Page 27 of The Perfect Son
“Do you want to be executor? Because if you sign this then you can hand over the responsibility to Ian.”
“Oh.”
“I’m guessing by your face that you didn’t ask for this?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t even know I could ask for it. Ian is a solicitor. He wants Mark’s estate sorted out because...” I pause for a second, wondering how much to say before remembering that Shelley understands, and unlike Ian, she doesn’t have an ulterior motive for helping me. “... Mark borrowed some money from Ian. Quite a lot. I didn’t know anything about it, but obviously Ian won’t get it back until I sort through our finances.”
“Well, if you sign this, then it would mean you wouldn’t have to deal with all the estate stuff. It’s not an easy task. There’s a lot of paperwork and following up with different companies and people. You can sign this form and not have to think about it anymore until it’s all done.”
“That’s true.” I nod. Shelley makes it sound so appealing, and a part of me wants to grab a pen and sign it straightaway.
“But...” Shelley prompts.
“But I’m just not sure how much I trust Ian.”
“Ah, well, the thing is, you don’t really need to trust him. Ian will be bound by law to follow the instructions in the will.”
“True.” I feel myself waver. “What do I do?”
Shelley smiles and reaches out to squeeze my hand. “You’ve had a tough week. Don’t make a decision today. Think it over and see how you feel next week.”
“You’re right,” I reply, relieved Shelley has made the decision for me, even if that decision is just to put something off for a few days.
I tuck the form in the drawer below the microwave. The drawer is overflowing with bits of paper and take-out menus we’ll never use. I press my hand against the mass, squashing it down and forcing the drawer closed.
“Right,” Shelley says with a wide grin. “I’ll just wash up and then let’s eat. You must be starving.”
My stomach growls an answer and I find myself smiling when Shelley laughs.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says. “Back in two secs.”
I lean back against the chair and close my eyes, allowing the warmth of the room to seep through me. I don’t feel half as cold inside when Shelley is here.
When I open my eyes again Jamie is standing in the doorway, allwide-eyed and tired. His hair is sticking up at funny angles as if it hasn’t been brushed for days. It hasn’t.
“Has Shelley gone?” Jamie asks, his eyes scanning the kitchen.
“No, baby. She’s just washing her hands,” I reply, moving chairs and sitting down opposite Jamie, where the plates have been set.
His face breaks into a large grin and he slides into a chair. “Good.”
“I’m sorry about today,” I say to both of them when Shelley returns. “I’m feeling better, I think.”
“I didn’t mind. It was fun,” Jamie replies, beaming at Shelley.
“It’s fine, Tess.” Shelley smiles too as she places a steaming casserole dish on the table between us. “You’ve had a setback, but you’ll get there, I know you will.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. The two words don’t feel like enough.
“I’m sure some food will help you to feel better,” Shelley adds, scooping a large chicken breast onto my plate before adding a helping of carrots, mushrooms, and sauce until my plate is swimming in a light orange liquid. Then potatoes—white and fluffy and glistening with butter—and broccoli.
Jamie and I tuck into our food as if neither of us has eaten for a month. The casserole is delicious. Wholesome. The sauce salty and warm; the meat and vegetables tender. For a few minutes none of us speak, and the only sound is the clinking of our cutlery on the plates.
I try to think of something to say, something normal—a neutral territory—that won’t lead back to thoughts of you, but my mind is blank. “This is lovely,” I say in the end. “Perfectly chopped onions.” I smile at Jamie.
Shelley laughs; Jamie too. The pair sharing a private joke from earlier, I guess, and the time they spent preparing the dinner. I want to ask what it is, but Shelley speaks first.
“Did I tell you I’m training to swim the English Channel?” she asks us.
