Lindsay Armstrong - Having His Babies

‘Both, to be honest,’ she said a touch feebly, and swallowed.

‘Do you know my wife, Clare?’

‘No, I’ve never met her, but...well, she—that is to say, I’ve seen photos of her in the local paper and—heard mention of her.’

She stopped abruptly as images of Serena Hewitt, stunningly beautiful even in black and white, swam through her mind, and then remembered seeing Serena in the flesh one day, in the village, and realizing that her photos hadn’t done her justice.

‘And you can’t imagine anyone wanting to divorce her, no doubt,’ he said dryly.

‘I didn’t say that but—yes, I guess I’m surprised. Sorry. Uh—why me, though? I would imagine you have a family solicitor who... might be more appropriate.’

‘I do. I’d rather have fresh blood in this case, however.’

Clare looked at him narrowly. ‘If I took this on,’ she said slowly, ‘I would act in your very best interests, Mr Hewitt, but if you’re looking for someone you could hide some of your assets from with a view to cheating your wife, then I have to tell you you’ve come to the wrong person.’

‘On the contrary, Ms Montrose,’ he returned coolly, ‘I’ve come to you because you appear to have a remarkably clear brain and excellent legal skills, whereas my family solicitor is getting old and doddery, although we hold him in great affection. He also happens to hold my wife in great affection.’

‘Oh.’ It was all Clare could think of to say.

‘Furthermore,’ Lachlan Hewitt said, ‘while I’m prepared to hand over to my wife everything she’s entitled to by law, I am not prepared to be taken to the cleaners, which is exactly what she has in mind,’ he finished gently but with unmistakable satire.

‘I see.’

‘Are you a feminist, Clare?’ he asked lazily then.

‘No more than most women,’ she replied coolly.

‘That’s not quite as your father sees you.’

She bit her lip to stop the crushing retort that rose to mind and said instead, ‘How well do you know my father, Mr Hewitt?’

When he spoke it was gravely but she couldn’t miss the lurking little glint of humour in his grey eyes. ‘Well enough to know that he holds extremely sexist views but, even so, can’t help being very proud of his brilliant, though uncomfortably feminist, daughter—although it’s something he may never have been able to convey to you, Clare: how proud he is.’

She coloured slightly and looked away. ‘I’m afraid my views of feminist and his don’t agree,’ she said. Then she asked, ‘How do you know him, Mr Hewitt?’

‘He and my father were great friends. They served together in the same regiment in Vietnam, didn’t he tell you?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t know he knew you. I believe your father died some months ago?’

‘It was at his funeral that your father mentioned you.’

‘I see. Then you mustn’t have minded the feminist tag he labelled me with.’

‘I didn’t say I was sexist,’ Lachlan Hewitt drawled. ‘And I did happen to know that your father saved my father’s life once.’

Clare breathed deeply with some frustration. ‘Thus the world turns—on the head of a pin. I have to confess I would far rather have earned your conveyancing fair and square but—’ her lips curved into a reluctant smile ‘—I know how petulant and ultra-feminist that would make me.’

Unbeknownst to her, during the short pause that ensued as they traded rather wry glances, Lachlan Hewitt was discovering himself unwittingly intrigued...

Not, on first impressions, drop-dead gorgeous, he thought, apart from those wonderful eyes. A thin, intelligent face, pale, smooth skin and a tall, very slender but elegant figure. Otherwise nothing stood out; well, he amended, there was that shining mass of dark hair and lovely hands—but no, what was intriguing was her air of composure, uncompromising ethics and intelligence even when she was annoyed.

He said, as the pause drew out, ‘You’ve more than earned it with the way you’ve handled it, Clare. No matter how many times your father may have saved my father’s life, you wouldn’t have still been acting for us if you hadn’t proved your worth.’

‘Thank you,’ she said simply.

‘And have I reassured you to the extent that you feel you could handle my divorce?’

‘I...’ Clare hesitated then drew a yellow legal pad towards her. ‘Yes. I presume you know that you have to register a separation which has to stand for twelve months before the divorce can be finalized, although financial settlement can be—’

‘Yes. We have actually been living separate lives for at least that length of time and we have also been through the required marriage counselling.’

Clare absorbed this. ‘Are there children involved, Mr Hewitt?’

‘One son. He’s six—nearly seven.’

‘Will you be contesting custody?’

‘Not unless my wife proves to be unreasonable in the matter of access.’

Clare bit her lip.

‘You have reservations about that?’ he asked coolly.

She put her pen down and clasped her hands on the desk. ‘Only to the extent that legal battles over custody can most harm the person they’re designed to protect—the child, who may become involved in a tug of war between his or her parents. And, whilst it’s no concern of mine, I always feel morally bound to point out that this is one area where both parties should act honourably and preferably between themselves.’

‘I certainly intend to,’ he said dryly.

‘Good. Then if you’re really sure about this, Lachlan, this is where we start trying to carve everything up—to be blunt.’

She said it lightly but watched him narrowly at the same time. Because, in her experience, although in these days of the cause for divorce having to be no more than the simple breakdown of a marriage, the carving-up process could be as painful and complicated as the old way of establishing guilt, and often gave people cause to pause...

But he said wryly, ‘Don’t worry, Clare, my mind is made up and here is what’s involved.’

Half an hour later she had to acknowledge that he had a razor-sharp mind and the considerable Hewitt empire at his fingertips. Also, that the soon-to-be ex-Mrs Lachlan Hewitt would be very handsomely provided for.

‘Well,’ she said at length, ‘on the basis of what you’ve told me this appears to be a generous settlement and I don’t think there should be much for her to contest.’

‘Don’t you believe it.’

She looked at him enquiringly.

‘She’ll contest every valuation down to every stick of furniture and throw in some interesting and highly fanciful claims, I have no doubt. It’ll be your job to see she doesn’t get away with them.’

‘I see.’ Clare glanced at him again and felt an odd little tremor run through her because of the glimpse of something cold and hard his words had revealed. But he said no more on the subject of his wife and they concluded the appointment shortly afterwards.

She watched him drive away from her first-floor window, in a maroon Range Rover with cream leather trim, and, although it was no business of hers, couldn’t help wondering what Serena Hewitt had done to incur the displeasure of her good-looking, clever husband.

Of course, it could be the other way around, she mused as she let the blind drop, but somehow she didn’t think so.

And nothing over the next twelve months caused her to change her mind.

Serena did indeed contest every valuation; she contested the validity of the Hewitt family company and trusts, the ownership of the homestead and all the furniture and objets d’art in it. She even contested the ownership of the two Irish wolfhounds, Paddy and Flynn, that she claimed she had bought as pups. And Clare had to fight each claim every inch of the way.