“Can I be honest?”
I hesitantly zone back to Jo. “Of course.”
“I don’t see us being friends when you leave.”
“Are we really friends now?”
Her sad smile throws me. “No, and I guess we never were. We were always just … flatmates.”
We look at each other until she gets up and walks back into the house. A little lighter, I notice.
I wonder if she’s right. There was a time I’d assumed we were friends—or at least, that she wanted to be my friend. I have her number saved in my phone. We had dinner out together; she picked what I wore for my first adult date; we went to a club where she asked me to stay when I said it might be time for me to leave. But maybe the prerequisites for making friends, real friends, aren’t that simple.
I look at Jo’s empty seat and accept that whilst her confession was sad, it doesn’t break my heart.
* * *
An hour later, I answer Mum’s call.
“Maddie, you need to come home,” she says. “Can you come right now?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your father’s solicitor is here.”
“What?” No. There can’t be more debt. I don’t have any money left. “Why? I paid the last council tax arrears earlier this year! I wrote the date and reference number down somewhere. Tell him there are no more outstanding bills; I checked with everyone.”
“Maddie, the solicitor is here to read your father’s will,” she says. “It’s not about bills. Come now, please, and he says bring ID. Jump on the first train.”
* * *
Mr. Ackah, Dad’s solicitor, is a tall man with graying hair, oval glasses, and a dark suit. I’ve never seen him before in my life. He offers his condolences and takes a seat on the sofa opposite where Mum sits. James is sat at the dining table.
I’ve chosen to remain by the door. “I didn’t even know Dad had a lawyer or had written a will.”
“You didn’t?” Mr. Ackah says.
“No, I … I don’t think he has anything.”
“He invested some money a decade ago, and it’s been growing in interest since.”
Mum sits up straighter.
“You’ll be splitting that with us,” James says quickly.
“Will I? Maddie will get a little bit, of course—she has spent a lot of money on this family, but I’ll need the rest. I need financial help in Ghana,” she says. “It’s not free to live and work there and you are both financially secure enough.” James’s jaw locks. “What?” she says, looking at us in turn. “It is only money; you both should not be so attached to this Earth’s material things. Matthew six, verse nineteen.”
Un-fucking-believable.
Mum turns back to Mr. Ackah. “So, how much is there?”
He looks at me. “Can I confirm your name is Madeleine Wright and you are the daughter of George Wright?”
My tongue feels dry. “Yes, I am.”
“Did you bring some form of identification?”
I give him my passport.
“Good, good.”
“What’s going on with the money then?” Mum asks.
Mr. Ackah looks at her over the top of his oval glasses. “He’s left it all to Madeleine. Fifty thousand pounds.”
The room begins to spin and both Mum and James look at me.
“What?” Mum says. “All of it?”
“Yes, all of it,” he answers. “Now, Madeleine, due to the amount, you need not pay inheritance tax. If you need further help regarding what you’d like to do next, you can contact me at any time. Your father was very fond of you. I’m sorry that he is no longer with us, but I hope you know that he wanted you to be well taken care of.”
I pull my jumper away from my neck. “But I don’t understand,” I tell him. “Isn’t the money for everyone?”
“Your father was adamant it was left solely in your name,” he says. “I chose not to ask any questions, and I suspect you all know why he might have done this better than I do. He was well enough, according to his doctor, a Doctor…” He checks a piece of paper. “Emmanuel Appong, who declared him of sound body and mind when he drafted this will. I believe it had been a year after his diagnosis when he signed it and his condition was still stable.” Mr. Ackah removes his glasses. “Madeleine, you can of course do as you please, but this money is now yours. Your father didn’t have anything else.”
I stand there silent but hear James say, “What’s wrong, Mum?”
I turn and notice she looks blindsided by the news.
James, however, is smiling, resting his hand on her shoulder. “You’re not upset about not getting the money, are you?” he says, and his gold tooth glints. “After all, you shouldn’t be so attached to this Earth’s material things. Matthew six, verse nineteen.”
Chapter Forty-two
“Have you decided what you’re going to spend the money on?” Nia asks.
I’m speed-walking through Shoreditch trying not to bump into anyone as I speak through my earphones and follow Google Maps at the same time.
“I thought maybe I could donate some of the money to a Parkinson’s disease charity, but there are so many. I need to keep researching.”
“That’s a really nice idea, Mads,” she says. “How’s James taking the news? Must be a bit of a blow.”
“I think he was upset, but he knows he wasn’t around when I was dealing with a lot.”
“Good, as he should,” Nia replies. “Are we still on for viewing the flats on Saturday? We’ve got two in Brixton and one in Crouch End, which is kind of far but looks really nice.”
I smile, remembering Avi once suggested I move to Crouch End. “It’s not far,” I tell Nia. “Oh, I can see the burger place and Sam is sitting at the window. He’s seen me; I have to go. I’ll see you on Saturday.”
“See you on Saturday.”
* * *
“Okay,” I say, swallowing a mouthful. “This is the best burger I’ve ever had.”
“I told you.”
“Could you look a little less smug?”
Sam, in jeans and a knitted gray jumper, scratches where his beard is growing and says, “This is me trying, so no?”
“Regardless, thank you for bringing me here. I had no idea this place existed.”
This burger bar tucks itself into a corner in Shoreditch. It’s decorated like a cabin, with framed photos on the wall and a bar at the front. The lights are low and our window looks out onto the street and a corner section of Old Spitalfields Market.
“My pleasure,” he says. “Are OTP happy to have me?”
“Extremely. They didn’t think they’d get you, we know we didn’t offer the most money.”
“You still offered a lot, and I liked Thea’s art direction the most.”
“Penny thinks your decision had something to do with me.”
“That would be highly unethical—let’s leave it at that,” he says, smiling. “I am still a little surprised you messaged me.”
“Really?”
“You seemed concerned about my history with Jo.”