Chapter 46
Lucy
Ibarely slept lastnight, 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.
