Page 55 of A Family Affair
Tutting, she linked his arm and pulled him along, her mind already racing ahead. Packing an overnight bag, moving back into her bedroom at her grandparents that hadn’t changed since she was a teenager. Seeing Levi at the weekend and then, maybe, she’d start searching for long lost relatives online.
Would the name Nora be enough to track someone down? A living link who could fill in the blanks about who she was, who they were. And there it was again. A voice in her head, someone giving her a nudge and telling Honey loud and clear that she had to try. Someone was out there. She just knew it.
CHAPTER41
MR TRISTAN HENDERSON JNR
Ion Paval smoothed out invisible creases on his trouser leg in silence as the waiter arranged the paper coasters, then their drinks and a miniscule bowl of appetisers on the table before moving to the next. There, sticking out like sore thumbs and conspicuous by their nonchalance, Ion’s bodyguards were also served refreshments which they barely acknowledged.
Rude,thought Tristan, who prided himself on his manners, but then again what could one expect from thugs. At least his drinking partner knew how to behave – well, in public anyway. What he got up to in private would make anyone’s eyes water.
Tristan had been summoned to the bar inside the airport hotel. Ion was flying out to a location undisclosed and wanted an update on progress at the Chamberlain Estate.
It was how he liked to do business apparently, face-to-face, however, Tristan did wonder if the whole scene was meant to intimidate. He could understand why it would have this effect, the meatheads in the shades. And while it was all rather theatrical and, no doubt, bolstered Ion’s ego, it had to be said Tristan also got a huge kick out of being around someone like that.
Finally, the man himself spoke. ‘So, where are we at? Is she ready to sign her will at long last?’
Tristan had prepared for this question and hoped to get away with a bluff because Chuck was being a proverbial pain in the butt. ‘We’re all good. I’m going to go over there and have a word with Chuck sometime this week.’ If he could get the imbecile to stop fobbing him off, that was. ‘Primarily a social call but I have it on good authority that he has our spinster eating out of his hand.’
Ion nodded and leant forward to take his drink and then check his phone, followed by a lot of screen tapping, giving Tristan’s heartrate a chance to settle slightly.
It was true, that Chuck was doing better than expected in the schmoozing department, but where Tristan was concerned, the man was being evasive, ignoring his calls and texts and turning down countless invitations.
The plan to get Chuck on side via whisky and women hadn’t turned out to be the great temptation Tristan had envisaged and instead, the redneck preferred life down on the farm, or wherever that damned irritating horsey Jennifer took him. He’d never liked her, and he suspected, from the withering looks she doled out, that the feeling was mutual.
Then there was Clarissa. She wasn’t responding well to his tactful hints that the will was drafted, and they just needed a final decision. He’d even enlisted the help of his father, who she clearly preferred dealing with, and even he got short shrift. It didn’t bode well. Not that Ion needed to know any of that.
Finally, the texting ceased, and business resumed. ‘I am pleased to hear the American is making progress, but how can you be sure that once he has… What is that expression you English have about a table and feet?’
‘Ah, you mean having one’s feet under the table.’ Tristan was nothing if not quick off the mark.
‘Yes, that. Very stupid saying but continue. How long can I expect to wait? I have other properties on my radar, so it had better not take forever. And how sure are you that the American will sell? Perhaps he will want to be king of his castle and stay on. Then this will have been a total waste of time.’
This was exactly what Tristan feared. He’d planned to work on Chuck once he’d arrived, dropping hints and bamboozling him with promises of great wealth. Chamberlain Manor was worth many millions and then there was Clarissa’s even more substantial investment portfolio. Chuck would have absolutely no need of a country pile once he inherited. The problem was, he’d been ostracised and for all he knew, Ion might be correct, and the redneck buffoon may have ideas well above his station, a bit like the man seated opposite.
Breathe, play the long game, think of the rewards.
‘I assure you there is no need for alarm. Chuck would be a fish out of water if he took over the estate. I mean seriously, what would someone like him do? The locals would never accept him.’
Tristan inwardly cringed, knowing that Ion probably wouldn’t appreciate the fish idiom. But it was the dark look that washed over Ion’s face in response to his scathing comment about Chuck, that had Tristan backtracking like he was on speed.
‘What I mean is, the chap looks like he’s just stepped out of a rodeo and he’s not exactly…’ Tristan refrained from using another idiom about bright buttons or sharp knives, especially not with the meatheads sitting close by, ‘…not exactly in your league. He’s unsophisticated and I doubt he has a gram of your business acumen so it would be a no-go.’
He saw a nerve twitch at the corner of Ion’s lips and, even though he wasn’t sure if it was the hint of a smile or the beginning of a smirk, Tristan hoped he’d got away with it and changed tack.
‘I can one hundred percent assure you that Clarissa is extremely eager to tie up all her loose ends and not die intestate but, as one would expect, she wanted time to get to know Chuck and make her decision. He’s only been there just short of a month so perhaps we should be a tad more patient.’
Checking his watch, Ion raised an eyebrow, drained his glass then put Tristan straight. ‘Unfortunately, patience isn’t a quality I possess. Time is almost up. If you don’t secure the American as heir by the end of November – two weeks’ time to be very exact – the deal is off, and I will move on.’
Tristan quailed. Reminded of the time at boarding school when he and a some of other boys had been caught mid-jape in their dorm. It was just a bit of harmless fun, back then. Lots of boys did it, or so he was told.
Dressing up in the St Trinian’s costumes they’d borrowed from the drama department wasn’t a crime. But what his right hand was doing to Lord Jonty, the Home Secretary’s son, was. And the threat of his father finding out had made Tristan keel over. Right there in the head’s study. In front of the kinky-whipping-desk, as they all called it. Spark out on the Persian rug.
Tristan was not about to repeat the rug thing so inhaled through his nose and tried to steady himself. He also focused on the rewards of attending one of Ion’s parties where nobody gave a fig about that what you did and who with. And then there was his big juicy commission. Failure was not an option.
‘Ion, leave it with me. I’ll have everything tied up well before then, you have my word,’ and then just to be sure, ‘but you do understand that you could be in for a long wait, for Clarissa to, you know, be on her way.’ He gestured heavenwards with his eyes. ‘And then there’s probate. Six months at the very least.’
Ion raised his hand and silenced Tristan. ‘Just get the signature and I will do the rest and I assure you, Mr Henderson Junior, that apart from your ridiculous probate laws, I won’t be waiting for Clarissa to,’ he pointed upwards, ‘leave the building. Just do your job and leave the finer details to me.’
