Chapter 46
Lucy
I barely slept last night, dreaming of other potential buyers making offers on my apartment – e-signatures flying thick and fast, furniture going up in flames and floating away in tsunamis. My favorite sofa – in a soft blue velvet with gold piping and gilded feet – became my lifeboat.
When I wake to reality there’s a lump of lead in my stomach that’s about far more than real estate. Dirk O’Connell. He hates me. It’s not fair.
I swing my legs out of bed and take a deep breath. This is a big day and Dirk O’Connell is a fool to reject me like that.
I reflect on how cruel it is that I have to be living right here, in my apartment, in the heart of the new life I’ve tried to build, while more potential buyers crawl all over it again and buyers’ agents all over the city make offers on it. Is Hilary doing her bit?
I phone her again.
“Please trust me, Ms Beston. I can’t do more than I’m doing.”
Nor can I. Beyond sabotaging the sale while potential buyers visit, with fake phone chats about imperfect neighbors, and making a mess, today, I’m overcome with the realization this might be the beginning of the end; that I am just as likely to be forced out, to have to start afresh again.
Despite my intention to make it as unappealing as possible for those who’ll come, I love this place so much I clean up the fake messes and polish it until it gleams. If I must depart, I will do so with my head high and beautiful memories. I will enjoy it until I’m thrown out.
Not for the first time, I wonder exactly who it is who decided to sell my haven.
It could be anyone; even one of my actual neighbors; even Dirk.
Dirk. Would he sell this place to get rid of me?
I make a cup of tea and try to laugh at myself.
Sleeplessness brings out the worst in me, and paranoia is simply silly.
As I dust and vacuum, polish and preen the place, I arrange the books and vases with great care. I’m aware that the better it looks, the greater the price it might fetch, but I have my pride, and even if I must move on, I want to remember it at its best.
As I open my front door, a hideous odor of boiling cabbage and garlic greets me, and I knock on Davey’s door to give him a high five.
He’s such an agreeable young man, apart from his motorbike revving before dawn every morning – the one detraction of living at Brighton Court I didn’t make up for the other prospective buyers. I wonder why Davey lives alone.
I walk up the street and buy white roses.
I polish my silver vases until they gleam.
I temper my sense of doom with hope. If I’m successful and buy this place, I’ll paint the living room brilliant white.
I’ll find an oval-shaped rug in just the right texture, in soft, gelato colors, for this tiny haven of peace in a chaotic world.
When the apartment is spotless, I turn my attention to myself. I will go down fighting, with dignity. I clean my diamonds until they’re like fireworks, twist my hair into a chignon, and dress in my best peach silk blouse – the one that Dirk approved at Jill’s. I team it with my navy pencil skirt.
I select my highest heels and am just finding my balance when the seller’s agent and loan officer arrive, both in brown suits. They are respectful. They place extra brochures on my dining table, and ask to move some furniture so other potential buyers will have a better view of the room.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me whether there have been any serious offers,” I ask. “I need to know, so I can make plans to move.”
The agent tells me there are at least five serious potential purchasers. Hilary calls me, and I rush to my bedroom to speak in private.
“I’m sorry, Lucy. Other offers are higher than yours. There’s a lot of interest in your neighborhood. Do you want to raise your offer?”
“Of course I do, Hilary. I really want to stay.”
“I’m obliged to remind you that you have to be able to follow through with the funds. If you don’t, you will destroy your credit rating, you will lose my commission, and lose another percentage to the seller. Please email me your new offer if you’re sure.”
I take a few moments to sign into my bank account and double check my savings.
Maybe there’s even more in there than I realize – maybe Bart got generous.
I blink, and check the statement again. I go fetch my glasses, zoom in and expand the size of the text.
There must be some mistake. I sign out, and sign in again.
Same result. There’s been no deposit. Not at all.
My savings are puny as ever. I forget to breathe, sink down onto a chair, and try to think.
I go to phone the bank, then realize it’s Saturday. Nobody will answer. What can I do?
There’s knocking at my door. Neighbors and prospective buyers and their friends and families arrive to inspect the place – more than ever. Surely Bart’s money will come through soon. Maybe on Monday. I go to phone Felicia, but my call goes to voice mail.
More and more people turn up, crowding into my small apartment. I have to stop this torture.
And then there’s Donna, who puts her arms around me. I feel a little calmer. I can do this. The apartment will be mine. I just have to make the best offer.
My heart jolts when Phoebe walks in, a young man beside her, with brown hair and a kind face.
