“Mr Banerjee?” He stared at Nora, confused. “Hello? Who are you?”
“I’m Nora. You know, Nora Seed.” Then, feeling too flustered to think, she added: “I’m your neighbour. On Bancroft Avenue.”
He shook his head. “I think you’ve made a mistake, dear. I haven’t lived there for three years.”
“And I am very sure you were not my neighbour.” The nurse tilted her head at Mr Banerjee, as if he was a confused puppy.
“Maybe you’ve forgotten.” “No,” said Nora quickly, realising her mistake. “He was right. I was confused.”
“I have memory issues sometimes. I never lived there. It was somewhere else. And someone else. I’m sorry.”
They resumed their conversation, as Nora thought about Mr Banerjee’s front garden full of irises and foxgloves.
“Can I help you?” She turned to look at the receptionist.
A mild-mannered, red-haired man with glasses and blotched skin and a gentle Scottish accent.
She told him who she was and that she had phoned earlier.
He was a little confused at first. “And you say you left a message?” He hummed a quiet tune as he searched for her email.
“Yes, but on the phone. I was trying for ages to get through and I couldn’t so I eventually left a message.”
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