Other People's Houses, page 2
Automatically, I revised my assessment of price. Maybe they’d get $1.8.
Several couples wandered around, some with bored children in tow. One man measured the lounge with a tape measure before his partner shook her head and sighed. Another couple whispered as they peered into the pantry. Perhaps it was too large, or too small – who knew? Others examined the walls and floors. Even the ceiling. No chance for me to search here. I ducked around the L-shaped bench to the kitchen sink where a window overlooked the back yard.
I sighed. It was more of the same. Not the sort of yard where I could picture Sascha digging in the dirt or calling for me to come and see a grasshopper he’d found. Too generic. Disappointing. The lawn was neat, with an older but freshly painted garage to the left and tidy, if uninspiring, gardens around the perimeter. More ridiculous white stones covered the driveway. The temporary absence of a Hills hoist could be deduced by a hole in the centre of the grassed area. Let’s face it: no one wanted to imagine hanging out washing.
They were buying the dream, darling.
I didn’t bother going outside. I could see from here the back yard would be as devoid of mementoes as the rest of the house.
Time to go.
* * *
I walked back down the hall into a cloud of Chanel No. 5. My stomach started to do the little fluttery thing I knew well. I breathed shallowly, trying to stem the wave of nausea. Renee’s chirruping from the front door stopped me. I halted just out of sight and eavesdropped.
‘Thank you, and what did you think of the house?’
‘Well, it isn’t really my cup of tea. We’re looking for something with a little more . . . charm, you know? And a pool, of course – or at least the space to add one. The children are adamant we must have a pool.’
I couldn’t see the woman who spoke but I guessed she was the wearer of the Chanel No. 5. Her vowels were strangely rounded, like she was auditioning for the role of Eliza Doolittle in a school play but couldn’t get the accent right.
‘Mmm, I see,’ Renee replied, her words dripping with fake sincerity. ‘Ah . . . I’m sorry I’ve forgotten your name?’
Typical Renee.
‘Tammy.’
‘Well, Tammy, we do have a number of other properties on our list at the moment —’
‘Oh, I think we’ve seen everything available in this area. We’ve been back in Sydney for a couple of weeks now. We’ve lived in London for the last five years’ – that explained the odd accent – ‘and I’ve been desperately looking for somewhere. We just adore this area. My husband starts work in the city soon and we want to get settled as soon as possible.’
‘Oh, Tammy! How lovely for you to be searching for a home on our beautiful north shore. It’s so leafy and quiet. Just perfect for families. Do you mind if I ask what your budget is?’
‘Well, luckily for us the pound goes a long way at the moment. My husband’s given me a budget of four point five. Perhaps a little higher if I can persuade him I’ve found the perfect home.’
Renee’s long pause somehow managed to broadcast her happiness. Her next words were hushed. ‘Tammy, you might be in luck. Something new has just come on the market. Today. We are only showing it to a select few at this time. Open houses will start next week. The owners have decided to go to auction, but it could sell before that, given the current market, so if you are interested . . .’
‘It has a pool?’
‘Yes, a gorgeous pool. Oh, it is nothing short of stunning, Tammy, honestly. It has the charm this house . . .’ – she stopped theatrically – ‘sadly, does not. It’s in your price range and more to your taste.’
‘That sounds great. I’d love to have a look.’
‘Wonderful,’ Renee said, drawing the word out. ‘One of our senior agents, Roger, is taking care of the property. He’s arranged a VIP open house today at three, I think. Just let me find the address, I’m sure he texted it to me earlier.’
I stepped around the corner.
Renee had her phone out and talons scrabbling. She glanced up then hastily shifted her focus back to her phone, addressing me at the same time. ‘Oh, Kate, I didn’t see you there. I was just talking to Tammy. She’s looking to buy a home, a family home, in the area. She’s come from London recently.’
She made London sound like heaven. Or an orgasm.
