Conditional Love by Cathy Bramley Page B

dropped the chicken wrap back into its bag, gulped down my mouthful and flailed around in my mind for some words.
    ‘Please. Call me Sophie.’
    ‘If you insist.’
    Righty-o, I’ll call you Mr Whelan then.
    ‘How long have I got to make up my mind?’
    There was a pause. He was probably wondering what on earth I’d been doing for the last eight weeks. I could ask myself the same question.
    ‘There’s no immediate rush, I suppose,’ came the reply, followed by a chuckle. ‘Although I was planning on retiring at sixty-five.’
    I joined in half-heartedly with the joke, but as I could never tell men’s ages, I didn’t fully commit. He could be forty-six or sixty-four. Plus he had a beard which made it even more difficult to guess.
    ‘I don’t know what to do,’ I said. ‘My friends say I shouldn’t touch the will with a bargepole and I haven’t dared tell my mum. She wouldn’t let me have anything to do with it.’
    I cringed at the sound of my own words. I sounded twelve not thirty-two.
    Donna stalked past, glaring at me. I clamped my phone between my shoulder and ear and pretended to type.
    ‘Do you always do as you’re told?’ He sounded amused, as if he didn’t believe it for a moment.
    ‘No, no of course not.’
    Yes. Now I thought about it, I don’t think I’ve disobeyed anyone for years.
    ‘My granddad used to have a saying, “If in doubt, do nowt.” Wise words I’d say, at least for the moment,’ the solicitor suggested. ‘But at some point you’ll have to make your mind up. This is about your future. Nobody else can make the decision for you.’
    Hmm, I considered the saying. What about a person who was permanently in doubt? Were they consigned to do nowt for the rest of their lives? I had a feeling that me and Granddad would have got along just fine.
    ‘By the way, I’ve finalised Mrs Kennedy’s finances. After fees and so on, there will be approximately twenty-five thousand pounds in her account. That would come to you as well as the bungalow.’
    The phone slid out from under my ear and clattered onto the keyboard. Twenty-five grand! I’d assumed it would be more like five!
    ‘Are you there, Miss Stone?’
    My mouth had gone dry and I slurped some water out of a bottle. I would have a house, money to do it up and if I added my own little nest egg to it… All of a sudden I had options. The architect’s solemn face appeared in my head. That was what he had said!
    ‘What would happen if I don’t accept my great aunt’s condition?’ My voice was little more than a croak.
    ‘Then the estate reverts to next of kin. Your father.’
     
    On the bus on the way home from work, I took out a pen and paper and wrote: ‘ Accepting the will’ . Underneath I drew a table with two columns: For and Against . Mr Whelan was right, this decision wasn’t going to go away and it was about time I faced it full on.
    Under For I wrote, ‘If I inherit Great Aunt Jane’s estate, my father can’t have it.’ Immediately adding under Against , ‘I will have to meet my father.’
    Next point. I would have my own home, enough money to feel secure and the means to change my life.
    I chewed the end of my pen and let that sink in. No more scrimping and saving, imagine that! I’d been building up my nest egg for so long that it had become a way of life. I would be able to relax about money. I might even buy myself a car. I would definitely stop wearing Tesco knickers.
    I frowned. With property and money came responsibility. I’d managed to dodge that for thirty-two years. If my life was a journey, so far I’d stayed firmly in the passenger seat. I added ‘responsibilities’ to the Against column.
    Now for a biggie: Mum. I wrote her name down in both columns. On the one hand, I’d have money to go and visit her more often and we could spend more time together. However, I wasn’t sure she would ever forgive me if I agreed to meet my father. She might even disown me. Then I’d have no one. All the