‘Chelsea, London?’ says Dido, her mouth hanging open.
‘Yes.’
‘As in Made In?’
‘Yes,’ Libby says again. ‘By the river. It’s huge.’
‘Are you winding me up?’
She shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says.
‘Oh my God,’ says Dido. ‘So you’re basically a millionaire?’
‘I guess.’
‘And yet here you are, at Northbone Kitchens on a Tuesday morning, acting like a normal person.’
‘I’m letting it sink in.’
‘God, Libby, if I were you I would be letting it sink in right now drinking champagne in the garden at St Michael’s Manor.’
‘It’s twenty to nine.’
‘Well, tea then. And Eggs Benedict. What on earth are you doing here?’
Libby feels her seams loosen and begin to come apart at the thought that she need not be here, that the sturdy ladder she’s been gripping on to for dear life has just dissolved into a heap of golden coins, that everything has changed.
‘I only found out yesterday! I haven’t sold it yet,’ she says. ‘I might not be able to.’
‘Yeah, right, because nobody wants a house in Chelsea overlooking the Thames.’
Roughly six or seven million pounds. That was the estimate that the solicitor had given her yesterday when she’d finally got up the nerve to ask. Minus, he’d said, expenses and fees owed to the firm. And then there would be inheritance taxes to pay. You’ll end up with about three and half million, he’d said. Or thereabouts.
He’d given her a high five. Confused her with a young person like the ones he read about in the newspapers. It had been quite disconcerting.
‘It’s in a bad state,’ Libby says, now. ‘And it has a history.’
‘History?’
‘Yes. Some people died there. A bit shady. Distant relatives.’ She was about to mention the baby left behind in the cot but stopped.
‘No way!’
‘Yeah. All a bit shocking. So for now I’m just going to act like everything’s normal.’
‘You’re going to keep on selling kitchens? In St Albans?’
‘Yes,’ says Libby, feeling her equilibrium start to rebalance itself at the thought of nothing changing. ‘I’m going to keep on selling kitchens in St Albans.’
8
Marco and Lucy spent the night on the beach in the end. The rain had stopped at about 2 a.m. and they’d gathered their things and walked the twenty minutes across town to the Promenade des Anglais where they’d unrolled their yoga mats on the wet pebbles, tucked themselves under sarongs and watched shreds of spent grey rain clouds chase each other across a big pink moon until the sun started to leak through the line between the sea and the sky.
At eight o’clock Lucy collected together all the cents from the bottom of her rucksack and the bottom of her purse and found she had enough to buy croissants and a coffee. They ate them on a bench, both stultified by lack of sleep and the awfulness of the night before. Then they’d walked back across town to Samia’s flat to collect Stella, and Samia had not invited them in for lunch despite the fact that it was midday and they had clearly not slept in beds. Stella had been bathed and redressed in clean clothes, her soft curls brushed out and pinned back with pink fluffy clips and, as they walked back across town yet again, Lucy pondered that it probably looked like she and Marco had kidnapped her.
‘I can keep her for another night,’ Samia had said, her hand on Stella’s shoulder. Lucy had seen Stella shrug against Samia’s hand, almost imperceptibly, a tiny shake of her head.
‘That’s kind of you, but I’ve found us somewhere to sleep tonight.’ She’d felt Marco’s eyes burning into her shoulder at her lie. ‘But I am so, so grateful to you. Really.’