The Chanel lady – Tammy – looked me up and down, apparently not impressed by what she saw: a middle-aged woman with a sheen of sweat, wearing unfashionable jeans, a navy sweatshirt, no makeup and holey Converse sneakers. My hair was in its usual state, somehow both frizzy and lank.
Tammy, on the other hand, looked as she smelled. Expensive. In a show-off-y but casual way. Pearls, crisp white shirt, jeans that couldn’t be more different from mine. Probably Gucci or some uber-cool brand I hadn’t heard of. Blow-dried hair, full makeup. What did surprise me was that she had two children with her. They’d been so quiet I hadn’t noticed them. The boy was about eight and the girl a couple of years older. The children, almost as neatly dressed as their mother, were ignored by both her and Renee. I’d never seen such silent, well-behaved children.
It gave me the creeps.
Sascha had been a quiet child too, though I couldn’t ever remember him standing so still and mute. Mind you, he’d been younger than these two when . . .
I buried the thought, mentally shovelling dirt over it to keep those ghosts firmly entombed. This wasn’t the time or place. I’d think about Sascha later, when I was alone in my apartment with a large glass of wine.
We all stood silently for a long moment. Tammy looked from Renee to me with a slight frown.
Renee caved first. ‘Can I help you with something else, Kate?’ she asked, her polite smile for Tammy’s benefit not mine.
‘No, thanks, Renee. I’ll be off.’
I squeezed past Tammy and her silent children – her perfume so strong I held my breath lest I vomit all over the polished timber floor – and out into the fresh air, but then I moved to one side, head cocked, listening.
Renee gave Tammy the address. I raised my eyebrows.
The house was on one of Wahroonga’s hoity-toity-est streets. Something about the address rang a bell in my jangling brain, but I couldn’t put my finger on what, or why.
‘The Harding house,’ Renee sighed. ‘You will just love it, Tammy.’
* * *
The Harding house.
I was unable to subdue a smug little smile as I put two and two together in my hungover brain and realised Renee was talking about the Harding house. I’d heard of it, of course, as had most people on the north shore.
Now I understood her reluctance to say the address in front of me. Renee believed I wasn’t worthy, that the Harding house was too good for me. I couldn’t disagree with her.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to be there on the dot of three.
I tuned back in. Renee asked her golden-egg-slash-new-best-friend about hotels in London. She was travelling to Europe next year and was dying to stay somewhere delightful. On the Thames and near Harrods, if at all possible – did Tammy perhaps know of anywhere like that?
The lawn was empty now, most of the oglers having raced off to their next open house. I crunched back down the pebbly driveway. Partway along I stopped, staring down at the smooth white stones. Stones like this made a mess of a lawn within days. I’d bet money that this morning the current owners had been out there picking them up from the lawn and putting them back on the drive, swearing at each and every pebble as they did so. I bent down, plucked one at random and flipped it over and over again on my palm, considering.
It was lovely and smooth and so, so bland.
Perfect.
With a sense of satisfaction, I slipped it into the front pocket of my jeans and continued to my car.
I reached for the Coke bottle. A couple of centimetres of stale black liquid sloshed around the bottom of the plastic container. I finished it off in two greedy mouthfuls. It was warmer than last time, and pretty flat too, but that didn’t stop me. My car’s dashboard clock said it was 12.08. What to do until 3 pm?
Lunch?
The brief thought of food was immediately replaced by sudden, intense nausea. I flung open the door and repeated my earlier head-between-knees scenario, retching violently then spitting foul-tasting saliva onto the tar at my feet. And I knew – again, from far too much previous experience – the vomiting phase of this hangover was done.
Thank-fucking-Christ for that.
I sat up, wiping my smiling mouth with the back of my hand, light-headed with relief, knowing I would feel normal again soon. As I pulled the door shut I glanced across the street. Renee stood at the boot of a silver BMW, the open house flag in her arms, a small sandwich board at her feet. She stared at me, her mouth twisted into a moue of revulsion, eyes boggling like a character from a cartoon.
