Free Matilda's Last Waltz by Tamara McKinley

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    â€˜Jennifer?’
    John Wainwright was a short, round, prematurely balding Englishman, with rimless spectacles perched halfway down his long nose. The hand he offered was soft, like a woman’s, fingers ringless and tapered, nails perfectly manicured. He’d been Peter’s family solicitor for years but Jenny had never really taken to him.
    She followed him into his gloomy office and sat down in a highly polished leather chair. Her pulse was racing and she had the strongest urge to get up again and walk out. She didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to believe Peter’s secrecy, but knew that if she was to understand it, she must stay.
    â€˜I regret being so insistent, my dear. All this must be most distressing for you.’ He polished his glasses on a very white handkerchief, myopic grey eyes soulful.
    Jenny eyed the grey pinstripe suit, the stiff collar and discreet tie. Only a pom would wear such clothes in the height of an Australian summer. She forced a polite smile and clasped her hands in her lap. Her cotton dress was already clinging to her back. There was no air conditioning, no open windows, and a fly was buzzing overhead. She felt trapped. Suffocated.
    â€˜This shouldn’t take very long, Jennifer,’ he said as he selected a legal file and undid the red ribbon. ‘But I have to be sure you understand the full implications of Peter’s will.’
    He eyed her over his glasses. ‘I don’t expect you took it all in before, and there are other matters which have to be discussed now you’ve reached twenty-five.’
    Jenny shifted in the uncomfortable leather chair and eyed the jug of water on his desk. ‘Could I have a drink, please? It’s very hot in here.’
    He laughed, a tight, brittle sound that held nervous humour. ‘I thought you Australians were immune to the heat?’
    Pompous ass, she thought as she drank. ‘Thank you.’ She put the glass on the desk. Her hand was shaking so much, she almost dropped it. ‘Can we get on?’
    â€˜Certainly, my dear,’ he murmured. The spectacles were pushed up on the bridge of his nose and he steepled his fingers under his chin as he scanned the document. ‘As I told you before, your husband drew up his will two years ago when your son was born. There are several later codicils which are affected by your recent tragedy, but the gist of the will remains the same.’
    He looked up at her then, took off his glasses and gave them another polish. ‘How are you coping, my dear? Such a tragic business, losing both of them like that.’
    Jenny thought of the policeman at the door on that terrible morning. Thought of the embolism that had struck Peter so swiftly, and with such deadly accuracy. It had wiped out her family in one cruel blow, leaving only the mangled remains of the car they’d pulled from the gully at the base of the coast road leading towards home.
    They’d been twenty minutes away – and she hadn’t known, hadn’t felt anything until the police arrived. How could that be? she wondered for the hundredth time. How could a mother not feel the death of a child – a wife not experience some inner knowledge that all was not well?
    She twisted the engagement ring on her finger and watched the diamond spark in the sunlight. ‘I’ll be right,’ she said softly.
    He eyed her solemnly then nodded and returned to his papers. ‘As you already know, Peter was an astute investor. He took great care to protect his estate for his next-of-kin, and set up a series of trusts and insurances.’
    â€˜That’s what I find hard to understand,’ she interrupted. ‘Peter worked in a bank and had a few shares, but apart from the house which is mortgaged, and the partnership in the gallery, we had very few assets – let alone spare cash to gamble on the stock market. Where did all this money come from?’
    â€˜The insurance