“This is Jaxon, Mom, with an ‘x,” says Phoebe. “It was Jaxon’s idea to come and give you moral support.”
“Oh that’s lovely, Phoebe. Jaxon, I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m Lucy. Thank you so much. I’m sorry I can’t offer you tea or coffee or lunch right now.”
“Don’t be silly, Mom,” says Phoebe. “As if. So, what are your chances? Donna told me everything. I know you really love this place. And now I can see why.”
Phoebe runs her hand along the windowsill and stares down at the garden.
I glance at Donna and she nods.
“I’m not your Godmother for nothing, Phoebe.”
They exchange a smile.
“I do love this place,” I say. “You see how there’s room for you, Phoebe?
In there. I’ve moved most of the lamp stuff into the window seat.
So, yes. I’m hopeful, but so are all these people, no doubt.
I’ll speak with my lawyer again on Monday.
My first two offers weren’t high enough, but I’m about to make another offer. Whatever it takes.”
“Good luck, Ms Beston.”
“Thank you, Jaxon. Please. Call me Lucy. It means so much to me that you’re here, Phoebe, both of you.
” I long to grab her and hug her tight, but she is here as an adult, at a very public event.
Instead, I reach for her hand and squeeze it.
“Whatever happens, I am rich because you’re my daughter, Phoebe.
That’s not a platitude. It’s just the truth. ”
Her face lights up. I pull her to me after all, and she lets me, here in front of all these strangers, and I start to cry.
I let her escape and she and Jaxon continue exploring my place. He holds her hand, and I swallow – my Phoebe, all grown up and partnered. I’m pleased for them. I snatch a tissue from the hall stand and dab at my eyes.
It’s crowded. People line my corridor. I scan the crowd, searching in vain for my tall neighbor, the elusive Dirk. The living room is full. Voices buzz from the kitchen and the bedroom – more and more strangers squeeze into my home. I have to act now to protect it, to save it for myself.
I slip past everyone and into my favorite part of the apartment. A sliver of sunlight filters through the bay windows and explodes off my diamonds, and I pluck a new figure out of the air. I email and text the number to Hilary and she questions it.
“You’re sure?” she texts. I send a green check emoji.
“Hurry,” I text. “Tell the agent.”
His phone rings straight away, and I see his eyebrows shoot up. But the minute he hangs up, it rings again and he names another price, a higher one.
The view of the neighborhood through the bay windows beckons to me, tempts me to offer even more. I calculate the value of my diamonds and text Hilary I will raise my offer by another ten thousand, and another few thousand after that.
Buyers hover around the seller’s agent naming figures. I am almost out of the race when Phoebe is by my side. “I can lend you another ten, Mom. You’ve been far too generous with me.”
My eyes widen.
“Do it,” she says. “I’m okay. Dad’s given me some to help with the internship.”
I text Hilary again, and she phones me.
“I need this in writing, Lucy. I’m sending you a fresh agreement. Use DocuShare. It has to be official.”
The agent keeps turning to the corner, taking offers on his phone and checking his own documents. Surely I’m still in the game. Surely I can make an offer high enough to secure it today – to put an end to these open houses once and for all and get on with my life.
Through our agents, the invisible competition and I fight it out a thousand dollars at a time.
I hold my breath and raise my offer by another five hundred dollars – not sure how I’ll pay my next electricity bill; maybe I can sell the green gown on eBay – but Hilary texts back to me it won’t be enough.
“The seller’s agent has accepted a higher offer, Lucy. I’m sorry.”
A moment later the agent makes an announcement and my blood runs cold. My apartment is off the market – sold. He names the price. Higher than my latest offer.
I feel like a total fool. I am totally trumped, and out, and spent, exhausted, bleak, utterly without hope, done.
I crumple to the couch, and Phoebe goes down with me, her arm across my shoulders, comforting me as a sob escapes.
People trail out. Donna offers me a coffee and I shake my head. The agent packs up and heads out to the next life-changing battle. He says he’ll be in touch.
“About my lease?”
He nods. What a way to make a living.
“Who bought it?” I ask. “Who was the other bidder?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am.”
“Of course not,” I say.
Donna throws her arms around me and hugs me until my ribs hurt.
“Sorry, Lucy,” she says. “Gotta run. Call me.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” says Phoebe. It breaks my heart for her to see me so defeated.
“Don’t worry, Ms Beston,” says Jaxon, so young, so earnest. “Something will work out.”
I almost laugh. Now who’s using platitudes? Jaxon clearly hasn’t graduated yet.