‘That fucking bastard!’ Rawdon held up his iPad so that Becky could see the Daily Mail article he’d been reading, then flung the device on the floor of the room in the Novotel on the outskirts of Paris where he and Becky had decamped after they’d done a moonlight flit from the fancy apartment.
‘Which fucking bastard are you talking about? Your father, your aunt or your brother?’ Becky asked calmly. Outwardly she was serene, but on the inside she was screaming like a wolverine.
‘My fucking father, he always hated me. Couldn’t stand that I might be better than him. A better actor, better looking … fuck him!’ The croissants that Becky had stolen from next door’s breakfast tray (served them right for leaving it outside their room) were Rawdon’s next victims as he hurled them out of the window. Then he went back to pacing. And ranting. Something about Pitt Junior and how he’d always broken Rawdon’s toys when they were little. ‘And Matilda. I loved her, Becky, I fucking loved her but what a vindictive bitch. She always said that she was going to leave her money to me. When someone makes a promise like that, you live your life in a certain way, with certain expectations. God, I’d have signed on for the big-bucks Hollywood blockbusters if she hadn’t said I was going to inherit her millions …’
Becky didn’t point out that Rawdon had said that he didn’t care about inheriting Matilda’s millions. After all, he’d said it when he’d married Becky, and yet, she was the one person that Rawdon hadn’t blamed for his current predicament. Which, really, was very generous of him.
‘Rawdy, darling, it can’t be good for you to charge around like that,’ Becky cooed, as she tapped his brother’s email address into her phone. ‘Why don’t you go and have a cigarette, clear your head.’
‘Fucking bastards!’ Rawdon snarled one final time, then he gathered up his Gauloises (an affectation that he still wasn’t in any hurry to drop) and headed for the door. ‘I’ll be back in ten.’
‘Take your time,’ Becky said sweetly and as the door slammed behind him, she let out a heartfelt sigh then turned back to her phone.
It would probably be better to send a handwritten letter, but her handwriting hadn’t progressed far beyond the childish block letters that she’d somehow managed to learn during her occasional visits to the primary school on Great Windmill Street, and her phone had spellcheck. Also, she wasn’t trusting this message to the postal service. It would take too long and time absolutely wasn’t on her side.
Dear Pitt
I hope you don’t mind that Briggs gave me your email address, but I wanted to write to offer you my condolences.
I am so sorry for your loss, both your losses. I know how fond you were both of Sir Pitt and Dame Matilda and I can’t begin to imagine how wretched you must feel. How lucky you are to have Jane as your partner. I’ll never forget how she stayed up into the night on Christmas Eve to make me that lovely red wool corsage so I’d feel like one of the family, rather than the hired help. And you too, Pitt, went out of your way to treat me kindly that Christmas at Queen’s Crawley.
So, I’m pleased that your kindness and your good heart has been rewarded. Rawdon is too. Honestly, he couldn’t be happier for you. His career is going from strength to strength (those stories in the paper are just malicious gossip) and I have my own very successful career as a social influencer and brand ambassador, so neither of us want for much.
I would really hate if any of this inheritance business came between you and Rawdy. Family is so important and Rawdon and the Crawleys are the only family I have, so it would break my heart if the two of you were to fall out over some imagined grievance.
With that in mind, would it be a terrible imposition if we came to see you and Jane at Queen’s Crawley? (Briggs mentioned that you’d decided to live there for the time being and give up your London flat.) I really think you and Rawdon should spend time together, to heal after the tragic deaths of Pitt and Mattie. But more than that, I would love to see the children. The poor poppets! They are the real victims in this, practically orphans since Rosa ran off with that masseur.
I hope that, in some small way, I might be able to offer them some comfort. It might sound unprofessional but I did grow to care for them very deeply when I was their nanny – so would love to be there for them in their hour of need.
We’re due to leave Paris any day now to travel to Mudbury for the funerals and, if at all convenient, would love to stay at Queen’s Crawley for a while. Not long enough to get on your nerves, I promise!
It will be so lovely to see you and Jane, get to know you properly, become a real family. That’s worth more than all that money.
Your loving sister
Becky xxx