LOVE PROBABLY

2.

The small golden plaque on the building, the only one in the town, indicates the contact details of Mr Andrew Chambers. I enter in silence, not very happy. I rarely had to manage this kind of business. Mom did all the paperwork. The hardest part was doing the tax returns, but our accountant neighbour always helped her, so I never had to get involved. I never had an official job. I know how to do everything and am good for nothing. I just did like mom when she retired. I have almost always worked under the table, is that how you say? I hem dress pants, I sew curtains. From time to time, when asked, I clean people’s houses.

This is the first time I’ve met a notary. Or the second if you count our meeting near Mom’s grave yesterday.

I sit down on one of the worn chairs in the waiting room. A stack of magazines sits on a small coffee table. There’s no way I’ll touch them! I don’t want to catch crap. It’s not the time to get sick, especially since I’m visibly melting. My breasts swim in the B cup of my bra. My cheeks are hollowing out. I eat very little since mom died. She cooked most of the time and I’ve been phenomenally lazy since she left. The fridge is crying out for food and the leftover food offered by the nice neighbours over the past few days is turning. Such a waste! Why do people feel compelled to bring food when there’s a death? It’s a funny custom, isn’t it? How could we want to eat when we just lost someone? And what am I going to do with all this food now?

“Madeline Jordan, that’s us!” calls the old gentleman to me.

However, I didn’t see anyone leave the notary’s office when he pulled me out of my reverie.

“Come in! Sit down, please.”

How old he is! He could be my grandfather. I remember that you have to say Counsel when addressing a lawyer. I owe this nice reflex to my winter evenings in front of the series Judging Amy.

“Thank you, Counsel,” I said, proud of myself.

“How do you feel since yesterday?” he asks with the look of a beaten dog.

“As good as one can feel when one loses one’s mother,” I quip.

“Hmm. I see. Do you know why I asked you to come?”

“Notary was the last word my mother said. It’s about inheritance, I presume.”

“Not only that. I have several things for you. Your mother came to see me several months ago. She knew her health wasn’t going well. She has planned everything to take care of you.”

“News to me,” I said under my breath.

“So here, I have all these papers for you to sign. Wheatacre’s house is yours. And the London apartment, too.”

“Uh ... sorry! What did you say? Which apartment, Counsel?”

“Aren’t you aware that you have an apartment in the capital?”

“No!”

“It was rented before but a few months ago, your mother didn’t renew the tenancy. Surely so that you don’t have management worries and can enjoy it as you please.”

“Enjoy as I please?”

These terms are not part of my vocabulary.

“Yes, make use of it,” he says, adapting to my low level of understanding of the language of Shakespeare. “This accommodation belongs to you. It has been fully paid for many years.”

“Where is this apartment located?”

“Give me a minute to reread the paperwork. Alzheimer’s is watching me. I already re-read everything before you arrived… There you go! In the square mile.”

“The square mile of what?”

“The square mile of London, on Sun Street,” he said with a dubious pout. “Have you ever been to London?” he asks me, surprised.

He must really think I’m stupid.

“No! I never even left the area, if you want to know everything,” I said defensively.

“Bah, my poor dear... you have to get out a bit! The Earth is huge, yes. But London isn’t the end of the world, all the same!”

“So what kind of neighbourhood is this Sun Street?”

“All I can tell you is that it looks nothing like our hometown. It’s in the heart of London, one of the liveliest. A bit bobo for my taste.”

“Bobo? And that means…”

“Bohemian bourgeois! Well… don’t you know that?”

“Uh ... yes, of course. Bobo, of course. Everyone knows!”

“Hmm. Your apartment, even if it’s only forty-five square meters, well, it’s worth a small fortune.”

“A fortune like what?”

“Like… lots of numbers. The estimate is five hundred and fifty thousand pounds. It can be more.”

“Son of a b***h! How could my mother hide such a thing from me? How long have we had this apartment?”

“It’s your father’s very first acquisition, in 1970. I can assure you that you are indeed the only heiress.”

“Okay. And, do you have any other surprises like this?”

“I have this,” he said, handing me a pink envelope.

My first name is on it. I immediately recognize Mom’s handwriting.

“You can read it at home if you don’t mind,” he continues. “It’s personal, your mother said. We have all this to sign,” he said, tapping on a stack of files. “But first, I have to read you the deeds.”

