Chapter 8
EIGHT
Alexia
The first place is a ground-floor one-bedroom apartment in an alley in Thebarton.
It has good bones, the listing said. Natural light. Freshly painted.
The natural light is a skylight above the bedroom and the paint job is the kind you do when you're trying to cover something you don't want asked about.
Dulux Antique White, brush-applied, slightly uneven near the cornices, approximately eleven layers.
One for every time a tenant has run screaming from the place.
Marcus has obviously picked up on this, because he's standing in the kitchen tapping the bench, clicking his tongue.
"Hollow," he says.
The landlord blanches. "Sorry?"
"The bench." Marcus taps it again. "Listen to that.
That's not solid. That's a laminate skin over particleboard and it's been re-edged at least twice.
" He opens a cupboard. Closes it. Opens it again.
"And whoever hung these doors didn't account for the seasonal movement in the frame.
See how it catches? That's going to get worse. "
"The kitchen was renovated only two years ago," the landlord says.
"I can see that," Marcus says. "That's the problem."
I look at Zachary for help, but he's busy typing something into his notes app. Marcus turns the sink tap on. "How long has the current hot water system been in place?"
"About four years."
Right." More tapping. "And the last building inspection was—"
"Marcus!" I hiss. I don't know if I'm going to rent this place or not, but I certainly don't want my future landlord already pissed at me if I move in.
"Yes, Lexi?" he sways sweetly. "I'm asking perfectly acceptable questions. I'm sure the man knows that we just want the best for you. Right, sir?"
He pins the poor man with a look.
"Oh. Um, yes. Of course. Ask away. I have nothing to hide."
Marcus gives him a bright, winning smile and then points to some peeling laminate on the bureau. "Really? You sure you're not trying to hide anything?"
The landlord visibly breaks out into a sweat.
I turn to look for Rhys, silent since we walked in, which I'd taken as a good sign. How wrong I was. He's standing in the doorway between the bedroom and the rest of the space, looking at the ceiling, then the floor, as if silently surveying each tile in turn. Then he looks at me.
"No," he says.
I bristle. "But. You haven't even—"
"No."
He walks back through the kitchen, out the front door, and crosses the street. We hear his car start.
Zachary makes his way to the door. Marcus pats the landlord on the shoulder and says, "Shaw Construction. Look me up next time you want a job done properly. I won't even charge you for getting rid of what's been done here." Then he follows the other guys out.
The landlord looks at me.
I sigh and pick up my bag.
The second place is in Prospect. Slightly bigger, second floor, a cute little balcony with a view of the park across the road.
"All the flooring is new," the landlord offers.
I am choosing to be positive about this one.
The carpet seems clean. The hot water is brand new, I know because Marcus asked within forty seconds of walking in.
The kitchen bench is solid, and though Marcus hasn't tapped his knuckle against every surface, he hasn't clicked his tongue yet either, which I'm counting as a win.
However, now he's found his way to the second bedroom, which the listing described as a study. He has not said anything for three minutes. I find this more alarming than when he talks.
"Marcus?" I call.
"Yep."
"What are you doing?"
A pause. "Just looking at the ceiling."
"Why?"
"No reason."
There is a reason. There is always a reason. It reveals itself thirty seconds later, when Marcus emerges with a photo on his phone of a hairline crack running along the cornice in the far corner of the room.
"That's been filled and repainted," he says to the landlord. "Twice, by the look of it. What's above this room?"
"Just the roof cavity." There's a shake to his voice. I almost want to give him a hug.
"And the roof was last inspected—?"
"Um. I'm sure it's fine," the landlord says.
Marcus gives him the withering look of someone who's been in construction for ten years and deeply distrusts anyone who utters the phrase "I'm sure it's fine."
I can hear the sounds of a dial tone coming from the living room. "Er, who are you calling, Zachary?" I ask, almost scared of the answer. Which is scary in itself. Zachary has been the most reasonable so far on this impromptu housemate outing.
"Just the strata manager," he says.
"Oh my god! Where did you get their number?"
He points to a little sticker on the sideboard and then presses his finger to his lips.
"Yes, hello. My friend is looking at apartment two at 98 Ellison Dr. I have some questions. Could you tell me if there have been any police call-outs to this building or any in the area in the last two—" Marcus throws him a look. "—er, five. Make that five years?"
I look longingly at the balcony and wonder if I should fling myself off it.
That is, until I notice Rhys. He's on the balcony, hands in his pockets, looking at a small group of people in one of the covered spots in the park with an almost readable expression. That can't be good. Especially when said expression is disgust.
"Good place, right?" I ask, coming to stand beside him.
