The Property Manager: You'll never rent again...

by NS Thompson

  Monday 27th July

  5:34p.m.

  Home early.

  God. What an awkward afternoon, I’ve had. Not long after I got back from lunch at the Marigold, I noticed Sandy Moorebank getting off the bus and crossing the street toward the office. My heart did a somersault and I felt like vomiting. I almost tripped over my feet, trying to get up the few stairs toward my office, so that I could shut the door and hide.

  ”I’m not in!” I shouted back to Belinda.

  I got in behind my desk and crouched down with my head on the wood as I heard the bell on the door jingle as it opened. There is a small window looking out over to the front desk and although it’s impossible to see through it from the front desk, I was taking no chances.

  I could barely hear the conversation but the door jingled again a moment later and then an envelope came sailing through the space, landing on my desk beside my head.

  “Mail!” called Belinda with her annoyingly chirpy voice.

  I sat up straight and tore open the thing with a sense of revulsion and gloom.

  Here’s a copy of the barely literate letter.

  Dear Mr Thorn,

  Michelle told me about you being Sarah’s dad and I woz really upset. I never knew and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you cos I didn’t know. I just wanted to say sorry and here is a picture of her for you. Also I am sorry for all the problems with my rent but I will try to pay you back one day it has been hard times for me. I wont tell anyone about you being the dad.

  From Sandy.

  How extraordinarily tragic that this woman doesn’t even know how to spell my name but she bore me a daughter. I had a lump in my throat as I read and while appalled at her uneducated, ungrammatical rant, I was moved by the humble sentiments. I stared at the photo of the blue eyed little girl and she stared back at me, meeting me properly for the first time. I quickly turned it over and slammed it on the desk as Belinda entered the room without announcing herself first. God, she exasperates me.

  “What do you want?” I snapped.

  “Wow, settle!” she said back. “I just wanted to know if you want coffee. I’m going to the café.”

  “No,” I mumbled. “I’m fine.”

  She left with a disapproving frown. I wish Ron would sack her. Then you could come and be our front desk girl, Gracie. Would you like that?

  I tucked the letter in my pocket and went back to work. Paperwork. Dull. Dull. Dull. I had an inspection at two in the afternoon.

  It never ceases to amaze me how tenants can expect their full bond back when they leave a property in a sub-standard condition. I am a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to cleanliness. It’s not hard to clean a house. It’s not rocket science. You get some product, a few rags and scourers, a vacuum and you clean. These tenants had cleaned the front half of the oven. What is that about? Why do half the job? Do they think I’m an idiot? I’ve been doing final inspections for a hundred years and know every trick in the book. I take a white glove and run it over the inside of an oven. If my glove comes out still white – the oven is acceptably clean. If not – do it again or I’ll charge you fifty dollars to get someone else to do it professionally. The skirting boards were atrocious. There were cobwebs all around the upper front door. The kitchen blinds were greasy. The lawn had been mowed but the edges of the property and garden beds were not trimmed. I told them I’ll come back tomorrow and do it again and if I’m not happy, they’ll get one more chance. Naturally the couple were unhappy with my refusal to sign over the bond right there and then.

  I pride myself on letting properties in excellent condition. It is not unfair to expect people to leave homes the same way they found them.

  Enough shop talk.

  On my way back from the inspection I put the envelope in your mailbox. No one saw me. It was a swift and clean operation. You had an electricity bill and a postcard from your brother. His handwriting is appalling. I took the postcard and will incorporate some of the info to my next communication with you on e-mail. I want you to open up to your little brother and talk about more of your personal life. I might ask you to tell me what your happiest childhood memories are. That says a lot about a person.

  You will be heading off after work. I hope you appreciate my generous gift and I hope you use it for the car and not cases and cases of champagne for your girls’ week away.

  The wad of cash will certainly come as a surprise. I suppose Jenny will collect you from work and you’ll stop home to collect your bags as you arrived at work empty handed this morning.

  I’m off to park down in front of the alpaca farmhouse. It’s one street south of you and I think I’ll get a clearer signal as there are fewer houses between you and my computer.

  6:10p.m.

  Sublime. You are over the moon and freaked out all at once. You came into the kitchen with Jenny and the kids trailing behind you. I could tell you had only just opened the envelope. My note was typed and simply read –

  To dearest Grace,

  Here’s a little something to help re-register your car. Have a nice holiday.

  Your secret admirer. xxxx

  You read it aloud to Jenny, who for once was speechless. I think she was just a mite jealous.

  “It’s the same person who sent the sapphire. It’s got to be.” Your voice was a whisper.

  “Dirty old bugger from the surgery.” Jenny said flatly. “Everyone there knows that

  you are going away for a few days. And I’m sorry to tell you but everyone in town knows about your car.”

  “Of course they do,” you sneered.

  You put on the kettle and stared at it while it boiled. You were deep in thought. The kids had run outside to traumatise the alpacas. I can just see it through the dining room door.

