Chapter 34
Lucy
As Dirk heads into the building, I lean down and check my letterbox. Just then, my phone dings. Is it Dirk, having second thoughts about brushing me off?
But it’s Phoebe. I fist pump the air. She still wants to see me. She agrees to meet at Esther’s and gives me a date and time, three days away.
My heart sings at Phoebe’s overture. Maybe she’ll agree to visit me at Brighton Court. Maybe it can be like old times, and she can stay with me from time to time.
There’s an envelope in my letterbox. From Phoebe? I dive on it, but it’s from a realty company. I’m just about to crumple it up and put it in the recycling when I realized it’s addressed to me – unlike most junk mail. I tear it open, glance at it, then read every word carefully again.
No. Oh no.
I can’t get to the real estate office soon enough. I run up the hill again, puffing, and thrust the letter at the secretary, the same one who took all the papers when I signed the lease. The paper shakes with my fury and dismay.
“Is this true?” I say. “It says here my apartment is going to be sold, but I’ve only just settled in. Can they really do this? I signed a whole bunch of papers promising I’d stay for a year. Didn’t they have to do the same?”
“I’m sorry Mrs Beston. There’s nothing I can do about it.” She sounds bored. I am anything but. I’m horrified.
“But I love my place. I do. Will I have to move?”
“It depends on who buys it. The new owner might want to keep it as an investment property, and selling a place already rented to a reliable, stable tenant is an asset.”
“But I’m not just some kind of pet; a paying pet; available to the highest bidder.”
“I don’t have any power over the realty industry, Mrs Beston, I just work here.”
“Ms Beston. Ms, please. I’m divorced.”
“I’m sorry, Ms Beston.”
She turns her eyes back to her computer, dismissing me. I want to rail against it, rail against her, but it’s nothing to do with her, really.
“Well, I’m sorry to interrupt you again, but do you have any idea how much money they want for it?
” I may be in luck. My heart soars. The timing could be perfect.
If the settlement money comes through in time, I’ll buy the place myself – then nobody will ever force me to move again.
Maybe once I own the apartment I really will be able to install that pizza oven in the garden.
We can have parties. All the dread is replaced by a great rush of hope.
I may be able to stay at Brighton Court. Forever.
“There’s a price expectation on the back of the flyer, Mrs ... Ms Beston.”
I flip it over and try to absorb the amount. I swallow my shock. It’s exorbitant, of course, but my old house was huge, perfectly kept, and decorated with impeccable style, if I say so myself. Hope and despair battle inside me, but I choose hope. I will give this opportunity everything I have.
“Well, thank you,” I say. “See you at an open house, I guess.”
“Oh no. I have to stay here and look after the rentals all day.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Ms Beston. Oh, and there will be open houses every Wednesday and Saturday until it’s sold, and at other times if we phone you in advance. You’ll need to keep the place clean.”
“I always keep the place clean. I love it. So are you saying I’ll have strangers traipsing in and out, poking inside my cupboards?”
“I’m afraid so, Mrs ... Ms ... But only between noon and one o’clock on Wednesdays and Saturdays. An agent will be on site the whole time. Your things are safe.”
“Yes. Right.”
As soon as I step outside, I phone Felicia Tonkersen, my attorney. I don’t care if she charges by the minute. I explain my plan and she says she’ll try and speed up the final agreements, including the deposits from the sale of our old place.
“Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure, Ms Beston. Keep me informed.”
I phone Donna and tell her all the good news, about Phoebe, and the bad news – my predicament and my plan to secure my own future, here at Brighton Court.
“I hate the whole buy and sell thing, Lucy,” Donna says. “So many disappointments. So many dreams trashed. You know there can only be one successful buyer.”
“I know, but why shouldn’t it be me?”
“Optimistic Lucy. That’s my gal. Well, I can’t lend you any money, but I’ll send you a list of buyers’ agents my family uses.
You’d better find one straight away. Do you have savings?
Will you need a loan officer? I can get you some documentation showing you’ve had regular work with us, but it might not be enough. Do you have a credit history?”
“No. Bart did everything. But I can ask my divorce lawyer to show proof of my expected settlement. With any luck I should be able to buy it outright.”
“Lucy! I wish I could help.”
“You already have, Donna. You know you have. You couldn’t have done any more for me and I’m so, so grateful. Thank you.”
“Sorry I can’t stay on the phone. I have an appointment with a new international moving company interested in using our services. At least there could be more work for you if you’re paying off an enormous mortgage, girlfriend. I’ll put in a good word for you if it all comes off.”
“Thanks, Donna. Good luck!”
She pings me through her list of buyers’ agents immediately, and I check them out.