"No," he says, and walks straight out to his car.
The third place is in Goodwood and it is, objectively, the best one so far.
Top floor of a converted Edwardian terrace. High ceilings. Original cornice. Spotted red gum floorboards. A clawfoot bath. A kitchen with actual stone bench tops that Marcus can tap to his heart's content and find completely unobjectionable.
I know it is the best one because I walk in and feel something in my chest loosen slightly, which is the closest thing to hope I've experienced in any of the rental inspections.
Marcus crouches in front of the kitchen cupboard under the sink. He doesn't say anything, just looks for a long time, then stands and catches Zachary's eye, something passes between them that I'm not party to.
Zachary turns to the landlord. "Has there been any water damage in the kitchen?"
The landlord's smile goes very still. "Oh. Um, it was just a very minor fir—"
I close my eyes, and rub my forehead.
"And there it is," Marcus cuts him off.
When I open my eyes again, Rhys is already half way to the door.
There is nothing wrong with the fourth one, despite the guys putting the landlord through the wringer and literally breaking out the measuring tape to make sure the kitchen was built to code, once they couldn't find anything else to criticise.
Finally, when they congregate in the main bedroom, all I hear is Zachary quietly saying, "Look, it's...perfect. I'd live here if I could."
Marcus is reluctantly agreeing when I step into the room.
I'll be fucked if they're going to have a meeting about the apartment I'll be living in.
Rhys gives them both a hard look and says something too low for me to hear, but it instantly has an effect — both start emphatically nodding.
The three walk towards the door and past me, all saying, "No."
Marcus and Zachary are already at Rhys's car by the time I make it out of the perfect apartment, apologising profusely to the landlord and asking him not to give the apartment away before I call him back.
Rhys, on the other hand, is just standing there on the footpath, with his arms crossed and his keys in one hand, staring at the apartment entrance, waiting for me to emerge.
When they see me, Marcus and Zachary push off the car and join Rhys on the footpath. Nobody says anything. The afternoon has gone dark and pink at the edges, night encroaching.
I take a deep breath, to calm my anger more than anything, before I open my mouth. And then I let it out.
"What the hell is wrong with you all? This one is perfect.
I'm not going to be buying the place. I'm only going to be living there for three months. I probably won't even be unpacking my suitcase. Who cares if the kitchen laminate is peeling a little? I'm not even going to be opening that drawer! You guys have gone too far. I appreciate your...loyalty, or whatever it is, to my brother, by helping his sister find a place, but I can do this myself!” My hands have thrown themselves so far over my head, they’re practically out of the earth’s orbit. Marcus glances at them in amusement, and I’m not thinking of wrapping them around his neck.
I drop them down. “So please...just...let me do this.
It's going to be better for us all. You can't be wanting some random in your house cramping your style either. "
The look that passes between them lasts barely a heartbeat, but apparently said everything that needed to be said. And then Rhys says, "We're done."
Confusion fills me. “Here?”
“Here. Everywhere. We’re done,” Rhys repeats, saying more in that one sentence than he has all day.
“I-I don’t understand,” I stammer.
Rhys takes a beat and I can practically feel the inward eye roll. “We've decided. You're coming back to stay at the house."
I open my mouth but he doesn't give me the chance to say anything.
"If you don't want us living there with you at the house, fine.
We'll find somewhere else while you're staying there.
But I'm done wasting my afternoon on this.
" He looks at the terrace behind me and then back at me.
"You're not living in any of these places.
That's not happening. End of story. We're all too busy for this shit. Let's go. "
I glare back at all three of them and stay rooted to the ground. It takes more than I want to admit to not stomp my foot but I manage it. "I'm just going to find somewhere myself," I say.
"You could try," Rhys says as he opens the driver's car door.
"I don't get a say in this?"
Zachary picks up my bag from where I flung it in my anger and opens the passenger car door for me. "Come on, get in the car, Lex. We'll go somewhere and talk about this properly."
Only because screaming at each other in the middle of the street is hardly the impression I want to be giving to my prospective landlord and future neighbours, I follow him to the car.
I yank the back door open and slide into the seat. Marcus makes a sound that might be a laugh but it turns into a cough when I glare at him. He rounds the car and slides in next to me, apologetic.
I stare at the back of Rhys's head as he starts the car and pulls into traffic, murmuring all sorts of made-up ancient curses. Every time he checks his rear-view mirror — and being such a cautious driver, that's often — his eyes find mine for just a second before he looks back at the road.
Finally, I force myself to face forward and watch Adelaide slide past the window, thinking of all the ways I'm going to make them pay for this.