grass and through the French windows of Atlantic House’s kitchen.
Greg and Francis were reading their respective papers.
‘Careful,’ said Greg crossly as Connie shook her dripping cardigan. ‘You’ll get my paper soggy.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Pru, handing her wet sweatshirt to Francis, who carefully draped it on the Aga. ‘You two need to find a plumber. Daddy’s quite happy for us to get the plumbing system overhauled.’
‘Who’s paying?’ asked Greg suspiciously.
‘Well he hasn’t said as much but Daddy, of course! We’re just supervising,’ said Pru, sitting down. ‘Right, Connie. You and I shall spend the day in Truro looking at paint. Maybe some new cushions.’
‘We could do with new loo brushes,’ Francis chipped in.
‘Good idea.’ Pru smiled. ‘Connie, make a list.’
*
Truro was wet and grey. Holidaymakers shuffled about staring into shop windows before sitting in overcrowded cafés with their anoraks gently steaming.
The sisters found a parking spot in Lemon Street and made a dash for Marks and Spencer. They enjoyed their browse round the store and then went on to a very smart interior design shop where they chose several cushions and collected some paint and wallpaper samples. Then they drifted through a couple of boutiques, each buying small holiday essentials that neither husband need know about.
Over a late lunch at Mannings restaurant, their conversation turned to their parents and Atlantic House.
‘The whole place could do with redecorating. It hasn’t been touched since Mum did it up all those years ago.’ Connie took a sip of her Pimm’s.
‘That’s the trouble with older people: they get so stuck in their ways,’ Pru replied through a mouthful of focaccia.
‘Mummy’s still quite with it. She’s not seventy yet. Mind you, Daddy is starting to show his age. Have you noticed how he’s slowed down? And he can’t hear anything.’
Pru sipped her red wine. ‘Yep.’ She tapped at the side of her head. ‘Still all there though. But I’m worried about him driving.’
‘Me too.’
The waitress came with their food and they dived in. Sharing each other’s dishes and enjoying their own company. As the plates were cleared away, and the atmosphere grew warmer, Pru felt it was a good time to bring up the subject of their parents’ will.
‘Now, Connie,’ Pru dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, ‘when Mum and Dad are no longer with us, I want you to know that you can come to Atlantic House, and stay in The Bungalow, whenever you want. It’ll still be your home.’
Connie looked up sharply. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You and Greg and Abi will always be welcome. I don’t want any awkwardness between us.’ Pru beamed at her.
Connie felt cold inside.
‘Has Daddy or Mummy told you they are leaving Atlantic House to you?’
‘No, not in so many words. But I am the elder child – and you have Greg, who’s virtually running the family business. I shan’t be interfering in that.’
Connie shook her head a couple of times. ‘Hang on. You think you’re getting the house and The Bungalow, outright, while Greg runs the company yet doesn’t own it?’
‘Well, the shareholders own it, of course. But I’m sure Daddy will hand his shares over to Greg at some stage, so you’ll be set up.’
‘Set up?’
‘Yes. Comfortably off, with a Cornish bungalow that you can holiday in at any time.’
‘No, no. Not this time, Pru. You always want what’s mine, but you are not taking Atlantic House from me.’
Pru sat back in her chair and looked at her sister contemptuously. ‘I have two words to say to you, Connie. Grow. Up.’
Connie raised her voice, causing other diners to turn and stare. ‘Oh, not this again! Grow up? Let me remind you, you were the childish one, always taking the best of everything. Always wanting whatever I had. The blue bedroom, for instance.’
‘Yes. And you, Miss Bloody Self-righteous, you’re not so squeaky clean yourself, are you? We all know what you’re capable of when “poor baby sis” can’t get what she wants,’ spat Pru.
‘Oh! Now who needs to grow up! We were barely more than kids – I did you a favour!’
‘A favour? How dare you!’
‘I’ll tell you one thing, you are not having Atlantic House, I shall make damn sure of that. And if you think I’m going to let Daddy spend good money putting in new curtains and getting the old house up to scratch for you to enjoy, you have another think coming.’
*
The journey home was frosty, to say the least. Both women were on the edge of a precipice where their relationship was concerned. Neither of them wanted to acknowledge that the appearance of Merlin might have had something to do with it.
As soon as they got back to the house, Connie went in search of Greg. She found him playing with his bloody emails again. He hurriedly put the laptop lid down and smiled innocently.
‘Darling! Cup of tea? How was Truro?’
Connie ran into his arms and started to sob.
‘I love this house.’ She rubbed her dripping nose on Greg’s shoulder and turned her face towards his. ‘Pru can’t take it away from me.’
Nonplussed, Greg kissed her nose and reassured her. ‘Course she’s not going to take this house from you. In fact, do you want the good news, or the good news?’
She stopped crying and held his hand tight. ‘The good news, please.’
He smiled. ‘I’ve found a plumber. And he’s here right now, looking at the boiler.’
Connie became demented, shouting, ‘Stop him, stop him!’ She ran into the hall and on to the stairs. ‘We are not doing any repairs until we’ve sorted out who is going to get this house.’
Greg ran after her and pulled her back. ‘It’s too late.’
A Cornish voice sounded from the top of the stairs: ‘I’ve done a temporary job on the thermostat. I’ll be back tomorrow to put the new parts in and then I’ll make a start on the rest of the house.’
A familiar, sunburnt face leaned over the banisters. ‘Hello, Connie. I’m working as a plumber now. Greg and I have been having a good old chat about the old days.’
Connie watched aghast as Merlin descended the stairs.
Greg was beaming. ‘Top man, Merlin.’
‘My
