My parents had been school teachers at the local school, which meant everyone within a fifty-kilometre radius knew them. Some loved them, some loathed them, but everyone knew them. When they died, they’d built up quite an impressive property portfolio. They owned the home they lived in, only a hundred meters from the beach a couple of units and a house.
I remember sitting in the dreary solicitors’ office on a particularly lovely afternoon. The sun was shining, the water was warm and inviting and it was mainly deserted.
It was exactly ten days since their funeral. I’d put it off that long but it was something I had to face. I’d hoped facing it would make everything hurry up so I could try and find some kind of normal life again.
A smelly old man stumbled into the conference room carrying three large manila folders held together with rubber bands. Without realizing, I was staring directly at the dirty great wart on the bottom of one of his chins, which was surrounded by what could only be described as a forest of thick grey hair.
One of the teachers who had worked with my father, a lovely old lady with a heavy English accent and too many wrinkles to count, had taken to dropping off salads and casseroles for me daily. She often stayed and we had superficial conversations about the weather and she caught me up on the local town gossip. But the day before I had been requested to meet with the solicitor she sat down, had a cup of tea, and explained what would probably happen. They’d read the will, I’d sign a few papers, and that would be that. I prayed she was right.
“Ms. Dempsey,” he announced, panting. The beads of sweat congregating on his forehead captured my attention. He was sweating and panting as if he had just run a marathon. I noticed the wet patch on his white shirt with a slightly reddish tinge on his bulging belly. The only marathon this guy had run was from the lunch room to the conference room. “I’m Mr. Sanders, but you can call me Jack,” he invited reaching for my hand and shaking it.
“Hi,” I murmured, wiping my damp hands on my shorts under the table.
“I’m very sorry to hear about your parents. They were great people,” he began.
I held up my hand in a mock salute. “I’m sorry if this is rude, but can we just skip all this crap? I mean, if we could just get this done as quickly as possible, that would be great.” I sounded bitchy but I was exhausted with the fake pleasantries.
“As you wish.” He smiled as he attempted to open the first file.
I couldn’t help but laugh as he tried to remove the rubber band and it broke, flicking up and hitting him. As soon as the giggle passed over my lips, I felt guilty. My parents were barely cold in the ground and here I was laughing. It was wrong.
A skinny redhead in an overly short, tight black skirt slipped in the door. “I’m Angela.” She smiled seductively. I don’t think she knew how to smile any other way. “I’m just here as a witness to record everything. Feel free to ask any questions or ignore me as necessary.”
For the next twenty minutes, Mr. Sanders explained to me in legal speak what was happening and what he read. I didn’t understand a word of it. “Now, if you are happy with everything that I have just said, I just need you to sign a few papers and I can let you get back to your day.”
“Okay.” I shrugged.
“Sorry, Jack,” Angela said, sliding forward on her chair, puffing out her chest. “Gillian, did you understand any of what Jack just told you?” she asked. I found myself realizing that maybe I had judged her too quickly. She had obviously caught the glazed-over look in my eyes.
“Not really,” I answered honestly.
I saw the look exchanged between Angela and Jack, but neither said a word. For a long time they just stared at each other, eyes fixed, neither blinked. Then Jack waved his hand in a mock invitation, and Angela turned back to me. “Basically, Gillian, your parents have left everything to you. The life insurance, the superannuation fund, and the properties. However, they have designated that the sum of one hundred thousand dollars be donated to Palliative Care Australia. Their wills stipulate this and leave no room for argument or negotiation,” Angela summarized, staring directly at me. “Do you have any questions?”
“No,” I mumbled. Even though it had all been explained, I didn’t really comprehend what they were saying. I had no idea how much money we were actually talking about, and I had no idea whatsoever as to what I was supposed to do next.
“If you’re sure,” Angela invited, swinging her chair around and sitting next to me. “We just need to sign some papers and everything will be transferred to your name. Have you given any thoughts to what you might do with the property portfolio?” she enquired. Although it seemed casual enough, when she reached her manicured, bright red nails out and took hold of my wrist I felt cornered and I didn’t like it.
As forcefully and maturely as I could, I straightened myself in the chair, and spoke in my clearest voice. “Not yet. I haven’t been given the opportunity to consider my options or seek independent advice. I’ve been busy burying my family. Now, which papers do I need to sign?”
Slightly taken back by my rebuff, Angela removed her hand from my wrist and flicked to the first page for me to sign.
After the meeting I was an emotional wreck. I had so many thoughts screaming around inside my head, and none of them were answers. What was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to do everything on my own? How did I survive this? I checked my email and my Facebook page and it was just more of the same—messages from family and friends, offering their condolences. It was all too much. Slamming the computer shut made the flimsy plastic hinges holding the screen onto snap off. That was the last straw. I picked up the laptop and threw it as hard as I could against the wall, watching as it smashed and dented the plaster. I knocked over a vase, staring blankly as the water seeped into the carpet. I slid down the wall and cried. It was all that I had left to do, cry and then cry some more.
