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‘I’ll see you at two o’clock then, Ms Jones. I look forward to meeting you.’
‘Well?’ Katie asks, as soon as I hang up.
‘I’m still none the wiser,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve got to go to his office this afternoon, take ID with me, and then he’ll tell me what it’s all about, allegedly. Seems a lot of faff for a china cat.’
‘It’s probably standard procedure,’ Grandad suggests, looking up from his morning paper. ‘It could only be a paperweight, for all we know, but if they accidentally give it to the wrong person then I guess they could still be in a lot of trouble.’
‘I just hope whatever it is isn’t too big,’ Nan chips in. ‘Imagine if it turns out to be a life-sized elephant statue or something like that. Where on earth would we put it?’
‘If it’s a life-sized elephant statue, I’ll take it straight to the tip, I promise you!’ I tell her, and she laughs.
* * *
Sevenoaks is not a town I know at all, beyond it being one of the places where the train stops between Paddock Wood and London. I always feel a bit sorry for the people who get on at Sevenoaks in the morning, because it’s the last stop before London Bridge, so there are never any seats left and they have to cram themselves into the doorways and down the aisles. I deal with the guilt of always getting a seat by reminding myself that their season tickets are probably a lot cheaper than mine. In the evenings, it’s the other way around, as they’re the first to pour off the coastbound train, and anyone who has been standing from London gratefully sinks into the vacated seats.
I manage to find a car park, but wince when I see how expensive it is. I have no idea how long this will take, but I reckon I ought to allow two hours. I check my purse, which only confirms what I already knew: I don’t have anywhere near enough cash to pay for the parking. With a couple of muttered oaths, I set about downloading yet another parking app to my phone (why can’t everyone use the same app? Would that be so difficult?) and registering myself on it. Finally, after around ten minutes of fiddling, I manage to pay the fee, but I’m now running short of time to get to the solicitors’ office. I’ve already put their postcode into the navigation app, so I set off at as brisk a pace as I can manage without actually running.
It takes about ten minutes to reach the offices of Moorhouse & Edgerley, and I’m sweating profusely by the time I get there. The building itself is everything I have always imagined a solicitors’ office to be; it’s imposing, with a brass plaque to one side of the double height door that simply states ‘Moorhouse & Edgerley, Solicitors’. I push open the inner door, and it’s like I’ve stepped into a different world. Outside, the sun is blazing on a hot summer day, but it’s cool and eerily quiet in here, with just the faintest whisper coming from the air conditioning system. My feet are sinking into the deep carpet, and I can just make out the aroma of freshly ground coffee. It oozes sophistication and class, and I feel totally out of place. Thankfully, I did at least make a bit of an effort, changing out of my jeans and T-shirt into one of my work suits. I’d love to remove my jacket and stand with my back to one of the air conditioning ducts, but this isn’t the sort of place where you can do that.
Tentatively, I approach the reception desk. The lady sitting behind it raises her eyes and smiles. I can’t tell if it’s a genuine smile or the sort of smile she reserves to get rid of lunatics, but it’s obvious that I’m not the normal sort of client they get in here.
‘Can I help you?’ I recognise the same cut-glass accent from before.
‘Yes, I’m Daisy Jones, and I have an appointment with Mr Moorhouse at two o’clock. I’m a couple of minutes late, I’m afraid. I had a bit of trouble parking the car.’
‘I’ll let him know you’re here, if you’d like to take a seat in the waiting area.’ She points out an area with a couple of sofas, some chairs, and a table with magazines arranged on it. I perch on one of the chairs and look around, as I hear her murmuring that I’ve arrived into the phone. The magazines are very different from the gossip mags that I enjoy leafing through at the hairdressers; these are editions ofCountry Life,Horse and Hound, and a couple of others that I don’t recognise. Copies of today’s broadsheet papers are also carefully laid out.
‘I’m very sorry.’ The receptionist’s voice takes me by surprise. The carpet in here is so thick I didn’t hear her approach. ‘Mr Moorhouse has asked me to inform you that he’s also running a few minutes late. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee while you wait?’
‘Actually, I’d love a glass of water, if that’s not too much trouble.’
‘Of course. Still or sparkling?’
‘Sparkling, please.’
She pads off as silently as she arrived, and reappears a few moments later holding a crystal tumbler filled with water.
‘I forgot to ask if you’d like ice and lemon, so I’ve added them anyway. Is that okay?’
‘That’s lovely, thank you.’ I take an appreciative sip of the water, which is cool and refreshing, and smile at her. She nods and disappears back to her desk.
It really is unnervingly quiet in here. Although the telephone rings frequently, the sound is muted and the murmur of the receptionist’s voice is so quiet that I can barely make out what she’s saying, even though she’s only a few feet away from me. I pick up one of the copies ofCountry Lifeand start leafing though. The first section is filled with enormous country houses and estates in Scotland for sale, and I have fun imagining myself living in each one and deciding what I’d change.
‘Ms Jones, I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting!’ I recognise Mr Moorhouse’s deep bass voice and look up to see a portly, white-haired man in an ill-fitting, pinstriped suit. The suit itself was probably expensive, but his gut is straining over the top of the trousers and there’s no way he’d be able to do up the jacket. I suspect he’s grown a bit since he bought it. Too many corporate lunches, probably.
‘Would you like to follow me?’ he continues. ‘Do bring your glass of water with you if you’d like to.’
I pick up my glass, and he leads me into a small meeting room, where a thick folder has already been placed on the table. There’s a label on it which reads ‘Frederick and Nora Jones’.
‘Take a seat, Ms Jones, and make yourself comfortable.’
Like the reception area, this room is pleasantly cool, and I decide to risk removing my jacket. I hang it on the back of the chair, and sit leaning forwards to maximise the flow of air around my back and hopefully dry out my blouse a bit.
Mr Moorhouse mirrors my actions and hangs his jacket too. I wonder if this is something he does with all his clients, to make them feel at ease.
‘Before we start, do you prefer Ms Jones or Daisy?’
‘Daisy,’ I reply. ‘Ms Jones sounds like someone at least twenty years older than me.’
