Anne Mather - The Longest Pleasure

‘You’ll go to the funeral, of course,’ said Melanie, after the caretaker had departed again and Helen was sipping a cup of the strong sweet liquid he had provided. ‘When is it? Wednesday? Thursday?’

‘It’s Friday, actually,’ admitted Helen in a low voice. ‘And—yes. I suppose I’ll have to.’ She frowned as another thought struck her. ‘But how can I? You’re leaving for Switzerland in the morning!’ There was some relief in the remembrance.

‘My holiday could be postponed,’ retorted Melanie flatly. ‘But, in any case, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t shut up shop for a couple of days. It’s cold enough, goodness knows, and people don’t buy antiques in the middle of winter. Not in any great quantity anyway.’

‘Even so——’

‘Even so—nothing.’ Melanie was adamant. ‘How do you think it would look if you didn’t go to your own grandmother’s funeral? You are her only surviving relative, aren’t you? Of course you must go. I insist!’

Helen bent her head. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘You won’t think about it at all.’ Melanie was outraged. ‘Oh, I know why you’re looking so upset. You’re feeling guilty because you’re going to inherit whatever it is she has left. The house, for example. Didn’t you say you used to live there when you were a child?’

‘Until I was eighteen,’ agreed Helen reluctantly, forced to face the truth of what Melanie was saying. Castle Howarth would be hers now however little she wanted it. The property; the farms; the people on the estate; they would all now become so much more than the source of the generous allowance her grandmother had always made her.

It was thinking of that allowance that brought another surge of guilt to engulf her. Dear God, she had always taken that monthly cheque so much for granted. Of course, when she first moved to London, it had been a lifeline, but after she and Melanie opened the shop, there had been no real need for outside support. Yet, the cheques had continued to arrive, and she had continued to spend them, moving into a large apartment and buying more—and more costly—clothes. She ran a Porsche sports car instead of just a Mini, and she had her hair done regularly by the most fashionable hairdresser in town. She had spent her grandmother’s money like it was water, and it was only now that Nan was dead that she realised how selfish—and self-seeking—she had become.

‘So you will go,’ said Melanie softly, interrupting her friend’s train of thought, and Helen put her teacup aside and swung her feet to the floor.

‘Of course,’ she answered dully, feeling the faint throbbing in her temples that heralded a headache. ‘As a matter of fact, I think I’ll take the rest of the day off, if you don’t mind. I’m feeling pretty grotty. Is that okay?’

‘Need you ask?’ Melanie gave her friend a worried look. ‘Look—let me call you a cab, hmm? You can’t drive home in that state. You look positively ghostly!’

Helen nodded, pressing down on her hands and forcing herself to her feet. ‘As a matter of fact, I came by cab this morning,’ she said. ‘Adam is supposed to be picking me up at six o’clock. We were going to have a drink at his club, and then go on to that recital at the Farraday. You remember?’

‘Well, you won’t be going to any recital this evening,’ declared Melanie authoritatively. ‘Lord Kenmore is going to be disappointed. Do you want me to ring him? Or shall I just point him in your direction when he calls at six?’

Helen felt an unwilling smile lift the corners of her mouth. ‘I’ll ring him myself,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘It’s only half past three. He won’t have left yet.’

Then, she frowned as another thought occurred to her. If her grandmother had died during the night, why hadn’t she been informed immediately? It had to have been at least ten hours after the old lady’s death that any attempt was made to contact her. And it hurt. It really hurt .

Helen’s apartment was in Belgravia, a bare fifteen minutes’ ride from the shop, which was just off Bond Street. The taxi dropped her at the foot of the shallow steps that led up to swing-glass doors which in turn gave access to the marble-tiled lobby. A bank of lifts faced her, and managing to sidestep the uniformed commissionaire, who liked to chat to his clients, she slipped into one of the steel-lined cubicles.

Her apartment was on the twelfth floor of a fourteen-floor block. Letting herself into the split-level lounge, she thought how awful it was that her grandmother had never even seen where she lived. But in recent years, their relationship had not been the way it used to be, and apart from cards at Christmas and birthdays, their contacts had been few and far between. Something else she had to thank Rafe Fleming for, Helen thought with sudden bitterness. He had always come between her and her grandmother, right from the very beginning; and he continued to do so now, even though she was dead.

But not for long, Helen silently asserted. She had not had time to give the matter too much thought as yet, but her grandmother’s death was going to change a lot of things. Not least, Rafe Fleming’s situation. For reasons best known to himself, and for which Helen had always nurtured the gravest suspicions, Rafe had returned to Castle Howarth three years ago when Tom Fleming died. And, in spite of the perfectly good job he already had with Chater Chemicals, he had agreed to take his father’s place. To his credit, he had not asked for the job. Lady Elizabeth had made it clear that she had offered him the position. But the reasons why he should give up a career in microbiological research to take charge of a country estate had never been satisfactorily explained, and Helen had her own theories, which were hardly complimentary to him.

Still, that was all in the past now, she reflected bleakly, closing the door behind her. Then, shedding her sheepskin jacket, she walked along the galleried landing, which overlooked the generous proportions of her living room two steps below. But for once the beauty of her apartment gave her no pleasure. She had designed the colour scheme herself, sticking to cream and gold and pastel colours, so that the room had an air of space and elegance. The long windows overlooking the immediate environs of Cavendish Court and the busy city beyond added another dimension, and at parties her view was usually a talking point. But this afternoon, with darkness shrouding the streets below and the threat of snow in the wind, Helen couldn’t wait to draw the curtains and put on the lamps. Anything to banish the feelings of sorrow and remorse which had been her constant companions ever since she received that shocking message.

Dropping her coat on to a pale green suede sofa, Helen crossed the room to pour herself a stiff drink. Two decanters, one containing brandy, the other Scotch, stood on a silver tray, and she added two cubes of ice to a measure of the latter before lifting the crystal tumbler to her lips.

The raw spirit caught her throat, and she coughed as it took her breath. But it did the trick, and pretty soon a soothing warmth invaded her stomach. Helen rarely drank alcohol. A glass of wine at dinner was all she usually required, and the spirits were kept here mainly for Adam and her friends. Still, she poured herself a second drink before reaching for the telephone. She had to talk to Adam, and she didn’t want to break down in the middle of their conversation.

As she had surmised, Adam was still at his office in Regent Street. She didn’t exactly know what he did there—something to do with the property he owned, which was quite considerable. In any event, he spent two or three days every week at his office, and the rest of the time he was a free agent. Helen had often accused him of only going into the office to thwart any charge that he was a complete playboy, and Adam invariably agreed with her. They both knew he was happiest at the wheel of his yacht or skiing down a mountainside in Italy. ‘It’s what comes of being the last in a line of aristocratic layabouts!’ he generally responded, and he said it so disarmingly she always forgave him.