Chapter one
Marianne took a deep breath and picked up the Will. Silence fell over the crowded room.
Lindsay has been a rich woman. A very rich woman. And today’s funeral had drawn out more relatives than she’d ever seen before. It would be savage; she knew this because she’d written the Will in question. In fact, Lindsay had pre-paid for 200 hours of additional work in anticipation of the fireworks.
“Lindsay Annabel Wright. Her last Will and Testament were finalised last month.”
All eyes were on Marianne.
“To my daughter, Sarah Elizabeth Lindsay Wright, I leave you my beloved Tesla. The chateau in France. The apartment in Milan. My two watches. The gold Chanel dress you’ve always adored. My Pablo Picasso. Spanx, my cat. A continuation of your monthly £20,000 pocket money until your 30th birthday. A job on the board of directors at my business – if you are so inclined. A gift of £1 million on your 30th birthday. And a gift of £1 million for each of your children on reaching the age of 30.”
Continued silence.
Sarah theatrically wiped an eye behind her black, wide-brimmed veiled hat on the front row. Her husband, who was resting one arm around her back, squeezed her shoulder.
“To my son, Callum Markus Bane Wright, I leave you the red Aston Martin. The blue Ducatti. The black superbike. The mansion in Naples. The ski lodge in Austria. My Jean-Michel Basquiat. My father’s watch. A job on the board of directors at my business – if you are so inclined. A continuation of your £20,000 pocket money until your 30th birthday. A gift of £1 million on your 30th birthday. A gift of £1 million to your children on their 30th birthday – if you choose to have children. And an all-expenses-paid gap year on finishing your university degree.”
Callum broke the silence with a choked, “Thanks, mum.” And he wiped his red eyes with a matching handkerchief.
“To my husband, Bane Anders Marcello Wright, I leave you the Range Rover. The plot of land in Surrey. And this letter.” Marianne slid an envelope from the leather-bound file on her desk and offered it to the manspreading male sitting in front of her.
“She’s left me the run-around car and a fucking field? I contest. I contest it all. I’ll be having words with you later; you mark my words. She was my fucking wife. I should be getting all of this. Just you wait, woman.” He snatched the envelope from Marianne. His flushing anger rose quickly up his face to match his eyes.
And this is why I’ve been paid for the extra work, mused Marianne. Her shoulders sagged at the thought of her next few months. But she paused respectfully while Bane tore open the envelope. She watched as his black pupils zigzagged from left to right in a mad fury, eyebrows lowering with rage.
Finally, he looked up at Marianne. “Go on. You may as well finish this charade.”
Marianne took a deep breath and read her final paragraph. This would be the most controversial part. “I leave everything else; my compound in Knightsbridge, my business, the guard dogs and all my worldly belongings to… Halima Ali.”
“Who the fuck is Halima Ali?” Bellowed Bane.
People around the room began to murmur.
“Please, let me finish,” said Marianne, her voice rising like a schoolteacher determined to take the register on the first day back after the summer holidays.
Bane leaned forward, rigid, upright and seething. His face was now an ugly shade of maroon, clashing terribly with his white shirt and grey patterned suit.
“Please respect Lindsay’s last wishes. She said, for anyone who doesn’t want their portion of her estate, to please let me know, and I’ll arrange for it to be donated to the local cat shelter. This is something she’d originally said in jest but later decided to make it official.” The room was silent. “I need all the beneficiaries to sign something before they leave today. I’ll be available all afternoon if anyone wishes to speak with me. And anyone who can’t hold a civil tongue will be removed by my security team.” She flashed her coldest smile. “For anyone who wishes to speak with me at a later date, I’ve placed some business cards here.” She patted a small stack on the table in front of her. “The phone number is a direct line to my PA. Thank you.”
Conversations sparked immediately. Why didn’t Lindsay leave more to her husband? Where’s my portion? What about my children? But Lindsay loved my children. She’d always said I could have her Picasso painting. And who the bleeding hell is Halima Ali?
Marianne sipped the glass of water, wishing it was neat gin. Then, she reorganised her papers in the order Lindsay had said people would complain. Bane. Uncle Michael. Susan and Peter –
“Excuse me,” purred Bane’s voice. It sounded forcibly calmer than five minutes earlier. The threat of being removed must have helped. “I’d like to apologise for my outburst. Please can we… speak in private?”
Marianne stood and stared coldly down her nose. “I’ve reserved this room on the right.” She gestured with a wave of her hand while her eyes bore into his. “I’ll be in, in a moment. Bring your letter – it was sealed when Lindsay gave it to me. Damien, if you please.”
A giant, mean-looking gentleman with a face set like concrete strode towards the room. He was closely followed by a frowning Bane. Then, after a deep breath, Marianne.
She took the seat next to Damien and said, “It’s a difficult time for everyone. You’re right to be angry and frustrated. You’ve lost someone you love.” Marianne pulled a white cotton handkerchief from her pocket and offered it to Bane, who sat staring out of the window. Tears fell from his empty eyes like raindrops.
