been sold to Joy’s brother-in-law Jack, at a
knockdown price. At the last moment he had had second thoughts about purchasing
and she had brought the price down a further $50,000. It scarcely mattered.
She had $5,000,000 in the bank: the interest on which was sufficient to pay all
costs at the Golden Bowl, though if she lived to ninety-six or more, and rates
continued to rise exponentially by ten per cent a year, she would have to begin
to dip into capital. She could afford to buy a small gift here, give a little
to charity there, though she had never been the kind to dress up and go to
functions and give publicly. Too vulgar for Miss Felicity: too much gold and
diamond jewellery on necklines cut too low to flatter old skin.
Felicity’s
lawyer Bert Heller, Exon’s old friend, was satisfied that he had done his best
by the old lady, as she had once alarmingly overheard him referring to her. Her
will was in order and left everything to her granddaughter Sophia in England . Joy was pleased her friend was near enough
to visit but that instead of having the responsibility of an elderly widow
living alone next door, prone to falls and strokes, she now had the comfort of
a brother-in-law as a neighbour, one who would look after, rather than need to
be looked after. The move had suited everyone.
All
Felicity had to do now, in fact, in the judgement of the outside world, was
settle down, not make trouble, and live the rest of
her days in peace.
And why not? The Atlantic Suite was composed of three large
rooms, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom embossed with plated gold fittings and more
than enough closet space: the view was pleasant: the rooms spacious. The world
came to her through CNN, if she cared to take an interest in it, though few at
the Golden Bowl did. Most preferred to look inwards and wait their turn to get
a word in at group therapy. The decor and furnishings were pleasing and she had
never been sentimental about her belongings: most had gone to auction.
Sometimes Miss Felicity would remember a dress she had particularly liked and
wonder what became of it: or a charming plate she’d owned, or a scrapbook she’d
once compiled. Did people steal things, had she lost them, had she given them
away? Why try to remember? It hardly mattered. She had a photograph of her
granddaughter in a silver frame on her bedside table, but that was to keep
Nurse Dawn quiet. Nurse Dawn, helping her unpack, had found it and stood it
there when first Felicity arrived, and Felicity did not feel inclined to take
on Nurse Dawn at the moment: she would wait until something more significant
was at stake. To have family photographs on the bedside table suggested that
life - by which she supposed she meant sex - was in the past.
Besides,
Sophia had inherited Angel’s Botticelli hair: Felicity was not sure she wanted
to be presented with the sight of it night and day. So she simply put the photo
on its face after room service had been in and every next day room service
stood it upright. It was an okay compromise.
Felicity
had a nasty attack of flu when she first arrived at the Golden Bowl. Stomach
cramps and weak limbs had made her more dependent upon the administrations of
Nurse Dawn than she would have wished. When she recovered she found that silly little
matters such as when breakfast would be brought to her room in the morning,
when the valet service would collect and deliver, limitations on her time in
the Library, expected attendance at the Ascension Room gatherings, had been
arranged more to fit the Golden Bowl’s convenience than her own. She had
remarked on this to Dr Bronstein.
‘It’s
very strange,’ was Dr Bronstein’s dark comment, later, ‘how many people find
themselves ill and helpless when they first arrive at the Golden Bowl.’
‘It’s
hardly likely to be a
knockdown price. At the last moment he had had second thoughts about purchasing
and she had brought the price down a further $50,000. It scarcely mattered.
She had $5,000,000 in the bank: the interest on which was sufficient to pay all
costs at the Golden Bowl, though if she lived to ninety-six or more, and rates
continued to rise exponentially by ten per cent a year, she would have to begin
to dip into capital. She could afford to buy a small gift here, give a little
to charity there, though she had never been the kind to dress up and go to
functions and give publicly. Too vulgar for Miss Felicity: too much gold and
diamond jewellery on necklines cut too low to flatter old skin.
Felicity’s
lawyer Bert Heller, Exon’s old friend, was satisfied that he had done his best
by the old lady, as she had once alarmingly overheard him referring to her. Her
will was in order and left everything to her granddaughter Sophia in England . Joy was pleased her friend was near enough
to visit but that instead of having the responsibility of an elderly widow
living alone next door, prone to falls and strokes, she now had the comfort of
a brother-in-law as a neighbour, one who would look after, rather than need to
be looked after. The move had suited everyone.
All
Felicity had to do now, in fact, in the judgement of the outside world, was
settle down, not make trouble, and live the rest of
her days in peace.
And why not? The Atlantic Suite was composed of three large
rooms, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom embossed with plated gold fittings and more
than enough closet space: the view was pleasant: the rooms spacious. The world
came to her through CNN, if she cared to take an interest in it, though few at
the Golden Bowl did. Most preferred to look inwards and wait their turn to get
a word in at group therapy. The decor and furnishings were pleasing and she had
never been sentimental about her belongings: most had gone to auction.
Sometimes Miss Felicity would remember a dress she had particularly liked and
wonder what became of it: or a charming plate she’d owned, or a scrapbook she’d
once compiled. Did people steal things, had she lost them, had she given them
away? Why try to remember? It hardly mattered. She had a photograph of her
granddaughter in a silver frame on her bedside table, but that was to keep
Nurse Dawn quiet. Nurse Dawn, helping her unpack, had found it and stood it
there when first Felicity arrived, and Felicity did not feel inclined to take
on Nurse Dawn at the moment: she would wait until something more significant
was at stake. To have family photographs on the bedside table suggested that
life - by which she supposed she meant sex - was in the past.
Besides,
Sophia had inherited Angel’s Botticelli hair: Felicity was not sure she wanted
to be presented with the sight of it night and day. So she simply put the photo
on its face after room service had been in and every next day room service
stood it upright. It was an okay compromise.
Felicity
had a nasty attack of flu when she first arrived at the Golden Bowl. Stomach
cramps and weak limbs had made her more dependent upon the administrations of
Nurse Dawn than she would have wished. When she recovered she found that silly little
matters such as when breakfast would be brought to her room in the morning,
when the valet service would collect and deliver, limitations on her time in
the Library, expected attendance at the Ascension Room gatherings, had been
arranged more to fit the Golden Bowl’s convenience than her own. She had
remarked on this to Dr Bronstein.
‘It’s
very strange,’ was Dr Bronstein’s dark comment, later, ‘how many people find
themselves ill and helpless when they first arrive at the Golden Bowl.’
‘It’s
hardly likely to be a
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