By the time I managed to pull myself together, I’d made some decisions. I couldn’t stay in the small, suffocating town any longer. With my parents now gone, I had no reason to stay and every reason to go. One of their properties, a two-bedroom apartment in the town centre, had become vacant only weeks earlier. That’s where I was going. Walking purposefully towards my bedroom, I started stuffing my belongings into suitcases. When I was done with my wardrobe, I curled up in the foetal position on the end of my bed and fell into a much-needed deep sleep.
A week later I pulled into the undercover parking garage with my bruised and battered car stuffed as full as I could manage. The furniture removalists would arrive the next day, but I had to get out as soon as I could. That town was suffocating me. If I had my way, I’d never have to go back there again. That night I slept on the floor, with only a pillow and sheet covering me. I almost froze to death.
Once the furniture arrived and had been unpacked, I thought I had better start looking for a job. I was on my own and I had to support myself somehow. Flicking through the paper was depressing. There wasn’t a lot around, and, of what was available, I either didn’t understand what they were actually after or they were for places I didn’t want to work. I had no idea what it was that I actually wanted to do, but I knew I didn’t want to be a receptionist at a panel beaters or a shop assistant at the local clothing boutique.
It seemed that while I was just lazing around the apartment, taking myself out to lunch and shopping, I was also fielding a million and one questions from property managers about various tenants and maintenance issues with the other properties my parents had left me. It was on the third straight day of complaints, while I was having a pedicure, when the property manager decided to inform me that the tenants hadn’t paid rent in nine weeks and had smashed holes in the wall, that I had enough.
As soon as my feet were dry—I didn’t even wait for the nail polish—I stormed down the road and ducked into the first real estate agency I found, Max Meredith & Sons. The tiny redhead behind the reception desk stood up meekly and without a word handed me a rental list.
“I’m sorry, I don’t need this,” I informed her casually.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t do property management here, just sales.” She smiled sweetly. She looked like she was barely fourteen, her wide innocent eyes staring at me apologetically.
Stowing my shitty attitude, feeling sorry for her, I smiled back. “No troubles. I was wondering if you have a sales agent here that I could speak to. I have a few properties I’d like to sell,” I explained.
With her eyebrows raised, she whispered, “I’ll see who I can find,” jumping up from her chair and disappearing out the back.
I could hear the sounds of a busy office. The photocopier was churning paper out rapidly. Someone not far away was typing as though their life depended on it. And the phones. Office phones, mobile phones, and people smashing keys incessantly. The talking was animated. From where I was standing, I could see an arm waving about wildly as laughter filled the air.
A short man, in a very fat, very pink tie, ducked past me, reeking of cigarette smoke and coffee. “You all right?” he asked, almost as if it was an afterthought.
I just nodded, having already decided I wasn’t going to deal with him. The longer I was left standing at the counter, the more time I had to think about the decision I’d made. Was I doing the right thing selling the properties? Maybe if I just stuck it out a bit longer, things would get easier. Maybe they were just teething problems.
When the redhead appeared again, she mumbled, “Joel will be with you shortly.” Without even a smile or a hesitation, she sat back down in her high- backed leather chair, pulled the headset back over her ears, and dialled away.
I sat down in the cold, sterile waiting area and flipped through the various magazines. They weren’t what I thought they would be. There were no house magazines, no Better Homes and Gardens, no DIY books. Only a couple of car magazines and old issues of Rolling Stone. I could hear the receptionist making her weekend plans not giving a shit that a client was sitting right there.
Above her head, lined up on the wall, was a long line of framed awards. It seemed as though there was one there from every year. I had obviously picked a half-decent agency to stumble into, although I had never heard of them beforehand.
Just as I was getting ready to leave, the most beautiful man I had ever seen walked around the corner and smiled at me. He had spiky brown hair, gelled into a perfect position. His aqua eyes penetrated my soul as soon as he looked at me. His black suit and white shirt were immaculately tailored and pressed, and his smile melted me in moments.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting.” He reached out and shook my hand professionally. “I’m Joel Matthews. How can I help?”
“I-I’m…Gillian,” I stuttered pathetically. “I need to sell some houses.”
“Well, why don’t you come through into the conference room, and we can figure out what we need to do here?” he invited warmly. “I’ll just grab some papers and be right with you.” He opened the door for me and ushered me into the room, even taking the time to pull out the chair for me.
I’d never met a gentleman before, but Joel Matthews may just be the perfect example of one. He was charismatic, charming, intelligent, and so very sexy. I sat in the bland conference room staring vaguely at the blue and orange walls, and fantasized about Joel. I had definitely made the right decision to sell.
Rushing back in, his arms were full of papers, and he had pens hanging out of his mouth. He looked so disorganized it was a relief. I was a mess and seeing him slightly off balance made me feel better about my own life. “Sorry about the wait.” He smiled again, looking straight into my eyes. I felt my breath catch in my chest, and my cheeks blush. “So, what are we selling?” he invited.
I sat there for almost twenty minutes describing the house in the suburbs and the unit on the water. I answered many questions, some I didn’t even know the answers to, but Joel assured me not to worry, that was his job and he’d find out. When he asked whose name the properties were in, I felt myself tear up. Praying I wouldn’t embarrass myself, I began to explain. “I’m not exactly sure whose name the titles are in at this point. They were in my parents’ names, but they have both been left to me. They were transferring it over, but I’m not sure where they are with the process.”
