Don't Marry Thomas Clark (9 page)

‘It must be the heat. I feel a little faint.'

‘It's certainly got a lot hotter since last weekend.'

‘So shall I send her in?' asks Margaret, unsure as to what to do.

‘Of course, Miss Stone, let her in,' answers Frank through gritted teeth and with a look that bodes ill for Margaret's future.

Frank's office is only a few minutes away from the centre, on the third floor of a building that overlooks a splendid tree-lined boulevard. Once through the doorway, I see a desk behind which there is a very busy secretary. Despite the ringing phones, she somehow finds time to walk over to me and ask how she can help me. When I explain that I have an appointment with the lawyer, she leaves me by a plastic ficus tree and disappears down a narrow corridor lined with doors, each with its own shiny brass nameplate. Five minutes later she's back, and the smile with which she greeted me previously has completely disappeared. I can't imagine what might have happened but it must be something serious, because she looks as though she's about to burst into tears.

‘This way, please, follow me. Mr Wright is expecting you.'

We walk along the same corridor, and when we reach the last office on the left, she knocks gently and, without waiting for an answer, opens the door and ushers me in.

I'm suddenly not sure anymore that I want to enter, and find myself hovering on the threshold.

‘Sandy, come in,' says Frank, walking over to greet me.

Too late!

‘Err… thanks.' I take a deep breath, summoning up my courage and walking towards the others.

‘Miss Stone, you can go,' he says to the secretary, and the door closes with a thud behind me.

‘Miss Price, it's a pleasure to meet you,' says a funny bespectacled little man, grasping my hand with more vigour than strictly necessary. ‘I didn't think you were in England,' he continues without letting go.

And where did
this
character spring from?

‘Let me introduce you to Mister Hill, the late Sir Roger's notary,' chirps up Frank at this point, and everything suddenly starts to fall into place.

‘Nice to meet you,' I answer, almost in a whisper, while my eyes wander the room in search of Thomas. I find him leaning against the bookshelf, looking at me silently. As soon as our eyes meet, he walks over to greet me.

‘Sandy…'

‘Thomas…'

‘Have you already had lunch?'

‘Yes, I had a sandwich, thanks.'

‘Can I get you something cool to drink?'

‘A glass of water will do, thanks,' I answer with a vague smile.

‘Right away.'

I watch him as he walks towards the door without another word. He looks tense, but I might be imagining it. He never was particularly spontaneous, both because of his upbringing and because socializing with the plebs would be inappropriate.

Where's last week's joviality gone? Well, in a way this is better – at least I know what to expect.

‘Why don't we all sit down?' Cameron, Thomas's notary says, taking a seat.

We do as he suggests, and take our places around the desk. Thomas arrives last, holding a glass of water.

‘Thank you,' I whisper, as he puts the glass on the table.

‘Miss Price, when did you arrive in town?' Cameron asks me.

‘Just yesterday.'

Strange, I don't remember mentioning my trip to Ireland.

I notice a suspicious exchange of looks between Thomas and Frank which makes me worry.

Something's up. I don't know what, but I can sense storm clouds on the horizon.

‘I imagine you're here about the will,' Cameron starts again.

‘Yes, I'm here to…'

‘Miss Price is here to sign the statement we discussed on the phone,' Frank cuts in. Before I have time to confirm the notary's deduction, he continues, ‘I actually thought we'd take care of the matter via fax, I wasn't expecting you to come here in person. Thomas…' he scolds him, ‘why didn't you tell me? If I'd known Sandy was coming I would have told Mr Hill straight away. We're lucky he happened to stop by for those documents.'

‘To tell the truth I'm just as surprised as you are,' answers Thomas immediately. ‘I'd understood she absolutely couldn't leave New York.'

Everybody looks at me and the room grows very silent.

For God's sake, what
is
this?! They're acting like I'm about to tell them who really built Stonehenge!

‘Well…' I mumble, fiddling nervously with the hem of my beige top. Frank seems to have fallen prey to some kind of neurotic fit which manifests itself in all kinds of strange tics: winking, making funny little gestures, coughing, and so on.

