“Sorry about all the boxes,” I say.
“Lucy, can you come down?” she says. “Professor Raynor wants to see you.”
I smooth my hands over my outfit – jeans and a soft old sweatshirt, smeared with glue gun stains. My elderly neighbor is a formal man. Even when I garden I look better than this.
“Don’t worry, Lucy. His mind might be twenty twenty but his eyesight is ... Just come. Now.” She strums at the air as if it’s her harp, hurrying me up.
I snatch my keys on the way out. At the foot of the stairs, she raps on his old door and it creaks as he opens it. He stares at us, then steps back, allowing us in.
He shuffles into a formal room. It’s dark in here, with heavy drapes across the windows, bookshelves – smells like old books – an ornate dining table, French polished, stacked at one end with documents, and eight ornate dining chairs lined in velvet around it, their seats slumped with age and wear. My fingers itch to re-web and reupholster them. There’ll be horsehair inside, for sure.
Our host gestures at the seats with a papery hand, and Amaryllis and I sit.
Amaryllis keeps lacing and unlacing her fingers, sitting straight as the teacher’s pet. Her smile is close-lipped but insistent.
“Ms Beston,” says Professor Raynor, formal as ever.
“Yes, sir,” I say, astonished he should address me correctly. I thought older people resisted the “Ms” tag, even though it’s official. Perhaps “correct” is more important to him than “preferred.”
“It has come to my attention that you wished to buy the apartment you were renting.”
“Yes! Yes. I did! I do! That is, there’s another one for sale. I’ve made an offer.”
“Ms Beston, I do not wish it to be widely known, so I’d appreciate your confidentiality.”
“Of course,” I say.
“Media folk are not known for their discretion,” he says.
“That was decades ago. My former husband is still on air, but we are divorced, which is why I want to buy ...”
“Yes, yes,” he says. “Amaryllis assures me you are of good character.”
I glance at Amaryllis.
“As I say,” he says, “it is not widely known that my late sister and I inherited Brighton Court from our father, a most industrious shipbuilder whose services were paramount during World War II.”
I nod.
“My sister, Hildegarde, did not marry. She owned the penultimate floor of Brighton Court, all eight apartments, including the one you rent – she always felt she should have inherited half of the building; never let me forget it; but all that’s in the past. When she died, those apartments came to me.
“I am a simple man. I live frugally, as you can see, especially now that I am largely incapacitated. I had always planned to live at the top of Brighton Court, Ms Beston, to enjoy those views, but it is too late now. I can no longer climb stairs safely.
“I have sold several apartments over the decades to meet my living expenses. I sold the penthouse recently, and then your apartment. I was going to sell another in six months, but given Amaryllis’s pleas on your behalf, and given that I was formally contacted by the real estate office about your buyer’s agent’s approach, and given what I have seen of your character – including your sensitive improvements to the garden – I am willing to sell you another, provided, of course, I receive the usual assurances and documentation from your representative, and provided we can complete the transaction within seven days. I understand the tenant is moving out of Number Forty Five. This is on the southern side. It is an unimproved apartment, not dissimilar to your own, but with an older bathroom and kitchen. And I am willing to sell it to you for slightly less than I received for Number Forty Nine, due to its ... tired ... condition. Work will be needed.”
I stand. I float. I do. My eyes snap from his eyes – almost hidden behind thick glasses, to those of Amaryllis, also bespectacled. Are they related? Is this real?
“Sir. I ... of course. I ... How can I thank you? I ...”
He holds up a hand to silence me. Mr No is definitely not a hugger.
“It is to my benefit to have good neighbors, Ms Beston. This is a selfish act on my own part.”
“No. You need to know how grateful I am.”
If I lurch at him and hug him I might break his bones. The deal may be off.
“I can’t thank you enough, sir,” I say.” You need to know I’ll forever be grateful. You can’t know what this means to me – Amaryllis, Professor.”
