Chapter 34
Lucy
As Dirk heads intothe 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.”
