CHARLES, white-haired, 60s, defeated look, sits at the dining room table amid the remains of breakfast. He’s still in dressing gown. On the table is a newspaper and opened letters, mostly junk mail. He sips coffee, hears footsteps.
JEAN, also 60s, small and sharp, walks down the hallway. She sets her face for his usual tedious and helpless questioning.
She pauses at the mirror to check her hair. She’s not to be hurried. She goes to the door, opens it, and enters the dining room.
Not dressed yet then. I want to be at the doctor’s by 10 so you better put a shift on.
She glances at the letters on the table.
More of the usual?
CHARLES holds up a letter.
Mostly, but, there’s this. It’s from the solicitor. Needs to see me. Something about the Trust.
What a bore! I’m sure they only write letters to rack up their fees.
Not this time. An heir’s come forward, disputing the settlement.
There goes the cruise then. I never really thought we’d be rich.
It might just take a while to sort out.
And we have all the time in the world, don’t we?
JEAN storms out and slams door.