Hot Property

by Susanne O’Leary

  Turning off the main road, she drove into a small lane full of potholes. The car wobbled up the road, past a farm, a shed and then… a house.

  Megan brought the car to a screeching halt. Her heart sinking, she stared at the house. Was this it? This crumbling wreck with broken windows, peeling paint, sagging roof and overgrown garden? It was surrounded by ragged fields on either side, where sheep and cattle grazed.

  Megan pulled up beside the broken fence. She looked from the brochure to the house. Yes. There was no mistake. The ‘dream house’ she had inherited was a wreck. Stunned, Megan sat there for a while. The photo must have been taken a long time ago, when the house was occupied. Now, it didn’t look as if anyone had lived in it for years.

  Sell it, was her first thought. Sell it quick and get rid of it. “Two hundred and fifty thousand,” Daniel Nolan said, “including the fields.” It seemed the best option. The only option. A rather wonderful option. Images of holidays in the Bahamas, shopping trips to New York and the possibility of buying an apartment in Dublin popped into her mind.

  After the divorce and the sale of the house she owned with her husband, she couldn’t afford to buy anything decent and ended up in a tiny rented flat. This house looked like a ticket to a better existence. The idyll of being hostess to some snooty Dublin freeloaders slowly faded, replaced by the buzz of financial independence. A quarter of a million. Not to be sneezed at.

  Megan got out of the car and looked around. The setting was certainly stunning. Mountains rising up just behind the back fields. Breathtaking views of dunes and the deep blue ocean from the front gate. A ruined tower with mellow grey stones and crumbling turrets around which swallows swooped in a graceful ballet. Someone with a lot of money could turn this into the gem it once was. Someone who would see the potential, imagine sitting on the front step with a cup of tea, looking at the sea. Or having breakfast on the cement slab at the back, which could be made into a patio, where the sun would turn the top of the mountain pink in the early morning. Stop it, she told herself. This isn’t a dream you could possibly realise.

  Megan walked to the front door and peered in through the little window at the top. Seeing nothing but a dusty stone flagged floor, she decided to go around the house to the back.

  Hearing a gurgling sound as she wobbled around the outside of the house on her high heels, she discovered a stream at the bottom of the garden, where water rushed over boulders and rocks. She jumped at a flapping behind a tree. A heron rose and glided along the water, disappearing around the bend further up.

  Megan turned to study the back of the house. It seemed even worse from this side. The back door was hanging off its hinges, and most of the panes in the windows were broken. But the sun had come out of the clouds and shone on the little patio. With the sound of the stream and a lone thrush singing nearby, the peace was nearly spiritual.

  She plucked up enough courage to go to the back door, telling herself she had to get inside. She remembered Daniel Nolan’s warning. She wasn’t the rightful owner yet. Going inside would be trespassing. But wasn’t even walking into the garden trespassing? If the deed was already done, what harm would one step further do? She pushed at the door. It creaked open.

  The dark interior, dimly illuminated by a sunbeam where dust particles danced like smoke from a dying fire, felt gloomy and brooding. Megan let her hand fall and stepped back. I’d better not. I’ll get in the car and go home. But as if something inside was beckoning, she felt compelled to push at the door again and step inside.

  Chapter 2

  Megan stood in the lean-to kitchen. This was a new addition. In the old days, the big room to the right of the front door was the kitchen-cum-living room. She remembered it had a big solid fuel stove and an inglenook fireplace, where a turf fire burned every single day of the year. The house was two hundred years old and hadn’t changed or been added to much during that time. The family lived, cooked and took their meals in that big room, as it was always warm.

