Page 6 of The House of Hopes and Dreams
But I was sure that love in some form still existed between us and would eventually settle into a new pattern – and if that was more a thing of shared interests and long association, then that was the way most marriages probably went …
Though actually, wehadn’tmarried because I’d never wanted to,even though after ten years Julian had teased me about my having become a common-law wife, whether I liked it or not. I suppose I might have changed my mind if there’d been a child to consider, but we had been so happy and fulfilled together that we’d kept putting off starting a family …
I must have made some small noise, for Julian lifted his head and, to my relief, gave me a slight, lop-sided smile.
‘Hi, Angel. I’m making notes for my will.’
I could feel the answering smile freezing on my lips and my heart began to thump. ‘Yourwill? Are you feeling—’
‘Don’t panic,’ he interrupted impatiently. ‘I’m not doing it because I’m feeling worse. It’s just that I’ve been putting it off because it always seemed like tempting Fate, but now I think Fate already knows where I live, so I might as well sort things out.’
He gave another slightly twisted smile. ‘Anyway, I heard something on the radio the other day that set me thinking. It appears that if you die without making a will, it can lead to all kinds of problems and delays.’
‘But you’re so much better now that you really don’t need to think about that kind of thing—’ I began.
‘Yes, and I’m also twenty years older than you are, so the chances are I’ll die first, one way or the other, aren’t they?’
This seemed to be a rhetorical question, so I didn’t point out that life was a lottery and you never knew when your number would be up. The Grim Reaper had his random moments.
‘I want to make some provision for you, but to be fair to Nat as well.’
I have a tendency to live in the moment so I’d never given the future a lot of thought until recently, but I’d vaguely assumed that Julian’s only son by his long-ago marriage would inherit everything at some nebulous future date. I’d been building up a little nest egg from my wages and the occasional prize or commission, but it had stayed little because I so often broke into it to add to my magpie’s shiny store of Antique glass that was stashed away in one of the outbuildings.
I didn’t have a lot of outgoings, because the cottage was Julian’s, as was the business. I was still an employee, though I took design commissions of my own sometimes, too, if they were to be made elsewhere.
‘You’ve always been fair to me, Julian,’ I assured him. ‘But Nat is your only son, so naturallyheshould inherit everything.’
Nat had followed in his father’s footsteps and worked with him in the studio, until my arrival on the scene had led to an estrangement between them. I felt guilty about that and over the years I’d done my best to heal the rift.
Julian had overheard Nat accusing me of being a gold-digger, muscling my way into the workshop by sleeping with the boss, and he’d told Nat that if he couldn’t accept the situation in a civilized manner, he’d have to go elsewhere. The upshot had been that he’d found Nat a job in London in a friend’s stained-glass workshop and he’d made his life down there ever since.
I don’t think the problem was ever really about my relationship with his father, who’d been a widower for several years when we met, it was Nat’s realization that although he was a great craftsman, he hadn’t got a spark of originality when it came to designing windows and installations … andIhad.
‘You haven’t thought it through,’ Julian told me, recalling my wandering mind. ‘The cottage has been your home for years and the business is becoming as much about you now, as me.’
That was a slight exaggeration, but I was beginning to make a name for myself and there was a whole Angelique Arrowsmith section on the Julian Seddon website. I’d won a major competition a couple of years previously, too.
‘Besides, the cottage and business really go together, so I’m leaving both to you,’ he continued, not waiting for any comment. ‘Everything else – and there’s quite a lot of money invested – goes to Nat.’
I knew Julian had inherited money from his mother’s family, not to mention what he earned himself – and his work was still as much in demand as it was when he blazed on to the scene with his first major commission, the spectacular Tidesbury Abbey west window.
‘But … if youmustleave me something, couldn’t it simply be a small amount of money, enough to buy a tiny cottage with?’ I suggested. ‘And everything else to Nat. I’m sure that’s what he’d expect.’
‘He seems to have made a life for himself in London, but myinvestments would give him enough money to set up his own workshop, if he wanted to,’ Julian said. ‘I want you to carry on the business here, which is what you’ve been doing since the stroke anyway. In fact, we’ll change the name to Julian Seddon and Angelique Arrowsmith Architectural Glass as soon as you get back from Antigua, and I’ll make you an equal partner. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.’
‘I’m perfectly happy with things the way they are,’ I protested. ‘And we’re going to live to a ripe old age together, working and having fun like we used to. Look how much better you are now.’
‘I hope we do, darling, though let’s face it, I’m never going to be the man I was,’ he said. ‘I want you to have security if anything should happen to me, because there’s a whole bright future ahead of you, while my glory days are all in the past.’
‘From someone who’s just designed a spectacular rose window for Gladchester Chapel, that’s a bit rich,’ I said, and he laughed, like an echo of the old Julian.
‘Do change your mind about this will business,’ I coaxed him.
‘I know what I want – and what’s fair,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll get Mr Barley to draw up the will and then bring it over to be signed.’
I was still deeply troubled, but he had that stubborn expression and I didn’t want to provoke him. I made some coffee and got out the biscuit tin, then changed tack.
‘Julian, I really don’t think I should have let you persuade me to go off to Antigua, leaving you alone,’ I began. ‘What if—’
