightest chance of getting him out of this mess, Frank would find it.

The young lawyer picks up the will and starts reading through it once again, and at the same moment, Margaret, his PA, enters carrying a tray with two sandwiches and a couple of drinks.

‘What time is it?'

‘A quarter to two, Mr. Clark,' she replies efficiently.

‘Already?'

The time has flown by without them noticing. He's been there since nine and they've achieved absolutely nothing.

‘Shall I put it down here?' asks the woman, as she places the tray on the desk. Frank nods and she, having nothing else to add, tiptoes out of the room so as not to disturb them further. As soon as she saw those gloomy faces, she knew right away that they were dealing with important matters – and anyway, what better time to make a couple of quick phone calls to Brazil?

‘Tell me, who is this Sandy?' asks Frank, as he emerges once more from the piles of papers.

‘The granddaughter of an old friend of his. She lives in Cork with her family, but they're from Canterbury originally. They used to come over every summer for a month or two, and grandfather used to put them up,' he replies.

So embroiled are they in the question that they both ignore the sandwiches, Thomas especially. For the last two days his mouth has been so dry that he's been struggling to swallow at all.

‘Were you ever a couple?'

‘God, no!'

‘So what's so special about her? I mean, with all the women out there, why her?' asks Frank again, trying to find a way to explain this reckless act.

‘How the hell would I know?' explodes Thomas, who has been brooding on the question too long to express himself more gracefully. ‘The only relationship I've ever had with Sandy was when we were on holiday together. They made me take her along with me wherever I went, but apart from that, nothing.'

‘Nothing?'

‘No, Frank, nothing.'

‘Not even a little flirting?'

‘No…'

‘A kiss and a cuddle in the barn?'

‘No…'

‘A quick fumble in the bushes?'

‘NOTHING!' he thunders categorically, leaving no room for any doubt about his possible emotional involvement. ‘We hardly spoke to one another, and it went on like that until she decided to go to university. She moved to America four or five years ago and since then I haven't seen her.'

‘I don't understand you,' muses the lawyer, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

‘Why?'

‘Is she
really
that horrible?' Frank asks after a few minutes of silence, a question which, for the moment, Thomas struggles to understand. ‘I mean,' he continues unabated, ‘does the idea of marrying her really seem so terrifying to you?'

‘Have you lost your mind too?'

‘Listen, it looks to me like you don't have a choice. But with the life you lead you'd only have to see her, what? Two or three times a week? You can carry on with your routine undisturbed and, if you really don't want a wife, just consider her a flatmate that you have to establish a peaceful cohabitation with.'

‘If she was just a flatmate, I wouldn't be forced to sleep with her!' answers Thomas.

‘Thomas, let's be frank – they're not asking you to donate a kidney. And it says here that you have to share a bedroom with her, but it doesn't say what you have to do once the lights are off.'

‘Haven't you read further down? I have to be faithful for the duration of the marriage. Are you expecting me to live like a monk for ten years?'

‘If you're discreet about it you won't run any risks. Proving the infidelity of a spouse is much more difficult than movies and TV shows would have you believe.'

‘That still leaves one crucial detail,' whispers Thomas barely audibly, forcing Frank to lean over his desk to be able to hear it.

‘What?'

‘That I have no intention of getting married, and even if I did, it would never be to Sandy Price!' shouts Thomas suddenly into his ear, making him jump.

‘So what
is
the problem, then?' asks Frank, unable to understand his friend's reaction, ‘Is she ugly?'

‘Oh…' mumbles Thomas. ‘It's not as if she's hideous. She's small, pale, skinny…' He tries to describe her with an expression somewhere between indifference and contempt.

‘OK, but she's not repulsive.'

‘No,' he is forced to admit, albeit reluctantly. ‘She's not actually
repulsive.
'

‘Well, then? Come on, you only have to put up with having her around the house. The worst that can happen is that she puts Laura Ashley curtains up in the study,' jokes Frank, trying to put his friend's worries into perspective.

