though. Surely this was when the will would be read? Colour what was left of my life?
‘Would you like me to come in with you?’ Jennie asked as we got the children ready. ‘There might be a receptionist or someone we could leave the kids with?’
‘Absolutely not,’ I told her, so vehemently I think we were both startled. I straightened up from buckling Clemmie’s shoes to stare at her, aware my eyes were glittering.
‘OK, Pops,’ she said gently, ‘that’s fine. I’ll wait outside.’
I could see her thinking it was the most emotion I’d shown for a while.
Nevertheless she insisted on driving me into town, telling me I’d never find it – I can’t think why, it was right next to the town hall, slap bang in the middle of the high street. But apparently I needed to be dropped at the door, wear a certain shirt and skirt she’d picked out, wash my face and brush my hair. So bossy. Clearly the man I was bidden to meet did not have a bossy best friend, though, because not only had he forgotten to brush his hair, he had biscuit crumbs all down his front.
I had to climb a few flights of stairs to achieve his office and although Jennie was going to sit with the children in the car, in a sudden diversion from the script Archie had refused to be parted from me and had a shouty-crackers tantrum in the car, so that by the time I’d got to the top of the stairs with my son in my arms, sobbed-out now and quiescent, I was panting rather. A couple of doors faced me with very little clue to the content of the rooms beyond so I pushed through the nearest one and into a reception area. No receptionist, just a rather messy waiting room with a few magazines strewn around and another couple of doors on the far side. Feeling on the verge of a great escape but knowing Jennie wouldn’t be satisfied unless I gave it one last shot – might even bound up the stairs and insist on seeing for herself – I decided to push one of them open and if that didn’t yield a solicitor, call it a day.
The door was stiff so I turned and used my shoulder to barge it open, employing slightly too much force so that when I flew through with Archie in my arms, slipping on one of many pieces of paper that littered the carpet, it was in a manner reminiscent of a couple from the Ballet Rambert practising a new and complicated lift. The room was small and our faltering pirouette ended at a leather-topped desk. Behind it sat a muscular man dipping a Jammy Dodger into a mug of tea. He gazed in astonishment as I spun to a halt. His hair was dark and tousled and in need of a cut, and he had very broad shoulders. He looked like a rugby player who’d been squeezed into a pink shirt for the occasion and was slightly uncomfortable with it. Even in my tuned-out state, I could see he was handsome. He hastily put down the biscuit brushing a few crumbs from his shirt and got to his feet, hand extended.
‘Oh – er, I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you knock.’
‘D’you know, I’m not sure I did.’
‘Mrs Hastings?’
‘No, Mrs Shilling.’ I brushed some hair from my eyes and shifted Archie onto my other hip in order to shake the hand he offered.
‘Oh.’ He looked surprised. ‘Really?’
‘Well, I’m fairly sure.’ I managed a smile but then felt a bit peculiar. A bit … light-headed. Must have been the stairs. And not sleeping for two nights. I needed to sit down. I reached behind me for a chair, which happily existed, and sank gratefully into it with Archie on my lap. The tousled man sat too, hastily consulting an open file in front of him and quickly shoving the packet of biscuits in a drawer.
‘Right. Mrs Shilling. So … your husband hasn’t run off with a Portuguese baggage handler, brackets male, from Heathrow?’ He glanced up, a rather nice quizzical gleam to a pair of deep brown eyes: amused eyes. ‘And you didn’t snap his golf clubs and then replace them in his golf bag before he flew to Sotegrande for a week with said baggage handler?’
‘No, my husband died a few weeks ago.’
He looked horrified. ‘Oh, Christ. Oh, God. I’m terribly sorry.’ He really looked it. He