After the sumptuous reception area, Mr Mann’s office is a pigeon-hole. Small and stark. Neat. Cream walls, cream carpet. Pale ash desk with a laptop attached to two large viewing screens. He sits behind his desk. I sit in the chair in front of it, stupefied as to what’s coming. I cannot even begin to guess.

I sit, eyes fixed on Mr Mann. He is elderly, thin on top, but with lank grey hair flanking his ears and framing the sides of his face. Small, sharp pinprick eyes and a slender, pointed nose.

‘I’m acting on behalf of the estate of Caprice Jackson. You are a beneficiary, but it’s complicated. If her daughter-in-law, Saffron, dies within six months of Caprice’s own death, half of her estate, minus the first £100,000, which Miles has been awarded, will go to you, rather than him.’

This can’t be real. I must be dreaming. But I pinch myself and it hurts. ‘Why would Caprice leave me anything, under any conditions? This is really, really strange.’

Mr Mann smiles. The wrinkles around his eyes tighten. His skin looks like walnut shells. ‘She had a very high opinion of you.’

‘But even so …’ I pause. ‘Does Saffron know about this?’

He shakes his head. ‘No. I informed both of Caprice’s sons – Miles and Aiden. As she isn’t a beneficiary, I’m not obliged to tell Saffron. And Miles and Aiden do not want her to know.’ Mr Mann hands me two envelopes. ‘This is your copy of the will. Any questions, don’t hesitate to contact me. And a private letter to you from my client. Her personal goodbye.’

I feel choked. ‘Thank you,’ I mutter, then pause. ‘How much would my stake in the will be worth, if it came to fruition?’

‘It’s hard to say exactly until her affairs have been verified by her accountant. But I guess it will be somewhere in the region of four million pounds.’

Even though I’m sitting down, I have to put my head between my legs to stop myself from fainting.

179

Hayley

Envelopes trembling in my hand, I walk back to the squat. The world moves past me in a blur of colour. So distracted, I find my way like an automaton. I open the door that is falling off its hinges and move into the hallway. The cold dank air assaults my nostrils and makes me sneeze. I throw myself onto the saggy mattress. It is still daylight so I can see to read. I wrap my sleeping bag around me like a blanket and digest every page of Caprice Jackson’s will. Then, hands trembling, I open my personal goodbye.

Dear Hayley,