The Love She Left Behind Read Online Free Page A

Patrick?’ he asked, more or less knowing the answer to that. He needed to speak to him, however fruitlessly. Assimilating the contents of the will, of which Nigel was co-executor along with Patrick’s solicitor, it had become apparent that ownership of Bloody Empire had been transferred to their mother, for long-defunct tax reasons. Although clear provision had been made for the rights to the play to be transferred back to Patrick in the event of his wife’s death, Nigel needed his consent. At the very least, it would make Patrick liable once again for any tax accruing. Then there was the matter of the house. That looked like it would be, as houses always were, rather more complicated.
    Was Bloody Empire still put on anywhere? Nigel had been seventeen when he’d seen it, on the West End press night. He remembered best being allowed a gin and tonic in the bar at the interval. And the topless scene, naturally. He’d been permitted to come up from school specially, in the middle of the week in the middle of the term, and had greatly enjoyed the glamour on his return; underplaying it, but careful to mention the tits and exaggerating their, in truth, disappointing size and trajectory. They had been very political breasts, bracketed by underarm hair. That time was long gone, thank God. Nigel had been surprised to spot the actress in a Poirot a few years ago, much aged as a sadistic headmistress who became the murder victim, the breasts he had once ogled heavily covered in bloodstained tweed.
    Patrick didn’t come to the phone when Nigel rang. Louise said he was sleeping, in his study. (A study, now that was something to have.) They arranged for Nigel to ring back later in the day, before she and Holly left for their train. When Nigel called again, towards four, the phone rang on for so long he thought it was a lost cause. No answer machine kicked in, although he knew there was one because it had been the main conduit of communication between him and his mother when she was alive. Just as he was about to hang up, Louise answered, out of breath from the stairs. She then toiled to get Patrick.
    â€˜Do what you must,’ was his response to Nigel’s crisp summation of the rights situation. His voice sounded so thick with age and drink that Nigel faltered at the prospect of asking anything to do with the house. He wasn’t even confident Patrick had understood what had just been so concisely put to him about his play.
    â€˜If you don’t take measures to retrieve the rights,’ he repeated, to be on the safe side, ‘they’ll pass to Louise and me.’
    â€˜She’s still here,’ said Patrick, distractedly. ‘Turned the place out from top to bottom. I want her gone.’
    â€˜They’re getting the train,’ Nigel reassured him.
    But after the conversation had finished, Louise rang him back on her mobile.
    â€˜I’m in the garden,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want him to hear. Nidge, I don’t think I should go.’
    Nidge . It grabbed him. She didn’t even know she was doing it.
    Someone had turned up. A young woman. She claimed to be afreelance journalist who had apparently some time ago arranged, via email, to interview Patrick. She seemed to be expecting to stay in the house, according to Louise.
    â€˜You know what journalists are like,’ she said, groundlessly. As if she had ever had anything to do with journalists.
    â€˜Well, doesn’t she know about Mum?’ Nigel asked.
    Apparently the girl hadn’t, until she had arrived. And she had travelled down from Newcastle, or Sunderland, or possibly the Lake District—somewhere far north.
    â€˜What kind of freelance journalist?’ he asked.
    â€˜I don’t know. Or did she say she was studying journalism? Something like that. I couldn’t really make it out, to be honest.’
    This was impossible. Louise was hopeless on real-life details. That was the problem