Page 2 of Maybe (Mis-shapes #1)

I didn’t even know if Ezra was gay. Conversations about sexuality only ever took place under our father’s roof in my head, involving me trying to talk myself out of mine.

Ezra’s life beyond his visits home during his boarding school holidays could have taken place on Mars for all he shared it with us.

Ezra himself had never hinted either way, and today, I was none the wiser.

Not unless he hid a pink mesh top underneath his grey overcoat, of the kind I used to dream of wearing but had never been brave enough because I wasn’t that kind of gay.

Sadly, the collar revealed a plain grey woollen sweater.

“Seeing as we’re running a fraction late, let’s get on, shall we?” Making himself comfortable behind his solid desk, David regarded us over the top of his reading glasses.

“Thank you for coming, both of you. And can I start by saying how sorry I am for your loss. Your father’s death must have come as a great shock. I acted for Sir Henry for quite a number of years and considered him a friend.”

“Thank you,” I said, automatically.

Languidly, Ezra crossed one lean, denim-clad leg over the other, his expression neutral.

David turned to him. “Ezra. As I explained to Isaac.” He glanced down at his papers.

“This meeting today isn’t a legal formality— as joint executors of Sir Fitz-Henry’s will, either myself or Isaac can do the first reading.

Or we don’t actually have to do one at all and we can all read it for ourselves.

Having said that, in practical terms, having us both here as we commence the process of probate and distributing his assets saves a lot of back and forth.

And to bring you up to speed, neither Isaac nor I have had a chance to go over the nuts and bolts of it yet. ”

He shuffled the bunch of documents. “I anticipate probate taking six to nine months, hopefully closer to six. We’re not expecting any surprises; Sir Henry kept his financial affairs in good order.

He showed great prudence, too, and always assured me his children would be well provided for.

We’ll start with the charitable bequests, shall we? ”

Since his rise to fame, my father had trodden a canny path between acts of great benevolence and self-serving aggrandisement.

Unsurprisingly, in death, he behaved no differently.

Hence, as David outlined, several Malawian hospitals would benefit from his largesse, but only on the proviso his name was written in neon lights above every newly built ward.

Working closely with my father’s favourite international charities, David assured us he would distribute the money equitably between them.

Thank fuck; no way did I have the space in my life for that.

Especially as, with his next breath, David informed me I’d been appointed to oversee a trust much closer to home, supporting medical students and young doctors pursuing careers in cardiac surgery.

“Seeing as you’re well on the way to becoming a cardiac surgeon yourself,” he explained, as though the Gods had decreed it.

Next to me, Ezra shifted slightly. “A bursary to the brightest and best brains pushing the frontier forward.”

While David droned on in legalese, I dared a glance at Ezra.

Heat rose up my neck as if, from one guarded look, my perverted schoolboy crush on my older brother would be embarrassingly obvious.

Or, worse, Ezra himself would catch me staring and say something clever and cutting in that laconic way he used to have, though rarely directed at me.

Neither of those things happened. David continued to drone, and Ezra examined his fingernails, painted black and chipped.

He wore several rings. One was a tarnished steel band with wolves prowling the rim, another a coiled snake, and another had two green stones set in it, like a pair of hungry eyes.

A small tattoo of a playing card— the joker—adorned the knuckle of his middle finger.

He looked bored, as though he was indulging us.

As if he had somewhere else he’d rather be.

Me too, buddy. Principally, my bed.

I felt a flash of annoyance, not helped by twenty-four hours without sleep.

Once upon a time, I’d thought we were friends.

I thought he liked me. I was his brother, for fuck's sake! Despite our four-year age gap, we’d bonded over a shared antipathy towards that difficult man otherwise known as our father, even if only one of us inherited his uninspiring blocky features and medium height.

Ezra’s mother, whom I’d never had the fortune to meet for the hellish reason we never, ever mentioned, must have been a willowy beauty.

“Now we come onto Sir Henry’s personal bequests.”

Again, Ezra shifted minutely in his seat.

David cleared his throat. “The bulk of his estate, in addition to the family’s primary residence in Richmond, will pass to his second wife, Lady Janice, along with his annuity pension and death in service pension, including the lump sum, the terms of which are set out on page 6, paragraph 2 of the NHS Business Authority’s guide to the NHS pension scheme.

I won’t waste everyone’s time by going through it here, but am happy to do so should you have any questions.

” He paused to take a sip of water and turn the page.

“Funeral costs will be deducted from their joint spending account, the balance of which sat at approximately ￡42,410 at the time of death. "

An amount more than covering the weekly Ocado shop.

“Sir Henry’s secondary residence—the flat in Chiswick, in which his son, Isaac, already resides,” at this point he briefly acknowledged me over the rim of his spectacles, “is bequeathed to Isaac, and indeed was placed in trust to him for tax mitigation purposes on his successful graduation from medical school, two years ago.”

A renewed flush of warmth came to my cheeks.

Steadfastly, I stared at my feet. Yep, I’d vouch I was the only junior doctor in London owning and occupying a two-bed mansion flat valued at just under a million quid.

I had a few friends, but rarely did I bring them home, especially after an evening in the pub listening to them fretting about rising rents, student debts, and professional exam fees.

