sorry,’ he said as he followed into her study.
‘Come, sit down. Sit over there.’
While he took a seat and arranged his briefcase, Hortensia pressed the intercom. ‘Bassey. Tea, Mr Marx?’
‘I’d prefer coffee, Mrs James, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Black?’
‘Thank you.’
She finished her instructions to Bassey and sat on her throne. She wouldn’t call it that for anyone else to hear, but it’s what she always thought when she lowered her posterior onto the leather. Hortensia smiled and Marx, carelessly, thought she wanted to be friends.
‘I am sorry for your loss, Mrs James.’
She tightened her lips, fixed her spectacles to her face and gave her let’s-get-to-business look.
‘Your husband,’ he said, ‘was … well, I wanted to … What I’m trying to—’
Hortensia raised a hand. Bassey knocked.
‘Come.’
He was a large man with breasts of his own.
‘Set it there. Thank you, Bassey. Never mind, we’ll pour ourselves.’
She began again after the click of the door.
‘I don’t want us to waste time. Apart from being old, I have some meetings to attend. I think you realise that my husband did not inform me of his change to his will. I think you understand what things must have been like between husband and wife for such an action not to be shared.’ She pushed her reading glasses down her nose, so she could look at the boy through her mud-brown eyes. She knew people found her eyes quite frightening. He didn’t disappoint her. ‘Now, what do we need to do? You have the paperwork in that briefcase of yours?’
She sat back, happy with the effect of her speech. She waited as Marx spread the papers on the desk.
‘Can I pour?’ Hortensia asked.
‘Thank you.’
‘Let’s get on with it.’
‘I know you weren’t expecting me.’ He was recovering.
‘When did he make the change?’
‘Three or four months back. I can trace the exact date if it matters.’
Hortensia shook her head. Peter had had one last surge of good health, lucidity, before falling into his final hole. He must have done it then.
‘I don’t need his money by the way. The house is in my name. This isn’t about that.’
‘Yes, Mrs James. I am aware that you are worth a large sum of money.’
‘I don’t like to put it that way.’
‘Mr James spoke a lot about you.’
Despite herself, Hortensia was interested. What might Peter have said? She had no notion. But she didn’t ask for Marx to expand and he didn’t seem to think there was any more to say on the matter. He placed a file on the table.
‘Well, as you now know, he made me the executor of his will.’
‘Did he take me off as a beneficiary?’
‘Oh no, you’re still a beneficiary.’ He was fidgeting; raised his cup but put it back down.
‘Is something wrong? With your coffee?’
‘It’s hot.’
‘I see.’
He cleared his throat. ‘I really don’t—’
‘Mr Marx, please proceed. I don’t have all day.’
‘You are still a beneficiary. Just not the primary one.’
Marx kept his head down. He managed a sip of his coffee, it brought colour back to his face.
‘So who’s the primary one, then? Did he go and leave his money to the hunting club? Idiot, I told him not to be foolish.’
‘Well, actually, Mrs James, there’s another beneficiary – a person.’
Hortensia waited.
‘I’m really sorry for the difficulty of the situation.’
‘Mr Marx, I don’t know you that well and you obviously don’t know me. This, I assure you, is not difficult.’
‘Yes, Mrs James. The other beneficiary, you see, is daughter to Mr James, so he informed me, and she goes by the name of Esme.’
He made himself busy, rifled unnecessarily through the papers in front of him.
Hortensia sat back in her chair. She needed a few moments; she held her face. Always hold your face – she usually knew how to. But this time something rippled, she felt the twitch in her right cheek, put her hand there to steady it. There was
‘Come, sit down. Sit over there.’
While he took a seat and arranged his briefcase, Hortensia pressed the intercom. ‘Bassey. Tea, Mr Marx?’
‘I’d prefer coffee, Mrs James, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Black?’
‘Thank you.’
She finished her instructions to Bassey and sat on her throne. She wouldn’t call it that for anyone else to hear, but it’s what she always thought when she lowered her posterior onto the leather. Hortensia smiled and Marx, carelessly, thought she wanted to be friends.
‘I am sorry for your loss, Mrs James.’
She tightened her lips, fixed her spectacles to her face and gave her let’s-get-to-business look.
‘Your husband,’ he said, ‘was … well, I wanted to … What I’m trying to—’
Hortensia raised a hand. Bassey knocked.
‘Come.’
He was a large man with breasts of his own.
‘Set it there. Thank you, Bassey. Never mind, we’ll pour ourselves.’
She began again after the click of the door.
‘I don’t want us to waste time. Apart from being old, I have some meetings to attend. I think you realise that my husband did not inform me of his change to his will. I think you understand what things must have been like between husband and wife for such an action not to be shared.’ She pushed her reading glasses down her nose, so she could look at the boy through her mud-brown eyes. She knew people found her eyes quite frightening. He didn’t disappoint her. ‘Now, what do we need to do? You have the paperwork in that briefcase of yours?’
She sat back, happy with the effect of her speech. She waited as Marx spread the papers on the desk.
‘Can I pour?’ Hortensia asked.
‘Thank you.’
‘Let’s get on with it.’
‘I know you weren’t expecting me.’ He was recovering.
‘When did he make the change?’
‘Three or four months back. I can trace the exact date if it matters.’
Hortensia shook her head. Peter had had one last surge of good health, lucidity, before falling into his final hole. He must have done it then.
‘I don’t need his money by the way. The house is in my name. This isn’t about that.’
‘Yes, Mrs James. I am aware that you are worth a large sum of money.’
‘I don’t like to put it that way.’
‘Mr James spoke a lot about you.’
Despite herself, Hortensia was interested. What might Peter have said? She had no notion. But she didn’t ask for Marx to expand and he didn’t seem to think there was any more to say on the matter. He placed a file on the table.
‘Well, as you now know, he made me the executor of his will.’
‘Did he take me off as a beneficiary?’
‘Oh no, you’re still a beneficiary.’ He was fidgeting; raised his cup but put it back down.
‘Is something wrong? With your coffee?’
‘It’s hot.’
‘I see.’
He cleared his throat. ‘I really don’t—’
‘Mr Marx, please proceed. I don’t have all day.’
‘You are still a beneficiary. Just not the primary one.’
Marx kept his head down. He managed a sip of his coffee, it brought colour back to his face.
‘So who’s the primary one, then? Did he go and leave his money to the hunting club? Idiot, I told him not to be foolish.’
‘Well, actually, Mrs James, there’s another beneficiary – a person.’
Hortensia waited.
‘I’m really sorry for the difficulty of the situation.’
‘Mr Marx, I don’t know you that well and you obviously don’t know me. This, I assure you, is not difficult.’
‘Yes, Mrs James. The other beneficiary, you see, is daughter to Mr James, so he informed me, and she goes by the name of Esme.’
He made himself busy, rifled unnecessarily through the papers in front of him.
Hortensia sat back in her chair. She needed a few moments; she held her face. Always hold your face – she usually knew how to. But this time something rippled, she felt the twitch in her right cheek, put her hand there to steady it. There was
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