  To the left was the parlour, not used much, except at times of family gatherings, Christmas, Easter, wakes, christenings and weddings. This room had been furnished with a chintzy sofa and two easy chairs, a wobbly coffee table. A big glassed-in cupboard full of silver, Waterford crystal and framed photos of long-dead relatives. A framed photo of President Kennedy and his wife on one wall and a picture of the Sacred Heart of Christ on the other. She remembered staring up at the two pictures, admiring Jackie Kennedy’s beautiful face and being a little frightened of the bleeding heart in the open chest of Jesus. They didn’t spend much time in that room. Upstairs, there were two big bedrooms and a small box room, turned into a bathroom.

  Megan wrinkled her nose at the smell of damp and rat’s urine and continued down the corridor into the big room, once the original kitchen-cum-living room.

  She instantly recognised the fireplace with padded seats on either side. And the wheel by the wall that was a kind of bellows to keep the fire going, that Uncle Pat operated with great skill, the flames falling and rising at his command. At eight, she was fascinated by it and asked to turn the wheel. Uncle Pat took her hand and made her turn the handle faster and faster, then slowing down, then turning it again when the fire threatened to die.

  The seats were still there, the fabric faded and full of holes. She sat down on one of them. Breathing in the stale smell of old smoke, she was back at that magic time when everything was an adventure.

  Long-forgotten memories slowly returned. The kind faces of Uncle Pat and Auntie Molly. The silky fur of the kitten they gave her. Going out in the early morning to the little barn to milk the two cows. The smell of warm milk and sunshine. Collecting eggs from the hen house. The clucking of the hens as they picked at the ground. Digging for new potatoes, then eating them hot, with butter and salt. Making scones with Aunt Molly, mixing the dough in the yellow bowl at the kitchen table that was, miraculously, still there by the window.

  Megan got up and opened the shutters. Light cascaded into the room, revealing shabby remnants of better days. Wallpaper hung off the walls, and plaster from the ceiling crumbled onto dirty floorboards. But the room still held all the memories so close to her heart. Despite the smell of mould and smoke, a warm blanket of comfort settled on her shoulders. A feeling of coming home, of being welcome. She sighed, soothed by the soft light and peace in the little house.

  A shrill sound pierced the silence. Irritated, Megan looked around. Her phone ringing in her bag had broken the spell. She fished it out. The number was unfamiliar.

  “Hello?” she snapped.

  “Hi there. Dan Nolan here. You’re at the house?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “Well, I just thought I’d tell you there’s good news. Two pieces of good news, actually.”

  “What are they?” Megan demanded.

  “First, I’ve just talked to someone at the probate court, who said he thought this would go through very quickly. So you could be all sorted in a month or two. And the second piece of good news is that the offer from one of the buyers is still good. “Two hundred and fifty K for the lot, they said, once the probate thing has been finalised.”

  Megan’s heart skipped a beat. “Two hundred and… I mean… oh…God, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just say yes,” Daniel Nolan suggested. “Then you can go out and celebrate.”

  “I suppose.” Megan hesitated. Her legs weak, she sat down on the little seat by the fireplace again. “But, Mr Nolan—”

  “Dan,” he corrected, “as we’ll probably see a lot of each other in the near future.”

  “Okay,” she said automatically, her mind whirling.

  “Are you at the house right now?”

  “Yes.”

  He laughed. “I suppose you can see what a wreck it is, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that restoring it would cost an arm and a leg, a lot of trouble and hard work?”

  Megan looked at the view of the ocean and the white sails far out in t
he bay. “Yes.”

  “An impossible task, right?”

  “Yes.”

  The phone still to her ear, Megan walked down the corridor and out of the house. She sank down on the back step, where the warm sunshine felt good after the chilly gloom inside. She squealed as something small and feathery scurried over her foot.

  “What was that?” Dan asked at the other end.

  “Oh, just a mouse running over my foot.” She looked closer at the small creature on the concrete. “No, not a mouse,” she corrected herself, “a lizard. Oh, it’s so cute.”

  “Yes. Okay. Right.” He paused. “I’ll be in touch once I have some news.”

  ***

  The trip back was endless. Not only because she was tired, but also because tearing herself away from the little house, the views and the sheer magic of the place had been such a wrench. Did everyone feel like her when they were at that particular place? Or was it her memories that sparked off these vibes?