“So now we come to the remainder of the estate: Sir Henry’s investment portfolio and savings accounts. His net worth has grown substantially over the last ten years, mostly due to shrewd investments in futures trading on the Malawian Commodities exchange.”

Corruption, in other words. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ezra smirk.

“As I’m sure Isaac is aware, following these profitable investments, provisions were made several years ago to mitigate further against inheritance tax by putting these assets in various family trusts.

Sir Henry wished these assets be divided between his children via the terms of the trusts, Isaac’s portion proportionally reduced in recognition of the gift of the Chiswick flat. ”

I nodded my understanding. Yep, not only did I own a flat worth twenty-five times more than my annual salary, but I was also about to inherit more money, washed clean from suspect origins, than a busy junior doctor could ever find time to spend.

And from a man I had grown to fear, dislike, and distrust in equal measure. I suspected Ezra felt the same way.

“The trusts will be managed at the discretion of Lady Janice, with the proviso that, until the twins turn twenty-five, Sir Henry’s children will receive a reasonable allowance from them and apply to Janice if larger sums are required.

For example, for the purpose of further university studies, car and property purchases, and so forth.

“Thus, accepting those terms, the remainder of Sir Henry Fitz-Henry’s estate will pass on the completion of probate and in the form of several reversionary trusts, to Sir Henry’s second son, Dr. Isaac Fitz-Henry, and to Sir Henry’s other children, the twins Edward and Saffron Fitz-Henry.

” He paused a beat. “So completes the terms of the will, made August 15th, 2023, and revised September 12th this year.”

Perhaps my exhausted brain had skipped a sentence. “You missed out Ezra’s name,” I said. “In the last bit. Or, sorry, did I miss it? Could you go over the final part again?”

“Hmm.” Deliberately, no doubt buying himself time, David turned a page, the flapping sound empty and final. Like a last full stop, bringing to a close a strange, selfish life lived to its fullest.

Next to me, Ezra sat very, very still.

“No,” said David gently. Removing his glasses, he pushed the papers aside.

“You didn’t miss anything. It seems… well…

it seems… your father wrote the terms in private; he did not seek my advice or assistance.

And it would appear Sir Henry chose not to include Ezra in his will.

There is an addendum explaining, if you wish to hear it. ”

I trembled with shock. “Of course I want to hear it!”

“It says, and I quote: Please note: it is my specific wish that my estranged son, Ezra Fitz-Henry, does not benefit in any way from my estate.”

A beat passed as I waited for more. None was forthcoming.

“Is that it? That’s the addendum?”

I couldn’t look at him. Ezra, not David. But if fury could be bottled, we’d be surrounded by tonnes of it, crackling around us like gamma radiation. My brother still hadn’t moved, although his lips twitched, almost as if he was laughing at the fucking horrificness .

“Is that it?” I screeched again. “It can’t be! What else has he written?”

Sitting back in his chair, David inhaled deeply. He rubbed his eyes.

“Surely, there must be more.”

I was pleading. I wanted David to say something, reveal another page explaining everything clearly.

Or that he’d mixed this last bit of our father’s will up with someone else’s.

David was a proper grown-up; this was his job.

“Surely there’s something we can do? Contest it or something?

I mean, clearly, this isn’t right. Ezra’s…

well, he was young, wasn’t he, when they fell out?

And he… my dad was his dad too! He adopted him!

We’re brothers! Perhaps Dad didn’t know where he was, or how to contact him.

Maybe all this time he thought he was… he was—he thought he was… I don’t know. Maybe he thought he was…”

“Dead?” For the first time since David had read out the terms of the will, Ezra looked at me properly. No warmth, no warmth in his eyes whatsoever. As if, I dunno, I was someone who’d stolen his rightful inheritance. “Nah. He knew where to find me.”

“But that can’t be right! Mr Trethowan?”

Sadly, David Trethowan shook his head.

Hot tears pricked my eyelids, and I got up and walked to the window.

Out on the street below, the joys of the town continued unabated.

Pedestrians marched busily up and down the narrow pavement; cars and vans and lorries and scooters stopped, started, slowed, and sped up.

And in the seat next to the one I’d just vacated, in the still, calm eye of the whirlwind, was Ezra Fitz-Henry.

Sir Henry’s adopted son from his first marriage.

My stepbrother. And my first and only love.

Calmly, Ezra rose to his feet in that graceful way he’d always had and buttoned up his coat. I’d forgotten how tall he was. And how erect he held himself, like an athlete. How proud. Even as a lanky teenager, he’d had an innate poise.

“I think it was our father’s little joke, Isaac.” He smoothed down his coat. “He must have planned this so carefully. It’s a shame he’s not here to witness it, don’t you think?”

The most composed person in the room, he nodded to David, who’d aged ten years in the time it took to read the will.

Then, uncoiling all the pent-up energy in those long limbs, Ezra darted towards me.

For a fleeting second, I had a dreadful feeling I might be on the receiving end of a punch. I deserved one.

Instead, those lips I’d dreamed of brushed against my ear, and his long fingers curled around my hip.

“Enjoy, brother.” He spoke low and deep, in a tone I expected serial killers might use seconds before garrotting their next victims. “And babe? Make sure you spend some of that grubby lucre on getting laid. You look like you could do with it.”