  You looked back at Jenny and leaned on the bench.

  “I’m worried about this.”

  She just laughed.

  “Don’t fight it, baby. If someone wants to send you necklaces and cash just cop it sweet. Maybe it’s Andy.”

  “Where would he get that kind of money? They’re as broke as me. Andy’s on the verge of eviction because they’re behind in their rent. It’s not him. Maybe I should speak to Michelle about it.”

  “Nah. She’s got better things to do than to figure out who your sugar daddy is.”

  “Maybe it ties in with Pat’s leg and the lipstick on the mirror and Andy’s bike.”

  Jenny hadn’t heard the latest about the disappearing bike so you filled her in.

  “That is weird.” She agreed.

  “And clothes have gone missing from my clothes line. Just a couple of things.”

  Again came that outrageous laugh of hers.

  “I’ve seen how you hang out your washing. You don’t even use pegs, you just throw things over the line. The alpacas are probably wearing your clothes. Now you’re just being paranoid.”

  “That is true. I’m pretty bad at hanging stuff out.”

  The phone rang. You answered it. Straight away you began making wild hand signals to Jenny, pointing to the phone. You mumbled something about going away for a few days, said farewell and hung up.

  “Who?” asked Jenny.

  I didn’t have my phone bug set up so I too, was intrigued.

  “It was her. The wife. Amanda. Wanting me to go out to dinner with them tomorrow night to some function in Boowah.”

  “Fuck off!” Jenny has the mouth of a drunken sailor. “She’s a freak. With a capital F”.

  “I think she knows. There’s something just not right about her. She rings me all the time and wants to be friends. I don’t have anything in common with her. I never, ever ring her. ”

  At that Jenny slammed her hand on the bench and crackled like a roast pork in an oven.

  “What about Andy? You have him in common! And I don’t need to tell you which part.”

  You got irritable and called Harry and the girls inside. Jenny made two cups of tea and you went off to get your bags.

  Not long a
fter your tea, you locked up and left the building.

  I have just waited half an hour to make sure you don’t come back, having forgotten something. I’m on my way over now to do a thorough and leisurely inspection of your place.

  7:45p.m

  I’m writing this in the privacy of your bedroom. It was thoughtful of you to leave a few lights on. That will ward off the burglars. Ha.

  I’m disappointed and thrilled at the same time, that you left your diary behind. I’ve read it and I don’t like a lot of what I read. You are a lost little sheep, Gracie and it is more obvious than ever to me, that you need shepherding. I’ve made some corrections and notes. I did my best to disguise my handwriting but the only thing I’ve given you that it handwritten was the note with the Irises on the day you moved in. I don’t think you’re F.B.I enough to match them up in your mind. I’ve printed my added words onto your diary pages. Just little observations like this -

  You wrote –

  Today was beautiful. Andy made me feel so special and I really think I’m falling for him. I’m frightened of Amanda…I think she knows and is out to get me. Very unnerving. I do really, really love him.

  I have added in red ink –

  Not a good idea at all. He is too spineless to leave his wife and you are simply his sperm receptacle.

  I know that is a bit crass but you really do need that spelled out to you.

  Pottering about your place in the dim light and silence was nice. I smelled your life and got a real feel for the person you are. This whole affair business is not you – you’ve just gone off track a little.

  I looked through your drawers to see if you had anything of interest. Not really. You’ve got a couple of erotic novels under the bed. I flicked through them and they are just porno Mills and Boon, really. Leticia gets laid by the sultan of some exotic place. It’s written by a woman and is sensual rather than hard core. You’ve got some nice lingerie but I’ve seen most of it before – it’s all to disguise and hide the scar, isn’t it?

  The photo albums were interesting. They, more than anything else in the house, really got to the heart of your little family. You have been a chameleon over the years. You’ve had black hair, blonde and many shades between. I like the colour you are now. It is ginger or auburn. I don’t know what you call it. I was convinced it was your natural colour but I was wrong. At your age, though, there is nothing wrong with keeping up appearances. Some women can carry off the grey hair thing with dignity. I prefer you as a red head. Your boys are all fairly dark-haired and obviously that comes from your dead husband because you were a very blonde little girl and the freckles show that your colouring is generally fair.

  I skipped quickly through the photos of your wedding. You look little more than a teenager and given the ages of your sons, I guess you were only just over twenty. Still a child yourself. I was twenty-eight when I got married and that was still too young. There should be a law in place that states that you need to be at least thirty before signing a marriage contract. That way the divorce rate might drop down below fifty percent or whatever it is. At twenty you don’t even know who YOU are, let alone who you want to spend eternity with.

  Your husband, Michael was a thickset fellow. Tall. With an intense stare and thin lips. He had a permanently angry look on his face. I assumed this because even in shots where he was laughing, his brows were still furrowed. There were a couple of the two of you, looking cosy, so I took them out of the album and put them in my pocket. You don’t need to be reminded of the past. I destroyed every photo I had of evil Vicki and I think that is healthy. Might as well burn the bridge, because there’s no going back.