‘You've no idea what we're dealing with,' Thomas says. ‘You don't have the faintest idea of what it means to spend more than a couple of minutes with that… that psycho! She ruined my childhood and adolescence. Just imagine, I used to spend all the time before the summer holidays in a cold sweat,' he admits, his head in his hands. ‘Why?' he asks miserably. ‘Why me? This can't be happening… not to me. Anyone but her.'

‘Psycho? What do you mean? Thomas, look, if she has mental health problems we can petition the court. I'm sure that with a proper psychiatric report…'

‘No, no…' says Thomas slowly, swinging his head despondently. ‘She's sharper than the two of us put together, believe me.'

‘Then you'd better start getting used to the idea,' suggests Frank in no uncertain terms, placing his hands palm down on the desk to either side of his laptop. ‘If you want to inherit your grandfather's fortune, you don't have a choice.'

‘No…' moans Thomas, in last, desperate denial.

‘Have it your way, then. Maybe you're right. I'm sure you won't end up homeless. How much do you stand to lose? Let's have a look…' He opens the testament in the middle and scans through a few lines. ‘Wow…' he bursts out in amazement at the sight of all those zeros in a line. ‘That's a nice little nest egg! Who did he say it would all go to? The Thames Bowling Club?'

‘Oh, give it a rest!' says Thomas, throwing a pen at Frank, which his friend dodges with a chuckle.

‘What's the matter? You rather he'd bequeathed it to the cricket team?' But he receives no answer. ‘You know what, Thomas? Fuck you! That's a ton of money. If I was in your place, I would have already had “Take me, I'm yours!” tattooed on my arse, so stop complaining, call this girl, invite her out for a coffee, talk to her about the good old days and ask her to marry you. Let's be objective: you haven't seen each other for years – there's at least a ninety per cent chance that she'll just think you're a nutter and tell you to piss off. Then you'll inherit everything and not be forced to shell out a penny.'

‘And do you really believe that she'll say no, knowing about the will?' asks Thomas despondently. But the more he thinks about the last question, the more he starts to feel that he might to be on the verge of solving all his problems. On the other side of the desk, Frank is starting to feel the same way. He seizes the document and begins to leaf through it restlessly. The pages race through his hands as he opens it, closes it again, slams it down on the desk, smooths it out, crumples it up, and finally lifts his face and looks silently into the eyes of Sir Roger's grandson.

‘So?' Thomas finds the courage to ask, holding his breath.

‘It doesn't say anything,' Frank whispers incredulously.

‘It's not in there?'

‘It's not in there!' Frank reassures him with a laugh.

‘You're a bloody genius.'

‘
You're
a bloody genius!'

‘No,
you're
a bloody genius!'

‘No,
you're
the bloody genius, mate!'

‘No,
you're
the bloody genius!'

They both jump up from their chairs in prey to the euphoria of the moment, unable to fully comprehend the incredible series of coincidences that have, miraculously, turned the situation on its head. Apparently, nobody found it necessary to specify that Sandy should actually be informed of the existence of the will: a blunder that cancels out every obligation.

At the idea that he might actually be free, Thomas starts breathing normally again. For the previous two days he hasn't eaten, hasn't slept and has hardly left the house. He doesn't quite know how, but he has managed to escape that most terrible of disasters: Sandy Price. A walking plague of Egypt. The same unbearable four-eyes who used to rummage through his drawers, hands covered in jam, and who dragged in her wake enough chaos and devastation to embarrass Attila the Hun and a whole host of Valkyries. A shiver of pure terror runs down his spine as he thinks back to the atrocious tortures she perpetuated on poor old Hairball, his beloved Persian cat. How many times did he find her locked in the fridge? And how many times dressed up as a pirate, or an ancient Greek? And what about the time she painted a toothless smile on Hairball's face? Does he
really
want to remember? No, better just to consign those memories to oblivion.

‘I'll just see her, ask her to marry me and… that'll be it!' he says, still stunned by the news. ‘All I have to do is not mention the will.'

He collapses into his chair, exhausted but happy and at total peace with the universe.

‘No, you absolutely must not say a word,' says Frank, waving an index finger in front of his nose.