My face flushed red and hot. I sank into my seat, removing my hand from my mouth like I’d been slapped. Renee swung back to her car, placing the items into the boot hurriedly before marching to the driver’s side. She sped off without looking at me.
Great. Another reason for Renee to hate me.
I glanced down at my spittle-flecked sweatshirt then at my shaking hands, surprised by how puffy and veiny they were. How old. My nails were bitten as usual, and one hand was marked by a shallow scratch I couldn’t remember getting. A drunk’s wound. I grabbed the wheel tight to stop the tremors. My skin shone with sweat, my knuckles taut and white. In fact, my whole body looked foreign to me, which was weird as I’d been putting on weight fairly steadily for years now. I guess in my mind I was still a skinny gymnast with a six-pack and muscular calves. The waistband of my jeans cut into my flab. I undid the top button, enjoying the release of flesh that spilled out and over the denim, then felt repulsed by it. Repulsed by my own body. As if in response, it growled, a long, low animal sound. Suddenly I was starving, nausea gone.
Fuck Renee.
I needed food.
I shrugged off my earlier worries about RBTs, deciding fried chicken was worth the risk. My stomach groaned and gurgled as I drove down the highway to the nearest drive-through. I took my oily box of chicken and parked in an alley behind a Chinese restaurant. When only bones and gristle lay on the greasy napkin I leaned back, trying to work out if I felt better or worse.
I couldn’t decide.
Setting the alarm on my phone, I napped until the beeping woke me. I blinked and was startled by an elderly Chinese man watching me with impassive eyes. He wore a bloodied apron and perched elegantly on a milk crate at the back door of the restaurant, a cigarette dangling from his slender fingers. My eyes felt gummy, and drool had leaked out of one side of my mouth. I wiped it away and wound the seat back up, averting my gaze. The man’s innate dignity made me feel even crappier. I surreptitiously buttoned up my jeans, hoping he couldn’t tell what I was doing, then started the car and drove off.
I’d left myself half an hour. As I approached the house I put the window down to disperse a couple of fried chicken farts, hoping to get them out of my system. The last thing I wanted was to add ‘stinky farter’ to my list of the day’s embarrassments.
But when I pulled up at the Harding house all thoughts of farting vanished.
I fell in love with the place.
SATURDAY, 5 JULY, AFTERNOON
The Harding house was perfect.
Sitting in my little yellow Hyundai with ten minutes to kill, my eyes roving over each brick and tile, mesmerised by the symmetry of the house, but also the imperfections that somehow made this house perfect, I knew – I knew – this was it. This was the one. And even after all that went down later, I still believe the Harding house is the most exquisite home a person could ever have or want.
The Harding house, or Highfields, as it was officially called according to the sign, was a landmark in Wahroonga. It had been in Brett Harding’s family for generations. Everyone was shocked that he would even think about selling it. Of course, I didn’t know all this at the time. My first thought on seeing the Harding house in the flesh – well, in the bricks and mortar – was, Why, oh why, would anyone ever sell a house like this?
The house was old, though I couldn’t have guessed at a date. Despite attending open houses most weekends over the past couple of years, and despite working at a real estate agency, architecture wasn’t really my thing. But I found out from the slick, glossy brochure I got my hands on later that the house was Georgian Revival, built about 1930. The façade was reddish brick, double storey and rectangular. Pleasingly symmetrical, there were three windows along the top floor, balanced on the ground floor with two windows and an impressive porticoed front door. Each of the five windows was charmingly framed by deep-blue shutters. The roofline was steep, the tiles neatly capped by a chimney – like the cherry on an ice-cream sundae.
From the street you couldn’t see much of the house at all, just glimpses of red brick through the hedge of leafy camellias. To get to the Harding house you turned down a long driveway, entering through handsome wrought-iron gates, which today stood open. The long, cobblestoned, slate-grey driveway finished at the front of the home in a turning circle that wrapped around a central garden bed of hedge and white roses. The garden beds on the outside of the turning circle were landscaped, though not in that overdone way of so many show homes. These gardens screamed – or I should say whispered – good taste.
