Don't Marry Thomas Clark (8 page)

‘What would happen?' I explode, throwing out my arms theatrically. ‘You work in a print shop, not a hospital! The only emergency I can remember there ever being is last year, when Rod accidentally bashed his finger with the hammer while he was hanging up the calendar in the boss's office.

‘You…' he points at me an accusatory index. ‘You should have more respect for other people, kiddo!'

‘I have
plenty
of respect for other people, daddy dearest – it's Luke's steaks I don't have much time for.'

As I say these words, a huge slab of burned fillet lands on my plate with a dull thud, followed soon after by a shower of gelatinous mashed potatoes.

‘Thanks a lot, Beatty,' I mumble, staring at the charred corpse.

The waitress moves on to my father, sticks a fork in his order and serves it in the same gracious manner.

‘How long will you be in Cork for?' he asks when we're alone, before swallowing some grilled zucchini.

‘I'm not sure,' I answer as I cut my meat. ‘I have a meeting in town on Friday.'

‘About the bistro?' he asks, passing me the salt.

‘No, unfortunately. I've lost all hope as far as that goes. I've been calling the bank for two days now, but they won't give me the loan.'

‘I wish we could help you, you know,' he says sorrowfully, ‘but I've already taken out a mortgage on the house. I had to when we did up the attic for your grandma. We couldn't keep putting it off. The roof was about to collapse and the plumbing was on the verge of packing in completely.'

‘I know, don't worry,' I reassure him. ‘We'll find a way.'

It's not that easy: Kelly quit her job and went back to her parents'. I'm doing an internship in a Vodafone call centre, and my salary is about eight hundred pounds a month. If we put all our savings together, we might just be able to afford a few ethnic-looking coconut ashtrays and a couple of notebooks to take the orders.

Things are worse than I'm letting on, but I can't dump it all onto my dad. I just can't. He's already worried enough about my future – I don't want to make him even more anxious. I haven't even told him about the deposit. If he found out we'd lost twenty thousand pounds, he'd have a heart attack.

‘You could stay in Cork,' he suggests in a casual tone, while biting into a potato.

‘And do what?' I ask in alarm. ‘Please don't start going on about doing an apprenticeship at the print shop again.'

‘And why not, what's wrong with it? Better than working part-time in a call centre and living in a bedsit in the godforsaken outskirts of London and always being broke.'

‘Dad, we've already talked about this…'

‘OK, then,' he says, holding up his hands in surrender and then opening a bottle of water. ‘So what is it you've got to do on Friday?'

‘You're right, I haven't told you yet. Do you remember Sir Roger Aaron Clark?' I ask, picking through the beans.

‘Of course I do! What a shame about his death. I'd have liked to go to the funeral, but I couldn't get the time off,' he says sorrowfully.

‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘I suppose I must have just forgotten to mention it. It's been a hell of a week. The mayor announced a call to tender for the rebuilding of the old wing of the hospital and we've just been overwhelmed by applications. I think I've printed more planimetries since Monday than over the last thirty years!' he moans, allowing himself a sip of beer. ‘And how is it that you're interested, anyway?'

‘I was contacted by his nephew Thomas the other day. We met up because he wanted to talk to me about some urgent issue related to Roger's last will.'

‘Did he?'

‘Yes,' I say while chewing on a crust of bread. ‘He said he inherited everything, except for Garden House. He wanted my help in getting hold of it. Apparently the count was suffering from some nasty form of senile dementia in his last months, and it got so bad that he even modified his will and added a few weird conditions, which Thomas would like to get around.'

‘That's very strange,' he says through a mouthful of steak.

‘What is?'

‘I used to speak to Roger quite often, and he always sounded totally lucid to me.'

‘Maybe it got worse before he died,' I speculate. ‘But it doesn't matter anymore. There's the condition, and there's no way Thomas can get the estate without fulfilling it.'

‘What kind of condition are we talking about?'

‘He has to get married,' I say.

‘Sandy, sweetheart, am I missing something here?'

