Tilly Bagshawe - The Inheritance - Racy, pacy and very funny!

Brett’s face darkened. ‘You stay away from my wife.’

‘I’ll be glad to. Just as long as you stay away from me. I’ll see you in court, Mr Cranley.’

Brett said nothing. He merely walked back to his car, laughing.

Once he’d gone, Tatiana stood frozen to the spot, too angry to breathe, let alone move.

Disgusting, arrogant, entitled, sexist pig!

I hate him.

I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my entire life.

It was a miracle that both the Cranley children had turned out so sweet. Clearly Angela Cranley must be quite a mother, far from the ‘decorative’ doll of her revolting husband’s imagination.

Conceited little shit.

Shopping and shagging indeed …

Tati had been determined to contest the will even before Brett Cranley showed up at her door. But now? Now she’d sell her own organs to get Furlings back if she had to. Brett Cranley was going to rue the day he underestimated Tatiana Flint-Hamilton.

Laura Baxter brushed her teeth and spat furiously into the basin.

‘I don’t know why you’re so angry,’ said Gabe. Lying on the bed in his boxer shorts in Wraggsbottom Farm’s beautiful, beamed master bedroom, he had a James Bond novel open in one hand and a packet of Maltesers in the other. It was a warm night and the lead-mullioned window beside the bed was open, revealing a glorious view of the valley, with the river Swell at its base and the Downs rolling away to the sea. Gabe had lived here since birth and loved his farm as if it were a person. Since marrying Laura he loved it even more, with all the promise it now held for the future. Their future.

‘I went to see a neighbour,’ he said, popping another Malteser into his mouth. ‘I wasn’t selling our first-born child to Pol Pot.’

‘We don’t have a first-born child,’ said Laura. ‘And we’re not likely to if you keep lying to me.’

She came back into the bedroom looking as furious as it was possible to look in a floral Laura Ashley nightdress covered in pale pink rosebuds.

‘I didn’t lie to you,’ said Gabe indignantly.

‘You went behind my back. It’s the same thing.’

‘It is not the same thing. Christ, what is wrong with trying to buy a few fields anyway?’

Throwing back the covers, Laura climbed into bed, punching the pillows as if she had a grudge against them. She hated it when Gabe was deliberately obtuse. Not to mention deceitful.

‘It is not “a few fields”. It’s hundreds of acres of land that we can’t afford. And that may not even be Brett Cranley’s to sell. You know as well as I do that his inheritance is disputed.’

‘All the more reason to buy now, while we’ve got the chance.’

Laura let out a stifled scream of frustration and turned out her bedside light. Pulling the covers around her like a shield, she pointedly turned her back on her husband.

Gabe was equally frustrated. Running the farm was his job. He didn’t tell Laura how to produce television programmes or write scripts. What gave her the right to meddle in his business decisions? On the other hand, he hated fighting with her. Putting down his book and sweets, he wrapped his arms around her stiff, angry body.

‘I love you,’ he whispered in her ear.

Laura didn’t move.

‘I know you want to know what they’re like,’ Gabe teased, slipping a warm rough hand under her nightdress and caressing her wonderful, full breasts. ‘The Cranleys.’

Despite herself, Laura moaned with pleasure. It was utterly infuriating, how good he was in bed.

‘I’ll tell you if you’re nice to me,’ Gabe whispered, his hands moving slowly down over her belly, his fingertips just skimming the soft fur between her legs. Unable to keep up her resistance any longer, Laura turned around and kissed him, luxuriating in the solid warmth of his body. God, he was beautiful.

‘Go on then, tell me,’ she said, releasing him at last. ‘What are they like?’

‘Ha!’ said Gabe. ‘So you do want to know. I knew it! You’re just a sad old village gossip, Mrs Baxter.’

‘What’s he like?’ asked Laura, ignoring him. ‘Brett Cranley.’

‘Actually, I liked him,’ said Gabe. ‘I mean, I can see how he could be seen as arrogant.’

Laura frowned. ‘In what way?’

‘He’s a big personality. Maybe even a bit of a bully. He obviously favours his daughter over his son, and the wife seems a bit afraid of him.’

Gabe told her about his brief encounter with Logan and Jason today, and about Angela’s nerves the first time they met.

‘He sounds vile,’ said Laura. ‘What on earth did you like about him?’

‘I don’t know, exactly,’ said Gabe, thinking. ‘He’s direct. Honest. I don’t think he’d cheat you in business.’

‘Well he certainly cheats in his private life,’ said Laura with feeling. ‘At least if the press coverage is anything to go by.’

‘Oh, yeah, but that’s different,’ said Gabe.

‘Why? Because it’s OK to cheat on women? Just as long as you’re honest with men, is that it?’

Laura felt her hackles rising again. She loved Gabe but sometimes he could be so … unreconstructed.

Gabe sighed. ‘Give it a rest, Germaine Greer. You asked, I answered. I liked him. Sorry if you and the rest of the village lynch mob have already decided he’s the Swell Valley’s answer to Vladimir Putin. But I do have the advantage of having actually met the guy.’

‘Well, bully for you. I hope the two of you will be very happy together,’ said Laura.

Turning away from her, Gabe turned off his own bedside light.

‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ he added defiantly. ‘I’m going to get him to sell those fields to me. So put that in your bra and burn it.’

‘Have you seen that stack of marked Year Three homework anywhere? The robot sketches?’

Dylan Pritchard Jones ran a hand through his curly chestnut hair and scanned the mess that was his kitchen. Aside from the detritus of breakfast, almost every surface was covered with copies of Country Living , Elle Décor , Period Homes and every other conceivable variety of interiors magazine. Dylan’s wife, Maisie, was expecting their first child and had gone into a frenzy of what the pregnancy websites called ‘nesting’. Apparently this was a woman’s primitive urge to spend thousands of pounds on expensive Farrow & Ball paint and decorative antique rocking chairs. Dylan prayed it would soon pass. On an art teacher’s salary, it was not easy to make Maisie’s Homes & Gardens dreams come true.

‘Last I saw them they were upstairs on the landing.’ Maisie chewed grimly on a piece of dry toast. ‘I passed them on my way to the loo at about five a.m.’

Pregnancy had not been kind to Dylan’s young wife. Relentless morning sickness had turned Maisie’s former peaches and cream complexion an unattractive shade of greenish-grey. At only a few months gone she was already thirty pounds heavier than usual, and her legs were covered with revolting varicose veins that reminded Dylan of mould running through a slab of Stilton cheese. Apparently there were men who found their pregnant wives uniquely attractive and desirable. Dylan Pritchard Jones could only imagine that their wives looked more like expectant supermodels – lithe amazons with compact little bumps beneath their lululemon tank tops – and less like the swollen, exhausted figure of his own other half. He tried to be a patient and understanding husband. But he couldn’t help but count down the days till it was over, and prayed that Maisie intended to get her figure back quickly afterwards. His suggestion last week that she think about hiring a trainer had been met with what he felt was excessive frostiness.