‘Don’t worry about me,’ she says. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘But…’
She looks at me and pulls me into a hug.
‘It’ll be OK. You’re young, pretty and phenomenally rich. What can possibly go wrong?’
Friday morning finds me back in London. I stand in front of my mother’s full-length mirror and take a good look at myself. There’s no denying it, I’m looking more and more like her every single day. I tie my hair back in a loose chignon and smooth down my dress, a beautiful one-off, even if I do say so myself, seeing as it came from the sewing machine of me.
I may not have followed my mother into the world of fashion, but she did instil in me an understanding of good grooming, of being well dressed for every occasion, of wearing what suits you and always looking your best. I learned early on that to really find clothes that suited me and that made me happy I had to create them myself.
At first it would be charity shop finds or cheap clothes from Hyper Hyper that I would take in or take up or adjust or customise in some way to make them more unique, and then slowly I branched out into following sewing patterns and making my clothes that way.
Finally, a few years ago, I got the confidence to start creating my own patterns as well and I’d say that running gear aside, most of my wardrobe is handmade. In a strange way my mother approves even though she pretends not to.
Today I’ve teamed my chosen dress with a favourite pair of heels that I rarely get a chance to wear. Now I know Edwin Jones is at least 6’4” I know I can get away with the shoes. Alec hates the fact they make me taller than him. Alec hated the fact, I should say. He doesn’t have to worry about that any more. The dress is one I made a couple of years ago from some turquoise and yellow shot silk I found at Cambridge market. Five minutes after I leave the house I realise the heels may have been a mistake. It’s even hotter than it was on Monday and it’s not even 9 a.m.
When I arrive at Jones & Cartwright, I’m told Edwin is running late. I flick through a rather dull legal magazine for over half an hour before two familiar shoes step into my line of vision. I realise I am sitting in the same seat as Monday.
He smiles at me and that vague feeling of butterflies in my stomach starts up. He has one of those smiles that lights up his whole face. He leads the way up to his office, where it is still as hot as the centre of the sun, and he begins to go through my inheritance: the house, the flat, the studio, the paintings.
He tells me I need to think about what I want to do with the house. Do I want my mother to keep living there or would I prefer to sell it? I need to think about what sort of arrangements I need to make about the paintings, how I would need to clear and sort out my father’s flat, how much inheritance tax I will need to pay (an eye-popping amount), how much money I can draw down out of the estate before the probate goes through (an even more eye-popping amount).
After a while his voice begins to turn into white noise, like the voices of the adults in those Peanuts cartoons. I start to look around the room. The wood panelling is impressive when you take the time to look at it, and the view of Hyde Park from the window is lovely. The inhabitant of the office isn’t bad either.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asks suddenly, pushing all the papers he’s been going through to one side. I realise I’m staring at him.
‘Starving,’ I reply with a little too much enthusiasm. Edwin seems more relaxed than he did on Monday and I’m hoping he is about to suggest getting out of this awful hot room and finding somewhere to eat.
‘Let me take you to lunch,’ he says.
‘Are you sure? I…’
‘Of course I’m sure! I just need to make a call. Can you wait for me in reception?’
He appears five minutes later with his jacket over his shoulder and his briefcase under his arm.
‘Do you like Thai?’ he asks, as we walk out into the sunshine.
I nod and we walk down Park Lane and turn right onto South Street, passing Harrods Estates.
‘I love this place,’ I say pointing at the display window. ‘I often stand here and marvel at the sort of people who can afford places like that.’
‘And now you’re one of them,’ he interrupts as though reading my mind.
I bite my lip, still unable to believe it.
We walk on in comfortable silence towards a small Thai restaurant. All the staff know him in the restaurant and fawn over him as he comes in, taking his jacket and finding him the best table they can. I stand there and wait to be seated, thinking about how much my shoes hurt. I slip them off as soon as I sit down.
He orders himself a beer and looks at me. I desperately want a double vodka but need to keep my wits about me.
‘Orangina?’ I ask, feeling about five years old.
‘That’s a beautiful dress,’ Edwin says. I think it’s the first time anyone’s commented on my clothes without an addendum about inheriting my mother’s sense of style.
‘Thank you, I made it myself.’
I don’t know why I said that. I hardly ever tell anyone about my clothes – I feel embarrassed talking about it. I’ve always tried to be inconspicuous because of Mum. Goodness knows why I’ve suddenly decided to blurt it out in front of her lawyer.
‘Wow,’ he says. ‘Impressive. Do you make clothes for a living?’
‘No. I’m a paralegal.’
He pulls a face.
‘How do you know I don’t love my job?’
‘Because somebody like you isn’t destined to sit behind a desk for the rest of her life. Not when you can make clothes as gorgeous as that.’
‘What do you mean, someone like me?’ I ask, smiling to show I’m joking.
‘Someone with skill and artistic flair.’ He pauses. ‘Like father like daughter.’
I feel the colour rise in my cheeks. I’m not ready to talk about that.
‘And what about you? What made you become a solicitor?’ I ask, changing the subject.
‘Parental pressure. Dad wanted another Jones to run the firm after he retired. Curse of being the eldest.’
‘What would you rather be doing?’
Before he has a chance to answer the drinks arrive. He refuses a glass and raises his bottle in my direction.
I order a very boring vegetarian Pad Thai while he orders something far more exotic and unpronounceable. We make small talk; he seems to already know I went to Cambridge and it turns out he read English too, at Oxford.
‘Not reading law was probably the most rebellious thing I’ve ever done,’ he says. ‘When I first got to Oxford I had no intention of becoming a lawyer…’
He pauses.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘Oh things change, don’t they?’
‘I was happy waiting tables,’ I say. ‘I never had any grand ambitions but my boyfriend encouraged me to aim higher. Not that paralegal is aiming much higher, unless you count the fact I don’t have to work weekends any more!’
‘And what does this boyfriend do?’
‘Oh he broke up with me on Tuesday. He’s taking a job in America.’ It slips out before I’ve realised what I’ve said. Edwin is staring at me and I want the ground to swallow me up. Well done, Julia; way to make yourself look like even more of a loser. I’d get up and walk out