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SIX WEEKS BEFORE THAT THURSDAY

Marina

Marina’s first job interview in nearly seven years was not going well.

“I can give you six nights a week,” Henri, the restaurant owner, was saying as they sat in his cramped office behind the kitchen. “Dinner service, it’s our busiest time.”

“I’m not sure I can do that. I’ve got three kids. I was hoping you’d have availability for lunchtime. Or part time? Sundays?”

“I need six nights a week.”

Marina thought of all the bedtimes she would miss. The bath times. The story times. How much childcare would cost.

“What’s your pay scale?” she asked.

“For prep cook—minimum wage.”

“Prep cook?” Marina looked at the papers lying on Henri’s desk. “Maybe you’ve misread my CV. My last position was chef de cuisine.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“I...took a break. To have children.”

“And who hires a part-time head chef? This is not a nursery school. I need my kitchen to be a well-oiled machine. The job is prep cook, six nights a week, minimum wage. Take it or leave it.” He looked at his watch.

On her way back through the kitchen she paused momentarily, absorbing the heat, the scents, the bustle of white-clad employees preparing for the dinner service—commis, chefs de partie, sous chef, each with their own roles and expertise, the chef de cuisine at the head of them all. This had been her world: the place where she felt most at home.

Beside her, the deep fat fryer was heating up in readiness for the evening’s frites. Marina, clutching her useless CV, had a sudden vision of herself grabbing a block of ice from the freezer, running across the kitchen, and tossing it into the hot oil.

She imagined how the surface of the oil would ripple, and then erupt, the ice turning instantly to steam and sending plumes of lethal oil into the air. The resulting fireball explosion, the screams, the chaos, the burns.

A well-oiled machine, indeed.

She blinked. Shook her head. Where had that come from? A prep cook, slicing potatoes, was staring at her.

“Sorry,” she said, and left in a hurry.

* * *

“One hundred and eighty-six pounds,” her mother was saying, as Marina helped her unpack her Waitrose bags. “And fifty-two pence. I said to the cashier, I have brought up two children, and I never. The price on everything has gone up.”

“I know, Mum.”

“And seventy-four pounds yesterday in Mark’s! I don’t know how anyone raises a family.”

Well , thought Marina. I usually make everything myself, or failing that, I go to Aldi .

But she knew better than to suggest that. She put away a packet of microwave pilaf rice.

“The fruit alone. Blueberries,” her mother added, significantly.

“The kids are fine with cut-up apples and carrots.”

“Don’t be silly. They need their antioxidants.”

“I’ll transfer over some money,” she said, doing the calculations and trying to work out where she’d get it from. Jake was supposed to send child support payments, but he hadn’t managed a full one yet, and she dreaded having to get in touch with him to demand more. His new girlfriend kept on answering his phone.

“I know it’s expensive with all of us living here,” Marina added. “I’m sorry that the job interview didn’t work out.”

“Nonsense. Your father wouldn’t hear of you handing over a penny.”

“I appreciate it, Mum. I really do.”

“It’s fine.” Her mother put away a six-pack of premade smoothies. “Children do waste an awful lot of food these days, though.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I bought two liters of milk and I had to pour half of it down the drain.”

“I did say that Lucy Rose doesn’t like it plain.”

“Children need their milk.” Mum shut the fridge decisively. “Anyway, it’s not for much longer.”

Marina paused while folding up a reusable shopping bag. “What...do you mean by that, Mum?”

“I just mean that you’ve made your point.”

“What point is that?”

“That you’re upset with him. For his mistakes. I was saying it to your father last night. ‘Andrew,’ I said, ‘any day now she’s going to decide that she’s punished Jake enough, and she’ll see sense and go back to him.’”

“Mum.” She clutched the bag. “We had to sell the house. Someone else is living in it now. Where am I supposed to go back to?”

“That was a mistake, selling the house. Your father said so when it happened.”

“At the time,” Marina said, trying to stay calm, “I explained that it was the only way we could raise the money to pay our creditors.”

