of the very dead spider plant wilting on his windowsill.
‘You’ve scrubbed up,’ I said in surprise as we shook hands across his desk.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Funny. I was thinking the same about you. Didn’t know one was allowed to voice it.’
I laughed. ‘I meant your room, actually.’
He looked taken aback. ‘Oh. Right. Sorry, it’s just Janice insists I wear a tie so I assumed you meant … However, you do look better,’ he concluded awkwardly as we both sat down.
I smiled. ‘Thanks. I’m feeling much better.’
I realized the last time I’d been in here I’d been sporting clothes that had seen better days and hair that hadn’t seen a brush for a while. It also occurred to me that his own dark wavy hair together with eyes the colour of good Madeira was my most favourite combination.
‘Janice makes you wear a tie?’ I said as I settled back into my seat.
He sighed. ‘Janice rules my life in very many ways. And thank the Lord she does. She has an uncanny insight into the mind of the prospective client and their sartorial expectations. Apparently shirt sleeves and an open collar simply will not do, suggestive as they are of a chaotic mind and careless approach to business and not a tireless toiling over the brief. So yes, she makes me wear a tie.’ He smiled. ‘Now. What can I do for you?’
‘You asked me to come in.’
His dark eyes widened in surprise. ‘So I did. So I did.’ He hastened to collect himself and shuffled some papers around. ‘It’s all coming back to me. Of course. There’s a will.’
‘And where there’s a will, there’s a relative,’ I quipped.
He frowned. ‘Sorry?’
‘Oh, er, bad-taste joke,’ I said hastily, remembering Jennie’s terse reprimand to behave. I sat up straight. ‘You’re right, I’m here about my husband’s will.’
‘Which I’ve got right here.’
He picked up a wad of papers from his desk and flourished it triumphantly, almost as if that in itself was something of an achievement. Then he put it down and gazed reflectively. Glanced up and met my eye.
‘You’re a wealthy woman, Mrs Shilling.’
I blanched. ‘Am I?’
‘Well, compared to me you are. Compared to most people. Your husband ran a flourishing private-equity firm and made a lot of money which you’re now entitled to. Added to which he also took out an insurance policy in 2002 which has quadrupled in value in the last eight years.’ He passed a piece of paper to me across the desk, swivelling it simultaneously. A sea of figures swam before my eyes. ‘Bottom right,’ he said kindly, pointing.
There, nestling in the column he indicated, was a figure so colossal I wondered for a moment if it had been translated into drachmas. If Phil, who after all had had a secret mistress, was also secretly Greek? But there was a pound sign before it.
‘Good grief. Have we always had that much?’
‘No, it falls in on his death. It’s insurance.’
‘And is it all mine?’
‘On an annual basis, yes.’
‘Annual. You mean … not a lump sum?’
‘No, that’s what you’ll receive every year.’
I looked up. Stared. He gave me a level gaze back.
‘Blimey,’ I said somewhat inadequately. ‘I had no idea.’
‘He provided for you very well.’
‘Yes. Gosh. Didn’t he?’ I said humbly. I realized I’d been less than complimentary about my late husband recently. ‘But you’re sure it’s all entailed on me?’
He retrieved the paper. Whisked it around to peruse it. ‘ “In the event of my death,” ’ he read out, ‘ “all my estate to be bestowed on my wife.” ’ He looked up. ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Seems clear enough.’
‘No other dependants?’
‘Well, your children, obviously, if you die.’
‘Obviously.’
‘But no bequests to other relatives, no.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s not a detailed will, but then it wouldn’t be. People don’t expect to die at thirty-four.’ He started to shuffle it all back together.
‘You’ve read all of it, have you?’ I said nervously. He was a bit more on the ball today but he had struck me as slightly shambolic, previously.
He paused. Looked up. ‘Yes, I’ve read all of it. I passed my law exams too.’
‘Sorry. It’s just …’
‘There’s a mother?’
‘Well, yes, but –’
‘There often is.’ He glanced at the papers again. ‘No, not provided for.’
‘A sister too,’ I said, playing for time. ‘Cecilia Shilling?’
He ran his eyes over it again. ‘Nope.’
‘And, um, someone called … Emma Harding.’
‘Emma Harding.’ He frowned. ‘Why do I know that name?’ He read again. Took his time this time. When he’d finished, he looked at me