The Legacy by Virginia Hainsworth

Some people might not have opened their doors to me were I not rich and famous. But I was. And they did. I was welcomed everywhere I went. People had seen me in films, at glamorous award ceremonies.  They had read about my failed relationships in gossip columns, they had seen the inside of my penthouse apartment in celebrity magazines, knew what perfume I wore and what I ate from the products I endorsed. The wealthy and powerful invited me into their homes, to their parties, to their yachts. They adored me with that air-kissing, over exaggerated, gushing sort of exuberance they called love. And my fans worshipped me with that obsessive, grasping, over inquisitive attachment which they called love.

All of that was before I came across the diary. That yellowing, miniature scrap of a book which had lain hidden for so long in my uncle’s attic and which he had left to me in his will. My uncle was a multi-millionaire businessman, unmarried and with no living relatives other than me. He was even richer than I had become. We hadn’t spoken in years and I learned of his death from The Times obituary column. He left his entire wealth to charity. He left the diary of his grandfather to me. What a bequest. It was to become my downfall and my salvation. Shall I tell you about it? Will you open your doors to me if I do?