‘Well, actually, I was in New York…' I say, and see the solicitor nods. I must be saying the right thing. ‘I went to New York to study, but I had to come back'

Mister Hill raises a perplexed eyebrow.

‘I mean, for health reasons.'

He looks confused.

‘I mean,
family
health reasons,' I try again.

‘I thought you were in the US for work. Doesn't your family live in Cork?' he asks, rubbing his chin.

‘Yes. Yes, they do.'

What now? How do I continue?'

‘They certainly do…' I say, nodding, as I feel a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck. ‘As I was saying, I was in New York to study, but then I had to come back to Europe for family reasons. My grandmother wasn't feeling too well, so I wanted to check up on her.' I blurt out this stew of improbable things, and mentally cross my fingers.

‘Oh, nothing too serious, I hope,' Cameron says worried, apparently believing my explanation.

‘No, she's fine again, thank goodness. I was about to head off back to New York, but then I remembered Thomas had been trying to organize to meet up, so I decided upon a quick visit to London. I'd like to get things sorted out as quickly as possible.'

Everyone seems satisfied with my explanation, and Frank, perhaps feeling reassured, has even stopped winking and is now smiling idiotically at me.

‘Perfect. I think a statement from you will be enough, but I imagine Mister Clark will want to be sure, so I suggest we write a report of our meeting.'

‘Shouldn't they discuss it in private, first?' Frank proposes.

‘I don't see why. They've had more than enough time to analyze the situation,' answers Cameron, trying to catch my eye. ‘Tell me, Miss Price, did they explain the testament to you?'

‘Yes,' I nod in confirmation. ‘Thomas and Frank explained everything.'

‘Marvellous.' He smiles, pleased. ‘Now could you tell me what you're intending to do? Have you already decided whether you'd prefer to go back to the US or move to Canterbury with Mr Clark?'

Good question! Exile or house arrest? Talk about spoilt for choice…

‘Well, I've thought about the pros and cons of both options and in the end… I've decided… well…'

They're all staring at me. I hate it when people stare at me.

‘Erm, I…' I mumble in panic. Oh, damn it! What am I getting myself into? This is going to be one of those screw-ups I'll remember for the rest of my life, I can feel it. But what choice do I have? I'm two months behind with my rent, all my savings are gone thanks to the bistro, a £300 parking fine popped through the letter box this morning, and on top of all that, yesterday I found Kelly crying on my doorstep. Her cheeks were covered in mascara, her eyes were red and she was wearing an awful green T-shirt from the eighties. She'd had an argument with her dad, who apparently hadn't taken the news of her being fired particularly well. Things had turned nasty, and so she's ended up moving into my very modest flat and we're waiting to see what happens. We've got about two weeks before they kick us out. After that, our only chance is to work as drag queens on some cruise ship or become nuns – at least that way we'd have a roof over our heads and food on the table for ever and ever, amen. It can't be that bad. There are only two or three rules you have to follow: poverty, got it; obedience, I can work on. What was the other one?

‘Well, I had actually decided to accept Mister Clark's proposal,' I admit finally. My announcement is met with expressions of pure incredulity on everybody's faces and nobody dares speak until, Cameron, who isn't apparently interested in my motivations, breaks the general silence and asks, ‘Shall we proceed, then?',
before leaving the room.

Frank hands me a document containing all the conditions of our agreement: the percentage I'm entitled to, my obligations and an appendix full of restrictions which makes me think he's spent more than one night pondering all this. For the next six months, I can't leave Canterbury without his prior approval and I can't enter any room in the property except for the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen and the living room.

Unbelievable: I can't touch the cat! What other rational human being would think of prohibiting someone from touching their
cat?
I can't even invite relatives or friends over and I'm strictly prohibited from discussing our agreement with anyone. The only clauses that affect Thomas, I notice with annoyance, are the following three: first of all he has no responsibility whatsoever, secondly he is entitled to receive a full reimbursement if something goes wrong, and last, but certainly not least, he can dissolve the agreement at any time without any obligation to give me his motivations. Very democratic.