He has such a worried expression that I can't help laughing. ‘Don't worry, I'm not planning to
actually
marry him,' I reassure him when I manage to stop laughing. ‘He just asked me to pretend to be his fiancée for a while. If I leave him, he won't be obliged to get married and there'll be no further obstacles to him obtaining the estate. He even offered me some money…'

‘Money?' he asks in astonishment.

‘Yes, quite a lot of it… It would have been enough to cover the costs of the bistro.'

‘That doesn't sound like an acceptable solution!' he exclaims heatedly.

‘That's not the way he sees it,' I say, wiping my lips with the napkin. ‘Some people seem to think they can buy their passport details, including their marital status, just like anything else.'

‘Whatever he wants to buy, he'd better steer clear of my daughter,' he threatens, waving a steak-knife in the air like a pantomime pirate.

‘Oh, calm down. I'm not some heroine in a Victorian novel, you know? Nobody's threatening my chastity,' I say. ‘I'd only need to move to Canterbury for a few months and accompany him to a couple of parties.'

My explanations seem to reassure him, and his face slowly returns to normal.

‘And anyway,' I add do avoid any misunderstanding, ‘I'd like to point out that I refused. All that money must have gone to his head. I imagine he's used to just signing a few blank cheques to get whatever he wants – even a girlfriend. When I asked him if he really wanted to pay me, he explained that it was just a way of thanking me for my help. The sheer nerve of the man!'

‘Hmm…' he mumbles pensively, cutting up what's left on his plate.

‘Oh don't start telling me I should
accept.
You can't have changed your mind just because it's only about a couple of innocent dates, can you?' I ask, stunned.

‘No, no. It's just…'

‘What…?'

‘Something sounds fishy. Why didn't he contest the testament in court? I can't believe the only possible solution is a fake marriage.'

‘I suppose he just took it for granted that I'd help. And he probably thought that this way he could avoid a lot of red tape and dragging the family through the papers,' I speculate, as I stare into space.

‘Well, anyway, you said no. From this moment on, it's not your problem.'

‘I agree,' I say with a sigh. My father, who is sitting just in front of me, notices, and I have the impression that he's stifling a snigger.

‘Mind telling me what's so funny?' I ask him with a frown, crossing my arms over my almost empty dish.

‘Well, you said it is quite a lot of money…'

‘I'm not for sale!' I point out, offended.

‘Would he have paid up front or only upon conclusion?'

‘I don't care. I have no intention of pretending to be Thomas Clark's fiancée, either for free or for payment!' I declare, banging the table with the palm of my hand. An amused smirk appears on my father's face, but he doesn't answer, which irritates me even more.

‘May I know what's going on in that andropausal mind of yours?' I ask furiously.

‘Nothing…' he mumbles as he chews what's left of his meat, still smiling in the same seemingly-innocent way. ‘I just thought you seemed to be getting surprisingly worked up. I wouldn't want you to turn this into something personal.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘I might be wrong. It's just that I think you overreacted. He offered you something, you refused. Why are you still thinking about it? One might almost wonder if you got more offended because he asked you out or because he did it only to dump you straight after.'

‘That's nonsense! I'm speechless.' I throw my napkin down on the table in anger. ‘Why the hell do you think I care?' I shout, my cheeks flushing. ‘There are some things you can't get just by snapping your fingers. And love is not something you can create out of nothing.'

‘But he didn't ask you to
love
him.'

‘Don't you understand that that's not the point? It's a matter of principle. He can't think he can come and go as he pleases, acting like he's my owner. And he can't tell me what to do, what to feel or how to behave just because he's giving me some bloody pocket money. I'll
never
grant him that power.'

‘Ah… filthy money!' he mocks, putting his fork down among the leftovers. ‘Would you have preferred him to ask you to do it for free?'

‘What I can't understand is why I'm still sitting here listening to you. I ought to let you finish your lunch on your own,' I threaten, making as though to leave.

