‘Well, as I said in my note’ – typical, Hortensia thought, that Marion would make such a show of not remembering – ‘I wanted a chance to apologise in person.’
Marion sat to attention, as if the National Anthem was about to be played and she was required to put hand to heart. Hortensia swallowed. She’d promised herself she’d keep it short: the more you spoke, the less apologetic you sounded.
‘I realise I have done you a wrong. Your house is in tatters, and that is my fault. I am sorry.’
Whether due to its brevity or, Hortensia hoped, its startling honesty, somehow Marion became angered by the apology. Maybe that’s true of all apologies, Hortensia considered, giving permission for the wronged party to rant. Maybe that was all the crane-driver had been avoiding. But she, Hortensia, was enjoying the fact that she’d upset Marion by apologising with integrity, it felt like a double victory.
‘… and we all know how that can go,’ Marion was saying. ‘I cannot afford to compromise the sale – everything must be perfect. And to top it off, forget the house, let me tell you. On the other side of that wall, by the way, was a painting. An original. Possibly somewhere destroyed.’ Marion raised herself up in her seat. ‘A Pierneef. So you can’t just blurt out three sentences and think you’re done with that. You have caused me so much trouble. So much.’
Hortensia had never been a fan of landscape art, but the expression on Marion’s face did not invite discussion on the topic.
‘Marion,’ she said, lowering her voice to the softest she knew how to. ‘I am truly sorry.’
Marion stood up. She’d only drunk about half of the lemonade, but Hortensia could tell she was now going to leave. And she did. The whole episode gave Hortensia a sense of longing that she had nowhere to put.
NINE
THE CONSTANTINOPLE HOSPITAL called to ask what had happened between Hortensia and the last nurse. Hortensia wished they wouldn’t. She had said, from the very first sniff of the suggestion, that she neither needed nor wanted a nurse. Well, the head-nurse huffed (a much more toned-down version of heffing), they were having some difficulty scheduling another nurse. And did Hortensia know that they’d never experienced this before and, well, they had to see to it, because they were responsible for her health and they were only trying to help. Alright, Hortensia said. Hoping the less she said, the shorter the call would be, the sooner the annoyance would end. Well, the nurse continued, she would have to go away and then come back. Okay, Hortensia ended the call, liking the first part of the woman’s statement and hoping the second would never come to pass.
In the meantime she devised her own plans.
‘Bassey!’ she called.
Bassey walked in.
‘Now,’ Hortensia started, ‘I am going to need a bit of … help.’
She had solved the matter of ablutions in two ways. The easier activity only required that Bassey place the low table and the steel bowl of warm water within arm’s reach. A clean sponge, white soap on a wooden tray. For the more private activity, Hortensia grabbed as much dignity as she could; she pointed Bassey towards the bedpan and explained to him what to do when she (thanks to the exercises she’d been doing daily since leaving the hospital) bridged and formed a gap between her bottom and the bed, through which he could slide the pan. Employer and employee came closer than they had ever been. An intimate smell embraced them.
‘I’m ordering a commode,’ Hortensia called after him as he walked down the hall to dispose of her waste. ‘And a nurse.’
She reached for the private-care brochures, dialled the number. As she waited for the receiver to pick up, she ran her fingers over the duvet cover. She’d missed her fortnightly call with the House of Braithwaite head-designers. As her age had advanced, Hortensia had grudgingly stopped insisting that all designs go through her for approval. When they’d moved to South Africa, she’d sold her share of the studio to her partner Adebayo and opened a Cape Town branch. In addition House of Braithwaite still operated out of the studio in London. It was only in 2000, seventy and tired, that Hortensia stopped going into work every day. Advances in technology meant she could conduct meetings from home and she prided herself on knowing everything that was going on in her company. Sometimes on the calls, though, she wondered if she detected a sense of condescension, as if her design staff were humouring her, a terrible habit the young have when relating to the old.