by Peter Ralph
“No. You do it. I’ll tag along for moral support. Let’s go and meet them.”
Eric and Cynthia Cartwright were from the country, in their mid-sixties, and looking to move to the city so they could be close to their grandchildren. They had expressed interest in a one bedroom apartment, and Brad watched as Rob sold the features of the display apartment, before asking if they would like to see the views from the upper levels. “Hold on, Rob. I think Mr & Mrs Cartwright might like to inspect the two or perhaps the three bedroom display apartments,” Brad said.
“We don’t have a great deal of money,” Eric responded. “We’ll be struggling to even afford a one bedroom apartment.”
“Oh, I thought you said you were shifting to be closer to your grandchildren, and I just wondered where they’ll sleep when they stay with you.”
“That’s a good point,” Cynthia said. “It won’t hurt to look at the two bedroom apartment. It’s not as if we’re going to sign anything this afternoon.”
As they inspected the larger apartment, Brad said, “I guess you can imagine your grandchildren sleeping over in an apartment like this. You could take them to the movies, the footy or to a restaurant, and they could come back and stay the night.”
“It’s a nice thought,” Cynthia replied, “but we can’t afford it.”
“You’d be surprised at the finance packages we can put together, but we can talk about that later. Let’s go upstairs and check the views. There’s been strong demand for apartments in this building, and the after-market’s been strong. Rob, what’s the highest level that we have a two bedroom on?”
“Twenty-one but it’s the most exp...”
Brad interrupted. “Of course it’s the most expansive. It’s a prestige apartment with views to kill for. Let’s go up and inspect it.”
“So there’s been good capital appreciation?” Eric queried.
“We’ll have every apartment in the building sold by the end of the month, and you know what happens when there’s no more supply.” Brad winked.
The apartment on level twenty-one overlooked Victoria Harbour, and the water views were breathtaking. Brad opened one of the large sliding doors to the balcony and the Cartwrights followed him, cooing about how wonderful the apartment was. He could feel their desire growing. “Can you imagine your grandchildren up here? They’d never want to go home.”
“It’d be lovely,” Cynthia said, “but it’s out of our price range.”
“It may not be. Let’s go down to the sales office and see what we can do for you.”
Rob was quiet, and looked embarrassed and uncomfortable. “Pass me a price list, Rob,” Brad said, and ran his eyes down the list until he reached level twenty-one, and saw $630,000 for the apartment they had just been in. “Mr Cartwright, you’re going to be pleased with this. For just $650,000 that beautiful apartment can be yours, and you’ll have more than enough room for your grandchildren to sleep over.”
Eric looked shocked. “We can’t come up with that type of money.”
Cynthia’s face was filled with yearning. “We could sell our house in Shepparton.”
“We’ll be lucky to get three hundred thousand for it.”
“But we could use our savings,” she persisted.
“No, our savings have to last us for the rest of our lives. I’m sorry, it’s too expensive.”
Brad smiled at Cynthia. “Your husband’s a tough negotiator. The pricing of the two bedroom apartments is very lean because we’re marketing them to one-child families, but I can reduce it by ten thousand, especially for you, if you sign up today.”
Eric looked sheepish but proud. “No, we still can’t afford it and, even if we could, we’d still have to sell our house first.”
“Can I call you, Eric?” Brad asked, his demeanour now serious.
“Yes, of course.”
“Eric, I know you’re a tough negotiator, but I can’t reduce the price any further. My boss isn’t going to be happy when he finds out that I’ve had to discount by ten thousand. In fact, he’s going to be as mad as hell.”
“I-I’m no-not trying to force your price down,” Eric said, glowing with satisfaction. “We just don’t have enough money.”
“You don’t have a thousand dollars?”
“Of course we do, but not on us,” Eric responded, looking puzzled.
“But you do have a credit card?”
“Yes.”
“Eric, do you want the ten thousand you haggled the price down by?”
“Well, well...”
“Of course you do,” Brad interrupted. “Why don’t you give us a thousand dollar deposit off your credit card, sign up, and you can settle in ninety days. That’ll give you more than enough time to sell and settle your house.”
“Ooh, that sounds terrific,” Cynthia said.
“I suppose if I sign the contract note subject to finance, we can’t get into too much trouble.”
“I’m sorry. If I’m going to get the discount past my boss, the contract note will have to be unconditional. Don’t worry though, because if the banks knock you back, which they won’t, we can arrange finance. You’ve got nothing to be concerned about.”
“At the same interest rate as the banks?”
“Our rates will be a little higher, but no more than one to two per cent. The difference is insignificant, but don’t worry, because the banks aren’t going to knock back solid citizens like you. Rob, draw up a contract note for Mr & Mrs Cartwright please.”
“You haven’t explained about the cooling off p...”
Brad cut Rob short. “Look, these lovely people want to get back to Shepparton. Let’s finalise the paperwork so they can be on their way.”
“We’re staying in Melbourne for another five days,” Cynthia said. “There’s no need to rush.”
“Who will be doing your legal work?” Brad enquired.
“We’ll see our lawyers as soon as we get back to Shepparton,” Eric said.