Jake’s creditors.

“With property prices as they are, you’ll never find a place with four bedrooms. Still, as your brother pointed out, Ewan doesn’t need his own room yet and when he’s a bit older, he and Archie can share.”

Her parents’ North London semi had three bedrooms, but Marina was sharing her old room with all of the children because her mother liked to keep her brother Neil’s old room free in case the twins stayed over.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t afford to buy any house, certainly not at the moment. I don’t quite understand what you think I’m planning to do. If you need me to leave, then I understand. Maybe I can stay with Neil and Sally for a little bit. Or find a place to rent,” she added doubtfully. “I’ll keep looking for jobs.”

“You said you were going to sort things out with Jake.”

“I—no, Mum, I don’t think I said that?”

“You certainly did. I was sitting right there when you said it. And I haven’t rushed you, because like I said to your father, ‘Andrew, she needs time to lick her wounds. Her pride has been hurt, and that’s important to a woman.’ And of course you’re always welcome in our home, darling, for as long as you want to be here. But the children need their father, and you need to get back to your life.”

What life was that?

“I have sorted it out,” said Marina. “I’ve got divorced.”

A cataclysmic silence fell across the kitchen.

“Divorce” was a dirty word in the house she’d grown up in. It was spoken in a whisper, like “cancer” or “voted for the Green Party.” Her parents had been married for forty years and Marina had never heard them raise their voices with each other. Her father’s parents were married for over sixty years and had died within weeks of each other. You could use a photo of Marina’s older brother Neil and his wife Sally as an illustration for a Wikipedia entry on “marital bliss.” Or at least “comfortable tedium.”

Marina’s mother had never quite lived down the humiliation of her own mother having married three times, but at least Nana Sylvia had had the sense to wait until each husband had died before starting over.

Mum’s face went white, then red.

“What do you mean,” she said.

“It’s final. I got the email last week.”

“This is nonsense,” her mother said. “You don’t buy a divorce online, like it’s from Amazon.”

“I have a lawyer. She filed the petition for me and dealt with the settlement. It’s just the decree absolute that’s come by email.”

“Why don’t I know anything of this?”

“You didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Because it’s—” Her mother caught herself, and shook her head. “What does Jake think of this? Surely he doesn’t stand for it?”

“Jake’s living with his pregnant girlfriend in Neasden.”

Mum’s lips thinned. “First my mother dies, and I have to handle all the legal brouhaha, and then you put this on me? On the same day when we are meeting to hear my mother’s will?”

“I’m upset about Nana Sylvia too.”

“I’ll have to talk to your father about this,” said Mum, leaving Marina to unload the dishwasher.

In movies, women who got divorced behaved in predictable ways. They went on yearlong spiritual journeys to find themselves, or they held wild and sassy celebrations with all their girlfriends, or else they lay alone on a sofa and wept and ate chocolate ice cream out of the container. Marina couldn’t do any of these things. Even if she didn’t have responsibilities, she certainly couldn’t afford a year doing nothing but trying exotic cuisine and living in ashrams. A party here in London would have been nice, but she didn’t have any girlfriends anymore, let alone sassy ones. Her work friends had moved on, and all the PTA moms who she used to spend time with had dropped her as soon as she got divorced. And what mother of three was able to spare the time to lie on a sofa and weep?

She did feel like eating chocolate ice cream, but her mother only believed in vanilla.

No: since the divorce came through, the only thing Marina really wanted to do was to talk to her grandmother.

She adored Nana Sylvia. Always had, since she was a little girl and used to dress up in Nana’s fancy clothes and have tea parties with her antique porcelain. She was a sympathetic ear, a wicked laugh, a subversive comment. She hated hypocrisy, she was extroverted and charming (when she wanted to be), she didn’t suffer fools. She wore bright colors and ridiculous hats, talked loudly in public about sex, and only did housework when she felt like it. She was everything that Marina knew she could never be, but secretly wanted.