  She knew she should jump at the chance of selling the wrecked house for enough money to change her life for the better. She could quit her job, take a sabbatical or do a course in something like computer graphics and then get a better job. Maybe even set up a business. Buy a little apartment, as property prices had lowered. Take a trip to somewhere exotic. Put away a little cash for a rainy day. Have more security. It all made a lot of sense—more sense than hanging on to a wreck that would only end up costing a fortune to restore, even if all she bought was a bed and a couple of chairs in IKEA.

  The house needed a lot of work, even if the roof seemed quite sound to her untrained eyes. The kitchen and bathroom needed updating. The house needed to be rewired and the walls insulated. So much work and no money. Madness. Sell, she told herself, it’s the only option.

  ***

  “Cutbacks,” the manager said. “We’re not going to supply this service anymore.”

  Megan took a deep breath, trying to appear cool. “You mean, you’re not going to offer your customers the advice of a personal shopper? Or a stylist? But how about the other branches? The one on the south side—”

  He sighed theatrically. “No. Afraid not. There are no positions available anywhere. Of course, we’ll give you severance pay. Two months’ salary in lieu of notice.”

  There was a brief silence, during which Megan knew she was supposed to say ‘thank you’ and ‘I understand. Not your fault.’ But she got up from the chair without a word and left, slamming the door. She didn’t need to be polite to him anymore. There was no need to suck up to the arrogant bastard, she thought with a feeling of relief.

  Back in her own cubby hole of an office, she immediately packed the few little bits that decorated her desk. A blue Bausch & Lomb coffee mug, a cactus in a pot, all her coloured pencils. Even the little brass plaque that said: ‘Megan O’Farrell, stylist.’

  She took the framed diploma from her haute-couture course in Paris off the wall, followed by the photo of her with the head of Dior and the one of a well-known actress with a signed dedication. Her hands shook as she put them in a cardboard box. She thought of those happy days when she had studied fashion in Paris and had worked so hard for her diploma and been ecstatic when she got her first job with a London fashion photographer, styling his models and organising photo shoots. Then going back to her Dublin roots and getting this job, first as assistant buyer and then stylist and personal shopper. Meeting Stephen and their whirlwind romance. The glamorous wedding and romantic honeymoon in Bermuda. Oh God, those were the days…

  Then it hit her. She had lost her job. Her knees shaking, she flopped onto the chair, gripped the armrests and steeled herself not to cry, but failed. She let the tears run unchecked as the disappointment and anger welled up in her chest.

  After sobbing for a few minutes, she wiped her eyes, blew her nose and got up again. Shut up and stop moaning, she told herself.

  She gathered her things and left the office, collecting her last pay cheque from the secretary in accounts, who whispered she was sorry. “Nothing much we can do about it. They’re cutting down on staff everywhere. It’s terrible.”

  “Yes,” Megan sighed. “I must think about getting another job now.”

  “I’m sure it won’t take you long.” The girl picked up a magazine. “I read your horoscope just now. Do you want to hear it?”

  Megan shrugged. “I don’t really believe in all that stuff but go ahead.”

  “Okay. Here it is: Your newest project needs more attention than you may have thought at first, so make sure you’re giving it your all. That almost certainly means that you must leave old problems behind and look forward to a new beginning. Being gentle and kind-hearted, romantic and sensitive, you must try not to be influenced by the wrong people…” The receptionist drew breath. “See? Your future looks good.”

  Megan laughed. “I wish. And the bit about being kind-hearted isn’t exactly correct today. I have really bad thoughts about that bastard.”

  “But you are very kind-hearted,” the girl argued. “You’ve been so nice to me always. You changed my life when you taught me how to dress.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “But you did,” the girl insisted. “You were like a fairy godmother. Peter wouldn’t have given me a second glance, if it hadn’t been for your makeover. But look at us now.” She waggled her third finger, where a diamond ring gleamed. “Engaged. All because of you.”

