Merrisa had loved the summer weekends when she was sent down to Grandma’s. In that pretty cottage on the edge of a postcard village, she felt more seen, more heard, than at any time in the showpiece London house her parents called home.
Not that they were home much, hence the constant need for Merrisa to be sent to the country whenever she didn’t have school, or riding lessons, or tennis lessons, or music lessons, or language lessons. She was as much a showpiece as the house. Thankfully she enjoyed learning, and her teachers were nice.
But, here, in the spare room, where even the bed linen smelled like Grandma – lavender, mint, and something floral – this was her home.
And now it was her home – such a bittersweet thing. Grandma had taken ill, died so fast Merrisa only just made it in time. Her parents had appointments and were too late.
They weren’t happy when the will was read, skipping them, other than some china both Merrisa and Grandma knew Mother hated – she nearly sniggered right there in the solicitor’s office.
Grandma had left everything to her. Her parents, of course, tried to take control, under the guise of advice and help, because ‘you’re barely out of Uni, dear, you have no idea how to go about selling the place’.
They’d been appalled at her answer. “I’m not selling, I’m moving in. This weekend.”
“But you need to be at the Cosgrove’s cocktail hour next week – their son’s going to be there.”
“The one who stuffed stinging nettles down my dress when I was twelve?”
Her mother heaved a put-upon sigh. “It was a sign he liked you.”
“I can do without that kind of liking.” Merrisa stood. “Besides, the only reason he’s on the trawl” Her mother winced at the word, “is because his long-term, long-suffering girlfriend booted him for cheating.”
Her father scoffed.
Merrisa went on. “He’s looking for a rich dolly-bird with no spine to cover the costs of the child support she’s going after him for. It’s not going to be me.”
The DNA of Stories 