And she was Marina’s biggest supporter. She went to every school play, every piano recital, every sporting event. Most importantly, she had taught Marina about fine food and wine. When Marina wanted to study cooking in Paris, Nana Sylvia had paid her tuition and her travel. When Marina got her first job in a trendy London bistro, Nana Sylvia ate there every chance she got and always sent her compliments to the chef.

The only thing that Marina had ever done that Nana Sylvia didn’t approve of was getting engaged to Jake Faulkner. Nana Sylvia admired the ring then took her aside and said, “He’s not good enough for you, dear. No one is. But he’ll do for a first, and he’ll make beautiful children. You can wear my dress.”

And now...she was gone. Massive fatal stroke while on a Caribbean cruise. They’d had to fly her body from St. Lucia.

“And,” Marina’s mother had said, “to add insult to injury, the company won’t even refund the price of the unused portion of the cruise.”

Marina’s phone rang and she snatched it up, hoping it was Henri with a better job offer, or Jake offering money, or Nana Sylvia saying she wasn’t really dead and it was all an elaborate prank.

But it wasn’t. It was Lucy Rose’s nursery ringing to say she had to pick her daughter up because she’d bitten one of the other children again.

* * *

My assets are to be liquidated, my house in Richmond to be sold, and the estate to be split evenly into quarters: one quarter to my daughter Alexandra; one quarter to her son Neil; one quarter to my granddaughter Marina; and one quarter to my surviving niece Gabriella, or to her heirs if one of her lethal illnesses actually turns out to exist .

However, if (and only if) my granddaughter Marina has divorced, the preceding clause is null and void. If Marina has divorced and is unmarried at the time of my death, my house, all it contains, and all my assets are bequeathed entirely to her. I only apologize, my darling, that you will have to deal with the Andersons who are endlessly building that monstrosity next door .

“You get the whole thing? All of it?”

“That house has to be worth at least seven million in today’s market.”

“Seven and a half, easy. I have twins to send to school. How am I supposed to afford their fees now?”

“You go from a quarter share to all of it, just for getting divorced?”

“You’re being rewarded for failing.”

“Is this why you wouldn’t even try marriage counseling?”

“You’ve been sucking up to Sylvia for years.”

Marina finally snapped. “I love Nana Sylvia! I don’t want her house, or her money. I want her to be alive!”

“If you don’t want it, then you can sell it and split it, like she said.”

“That’s the fair thing to do. None of us have broken up our families.”

“I’d be cautious about what you say, Marina,” warned the lawyer.

“Did you know she was going to do this?”

“Of course not,” said Marina. “We never talked about her dying. She was always too full of living.”

“You must have known something. The two of you were always chattering.”

“My own mother. I can’t believe it. This is just like her.”

“My favorite aunt! She knew I need private medical care. And what did she mean, ‘actually turns out to exist’?”

“What about everything that’s in the house? There are some valuable pieces in there. The piano? The art? The dueling pistols alone are worth a hundred grand.”

“It just doesn’t seem fair that your children get everything and mine get nothing. Surely she didn’t mean that?”

“Would it be against the will if Marina sold the house and split the money anyway?”

Marina hadn’t meant to sit on the side, apart from the rest of the family, but now she looked at the row of accusing faces and wondered how they could think about money at a time like this.

“Marina can do what she likes with it,” said the lawyer. “It’s hers.”

“See, Marina? I know a great estate agent.”

“I want to live in the house,” said Marina.

Everyone stared at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But the children and I don’t have a house to live in. And I love Nana Sylvia’s house. It reminds me of her. It’s full of her things. I could never sell it.”

“You could buy a huge house in the suburbs with a quarter of what that house is worth!”

“You could buy a new build. It wouldn’t need so much upkeep. For a single woman on her own, these things are important.”

“I never asked her for a penny. Never once. This is how she repays me?”

“I’m keeping the house,” said Marina. “I’m sorry.”