The Ardmore Inheritance by Rob Wyllie (reading the story of the .txt) 📕

'Is she right Rory?' Kirsty Macallan said, suddenly sounding alarmed. 'Shouldn't we at least consider this agreement, to see what it is she's proposing?'

But Rory Overton didn't seem in the least concerned. 'Miss Bainbridge, I'm perfectly happy with our situation as I told you before. I'll say it again, Kirsty is the elder and we can prove it. So if you don't mind, this conversation is over.'

It was naturally Ollie who had pointed it out to her as they returned to their car, the flashy Golf GTi, parked just in front of them. With the registration number KIR 5T.

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Elspeth Macallan had arranged that he should pick her up at her flat at seven-thirty, which struck him as a bit early for an eight-thirty dinner date at a restaurant that was no more than a fifteen-minute walk away, especially when it was common knowledge, divulged through their social media, that the Macallan twins rarely walked anywhere. Fearful of what her plans for him pre-dinner might be, he'd decided he would turn up fashionably late, which caused him a frankly absurd amount of mental stress, as he discovered how difficult it was to over-ride a lifetime of punctuality.

'Sorry I'm late,' he lied, as she opened the door to his first ring. 'My Uber didn't turn up and I had to re-book. But here I am now.'

'Don't worry Jimmy,' she said, stretching up to kiss him on the cheek. 'We've got plenty of time. You look very nice by the way.'

'Thanks, I thought I should make an effort.' In truth, it hadn't taken much of an effort, but the crisp white shirt and navy jacket worn with his ever-present black jeans just nudged the look into something you could call stylish. 'And you look lovely too of course.'

She was wearing the same dress as she had been in their last meeting.

'It's Dior isn't it? I remember you telling me about it. It's French as I recall.'

She laughed. 'Gosh, fancy you remembering, you are a clever boy. But actually it's not the same one. That other one was one they lent me for promotional purposes on my channels, but it sold so incredibly well that they sent me two others to keep. This black one and a lighter grey one too. You won't understand being a man, but I've already had both of them on three times each this afternoon. I just couldn't decide between them. But you can't go wrong with black, can you?'

He smiled. 'Aye, I had the same problem myself with this shirt. Blue or white, I couldn't make up my mind.'

She led him through to the stylish kitchen, dominated by a large island topped in expensive granite. At one end lay a silver tray with two champagne glasses and a bottle on ice. Without asking, she filled both without spilling a drop then passed one to him, her fingers lingering on his hands as he took it from her.

'You've done that before, I can tell,' he said, slightly disconcerted, 'and thanks, I don't mind if I do.' And then he noticed that the bottle was already half-empty. Or still half-full, depending on which way you looked at it.

She raised her glass. 'Here's to a lovely evening.' And then she drained it in one.

'I'm sorry, but I'm going to have some more. I hope you don't mind?' She was smiling but he thought he detected a nervousness in her voice. He couldn't imagine it was him that was causing it.

'Go ahead,' he said, then raised his own glass, 'and yes, here's to a lovely evening.' He watched as she poured herself a refill, taking care to fill it right to the brim.

'Don't worry, there's another bottle in the fridge,' she said, squeezing his arm. 'Let's go through to the lounge and you can start to tell me all about yourself. Or maybe you could just kiss me. Whatever you want.'

He thought it an extraordinary thing for her to say, and then he remembered her sister's behaviour at his father-in-law's birthday party. Maybe it ran in the family or maybe the Macallan twins were just so used to getting what they wanted.

'Well I don't much like talking about myself,' he said, 'but I suppose I could give you the five-minute potted history if you insist.'

She gave a coy smile. 'Well as long as it's only five minutes. Because to be honest, I'd rather you kissed me.'

He shrugged. This was taking one for the team, big time, and he was going to make bloody sure that Maggie Bainbridge never forgot his sacrifice. But then again, as his brother Frank had pointed out, how horrible could it really be?

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At least there hadn't been a scrum of paparazzi waiting outside La Garrigue when the Uber pulled up outside. She'd promised a quiet dinner in a nice little French restaurant, but Elspeth and Kirsty Macallan lived their lives in the public eye and he worried their idea of quiet would be quite different from his. He knew exactly where his apprehension came from though. It was that crazy five months he'd spent with Astrid Sorenson, the Swedish country singer who had ruined both his life and his marriage. Except it hadn't been her fault at all, because he'd ruined it perfectly well all by himself. It was true that he'd fallen for her when he was at the absolutely lowest point in his life, but that was a poor excuse. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Now it had become a whole bloody industry, with a thousand charities jumping on the bandwagon. Help for Heroes, Veterans in the Community, the Invictus Games to name but a few. All well-meaning of course, and he wished none of them ill, but unless you had been there, seen half a dozen of your best mates blown to pieces in front of your eyes, then you didn't have a bloody clue what it was all about. When something like that happens and you're