A strange, almost sad look crossed his face, “Mind if I ask why it’s being put in your name?”
Taking a deep breath, so I exhaled, trying to compose myself, “My parents recently died. They left everything to me.” It came out faster than I had ever spoken before, but at least it was out.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he offered sincerely, reaching out and squeezing my hand.
Straightening myself in the chair, I pulled my hand out from under his and pretended to wipe stray strands of hair from my forehead. “So, what do I need to do next?”
A wave of relief passed over Joel and I could see the life return to his mesmerizing eyes; he was obviously as grateful for the change of subject as I was. “If you are one hundred percent sure this is what you want to do, we need to fill out some paperwork, then I will get in touch with the property managers, let them know the properties are being sold, and see if we can get access. How hard this whole process is really depends on the tenants, unfortunately. If they don’t allow access to the photographer or for open homes, it can cause huge issues. Do you know when the leases expire?”
“Not sure, but yesterday I ordered the eviction of the tenants in the house. They are nine weeks behind in the rent, so I want them out. Also, I don’t know what sort of condition the property is going to be in once they’re evicted. From what I heard, they aren’t exactly what you would describe as ‘ideal’ tenants,” I admitted slightly embarrassed. By this point I figured that he was going to find out anyway, so there was no point in lying.
“Don’t look so worried.” Joel laughed easily. “It's no fun if it’s all straightforward. Okay, if you’re happy with everything you and I have talked about, I’ll just need you to sign a couple of things and I can get to work.” He slid the papers towards me and I noticed for the first time he had been taking notes. They were already almost completely filled in. He smiled, my heart sped up, and I signed whatever he asked me to.
“Great! Now here’s my card with all my contact details on it. Feel free to contact me with any questions or queries you might have. I’ll get all this started and I’ll give you a call about lunchtime tomorrow, if that’s okay, and let you know how we’re going and a rough time of when you can expect to see the properties on the market,” he summarized.
“Oh,” I said, disappointed.
“Is something the matter?” His mood instantly turned to concern.
“No…no, it’s nothing,” I mumbled.
“Gillian?” he asked again. I liked the way my name rolled off his tongue. It was so natural and comfortable, as if he had been saying it his whole life. I stole a glance at his left hand. No ring. And no sign of a tan line where a ring had once been.
“I just thought it was on the market now. I don’t really understand what I’m doing here.” Admitting it felt horrible. I felt stupid and naïve, but he smiled and instantly the fear of looking like a fool in front of this perfect man evaporated.
Joel spent the next ten minutes patiently explaining to me all the steps that would have to happen before they appeared in the paper. He didn’t seem annoyed about having to go over this with me, and I was grateful for his patience.
“Anything I forgot?” He grinned again. Not trusting myself to speak, I just shook my head half- heartedly. “Well then, I better let you get back to it, so I can go and do some work. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know how we are looking. But in the meantime, if you need anything, you have my details.” He smiled again before reaching out and shaking my clammy hand.
“Thanks again,” I managed to say, as he opened the door for me and walked me to the door.
“Talk soon.” He waved, then disappeared back into the deep, dark depths of the of
fice. I stepped outside, grateful for the cool breeze blowing against my warm, embarrassed cheeks. Sitting in the conference room, I could feel myself sweating, but hoped it wasn’t noticeable. I glanced down at the business card I held tightly in my hand. Taking up most of the card was the perfect picture of Joel— wide, warm, white smile, tie lying perfectly straight down his chest. Suddenly realizing I was standing outside his office, staring stupidly at the photo of him held tight in my hand. I quickly walked away and headed for the car.
Sliding behind the wheel, I could hear the phone ringing. Digging desperately through my handbag, I couldn’t find it. Irritated, I tipped the contents onto the seat beside me. Not recognizing the number, I flipped open my phone. “Hello?”
“Gillian, its Joel.”
My heart missed a beat. “Did I forget something?” I asked nervously.
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I just needed to know if it was going to just be your name on the title deed.”
Relieved I hadn’t done or said anything stupid, I allowed myself a smug smile. I didn’t know if this was his roundabout way of asking if I was single, but that’s what I convinced myself anyway. “Yep, just me.” I smiled to myself, almost overflowing with happiness.
“Oh, I guess that’s good…” he trailed off under his breath and I couldn’t quite catch the last few words.
“Okay then…” I tried to end the call. Always leave them wanting more, one of my best friends had always told me. “I have to run, so unless there is anything else…”
“Nope, that’s it. Have a lovely day, Gillian.” He sounded pleased. I clicked the phone shut and burst out laughing. Even I was impressed by my performance.
When Friday night arrived, I joined some girlfriends I hadn’t seen in months. In high school the four of us had been inseparable, but the other three had enrolled at University to study, while I remained on the coast trying to figure things out. I took my time getting ready, paying particular attention to my makeup and hair. I chose my outfit, a knee-length orange and pink dress, with knee-high black boots, a black jacket, and white scarf twisted around my neck.
Broken Dreams Boxset Page 31