“Please, may I see the letter?”
Bane reluctantly dropped the crushed ball of paper from his fist onto the table. He smoothened it with his tanned fingers and pushed it across to Marianne.
It read:
Bane
It feels strange writing this, but I loved you once. When we married, you were kind, funny and understanding, and you didn’t care about my upbringing. But times changed, and so did we. The more successful I became, the more your resentment grew. It happened slowly. But over time, you couldn’t even talk to me without spitting your words. You even tried to play the kids against me. D’you remember that awful Christmas of 2011? No, of course, you don’t. You drank yourself stupid, yet again. And I had to pick up the pieces, yet again.
I grew tired of your lies. And then I learned of your affair. Don’t pretend it didn’t happen; we’re too old for games. But something changed in you. And that was the last I knew of the man I married.
If I’m honest, I stayed with you for the children. Yes, I took the coward’s way out, but staying with you was an easy habit.
I don’t love you. You broke my heart too many times, too long ago. And it’s clear by how you’ve treated me these last few months that you don’t love me either.
I hope Mandy makes you happier than I ever could.
I’ve left the first mixtape you gave me in the Range Rover. Enjoy it as you drive into your new life, and never look back.
You are, and always will be, the Bane of my life.
Lindsay x
“Ah.” Marianne paused. “I knew of the affair; I’d had to ask Lindsay why she didn’t want you to have more in her Will. But if we look at the legal side of things, everything’s in her name – the houses, the cars, her business. She’s a self-made woman. You’ve got no right to her assets. Your children aren’t dependent; your daughter lives with her partner, and your son owns his house at university. You’ve got your life back. You’ve got a job…whatever an influencer does these days. I’ve seen from the statements you have money coming in. Go, start again in Surrey.”
Bane cast a cautious eye toward Damien before frowning and opening his mouth. “But we were married. I was her husband. I should be getting everything. Legally, we owned everything…together.” He finished almost triumphantly.
“No. Actually, you didn’t. And you don’t. You can thank your parents for this. You see, you came from money. Your parents called Lindsay a…what was that phrase…a ‘money-grabbing cow’? I’ve got it in here if you want the exact phrase?” She rifled through her file. “That’s it, a money-grabbing-child-stealing-estate-thieving cow. Boy, did they resent her. You probably don’t remember this, but they made her sign a prenup. Here’s a copy of the original.” Marianne thumbed through her file under the section titled ‘Bane’ and deftly pulled out a yellowing piece of paper. “It’ll have meant something-or-nothing to you. But it stayed with her. Your parents made sure she wouldn’t get a penny of your inheritance. And she obviously wanted to do the same to you.”
“But we bought things together.”
“No, she bought things. And you used them.” Marianne leaned back in her chair. “Can I ask you something?” She didn’t wait for a response. “What did you actually pay for in that mansion? I’ve seen her accounts. She did the bills, the food shops, paid the cleaners, sorted the internet… You haven’t got a leg to stand on, Bane. If you really want to contest her Will, then good luck to you. You’ll need it. But you won’t get anywhere. Take my advice; pack up your things, get in that Range Rover and leave. You’ll have until the end of the month to move out.”
“And what if I refuse?”
“Then the police will get involved,” Marianne finished calmly. “Make your life easier, and do what I advise.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do, lady,” snarled Bane. “Do you know how embarrassing that whole thing was for me? You read that spiel in front of everyone I know. Everyone. Hey, get off me! Tell him to get off me! Dame-o. It’s me; get off me, man.” Damian forced Bane to his feet by skilfully lacing his arms into an arm lock. Bane winced as he was thrust onto his tiptoes and his thin body writhed like a snake trapped in a snare.
Still seated, Marianne said casually, “You were warned to be civil, and you’ve shown you’re unable. So, I think we’re done for today, Bane. Yes, I know it’s a funeral. Reality check, it isn’t your funeral. Today isn’t about you. So, for once in your pampered little life, shut up, grow up and stop crying about yourself. Today’s going to be hard enough without you going around making things worse. Have I made myself clear?”
Bane’s frown deepened. “I haven’t finished with you, lady.”
“Well, I’ve finished with you. Take my card.” With her index finger, she wiggled a thick, cream business card into Bane’s jacket pocket. “Call me when you’ve calmed down. Damien, please escort Mr Wright from the premises. Then, call Rocky and keep him updated.”
Damien nodded and pushed Bane forward as though he was a helium balloon.
Marianne exhaled. That was always going to be tough. She’d been warned of his pre-pubescent outbursts, which, on reflection, had been a pretty accurate description. Her gaze flicked back to the file, and she plucked out the next piece of paper for the next presumed family complaint.
A few minutes later, Marianne heard a gentle knock at the door, followed by a soft cough.
“I wonder,” said the greying gentleman, his voice as smooth as syrup. “Can I ask you about the Pablo?”
“You must be Uncle Michael,” she said, painting another fake smile across her face. “Lindsay mentioned your name; come on in.”
Chapter two
Coming soon.