The Death of Mrs. Westaway(54)

“Even darker?” Hal said. She gave a small laugh. “That’s pretty dark already.”

“It depends how you take it, though. Does it mean, ‘I am dying, I have done all I can to prevent this, but now it must take its course,’ or does it mean . . .” He paused, waiting for a gap in the traffic, and Hal realized she understood what he was saying.

“I suppose there’s a sense of . . . not just knowing what may come, but willing it to happen,” she said. “Acknowledging your part in precipitating it. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Exactly.”

Hal could not quite work out what to say in reply to this. The thought came to her again: an old woman, knowing the end was coming near, rubbing her hands as she drew up the will that was to set her nearest and dearest at each other’s throats. Had it really been as calculatingly vicious as that?

There was no love lost between Harding and Ezra, you didn’t have to be a cold reader to work that out. But what was her own part in all this?

They drove the last mile or so in silence, Hal lost in her own thoughts, until at last Ezra drew into a car park and stopped the car, pulling up the hand brake with a crunch and killing the engine.

“Well, here we are. There’s just one hitch.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s twelve twenty. I think we’ve missed the appointment.”

“Oh.” Hal said. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard, and felt a sudden sickening mix of emotions wash over her—a queasy relief at not having to face Mr. Treswick today, and trepidation at the thought of Harding’s reaction, and at the knowledge that she had only postponed the encounter. “Fuck.” It was out before she had considered it, and she bit her lip. The word was not in keeping with the image she was trying to present to the Westaways—meek, unassuming little Harriet, butter wouldn’t melt. Swearing wasn’t part of the deal, and she felt as cross with herself as if she’d sworn at a client. The pink on her cheeks was real, though it was a flush of annoyance at her own unguardedness, rather than shame. “Sorry, that was—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, you’re an adult. I’m not your keeper. And while we’re at it, can we stop with the Uncle Ezra business? I’m not your uncle.”

Hal flinched in spite of herself, and perhaps Ezra noticed, for he rephrased.

“I didn’t mean that as coldly as it sounded. But we’ve never met. Uncle implies a relationship that we don’t have—and as I said before, Harding has the monopoly on hypocrisy in this family. I’m done with all that.”

“Okay. . . .” Hal said slowly. “So . . . what should I call you?”

“Ezra will do fine,” he said. He opened his car door.

“Wait,” Hal said impetuously. She put out a hand towards the gear stick, not quite touching his. “If—if we’re swapping names . . .”

“Yes?”

“Everyone here calls me Harriet, but that’s not what my—” She stopped. She had been about to say, that’s not what my mother called me, but somehow the word stuck in her throat. “That’s not what my friends call me,” she finished.

Ezra raised one eyebrow, interrogatively. “And that is . . . ?” he prompted.

“Hal,” Hal said. Her heart was beating, as though she had given away a great piece of herself. There was no logic to it—these people knew her real name, who she was, even where she lived, thanks to Mr. Treswick. Compared to what she had done already, there was nothing identifying or risky about sharing a nickname; yet it felt like a leap of faith in a way that nothing else had. “They call me Hal.”

“Hal,” Ezra said. He said it slowly, as if rolling the word around his mouth, tasting it. “Hal.” Then his tanned face broke into a broad grin—generous, beguiling, quite different from his usual, rather sardonic expression. “I like it. Well, shall we go and report in for a telling off?”

“Yes,” Hal said. She drew a deep breath, and opened the door of the car. The tin of tarot cards felt hard in her back pocket, and she thought of the page, and of the storm clouds roiling behind him, and the rough waves at his feet, the rising waters. Après moi, le déluge. . . .

“Yes. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 22


* * *

“Marvelous.” Harding’s voice was sarcastic. “You do realize what you’ve just ensured, don’t you, Harriet?”

“Me?” Hal felt a wave of annoyance at the injustice of his remark wash over her, and swallowed it back, remembering her role as a meek, biddable niece. She was arranging her face in an expression of contrition when Ezra broke in, sounding bored.

“Harding, if anyone is at fault here, it’s me. Or rather those fucking magpies.”

“Magpies be damned. Today is Friday, in case you haven’t noticed. The solicitors’ offices are closed tomorrow and Sunday. Your tardiness has just ensured that we will all have to hang around until Monday to continue the discussions.”

“Let me guess,” Ezra said, and there was an edge in his voice that Hal remembered from breakfast, “you’ll be docking my pocket money and taking away my Xbox privileges?”

“Monday? Surely not!” Mitzi interrupted. “Why can’t we come back this afternoon?”