The Three Rs (5 page)

“Bloody hell, the prat.”

I stop, flatten my lips thoughtfully. ‘Prat’ would not be my description of Cain Parrish, but I can see where she’s coming from. I continue, “Yes, well, I told him he could keep his business, I wanted nothing to do with it. And this is where it gets really weird. He said I couldn’t give it away, and I could only sell it to him. But he won’t buy it because it’s rightfully his anyway. Apparently it’s all in his uncle’s will. He was convinced I knew all about the will, what it said.”

“And of course you don’t. How can we find out then?”

“Ah, well, that’s easy. I have a copy of the will. It’s here.” I dig into my rucksack and pull out the brown envelope. I hand it, still unopened, to Sally. I was hoping you’d have time to look at it and tell me…”

Sally grabs the envelope, her eyes gleaming with curiosity now. Mine too, I daresay. However unwelcome all this might be, it’s certainly intriguing.

“Too bloody right I will. Not here though.” She glances around the empty cloakroom, as if expecting to spot some dawdling year five still tying his laces and eavesdropping on us. “No, for this we need wine. And pizza. And probably Ben and Jerry’s ice cream too. What time do you finish?”

“Six. I’ll be home by half past.”

“Right. I’ve got some stuff to finish off back in my classroom, but I’ll be at yours by half-six then, with all the supplies.”

I smile. I might well have slipped into some parallel universe where dead builders leave their property to perfect strangers, but in my experience there are few things that can’t be put right by a generous helping of Ben and Jerry’s. Six-thirty it is then.

* * * *

It’s only twenty-five past, but already Sally’s ringing the buzzer on my door entry system. I buzz her into the building and leave my own door off the latch for her to come straight in.

“Right, cheese, mushroom and pepperoni, two bottles of Chianti and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food. How’s that? Will two bottles be enough?” She dumps the lot on my tiny kitchen table and levers open the lid of the pizza box. The delicious aroma wafts out, and we both forget about wills and building firms and sexy builders for a few moments as we help ourselves.

Sexy? Where did that come from?
I turn that thought over in my head as I munch on my pizza. Sally’s busy opening cupboards looking for wine glasses, but I only have one. I insist she has it, and I’ll use a plastic cup. As soon as we’re both supplied with the essentials, she launches in.

“Right, I had a quick look through while I was waiting for the pizza. I’m no expert, you know that, but as far as I can make out, there’s no question this old Mr Parrish, the uncle, meant you. No mistaken identity. The will gets your name right, even down to the dodgy spelling of Fischer. He knew your mother’s name, where you lived as a child, your age. So, my love, you definitely own a sixty-six percent stake in Parrish Construction, based in Berwick-upon-Tweed, Northumberland. And if I remember my geography, that’s near enough on the Scottish border.”

Parrish Construction. Northumberland. Scottish border. Could this get any more bizarre?

“Does the will give the address, or the phone number?”

“Why? Are you thinking of popping round to check out your property?”

“No, don’t be silly. It’s bloody miles away and that suits me. I’m staying as far away from it as I can. But I promised I’d phone Cain Parrish tomorrow. When I’ve read the will and decided what to do. He left his number on my answering machine, but I deleted it.”

“Ah, right. Well, I don’t think there are any phone numbers on there, but old Mr Parrish’s address is, and so is the address of Parrish Construction so we’ll be able to look them up in Yellow Pages. Do you want me to do that now, or shall I tell you what else this will says?”

“The will, please.”

By mutual but unspoken consent we clear a space on the table and Sally produces the envelope from her handbag. She extracts the heavy paper, several sheets of it, and lays the will flat on the table. She flicks over the first two pages.

“All that early stuff is about old Mr Parrish being of sound mind, and about the executor—who is your Mr Cain Parrish, by the way. You and he are the only beneficiaries. He gets the old guy’s house, any money, stocks and shares, his gold Rolex watch and thirty-four percent of the business. And you get the other sixty-six percent. There are conditions though.” She turns over another sheet, and her eyes flick back to mine.

Here it comes
. I sit back, my eyes on hers, and wait.

“You’re not allowed to dispose of the business, whether for consideration or not…”

“For what?”

“Money. Consideration means money here. Your Mr Parrish was right, you’re not allowed to sell, and you’re not allowed to let someone have it for free…”

“He’s not
my
Mr Parrish.”

“Whatever. For the next five years, the only person you
are
allowed to sell to is him, and then he would have to pay you the full market value of your two thirds share, as assessed by an independent valuer.”

“I see. No wonder he’s pissed off. He must have expected to be the outright owner, and suddenly he’s saddled with me. Five years did you say?”

She nods, glancing back at the will for confirmation.

Suddenly an idea occurs to me. “He could buy my share, and I could just give him his money straight back, surely?”

“Nope. Uncle James thought of that too. You’re specifically required not to make any gift or donation to any individual or organization in excess of one hundred pounds for a period of five years from the date of his death. And you can’t forgo your entitlement to two thirds of any income generated by the business. Unless he buys you out, he has to pay you twice as much as he pays himself from any profits. Obviously his lawyers thought of everything and wrapped this up pretty tight.” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “It looks to me as though you and your Cain are a jolly little twosome, at least for the next five years. No wonder he’s grumpy.”

“He’s not…”

“Not your Cain, I know. But still. Five years.” She leans back and reaches for another slice of pizza.

Me, I need some wine.

* * * *

Half an hour later, we’ve finished the pizza and most of the ice cream. We’re contemplating opening the second bottle. Sally has consulted the online BT phone directory on her smart phone and come up with a phone number to match the address in the will, so at least I’ll be able to get in touch with Mr Parrish in the morning. Though I have no idea at all what I want to say. I’d apologize, but none of this is my doing. There seems to be no way I can simply back off and leave him with his property intact.