I hesitate. My hand hangs in mid-air over the piece of paper. I can feel my stomach tightening, and it makes me think of other, less peaceful solutions, like stabbing him with my biro, but then common sense takes over. I really need that money. As much as I wish I could slap him in the face with his contract and sashay out of this office, I take a deep breath, lean over and sign the agreement for my future imprisonment.

‘Very good. Another signature here. Here, yes. Another one…' Frank mutters, while pointing out the parts of the text where I have to sign. I obey like a machine, then slump back exhausted into my chair and ask, ‘Are we done?'

‘I just need to make a copy of the contract for you. This is your advance,' he says, giving me a cheque. ‘You'll receive the rest as soon as Thomas takes possession of Garden House. Now, if you'll allow me, I'll pop next door and photocopy this,' he explains, holding up the ream of paper he's just taken from my hands. Keeping my eyes on the desk, I nod blankly and listen to his shiny shoes creaking on the floor until I hear the door slam.

In the room now there are only Thomas, me and a very oppressive silence. As soon as I find enough courage to look into his eyes, I realize with surprise that he's been staring at me for God knows how long. He has a surly expression on his face, and his eyes are flashing with dark lightning, as though to announce an oncoming storm. His head is resting on his hand, but he finds a way to rub his lips with his index finger anyway, and continues analyzing me. His behaviour is confusing. A simple ‘thank you' would have been nice.

‘Is there something wrong?' I ask nervously, trying to work out why he's being so hostile.

He smirks sardonically. ‘Of course not. It was all perfectly predictable. I would have been surprised if things had gone differently.'

‘I don't follow you,' I admit.

‘And the performance you put on the other day…' he continues, obviously considering any clarification superfluous. ‘Extremely good acting. At first indignant, and then you actually even refused. You were probably just pushing for more money, but then you realized that wasn't going to happen, so you came back to accept the first offer. You must have been over the moon when you saw the notary was already here and realized that I had no choice but to agree.'

‘Thomas, are you out of your mind?' I shout furiously, getting to my feet. ‘Do you really think I planned all this? Do I have to remind you that it was
you
who asked
me?
'

‘Yes, but I also told you that a written refusal from you would have been enough.'

If I was doubtful before, now I'm a hundred percent sure I've screwed up. Big time. How could I have even thought of accepting? That bloody fine! The bloody rent! The bloody deposit!

‘To be honest, you didn't sound too convinced yourself,' I justify myself. ‘Anyway, if that's what you think, you can keep your cheque,' I reply, holding it out to him disdainfully.

‘Oh, please – spare me the amateur dramatics,' he answers disdainfully, without even looking at it. ‘We both know that you certainly didn't accept out of any affection for me. I'm tempted to let you go, to be honest, but right now a refusal from you would look suspicious and I'd run the risk of losing the property. I've no choice but to go through with this farce,' he says, also standing up.

‘Oh, this is unbelievable!' I burst out. ‘And you really think that I care? Well, I'm sorry, but you're not the centre of the universe. This is not Garden House, there are no servants ready to obey your every whim, and for all I care, you can say your goodbyes to your bloody property, because I'm not wasting another second on a spoiled brat who grew up thinking everything is owed him. You should have showed me a little respect, because all you're left with now is your contempt and the picture of that door slamming in your face as I shout “Welcome to the real world!”' I yell, feeling a wave of pure well-being rush through my body.

Thomas doesn't react immediately. He examines me for a few moments, then sighs tiredly and, taking slow steps, walks towards me, his manner inscrutable to say the least.

He stops when he is standing right in front of me, never taking his eyes from mine, and unexpectedly brushes my cheek slightly with the back of a hand, which hovers over my lips, whispering, ‘I'm afraid you have just signed a contract that obliges you to stay in Garden House for the next six months – otherwise you will have to reimburse the entire value of the property. You should have read the agreement more carefully, because all you're left with now is your indignation and the image of
my
hand ushering you out of
that
door and closing it behind you as I shout, “Welcome to the real world!”'