  Megan smiled at the memory. “It was fun. And you had great potential. You just needed a little nudge.”

  The girl sighed and looked at Megan with admiration. “You’re better than any psychologist. You pulled me out of the dumps in an afternoon. A heart of gold, that’s what you have. Like all Cancers.”

  “Don’t forget the negative attributes,” Megan remarked. “I’m moody and over-sensitive. Good at bearing a grudge and always looking for revenge.”

  The receptionist put down her magazine. “Who doesn’t? I’d love to strangle all the people in management.”

  Megan put the cheque in her bag. “Don’t we all? Bye for now. Good luck in finding another job.”

  “Thanks. The same to you. And don’t forget to be careful about the wrong people. And give that new project your all.”

  Megan winked. “I will. When I find it.”

  ***

  She spotted him before he saw her: Stephen, her ex-husband, out shopping with his new wife. Megan hesitated between slinking away and going up to them to say hello. Before she could decide, he had seen her. Megan felt her face redden and took a step back, nearly knocking over a display of scarves and handbags.

  “Megan.”

  “Stephen,” she chortled. “What a surprise. And—” she glanced at the woman trying to shrink behind him, “Laura, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Stephen put a protective arm around her. “I was going to call you.”

  Megan lifted an eyebrow. “About?”

  “The house. The one in Kerry. Your mother told me about it.”

  Megan bristled. “My mother? You spoke to my mother?”

  “She called me. I think she was trying to get me to rethink the divorce or something.”

  Megan sighed. “Typical. I don’t think she understands the concept of divorce. They didn’t have them in her day. I think they tried to work out their differences then and carry on. Or perhaps they just suffered in silence?”

  Laura squirmed. “Look, I’ll be off to the baby department. See you there, sweetie. Nice to meet you, Megan.” She kissed Stephen on the cheek and hurried away.

  Megan looked at her and wondered why Stephen had left her for someone so different in looks. Thin and angular, Laura’s shape was the complete opposite of Megan’s wide-hipped hourglass figure. Then those last words registered. “Baby department?” Megan enquired. “Is she—?”

  It was Stephen’s turn to look uncomfortable. “Yes.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “It was an accident.”

  Megan shrugged. “N
one of my concern, sweetie. Look, I have to go. Lots of things to do.”

  “Yes, but ... we need to sort this out. The house, I mean.”

  She stared at him. “Why? Oh, you think… you hope this happened before we split up? So that you can claim half the value?” She beamed an ironic smile at him. “Sorry to disappoint, but my Uncle Pat died only a month ago. Just after our divorce was finalised. And the whole thing is subject to probate, so I won’t be the rightful owner until that’s sorted out. Could take months.” She waggled her fingers at him. “Byeee. Good luck with fatherhood. I hope it’s twins.” She turned on her heel and walked out of the department store.

  Tears welling up, a hard knot in her chest, Megan half ran up the street to the tram station. Pregnant, she’s pregnant. Having his baby. Just like that. We discussed it for years, and every time he said he wouldn’t, couldn’t agree to start a family just yet. He wasn’t ready. Wanted to think about it. Get his career to take off. Save some more money. Buy a bigger house. Wait for the economy to improve. Then she gets knocked up “by accident” and it’s okay with him. And here I am, thirty-eight, divorced, childless and unemployed.

  She caught sight of her own reflection in a shop window and shuddered. Hopeless hair, tired face and bad posture, a shadow of the confident woman of not so long ago.

  “Stand up straight,” she heard a voice say behind her. “Blow your nose, and stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Startled, she looked around and discovered a woman with a girl in her early teens. Mother and daughter. The girl surly, the mother exasperated. Nothing to do with her. Certain it was a sign all the same, Megan pulled herself up both mentally and physically and continued up the street, telling herself she and nobody else was responsible for her life.