I say as much to Sally, but she has a different take on it.

“His property? Not any longer. Actually, I don’t suppose it ever was. It belonged to his uncle, who decided to leave a big chunk of it to you. So it’s yours.”

“He thinks it’s rightfully his. He said so.”

“Well, as I see it, he’s wrong. His uncle was entitled to leave his property to whoever he chose, surely, and for reasons none of us know, he chose you. So your two thirds is rightfully yours.”

“And what about morally?”

“I don’t know, and anyway, that’s not the point. Legally you own two thirds. It’s clear the old guy expected you to hand it back if you could, or maybe he thought Cain would browbeat you, so he made that impossible. He knew what he was doing, and he meant it. When you talk to this Cain Parrish again, you need to tough it out. It’s
your
inheritance, so don’t let him tell you it isn’t.”

I flinch inwardly at the thought of ‘not letting’ Cain Parrish do anything, but she obviously catches my expression. “If you’ve any concerns, Abbie, get a solicitor. Deal with him through lawyers if you have to.”

I nod, but I know I have no intention of dealing with Cain Parrish through an intermediary. He might be imposing, intimidating, but once I’d agreed to look at the will and had promised to return his call, he was charming and pleasant to me this morning. I liked him. I think. And now I need to convince him that I haven’t somehow wheedled my way into his life. Because for reasons I can’t fathom at all, I badly want him to like me too.

* * * *

The ring tone manages just two trills before I hear Cain Parrish’s low voice on the other end of the line.

“Miss Fischer. Abigail. How nice to hear from you. And so prompt too. I take it you’ve had ample opportunity to study my uncle’s will now?”

“I— Yes. Yes I have. His terms seem rather…” I hesitate, not sure how to describe the bizarre situation we now find ourselves in. Cain Parrish has no such difficulty.

“His terms are fucking ridiculous. I don’t know how you ever got him to make that will, but if you think I’m handing you the thick end of half a million pounds for doing fuck all, you’re wrong. I take it you’re still denying that you ever met him?”

Half a million pounds!

“What? How much?”

“I had the business independently valued. It came out at seven hundred thousand, including premises, vehicles, tools and equipment, existing contracts, etc. I can let you have the full valuation report, naturally…”

Naturally.
Not that it would make a scrap of sense to me.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“No? Well, that means your two thirds is worth about four hundred and seventy thousand by my reckoning. Not that I’ve any intention of going into hock to raise the money and buy you out, much as I’d love to see the back of you. So unless you can come up with some smart idea, it looks as though we’re stuck with each other for the next five fucking years. Nice work, Miss Fischer.”

I bristle. I’m not about to take all that same shit he handed me yesterday. “Please don’t swear at me, Mr Parrish. And in answer to your earlier question—no, I never did meet your uncle. I never even heard of him before yest…” I was about to say ‘before yesterday’, but of course I received his solicitor’s letter several days ago now. “The first I knew of your uncle was what I learnt from Mr Stephenson’s letter. If you’re about to accuse me of lying again, then I’m going to hang up now.”

There’s a silence at the other end, then, “Very well, Miss Fischer. We’ll call a temporary truce until this is resolved. I don’t think either of us believes this is random, my uncle had some reason for including you in his will, but for now I’ll accept that you’re as much in the dark as I am. But Miss Fischer, if I later find out that you did know more than you’re saying now, you have my absolute promise that I’ll put you over my knee and spank your arse. Your bare arse. Hard. Is that clear and understood? Are we proceeding on that basis?”

Now the silence is at my end. I’m stunned, absolutely stunned. Whatever I might have expected him to say, it wasn’t that. I’m outraged. But not nearly as outraged as I really ought to be. A bare bottom spanking? He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Could he?

And above all, how the hell could he have known? I’ve never shared my fantasies with anyone. How did he know just what to say to set my toes curling again, and, in my delighted anticipation, cause my knickers to moisten. No one has ever spanked me, my mother would never have countenanced such a thing for her delicate little flower. But as a big girl I’ve harbored my secret ambitions, though I’ve never had the courage to seek out a way of fulfilling them. And if I had, I would never have chosen a man like Cain Parrish to spank me. He’s too, too…

Too everything I’m afraid of.

“Miss Fischer, are you still there?” His tone is hard.

It occurs to me again that he could shatter concrete with that voice. I shiver, but not from the cold.

“Yes. I’m here. I was just…”

“Are my terms clear so far?”

I hesitate, but only for a few seconds. “Yes. Yes, they are clear. We can proceed on that basis.” I almost add ‘Sir’, but manage to stop myself.

“Good. Let me continue to explain how our—association—will work then.”

Is that a hint of relief in his voice now? And does he have more to say to me about spanking?

“I’m not buying you out, and you know by now that you can’t sell to anyone else. Under the terms of my uncle’s will I’m obliged to pay you a proportionate share of the profits, but I expect you to work for that. Parrish Construction does not carry passengers. Everyone here pulls their weight, and you’ll be no exception. I expect you to work here at our offices in Berwick, full time, and more than that when we’re busy. Which is most of the time. Is that clear?”

“But I can’t. I have a job. I already work full time.”

“Resign. You’re needed here.”

“But—what would I do? I mean, I can’t…” I break off. The list of things I can’t do is endless.

“We’ll find a use for you.” He seems to have more confidence in my abilities than I do.

Yeah. I could clean the offices.

I’m still wriggling around on his hook, desperately trying to think of some way to put him off this mad notion.

“Do you have any trade skills?” He seems unconcerned, ignores the deafening silence from my end.

“I… What do you mean?”

“Electrical? Joinery? Plastering? Decorating? Plumbing? Can you do any of those?”