Brad smiled to himself. What a stroke of luck: the three-day cooling off period would expire before they got to take any legal advice.
After the Cartwrights had left, Brad grinned at Rob. “That was easy. Did you learn anything?”
Rob shifted uneasily. “You didn’t tell them about the three-day cooling off period. They don’t know they can cancel.”
“Why would they want to? Anyhow details of the cooling off period are on the front of the contract note. There’s no law saying we have to explain or spell them out.”
“No, but it’s the right thing to do. It’s morally responsible.”
“Rob, I’m not interested in morals. I’m interested in sales, and you’d better start thinking about making some,” Brad scowled.
“You inflated the list price by twenty thousand, and then made such a big deal about the poor old guy screwing you down by ten thousand.”
“The prices on the list are too low. I didn’t do anything illegal. That is, unless you consider smart negotiating illegal?”
By the time they take legal advice the cooling off period will have expired, and there’ll be nothing they can do.”
“They got what they wanted. We got what we wanted. It’s a win-win deal. Under the new incentive plan you just earned nine thousand in commission. How long has it been since you made that type of money in a day?”
“If that’s how you make big money, I’m not sure I want to,” Rob said, his voice shaking with emotion.
Brad groaned. Sales virgins; maybe it would be faster and more effective to sack the lot of them, and replace them with real hustlers.
- 12 -
BRAD’S ADVERTISEMENTS WERE a cross between the most garish of those used by second hand car dealers, and the most persuasively slimy of those used by the major life insurance companies, but they got results. Most of the old sales team had resigned or been fired, and their replacements were made up of young, smartly dressed men, sharing two common characteristics − greed and hard cold eyes. Despite the crassness of
the advertisements, the punters rolled in, and within two weeks Docklands was completely sold. The apartments in the two near-completed Richmond towers were also selling fast, as Brad’s team used any method to close a deal. Apartments were sold on one hundred dollar deposits, insurance bonds, pledges and, in one instance; a salesman lent a proposed buyer five hundred dollars to get his signature on a contract note. What was five hundred dollars when the commission was nine thousand?
There was an unhealthy vibrancy in the offices of Mercury. Reception couldn’t cope with the weight of incoming calls, and sales soared. A new vocabulary was adopted in the corridors, tea room and toilets, and words and sayings like, stitched up, wood duck, sucker, mug, chump, not the full twenty cents and moron, became common.
Aspine made announcements to the Stock Exchange nearly every day, reporting the sales successes. The financial press was quick to pick up on the change in direction of the company, and The Australian labeled him a turnaround expert. He glowed with pride when he read the article, and jotted down the reporter’s name, Marcus Easton, for future favourable treatment. The market in the company’s shares was stirring, and the price was gradually inching up.
Max Vogel phoned to say the union had all but caved in at the Industrial Relations Commission, but was going to appeal to the Full Bench in respect of the thirty sick workers. Many were claiming that their ailments resulted from workplace injuries and were covered by WorkCover. Vogel also said that the union wanted to negotiate a new Enterprise Bargaining Agreement, and would contact him in the next few weeks.
Everything Kelly said was true. She couldn’t type, she couldn’t spell, and the coffee she made tasted like shit. Aspine could live with the typing and spelling, but had taken her down to the kitchen and given her a ten minute crash course on how to make a good cup of coffee. Despite this, she proved herself to be sharp and savvy in her first week as his PA. He had bitten his lip though, when her bubbly voice came over the intercom saying. “Douglas, Mrs Lensworth from the National Homeless Foundation would like to talk to you.”
“Christ, don’t interrupt me every time someone phones looking for a handout.”
“She’s not looking for a handout. She wants to talk to you about taking a position on their board.”
“Oh, shit no! I’m far too busy. Piss her off, and don’t bother me with this type of crap again.”
Five minutes later Kelly came into his office and sat down opposite him. He watched the hem of her dress creep up and caught a glimpse of thigh as she crossed her legs. “Yeah, what is it?”
“I think you should reconsider that board position with the NHF.”
“I told you I don’t want to talk to losers. Hell, why would I want to get involved? I’d have to put in a heap of time and effort, and I wouldn’t get a cent out of it.”
“Not everything’s about money.”
Her hem had crawled a little higher, and he was enjoying the view, but not the conversation. Christ, didn’t she understand? Was she thick? “Kelly, look ...”
Before he could finish she stood up. “I just thought that you’d want to serve on a board with Russell Ridgeway. It’d be an opportunity for you to network.”
“Not Russell Ridgeway, the CEO of ANQ Insurance?”
“The same,” she smiled.
“Oh, hell! You didn’t tell that woman, what’s her name, to piss off did you?” Aspine groaned.
“Catherine Lensworth. I told her you were in a meeting, and that I’d get back to her when you were available.”
“Shit! How’d you know Russell Ridgeway was on the board?”
“I Googled the National Homeless Foundation while I was taking Catherine’s call, and up popped Ridgeway’s name. I take it you’d now like to say yes.”
As Kelly left his office he checked out her legs and tight little butt, while thinking about a reason to head interstate with her. Brains and beauty – he had chosen well.
