Page 42

42

Layla

I’m surrounded by paper. I’m sitting on the floor in Luca’s living room with everything that Grandad had at the Village. Documents upon documents, upon even more documents that had been stuffed into boxes that Luca pulled from his Range Rover.

That Sunday night was…everything I could have wanted and more. We talked, we made love, we slept. That was two weeks ago, and we have existed in a delirious bubble since then and have found a new normal. We have laughed, loved, and lived in a world where it has just been the two of us.

I’ve even officially got a spot, on the chaise lounge in the master bedroom looking over the sights of London. I spend my time reading, whilst Luca manages his empire from his office and plots someone’s demise.

But he has remained close.

I haven’t woken at 4 a.m. screaming, and I haven’t been to work.

Not because I’ve quit my job. Well, I’ve not quit the doctor’s surgery. I am, however, taking time off whilst Luca gets to the bottom of everything, today is the first day the apartment is quiet, he left at the crack of dawn to do God knows what.

As for me, with the exception of visiting Grandad, I remain on house arrest. But he has finally allowed me to reschedule the meeting with the lawyer. Which is tomorrow.

Katy walks into the room holding two glasses of wine. She’s my reinforcements to stop the overwhelm.

“Katy, its 4 p.m.”

“And…we have a lot of reading to do. Is that everything?”

“Yeah, I think so. Oh, wait, hang on, I think there was one more envelope. It’s in my bag, in the kitchen.”

The one thing I had left at the care home, which Sylvia had given me on the Monday after it all had gone to shit.

She places the wine glass down on the table then goes to hunt for it.

I pick up a document and start reading, but my eyes are already bleeding, the words blur together into an incoherent jumble.

“Got it.” She waves the manila envelope and passes it to me followed by the wine, which I gratefully sip turning back to the document.

Last will and testament of Sarah Johnson and Martin Johnson.

“So final,” I say as I stare at the bold font on the page. “I swear when I write one of these, I’m putting it on scented paper with unicorns and rainbows. It’s so depressing.”

I let the paper fall into my lap then pick up the envelope.

“Why do you think it’s sealed?” I ask, turning it over. It looks like a bog-standard envelope, brown, A3 and fat, like it’s been stuffed to the brim, cello tape seals it shut. It’s not addressed, and the tape has started coming away at the ends, the once clear plastic yellowing at the edges.

The envelope edges are curled and crinkled like it's been shoved at the bottom of the box and forgotten about.

“Only one way to find out,” Katy says, picking up papers, reading them, then placing them in piles. “Four piles.” I look at her. “Will, bills, deeds, and random shit. That pile is the biggest. It’s a jumbled mess.”

“Thanks for helping.”

“Don’t mention it.” She waves me off. “Besides, being in this penthouse is better than sitting on marketing calls trapped in a sodding premier inn .”

“How’s Roman?” I ask, partly to wind her up, partly because I want to know the gossip. “Still having mind-blowing sex with little cock?”

“No comment,” she says but the sheepish grin and flush on her chest suggests she is. “And I thought I debunked him having a small cock.” She makes a shape with her hand, depicting the size, ( lengthy) and girth ( plenty) and I laugh.

I pull the tape; it comes away easily and open the envelope. “Oh, jolly good, more paper.” While fishing out additional documents, I dislodge the bulk from the jammed envelope and shake out the remaining contents, revealing a folded paper and a small black key.

Katy takes one of the documents that has come out and goes silent as she reads. I sip my wine, as her face loses all colour.

“Why do you look like your insides have just fallen out your vagina?” I ask, unease uncurling in my stomach.

“Look at this article.” She passes me the piece of paper, a newspaper article, where the headline reads.

Car Accident kills three.

“Three? But there were only two,” I say, frowning,

“Not according to that article, it says there were three people.”

I read the newspaper clipping. “A pedestrian was killed as well? How have I never known that?”

“Maybe your grandad was protecting you whilst you were in the hospital.”

“I guess that makes sense. With his dementia, maybe he had forgotten. He was grieving just as much as me at the time.”

She goes quiet and frowns, reading another piece of paper. “I think you need to read this.”

I take it and see my mother’s messy handwriting. Swallowing a huge lump, I struggle with a sudden bout of nausea. Everything suddenly feels very bright.

With shaking hands, I turn it over.

To our beloved Layla,

Please forgive us.

We love you always.

Mum x

345 Chiswick High Road

London

W4 4HS

Box 541

Passcode 872695124QE74

I pick up the key like it’s a spider. “Who does that? Who leaves a mysterious letter and a-a fucking key?”

“Erm, it would seem your parents, that’s who.” Katy grabs her phone and types in the address and holds up her screen. “Metropolitan Safe Deposits. Come on!” She grabs her bag and fishes out her car keys.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re going to see what the key opens, obviously.”

“Obviously,” I reply not moving, but she stands up.

“What are you waiting for?”