It’s not encouraging. Yes, they all have the best reviews, but when I phone them, one by one, they say they’re flat out representing other buyers.
Then I find a new one online. No reviews, but her face is sweet.
Hilary Cheng. She answers straight away.
“Hilary Cheng, buyers’ agent. May I help you?”
“Oh, Hilary. Thanks so much for answering. It’s Lucy Beston and I want to buy the apartment I’m renting. Near downtown. West side of the river. Full brick. Big old thing. Solid.”
“I know the area. I’ll need the exact address. What’s the asking price? Do you need a loan officer? Do you have savings?”
I tell her my situation and she reassures me she knows what she’s doing.
“Thanks for this chance, Lucy,” she says. “It’s so hard to establish a reputation in this industry when you’re new, but I won’t let you down.”
She tells me she’ll contact the seller’s agent for me. “Do you have an offer in mind?”
I tell her about my old place, and we toss values back and forth, and halve them.
“There’ll be closing costs and my percentage to cover as well, Lucy. You won’t have to pay moving costs, as you’re already there, but have you costed insurance? Do you have a downpayment ready to go? Twenty per cent is the general rule.”
The sign goes up outside Brighton Court the next day, and my apartment is featured in the local paper.
Brighton Court is described as “tightly held” and all its features lovingly described.
It makes me more determined than ever to make it mine.
Already I’m repainting the bedroom in my mind, and replacing the scratched old bath with something more elegant.
It’s unsettling to know I might be outbid for it, but at least I have a plan.
I knock on Dirk’s door several times, but the only time he’s there, he tells me he’s just leaving, off to babysit his grandchildren.
I smile. I’d love to go with him and make out on the sofa when they’re all asleep, like in the olden days, when I was in high school and a boyfriend was allowed to sit with me.
On Wednesday, I’m torn between tidying my place up for the open houses, or making it as messy as I can. I hang around near the front door, and when an older couple comes in the front gate, I phone Donna.
“The place looks alright, but the plumbing’s atrocious,” I say loudly, and I see the couple turn to each other. “And my neighbors are crazy. I can’t wait to move out. Hip hop blasts day and night. I think they compete, or maybe they teach it, right below my bedroom.”
“Lucy?”
“Shhh, Donna. Just pretend for me, will you?”
Like a good friend, she throws herself into it, and I put her on speakerphone, up loud.
“And the motorcycle gang?” she says.
“Oh, you’re right,” I say. “Awful! The motorcycle drives me crazy. Davey revs up before dawn every day. I think he’s some kind of chef.”
“Does he specialize in cooking sauerkraut?”
I keep her on speaker phone as the next prospective buyers come up the front stairs.”
“Yes. Sauerkraut. And kimchee. The place smells like old cooked cabbages and garlic for days and days.”
We keep it up for an hour. Dear Donna. She says she’s unpacking a huge kitchen and glad to chat as she fills the cupboards. I owe her.
“All gone now. We’re safe until Saturday morning.”
We discuss painting the place a vile color, but I can’t really do that without the landlord’s permission.
She suggests I tack up some death metal posters, but I know I can’t live with them.
I’ve only just arranged the furniture the exact way I like it, with pale pink throw rugs and pale green scatter cushions toning in with my favorite shabby chic pieces.
Now that my whole haven is under threat, I need my peace and quiet more than ever.
I throw myself into creating more lamps, and if I don’t clean up as well after myself as usual, I forgive myself. The second bedroom is a mess of fabrics and half-finished projects by the following Saturday, and I don’t care.
On Sunday, children’s laughter summons me to the window.
Down in the garden, there are two of them, jumping up and down, all energy.
There’s a red ball. My heart jumps when I see Dirk with the children, holding the ball above their heads and to the side, teasing them as they reach and miss and laugh and squeal.
They need more space to play. Too bad Professor No disapproves.
I pull on a warm jacket, grab a bunch of grapes and some bananas, my gardening gloves and clippers, and rush down all the stairs and out into the cold.
The kids squawk and Dirk holds a finger to his lips to quieten them. “Focus on the ball,” he says. “Don’t waste your breath.”
Caught up in their game, they barely notice me, or Dirk chooses to ignore me.
The Doc’s still got it, a lynx-like way with the ball, as if it’s an extension of his will, one moment airborne, and the next, tucked up under his arm as if it grew there.
Liam jumps to retrieve it and Dirk teases him and then relents.
The boy’s fumbles are a sweet contrast to Dirk’s control.
Dirk laughs and ruffles his grandson’s hair, then it’s Lexie’s turn.
I’ve tried to push Dirk out of my mind, but it’s impossible. Yes, I want my apartment – but I also want to be the red ball, Dirk’s focus, in play and vital, as close to him as possible in the centre of his beloved family.