The Harding house was worth a fortune; that was obvious immediately. There were bigger and more ostentatious houses on the north shore, but this was something special. The perfect family house. It was the sort of place I’d envisaged Peter, Sascha and me living in one day.
Back when I still had a family.
I pushed the thought away and sat in my car for a long minute, drinking in the beauty of the house, nervous at the thought of entering. This time I agreed wholeheartedly with Renee; the Harding house was too good for me. Too perfect for me to soil with my farts and my fat presence. With my old clothes and unwashed hair and greasy fried-chicken fingers.
Too perfect for my . . . searching.
I almost started the engine up again and drove straight home. And what if they’d renovated badly? Minimalist, like the last house? Or, even worse, decorated in the 1980s?
It was, however, the thought of what I might find inside that kept me from leaving – that made me desperate to enter.
A car door slammed and I twisted around in my seat, startled. A blue Lexus pulled up behind me, as shiny and modern as if driven straight from a car lot. In seconds, a tanned face filled my window. The face was classically handsome, clean shaven and oozing with an excessive confidence that marked him as a real estate agent. His thick dark hair was neat, with grey streaks at the temples. The grey gave him a distinguished air, in that annoying way that only seemed to work for men. And then the face grinned at me, displaying a few wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and the whitest and straightest teeth I’d ever seen. I desperately hoped the stench of my farts had dissipated.
‘Hi there, I’m Roger Bailey. McQuilty Real Estate.’ He paused, waiting. Before I had a chance to reply, a dense cloud of aftershave wafted into the car like a low-lying fog, as if catching up to him. My God. Any lingering odour would go undetected by this man – or by anyone within a ten-metre radius – unless they had the nose of a bloodhound. I held back a cough.
‘Oh, um, hi Roger. Nice to meet you. I’m . . . Tammy.’
Shit. The real Tammy had better be running late.
‘Well, hello there, Tammy. Great to meet you too. Renee told me you’d be coming. So you’re the lady from London then? Back in Australia for good, I hear?’
‘Ah, yes, that’s right,’ I said, trying not to squirm.
‘We have several interested buyers coming along today, though it looks like you and I are the early birds,’ Roger continued with a smile. ‘If you’ll wait a moment I’ll check everything’s ready and give you a wave when I’m done. And perhaps . . . can I ask you to move your car just a little bit further around the circle? Thank you so much, Tammy, I’ll see you in a moment.’
Roger walked towards the house. I put him at about five or six years older than me, maybe fifty, but he was in great shape. Trim in his expensive suit. Striding off in ridiculously shiny black shoes. Was he the type to shine them himself? Maybe. Why had I never met Roger before? I’d heard his name mentioned by other agents, including Vivian, my boss, so it seemed odd I’d not attended an open house he’d run. Maybe he only sold homes like the Harding house. And homes like the Harding house weren’t open for inspection to the general public, that is, plebs like me. Most of them were shown by appointment only.
Why not this one, then? The question intrigued me but I had no answer.
Roger bounded up the front steps and consulted a piece of paper before pressing buttons on a keypad near the front door. He stood back, staring at the door. It swung open before him as if unlocked by the power of his gaze. I had a tantalising glimpse of the graceful curve of a staircase; of gleaming parquetry floors.
No keys needed at the Harding house.
Roger crossed the threshold then spun to face me.
Shit, he asked me to move the car.
I moved along a few metres, as close to the outside of the turning circle as I could, then wound the window up, got out and locked it, shoving my keys into the front pocket of my jeans with the pebble I’d collected earlier. The bonnet was pleasantly warm under my arse as I waited and, breathing in deeply, I wondered if it was possible for the air to be both sweeter and clearer here than it was in the rest of the suburb.