After several minutes during which I haven’t understood anything, he asks me to initial now. The problem is that I don’t know what initial means. I have already understood nothing of all his gibberish: usufruct, reduced to acquests, resolutory clause, syndic of co-ownership… It’s mum’s letter that intrigues me. She never wrote me anything. All my attention is on the little pink envelope that I hold very tightly in my hands.

Seeing that I don’t react, he hands me a pen and says to me:

“To initial means to put your initials. For you, it will be MJ or JM, as you wish.”

“Ah, okay. Thank you for your help. I’m not used to it,” I say, blushing with shame.

“I had guessed. I assure you, it’s normal. We don’t do this every day. Well, in your case, because, for me, it’s my job.”

I feel completely useless. I shrivel up more and more in his leather chair. He puts his big index finger, whose blue nail must have taken a hammer blow, to invite me to start.

“Right here?” I asked, just to make sure I did the right thing.

“Yes! Right there! And don’t mind my fingernail. It’s that damn door that closed on its own. It will eventually fall off, my fingernail. Come on, my little one, we’re not going to spend the day here. Courage! Initials!”

Like I’ve been doing this all my life! I never write. I barely know how to write a check. I apply myself as much as I can to make the first letters. He turns the pages faster and faster, forcing me to pick up the pace. Little by little, I’m gaining confidence. It looks like bird scratchings but the job is done. I’m proud of myself. After about twenty initials he stops me.

“Stop! Here you have to sign your full name. You do have a signature at least?”

I glare at him. What does he think? That I didn’t practice for hours, like all little girls, trying to find the perfect signature? The one you put on the back of your ID. The one we hope to put on a wedding registry one day… Of course, I have a signature! And it’s so beautiful. The J in Jordan is majestic, tall, wide, and old-fashioned. All the other letters are small, petite, except the N. I save the best for last, the tail of my N turns around to emphasize everything else. There you go, it’s perfect.

“Magnificent!” he said, exasperated by my exaggerated application. “And now you can go home.”

“Oh, it’s not over?”

“Almost. Here are your keys. Congratulation.”

“Counsel, those aren’t my keys. These are my keys,” I say, brandishing my keyring like a trophy.

“Madeline…” he said, exhausted, “I suspect that you already have the keys to your house. These are the ones for your London apartment. You understand?”

“Aaaah, okay!”

It seems that I exasperate him. But of the two of us, I don’t know who’s more tired. After having signed a pile of papers, he’ll be sending me provisional documents and informs me that I’ll receive all the official papers by registered mail in the weeks to come. Without further ado, he gets up, invites me to do the same and accompanies me to the exit:

“Hang in there. It shouldn’t be that bad for you. If you allow me to remark… take advantage of your inheritance to do some shopping,” he said, eyeing me from head to toe with a look that was a little paternalistic.

Uh, but what exactly is he insinuating? That I’m dressed like a sack? Oh, the old fuddy-duddy!

“I say that for your own good, my dear. If you want to find a husband…”

“I’ll think about it,” I cut him off, holding out a firm hand. “Thank you, Counsel, goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Madeline. Good luck! That’s us, Augustine,” he yelled at a granny who was patiently waiting her turn.

I look at my reflection in the window of the bakery next to the notary’s office. These clothes are way too big for me. The coat I’m wearing belonged to mom. It wasn’t uncommon for us to share the same wardrobe. My boots are from another time. I put black felt on the end to try to hide the wear. He may be right, Mr Chambers. He’s just practical.

While I’m lost in thought about my look, the pastries bring me back to myself. Hey, how about I have a little treat. Mom called them that. This is my first food craving since she died. A few coins are lying around in my purse, I decide to treat myself to a chocolate nun. As soon as I pass the door of the bakery, the shopkeeper recognizes me.

“Hello, Madeline, what a pleasure to see you! All my sincere condolences. Me neither, I don’t have my mom anymore, you know…”

“Ah… sorry.”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t come yesterday, I had to hold the shop.”

“No worries.”

“What can I do for you?”

“A chocolate nun, please.”

“There you go!” she said wrapping the cake. I’ll add you a piece of quiche, for your dinner tonight.”

“Uh, no, thank you. That’s not necessary.”

“It wasn’t a question. I give it to you. You must eat! In the village, we’re worried about you.”

“In that case, I don’t insist. How nice. Thank you,” I said, resigned.

I’m no match for her overflowing enthusiasm. Small and plump, she’s exasperatingly good-natured. Me, I cringe even more.”

I leave the bakery, frustrated by all this noise that I’m not used to hearing. My head is buzzing with questions.