‘Oh, come on!' he grabs my hand. ‘What are you getting so angry about? It was just a joke. Where's your sense of humour gone?' he asks sweetly, gesturing to me to sit back down. ‘I just hadn't realized you were so enthralled by the British aristocracy.'

‘OK, are you finished? Have you had your fun?' I stare at him threateningly through half-closed eyes. ‘Because I'm suddenly feeling the urge to call mum. I could ask her to join us. Who knows what
she'd
say if she found out you'd just had a steak? Or no, maybe I'm wrong – mother can be
so
understanding…'

‘Oh, look, the dessert trolley. Would you like a nice piece of cake?' he asks, wisely changing the subject.

‘Thomas, we have a situation,' begins Frank as he enters the office with a worried expression on his face.

‘How serious is it?'

‘Pretty serious.'

‘What kind of problem?'

‘A legal one.'

‘Where did it happen?'

‘Out there, in the corridor.'

‘Don't tell me it's…'

‘I won't tell you then,' says Frank, standing aside and allowing Thomas to see for himself just how serious things are. At that moment, Cameron Hill appears at the door, wearing a pinstriped suit and a friendly face.

‘May I come in?' he asks politely.

‘Please do! What a pleasant surprise!' says Frank, trying to appear as jovial as possible. Thomas, who is standing by the bookshelf, looks as though he's about to pass out. He grabs hold of one of the shelves and nods, while his face slowly turns a worryingly mouldy green.

‘I hope I'm not interrupting you,' the notary continues as he walks to the centre of the room, black briefcase in hand. ‘I should have warned you I was coming, I know, but no matter how many times I rang I just couldn't get through. Ah, I see Mister Clark is here too! Now, I had been told that you would be dealing with the paperwork for the Clark estate – can you confirm that, Mr Wright?'

‘Yes…'

‘Marvellous! There are a few documents which urgently need signing, and that is the only reason I took the liberty of turning up without an appointment.'

This is what you might call bad timing: they are expecting Sandy to arrive at any moment, and Cameron Hill is the last person on Earth Miss Price should meet.

‘Of course, of course – no problem at all,' Frank assures him, ‘I'm only sorry that I'm so very busy. I'm right in the middle of a rather important negotiation and I'm afraid I can only give you a few minutes. There's no way we could postpone all this to tomorrow morning, is there? We could be at your office by eleven, couldn't we?' he looks at Thomas' pallid face for confirmation.

‘Oh, that won't be necessary – it'll only take a minute,' answers Mr Hill, and starts searching among the documents in his briefcase. ‘By the way…' he remembers distractedly, ‘did you manage to contact Miss Price?'

‘We did,' answers Frank promptly. ‘It was easier than we'd thought.'

‘Very good,' he says approaching the desk, a satisfied expression on his face. ‘So when are you planning to move to Canterbury?' he asks Thomas directly.

Seeing his friend hesitate, Frank steps in and answers for him. ‘Unfortunately, Miss Price is in the US for work and doesn't seem particularly interested in coming back to the UK. I think she might already be involved with someone. Didn't she tell you she was about to get married?' he asks, pretending to have forgotten.

‘She did, yes!' continues Thomas, taking a couple of steps towards the other two. ‘I won't hide the fact that I was very upset to discover that I wouldn't be able to fulfil my grandfather's conditions. It breaks my heart to think I won't be able to grant his last wishes,' he confesses sorrowfully, coming over all Saint Sebastian, that martyr who, though pierced with many arrows, bore his agony in dignified, melancholic resignation.

There are a couple of light knocks on the door and it opens with a creak.

‘Mister Wright, Miss Price just arrived – shall I send her in?' says Margaret, appearing in the doorway.

‘What a magnificent coincidence!' Cameron cries happily.

‘It can't be Miss Price, Margaret. Check again!' cuts in Frank, giving her a wink.

‘I assure you, it is Miss Price.'

‘Mister Wright, what are you waiting for? Let her in,' the notary urges, before turning to the heir. ‘Thomas, you look a bit peaky, why don't you have a seat? Are you feeling well?'