‘And if she were to ask me why I wanted to marry her?' asks Thomas, doubtfully. ‘What should I say?' He opens his eyes wide, overwhelmed once again by panic.

‘Calm down. There's no need to worry, we just need to come up with a proper plan,' the lawyer reassures him, assuming a professional tone and returning to his seat at the other side of the desk. He holds the will in his hand, as carefully as if it were a holy relic. ‘Let's take things one step at a time,' he resumes, ‘the first thing to do is to contact her. Do you know where she is?'

‘No, I haven't the faintest idea, but I could try and find her parents.'

‘Great. And bear in mind that she might already be engaged or married, and if, as you said, she moved to America, she might not want to return to England. In that case, I'd recommend written communications: emails, letters, telegrams,whatever you like, as long you have something in hand to show the court.'

‘Court? You think someone might take it to court?'

‘Well… It's not a certainly, but I've got a list in front of me of at least twenty organizations who risk losing a nice little nest egg if you get married.'

‘True. OK, go on,' says Thomas.

‘Right, if she's available you'll need to meet her. Asking to marry her out of the blue might make her suspicious, and we shouldn't underestimate the possibility of her getting word about it through mutual friends. If the question of the will gets out, you're done for.'

‘So what do I do?'

‘Good question,' admits Frank, taking a moment to reflect. He stares blankly at the will as though it might be able to answer his questions, then suddenly exclaims, ‘Got it! You have to tell her everything!' and give his friend a bright smile.

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's a brilliant idea! Tell her about your grandfather's death, about the marriage, about the six months of cohabitation…'

‘But didn't you just say that I
shouldn't
mention it?'

‘You don't understand,' Frank interrupts. ‘I'm not saying to tell her
everything.
'

‘Oh, no?'

‘Of course not! You should
hint
at the will, but not explain what she stands to lose if she turns down the offer of marriage. You're going to tell her a version of the truth, and you'll pay her to obtain her cooperation.'

‘Hang on, I'm not following,' Thomas interrupts, confused. ‘
What
do I have to do?'

‘Let me give you an example,' says Frank, crossing his hands on the desk and preparing to dispel his client and friend's doubts. ‘Thursday, coffee break, the two of you at a table in a café.'

‘I'm busy on Thursday.'

‘Thomas!'

‘OK…' he puffs.

‘Atmosphere: waiters passing between the customers, steaming cups of coffee, you pull her chair out for her. You're kind, you get her to relax. Don't get down to business straightaway. A bit of chit-chat, “How are you? How's your father doing?” blah blah blah. And when you feel comfortable, turn on the old charm, give her a few compliments.'

‘I can still manage to make small talk with another adult, Frank, we can skip the foreplay?' Thomas snaps, but his friend ignores him.

‘Flirt with her a bit, make her feel important, bring up a couple of old personal details. A few memories of you as children: funny stories, a bit of nostalgia, stuff like that. Focus her attention on your relationship and the deep bond that existed between your family and her parents, tell her about your grandfather's death. Hint vaguely at the funeral, the deep sense of emptiness. And pause,' he adds hastily. ‘Pause a lot,' he recommends energetically.

‘Why?'

‘To underline how much pain you're in. You're still upset. So upset, you can't talk about it. Seeing you in that state, her sentiments'll get the upper hand, believe me,' says Frank, and mimics the scene, lifting a hand to his tie. ‘A moment of emotion,' he says, resuming his normal voice. ‘Gentle words, held breaths. You'll mourn the deceased for a few minutes. Let it simmer, and once it's cooked, tell her, in a moment of transport, that in his will, Sir Roger specified that you get everything except the old Canterbury estate unless you decide to marry her after a mandatory period of cohabitation lasting six months. You explain that the illness, unfortunately, had made him more and more confused. That'll be convincing enough to get her to believe it all. And at that point you start building on her feelings. Confess that you care too much about Garden House to risk losing it. It's a place full of happy memories, where you often take refuge from the difficulties of life, especially since your parents died. Add a big cheque, with five zeros, and you'll see – she won't say no… She's a woman.'