Broken Angel

Chapter One

Chelsea. London

With no lectures to attend, Abbey dressed in blue jeans, a white sweatshirt, and black Doc Martens. On passing the entrance door, she collected the morning post. One envelope grabbed her attention, the rest she dropped into the waste bin.

She was halfway through her first coffee of the day when she slit open the letter. It was from Peter's, her guardian. The letter informed her of the death of her father. "So, the bastard is dead. Big fucking deal. I hope he burns in hell." Then she thought, I had better give old man Peters a visit and see what the bastard left me.

Abbey stared out of the window. Men in suits carrying briefcases scurried past, frightened of being late for work. Cars searching for a parking place came and went. A motorbike raced past, leaving a plume of exhaust in its wake.

***

At noon, Abbey changed and left her flat. Emerging from the underground, she had a snack in a sandwich bar. She finished her coffee, left and strolled along a cobbled street. The brass plate on the wall of the building named Peters and Hardgrave's, solicitors.

She entered and strode towards the receptionist. Abbey stood, waiting for the seated woman to respond.

The well-dressed mature woman lifted her head and smiled. Can I help you?"

"I must see Mr Gregory Peters."

"Please may I have your name?"

"Abbey Lane."

"One moment, please." She made a telephone call. "Mr Peters will see you. Take the lift to the top floor, his office is right in front of you."

Abbey shrugged. "I know."

The old lift, a dark and creaky thing moved at a snail's pace. The scent of wax polish contaminated the air.

When it shuddered to a halt, Abbey stepped out and onto the carpeted hall.  At the door opposite, she knocked and entered. "Good Morning."

He lifted his eyes from a document, gave her an appraising look and gestured with his right hand towards a seat.

She chose the chair nearest the desk. With her hands resting in her lap, she waited.

Peters' mahogany desk, overflowing with coloured folders, dominated the room. In her eyes, he was — calm, cold, polite, and wearing his usual expensive dark blue suit. A pair of black-rimmed glasses magnified his eyes.

She let her eyelids close for a moment.

He lifted his head and peered across the top of his glasses. "Good morning Miss Lane. I see you dressed in black, appropriate, but as you never met your father unnecessary. I cannot help but notice the dark rings under your eyes. I guess you've been partying with your student friends." He paused as if thinking. "Would you like a glass of water? I have still and sparkling."

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

His face creased as he stroked his forehead. He glanced at the paperwork in his right hand and then lifted his head. "As you well know, your late father's lawyers gave instructions to this firm for your nurture. This we have undertaken. However, his will makes no provision for you." He fixed his eyes on Abbey, waiting for her reply.

Frustration welled up in her as she struggled to come to terms with what he had said. "He was lucky. One moment high in the air on his way to a meeting, and in a flash, he was nothing. Unlike thousands, he did not suffer and let's face it. I was a mistake he wanted to forget. I'm no longer a child. I grew up a long time ago; I did not have a choice. But I've always described myself as a cut flower, no roots. To you and the world, I'm vibrant, intelligent and need for nothing. You have no idea what it was like for me at school. Other girls often spoke of their parents. Holidays periods were the worst. At the end of every term, I had to wait for someone I didn't know to collect me. They would take me home or to a hotel for a so-called holiday. In my entire life, not a birthday or Christmas card. I'm glad he's dead.