Hortensia thought of them together. The motel was grimy. Peter was clearly avoiding the better hotels where he might run into someone from Unilever or some other multinational, someone from his circle.
One day, just after Peter announced another conference, Hortensia told him she would be doing some travelling, spending more time in Abeokuta with her potential business partner. It wasn’t a lie that she was going to go into business with a Mr Adebayo. They’d met at an art exhibition in a private home in Bodija, discovered their shared trade and made plans to meet again. They were not quite far enough into their plans to set up a shop, but none of their dealings required that she sleep away from home.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Abeokuta is close enough – why stay over?’
‘Well, I know so little of the culture, really. I want to spend some time. Mr Adebayo will take me around. Even just more knowledge of the art. I know so little – it embarrasses me.’
He nodded.
For an unknown reason Hortensia continued, maybe in an attempt to revive something. In the beginning they had talked and talked.
‘I mean, technically this is where Picasso stole from, isn’t it?’
Peter frowned; they’d argued about this before. About the word ‘stole’. Back then he’d said ‘exploited maybe, but maybe not even that’, and so on. They were neither of them experts on art history, European, African or any other. Their arguments had been fiery: that Africa was reduced to a ‘period’; that the works Picasso was inspired by had been looted by the French; that Africa was a fad – exotic and, of course, dark. Hortensia regurgitated all this, as if the material of past conversations could be incendiary, as if love were a bonfire.
Peter was frowning at her, as if he could see through her, see the lie. Hortensia got up and walked to him, looked into his eyes.
‘I’m really excited about opening this boutique. I feel we could do something new. I know you don’t think much of—’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Well, I just want to be able to do a great job at this.’
Peter nodded.
Hortensia figured they would fuck while she was away. Peter would bring the girl into their bed and they would have each other.
On the Friday evening, she waited for him to leave for his ‘conference’, then she packed and climbed into a rented truck. She drove aimlessly for two hours, then doubled back to the house. The problem of Fola the housekeeper had been solved when Hortensia let her off for the weekend. The problem of Sunday the gateman had been slightly more tricky. Although the neighbourhood was renowned for its safety, Unilever took no chances – they’d hired Sunday to keep an extra eye on things. Hortensia surmised that Sunday would only take instructions from Unilever or, at the very least, from Peter, whom he referred to as his Oga. Hortensia resolved this by calling Peter’s bluff. I’m away, you’re away; just let the old man sit with his family over the next couple of weekends – don’t you think? The house is fine; all these pretensions when actually we’re safer than we would be on any London street. Peter had smarted at her underhand critique of their new-found wealth and the status it afforded them in Ibadan. But he’d also agreed. Sunday was given the two weekends off.
Hortensia needed something. Something deeper than a kiss in the middle of a market, something raw. She wanted to have a clear picture of what real, absolute and unequivocal betrayal looked like.
She parked the truck some way along their street, but she could still see the gate, see who came and went. She waited. They did not come. She was dressed in the burkha; she ate two oranges, then eventually around 10 p.m. she drove to a nearby inn, where she’d rented a room. She did the same the next day and on Sunday. The weekend passed. Peter got back from his conference. Hortensia returned from Abeokuta.
‘How’s it going? This Mr Adebayo, will I meet him sometime?’
‘Perhaps. He’s very busy at the moment.’ This was true. ‘When we launch the boutique, we’ll have a great big party. Maybe, then.’