"Until he's married?" Mrs Sinclair yelled after reading through the document in front of her. Her wide eyes met David Waylen, a thin lawyer clad in a thick suit too hot for the weather, his tie badly knotted and his brown hair roughly partitioned at the center.
She waved the document at him with her fat hand. "What the hell does that even mean?"
"It means that he does not have the right to any of the property stated until he gets married," there was a slight pause as the lawyer thought of something. "Although there are certain legal actions he can decide to take in order for the phrase to be withdrawn," he noticed the alertness in her eyes. "However, Mrs Sinclair, it is a very risky venture," the lawyer added, stressing 'very' a little too much. He managed to choose his words carefully knowing he was dealing with a deep-pocketed and highly influential woman.
"You're saying that it's possible to revoke the phrase but there is only a slight chance it will be to my favour?" There was a frown on her face.
"I'm afraid..."
Mrs Sinclair hissed loudly and threw the document to him. As she stood, she searched hastily through her leopard skin purse and produced a bundle of dollar notes.
"I'm sure you know the condition my husband is in right now. Keep this between us and find out as soon as possible what can be done about that stupid phrase," she adjusted her purse on her arm and moved to the door. Waylen watched her stiff hip as she walked, wondering if she would have made a great career as a boxer.
She held the door handle and paused. "I expect to hear from you in two days time, Mr Waylen, or else..." she let the sentence trail off as she walked out.
Waylen sighed, took out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his forehead.
It was difficult dealing with wealthy clients these days, especially when they tossed money to your face and expected you to do things that were impossible. He stared at the bundle before him and smiled realizing that he could finally pay up for the mountain house he had bought on instalment.
The security man was at the foot of the stairs when Mrs Sinclair came down. He quickly opened the umbrella and she went under it.
The weather was at its worst now and the streets were crowded so the driver had wisely turned on the air conditioner before Mrs Sinclair had arrived.
The guard opened the door and waited for her to get settled before moving to the front seat.
"To the Villa," she said to the driver who nodded and awoke the engine. The frown had still not left her face.
At the Villa, preparations were in high gear. Conrad Sinclair was hosting a party for the group of men who had pooled their resources together to buy one of the largest steel companies in the city. It had been a huge investment for Sinclair who had been at the forefront of the whole thing. It was obviously going to be a huge success in the long run since they had had their fair share of the ups and downs involved in owning a company and there may or may not have been boodle paid to the government to get some things done, and there may or may not have been harassment to the previous owners but who knows? The whole process had been smooth and not a single document had been forged so there was nothing to be bothered about.
The decorators moved about busily, the ushers were mounting queue checkers, the waiters were setting tables.
Mrs Sinclair scanned the place with satisfaction and moved upstairs to Conrad's office.
Elaine, Conrad's secretary stood from her large zebrano desk as soon as she sighted her.
"Welcome, ma'am," she bowed slightly.
"Yes. Is Conrad in?"
"No, ma'am, he just left for the airport to pick up Mr Miguel."
Mrs Sinclair let out something that sounded like a grunt and headed for her dressing room.
Elaine rolled her eyes and sat down.
Mrs Sinclair's stylist greeted as she walked in.
"Do you have a dress ready for me tonight?"
The stylist nodded and produced a purple silk dress from a hanger.
Mrs Sinclair stared at it as though it had been taken out of a pig's pen.
"Find a matching purse, something light and comfortable," she instructed officiously.
The stylist nodded and disappeared behind rails of clothing.
She left the dressing room and headed to the bedroom.
Their bedroom was a cozy and commodious space with modern decor. The floor was completely rugged. An oil painting of Conrad Sinclair was hung above the bed and opposite that was a large television that had never been used. A grand piano stood at one corner of the room with its keys covered with dust. Adjacent to the piano was a dressing table that housed a few lotions and perfumes and jewelry owned by both Conrad and his wife.
Mrs Sinclair tossed her purse over the bed and paced around the room. She wondered how stupid Conrad could be to include such a phrase in his will.
She moved to the dressing table and forcefully took off her gold earrings.
Conrad had not even left her valuable pieces of his property! Just a few estates! And he'd even given the hotel to Andrew!
She took off her necklace and massaged the fat folds of flesh that formed her neck.
She knew there was no way she could persuade Andrew to get married without a sensible reason for it. She knew she could not even persuade him to do anything. If he made up his mind to do something, that was exactly what he was going to do. She wasn't his mother anyway, and he had spent years establishing that fact. And how the hell would she even explain how she had managed to get a copy of Conrad's will without his notice? That would give her a bad image and make her look like an over ambitious wife wondering what she stood to gain from the death of her dear husband. Beads of perspiration trickled down her face.
She thought of Stan for a moment then waved her hand dismissively. He was not very useful. How could a born womanizer persuade his close friend to get married?
She sighed and thought harder. Conrad had never been sensible, but gladly, he wasn't going to last long so she had to act now, and fast.
Her eyes popped as she suddenly remembered something. She took out her cell phone and dialed a number.
"Eithan?" there was a pause. "I want you at the Villa. Immediately."