Kerry Bartlett was quiet, diligent and hard working. He started early, finished late, and kept tight control of the company’s improving finances. He prepared a profit & loss statement covering the first month of Aspine’s stewardship, and the result was poor. Aspine wasn’t fazed in the slightest. “Don’t worry, Kerry, we hardly sold anything, and the cost of retrenchments is in the figures. I didn’t expect to make money.”
“Are you going to announce the result to the market?”
“No. They’re only management accounts, and I don’t want to spook investors.”
“What about compliance with the Stock Exchange’s continuous disclosure rules?”
“I have an obligation to keep the market fully informed, not misinformed. The result’s a hiccup, a small ripple in an otherwise smooth sea. When you prepare the current month’s figures you’ll see a huge increase in profits.”
“Yes, I’ve seen the increase in apartment sales, but some of them have been sold on deposits as low as one hundred dollars. You wouldn’t want to include those sales in the figures until they’ve been settled, would you?”
Aspine frowned. “I thought you’d include all unconditional sales, irrespective of the size of the deposit. I don’t know much about accounting, and would never consider faking the figures,” he lied, “but I do want you to produce realistic results.”
“Yes, of course. Of course,” Kerry responded, a little too quickly. “I understand.”
Aspine smiled. He hoped he’d never have to cook the books but, if he did, he had a very deferential chef in Kerry.
Things on Aspine’s home front had also improved. Whoever said, ‘Money can’t buy happiness,’ had obviously never had any. Phil Kendall had sent the platinum card out to Barbara, and she’d been overcome with gratitude. It had momentarily crossed Aspine’s mind to jump between the sheets with her, but he didn’t want to create a precedent that he might later regret. Besides, it had been an easy week, and without tension he could control his urge for sex. He had organized a dinner at Lynch’s Restaurant in South Yarra on Saturday night for some of his senior managers and their partners, and knew Barbara was looking forward to it.
Mark was in China with the school, Trevor was counting the days to when he could roll the Ford onto the road, and Emma had her first serious boyfriend. She’d gone from being a tomboy to a beautiful young woman almost overnight. Fortunately, Barbara had schooled her on morals from an early age. He hoped that she’d also taught Jemma about contraceptives, because if she had inherited any of his genes, which she surely had, her hormones would be starting to run wild.
Aspine was disappointed that he hadn’t heard from Charlie. He knew that the lease had less than two weeks to run, and that the agents would have contacted her. Perhaps she was just going to vacate without saying a word, thus depriving him of the last satisfaction that he had hoped she would provide. He hadn’t made the monthly payment on the MGB, and knew that it would be repossessed. She was one of those very quiet, unflappable people who rarely, if ever, lost her temper, but when she did she was uncontrollable. He could imagine her kicking, screaming and biting with rage, and a cruel smile crossed his face.
- 13 -
BECAUSE OF BARBARA’S penchant for punctuality, the Aspines were first to arrive at Lynch’s. They were greeted by a waiter who recognized them. “Good evening, Mr & Mrs Aspine. Would you like to have a drink in the lounge, or should I show you to your table?”
Aspine enjoyed the recognition, and marked the waiter down for a generous tip. “I’ll have a Jack Daniels neat, and Mrs Aspine, a gin and tonic, at our table.”
“Certainly. Follow me.”
They had eaten at Lynch’s frequently in happier times and Aspine could tell Barbara was pleased. She looked stunning in a long black, off the shoulder number that seemed glued to her gym-buffed body, and her white pearl necklace accentuated her solarium acquired tan. The table was set for eight, and Aspine took the chair at one end, while motioning to Barbara to sit on his right. As she reached for the chair, the waiter deftly removed it for it her.
“Thank you,” she said, giving him a radiant smile.
“I won’t be long with your drinks.”
A few minutes later he returned with a tray of six drinks, and Brad Hooper and his girlfriend, Stacey, and Jack Gillard and his wife, Pam. Stacey was a buxom, attractive blonde with a wide friendly smile, whose white dress was a fraction too short, and far too low. Aspine mused that she was exactly what he thought Brad would turn up with. Pam Gillard was a mirror of her husband, with white freckled skin, auburn hair and an athletic trim body. After the introductions and when they were seated, Brad enquired, looking at the two vacant chairs, “who’s missing?”
“Kerry Bartlett and his wife. I’m surprised, I thought they’d be first here,” Aspine responded.
“Yeah, it’s most unlike bean-counter behaviour to be late,” Brad grinned. Stacey burst out laughing at her boyfriend’s comment, and her breasts bounced up and down as if in harmony with her mirth.
“What do you, Stacey?” Aspine asked, trying to focus on her face. He thought she was coarse and loud but, despite this, he found it hard not to stare at her voluptuous breasts.
“I’m a nurse and part-time dance instructor. Oh, and I look after Brad, and that’s a full-time job,” she giggled.
“And do you work, Pam?” Barbara asked, anxious to include everyone in the conversation.
“No, Jack’s a bit old fashioned, and thinks I should be home for the kids.”
“That’s interesting. Douglas is the same. How many do you have?”
“Three. From two years old to six. They can be very tiring.”
“So you’re just about due for another,” Aspine said, displaying his customary lack of tact.
