Her magnificent beast was on the ground. But he was not sleeping.

Chapter Twelve

Charlotte was back in the room again, having slept significantly less overnight than the occupant here. The blue curtains had been pulled open, a breeze ruffling the previously fetid air and rippling the pages of a television listings magazine on the sill. The sun was still on the east side of the building, leaving the room in shadow, but it sang out with colour and life in a way that had been obscured last night. Standing here now, Charlotte noticed the round jute rug on the tiled floor, orange gerberas freshly arranged in a vase; the pink floral dress hanging on the door hook, a paste necklace on the bedside table. But more than anything, she saw the woman whose domain this was – really saw her, for awake, hers was a magnetic presence. Age had not diminished her. Here sat a matriarch, a woman who had lived and loved. A woman not to be trifled with, nor to suffer fools.

Her eyes, though rheumy, were a startlingly clear grey, her white hair worn short in an almost boyish crop. She was sitting on the bed in a coral linen shift, yellow plastic globes at her ears and a matching bracelet on her wrist. Liver spots speckled her thin arms and legs and she wore heavy black-rimmed spectacles which were reminiscent of the model Iris Apfel. She had that especial avant-garde air which women of advanced age possess when they retain an idiosyncratic sense of style.

Marina was pouring iced water from the jug on the chest of drawers, handing it out to them in plastic tumblers.

‘Abuela, Charlotte works for a bank,’ Marina said, coming to sit beside her grandmother on the end of the bed. Charlotte herself was perched in the stiff, wingback chair opposite.

‘Bank?’ Señora Quincy frowned. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘No. She’s come to us with an offer. Well, you. She has an offer for you.’

The old woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of offer?’

Charlotte put down her untouched glass of water and leaned forward so that her elbows were on her knees. It made her physically smaller and less threatening; it was also a more relaxed, confiding pose. ‘Señora Quincy, there’s a lot for us to discuss but perhaps I should first begin by introducing what I do: I don’t work for a bank per se; the bank is a client of mine. I’m a wealth counsellor.’ She spoke slowly, enunciating carefully, but at the mention of ‘wealth’ she saw the old woman’s eyes narrow further. ‘It’s a funny title, I know, but actually what I do is very simple and very important: I help high-net- worth individuals – rich people, in other words – manage the emotional aspects of their wealth.’

She paused, letting the old woman absorb her words, for she already knew what her first thoughts would be: why do rich people need help with being rich? It was what everyone puzzled over. But that wasn’t what ran through her expression and as Señora Quincy looked back at her, Charlotte could see caution in the movement now, a certain shuttering internally. ‘I am not rich, nor do I wish to be.’