  The cat is nowhere to be found so I guess he’s being cat-sat by one of your friends.

  What a shame. I felt like saying hello and catching up.

  Your son’s room that was once called a garage is a brothel. There are empty bottles of sprits lined up on the window sill like trophies. His taste in music, as evidenced by the wall to wall posters, is demonic, to say the least. Who the hell are Slipknot? I can’t imagine they send a positive message to the youth of today. If they are the Beatles of the new generation, then society is in trouble. You are not doing the right thing by your son to allow such behaviour. It’s a hard job to do on your own. I realise that. I will take these boys under my wing and straighten them up. The sooner the better.

  I am pleased to see that the rest of the house is tidy and clean. Your fridge looks like it has been cleaned out in anticipation of your get-away.

  I left your bathroom window ajar. That way you’ll think your intruder came through the window. I wouldn’t want you to know that I have a set of keys to your house. I left another message on your mirror in your brightest red lipstick.

  This has upped the ante, hey Grace. This was my plan to make sure you don’t go any further with the sick affair with that man. This should scare you off. I hope so because if not things could get very ugly for you.

  I looked up caravan parks at Pretty Beach and discovered that there is only one. So I know where you are. Hope you have a relaxing trip.

  Cheery bye.

  p.s.

  If I get too lonely, I’ll go for a drive and catch you in some coffee shop or strolling along the beach. It’s probably too cold to swim but the ocean looks just as powerful and spectacular in winter. Perhaps even more so.

  Tuesday, 28th July

  Gracie is so far away. Are you walking along the beach this morning? It is a lovely day here. I hope you and Harry and your friends get good weather for the next few days. It’s good for Harry to have a little holiday and it is just what the doctor ordered for you, my dear. Literally – considering the caravan belongs to your doctor boss. I wonder who is filling in while you are away. Probably his wife-to-be. Juicy Jacinta. That’s not my description, it’s one that Ron uses whenever he sees her. She is way out of his league.

  You really needed to get away to think clearly. The big move from the city was a shock to your system and it’s only natural that you will be disoriented and acting in an unusual manner from time to time. Getting some distance between you and lover boy will do you good. You might see the error of your ways and come back cleansed by the salt air and sea breezes. Refreshed. Purified.

  Work beckons.

  I have decided to get a dog.

  July 29th Wednesday.

  This town seems a bit flat without you. The Buxtons are having a B.B.Q tonight. I wonder what sort of bulldog woman they will try to match-make me with? Some fat drunken nymphomaniac with bad teeth or some skinny Christian spinster with a sphincter for a mouth and the libido of a dead nun?

  I can’t wait. Can you feel the sarcasm dripping down the page?

  I miss my red-hot red-head.

  July 30th Thursday.

  Those tenants finally got the place into some kind of acceptable order and I gave them most of the bond back. They had hidden rubbish and derelict furniture in the garden shed and had thrown a blanket over it in the hope that I wouldn’t notice. I charged them a hundred dollars to have our maintenance man remove it. They agreed and my communication with them is now at an end.

  The barbeque at Jill and Lance’s last night was quite pleasant. I had a great conversation with Monte Hill and his wife Leanne. They are a terribly proper couple who have been in Australia for five years. They make no secret of the fact that they ran a high-class chain of brothels in and around London which they sold for millions.

  You usually equate prostitution with seedy, drug-addicted peroxide blonde sluts, with greasy, violent pimps. But the openness and humour with which the Hills describe their former business interests is somewhat refreshing and natural. They provided girls for Sultans and Princes. Strange how a couple in such a profession could maintain such a healthy reputation and acceptance into the upper crust areas of society. If you’ve got class as well as money and a dash of style, sophistication and humour, I suppose that edge of infamy simply adds a little spice of colour.

  I envy
their healthy, open view of sex and all things to do with area of humanity. I could never ever ask my mother anything. I learned first hand about masturbation and sex from an older boy on a school camp, somewhere in the Snowy Mountains region.

  I couldn’t be less homosexual if I tried. I can’t stand faggots. I was young and taken advantage of by a boy about three years my senior. It wasn’t a horrible experience at the time. It was quite breath-takingly intense and I remember wanting to do a lot more of that. But later I realised that my complete naivety about sex had made me not even consider what this boy had done, as a sexual act. It was if he had tickled me in a way I’d never been tickled. Or taught me a new trick. At about fifteen or sixteen, I started looking at girls and feeling that same intense urge. That was when I realised where to direct my energies. Until then, fiddling away in the shower or the back of the house had just been like scratching a secret itch.

  The first time I had a wet dream and left a stain on my sheets, my mother made me sleep on the cold floor of her bedroom, without a pillow or blanket, so that she could keep an eye on me and make sure it never happened again.