This Could Change Everything(19)
‘You get the picture?’ The woman’s husband was triumphant. ‘Is it any wonder I’d rather spend the rest of my life with Stacey-Louise? I mean, Christ alive, who wouldn’t?’
Conor hoped with all his heart that the reason his client’s wife was holding a spade in the photo was because she was busy digging a husband-sized grave in a tucked-away corner of their garden. Now that would be a story with a happy ending.
‘Does your wife have a career, Mr Benson?’
‘A career? You’re joking, aren’t you? Bloody woman hasn’t done a day’s work in the last twenty years.’
‘Although she has looked after your five children,’ Conor replied evenly.
‘Yeah, but she’s never had a proper job since the first one came along. Anyway, my mate Jezzer Kane recommended you, said you’d get me a cracking result. So just make sure you do, OK? No way is that lazy cow going to walk off with my hard-earned cash.’
What an absolute charmer. Conor said, ‘I don’t recall the name . . .’
‘No, your boss Margaret looked after him, but she was too booked up to take my case. Still, you work for her, yeah? So I’m sure she’s taught you a few tricks of the trade. Know what I mean, ha ha.’ As he spoke, the man drew a fat forefinger across his even fatter neck and roared with laughter. ‘Get the message, lad? Whatever it takes!’
Margaret Kale was the head of the firm. A terrifying and ruthless woman in her sixties, she made Rosa Klebb look like a playful squirrel. Eyeing the man across the desk with disdain and loathing him with every fibre of his being, Conor murmured, ‘We’ll do our best.’
His fourth client of the day was a thirty-three-year-old woman called Jessica Brown. He’d known in advance that she’d made the appointment in order to discuss writing her will, but it wasn’t until he called her through to his office that Conor realised the urgency of the situation. Her skin was tinted yellow and she moved slowly with the aid of a walking stick. Underneath her loose pink dress, her stomach was distended, and there were dark grey shadows beneath her eyes. But despite the shadows, the clear evidence of weight loss and the jaundice, she was still visibly herself, with elongated blue eyes and strikingly long lashes. When she smiled, her face lit up. She also had a beautifully shaped mouth.
As soon as the niceties were out of the way, Jessica Brown said, ‘Well as you can see, I need to get things sorted out. Better late than never, eh?’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Conor’s heart went out to her; what must it feel like to face death at such a young age?
‘Thanks. It’s not as if I have much . . . you know, stuff to leave in a will. There’s no house, nothing like that. But I do have my daughter, and she’s only twelve . . .’ Having tried so hard to maintain control – she’d been practising the words, Conor could tell – her voice now cracked with emotion and she held up a thin hand by way of silent apology.
‘Don’t worry, take as much time as you like.’ He spoke reassuringly. There was a box of tissues in his drawer and he took it out, placed it on the desk.
After twenty seconds or so, Jessica Brown managed to visibly swallow the lump in her throat and speak again. With a faint smile, she murmured, ‘Only a solicitor could say something as daft as that. You charge by the minute, don’t you? I can’t afford to take as much time as I’d like.’
‘Apologies. But the first thirty minutes are free.’
‘Then I’d better not waste them.’ And this time she managed a brief laugh, accompanied by a rueful shake of her head. ‘Bizarre, isn’t it? Most of the time I’m fine, in control; I can even crack jokes about it when I’m talking to other people. It’s only when I think about Evie that it really gets me. You’ll just have to put up with it, I’m afraid. And maybe stock up on tissues.’
‘Take as many as you want,’ said Conor.
Jessica talked and he took copious notes as she did so. The cancer that had metastasised throughout her body had begun to make itself felt less than a year ago, but its march had been relentless and her hospital consultant was now reluctantly predicting that she had six months to live.
If she was lucky.
‘And luck’s been pretty thin on the ground lately, so I’m not holding out too much hope.’ She pushed a strand of blonde hair behind her left ear. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? After Evie was born, I was so happy it scared me witless. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world and kept thinking something had to go wrong, to balance out all the joy. Because she was just so perfect, you know? And beautiful. And such a good baby . . . Sorry, here I go again . . .’
The father, Conor learned, had done a near-instantaneous bunk and Jessica had been too proud to chase after him. Instead, she’d raised Evie alone and, if she said so herself, had made a pretty good job of it. Amid tears and smiles, she showed Conor photos of her beloved daughter, with her huge eyes, dimples and white-blonde curls. And she explained to him the plans she’d made for Evie’s future.
‘My sister’s going to have her. Thank goodness. Evie loves her and I’m so grateful for that. Mum will be around to help too. It’s not as if she’ll be left on her own.’ The tears were still sliding down her thin cheeks. ‘So really, we’re lucky, it could be a lot worse. I just wish I didn’t have to leave her behind. I’m going to miss her so much.’