‘You all got cheques?’ I ask, looking at the pages in my hand.No cheque.
‘Us girls…we all got the same amount. Are you telling me he left you nothing?’ Norah asks.
My eyes fall upon the words in front of me on the second piece of paper.Transfer of Deeds. Ownership. Ibiza. Oh. ‘He left me his house. His house in Ibiza.’
Phoebe shrieks. ‘The Casa de Clap?!’
‘PHOEBE!’ shouts Norah.
I nod slowly. ‘The very one.’
1
MAY
CHLOE
‘I like your hair like this, Miss Chloe…’ Rupa says.
I don’t know how to tell her that I’ve basically just washed it, which is why it looks reasonably healthy today. Rupa is the kindly lady who comes in after hours to clean the office and, given that I’m here past eight o’clock in the evening most days, she’s become an acquaintance. Actually, she’s more than that: she might be a friend of sorts. Rupa sometimes brings me dinner, sits and shows me pictures of her kids, and talks about how her diabetes makes her toes numb. I hate to admit it but it’s nice to chat to someone so warm, so different from the hipster wankers who normally fill this office and don’t even remember my name.
She puts a packet of sweet tea on my desk. ‘For you, Miss Chloe…’
‘Are you sure, Rupa?’ I ask.
She cups my face and nods, dragging her vacuum cleaner behind her as she goes into another office. She does this a lot, leaves me sweets, teas and snacks. I can’t understand the labels but I consume them all out of gratitude. I look at thescreen, studying my latest ideas for a new tender we’re bidding for. It’s everything the brief set out – sustainable, in symbiosis with the natural setting, using exciting, innovative materials. To see my sketches transformed on screen makes me incredibly excited, but I’m a perfectionist. I scan across Nancy’s terrible annotations that I need to correct. I want this to be right – to reflect my rigorous approach to my design work. I lean over, piercing the straw into my drink and sip it with my head rested against my hand. It’s some fragrant but extremely syrupy East Asian tea. It’s a tonic, mostly because it’s been ages since I remember drinking a packet drink like this through a straw, like a kid, pressing on the laminated cardboard to get the last dregs out.Thank you, Rupa. My eye catches my phone glowing in the corner of my desk.
Thank you for the pyjamas and all the colouring stuff, Aunty Chloe.
I smile. I open the message to see a picture of my nephew, Arlo, wearing his recently gifted pyjamas and holding his art haul aloft, with a big gappy four-year-old grin.
I’m sorry I missed the party. Was there cake?
Chocolate. But also sixteen other feral little shits. One of them peed in the fireplace.
Could have been worse, bro, he could have taken a dump in there.
The messages suddenly stop and my phone goes to video call. I can tell I’ve made my big brother, George, laugh and he wants me to hear his laughter.
‘I knew it. I had a bet going that you’d still be at work,’ he says, unimpressed as I come into view.
‘This isn’t the office, it’s one of those fancy background filters,’ I say. ‘I’m actually in a high-end bar. They piss in the fireplace here too once everyone’s done a round of cocaine and sambuca.’
He smiles, and I can see he’s studying my face.
‘Don’t tell me I look tired,’ I say, pre-empting George’s concerns.
‘I was going to say you looked sprightly and full of the joys of spring.’
‘Don’t be a sarcastic tit either.’
He takes in the empty office behind me. ‘If I can say it out loud, I often call you at this time and you’re usually at work, sitting in that same fancy swivel chair. It’s not healthy, Chloe.’
‘I am very healthy, thank you. I eat fruit, I do yoga,’ I retort, noticing that the office lighting makes me look like a strung-out zombie.
‘At home. Off a YouTube video,’ George replies. ‘You’re twenty-five, Chlo, you work in Shoreditch. You should be in that high-end bar, you should be getting bendy with other people in the room.’
I arch my eyebrows. ‘You’re talking about the yoga, yeah?’
