Authors: Bebe Wilde
“Who the fuck knows?” she said.
I shrugged. “The idea is that LA is cool and when you buy into it, into the real estate market, you’re buying into a piece of history, like the Rat Pack or whatever, the mid-century modern aesthetic, the cool of it. It’s cool, that’s why everyone wants it, this house. It’s meticulous. See, people with brains will appreciate not only the aesthetics but what it means to
own
a house like this. It has a pedigree, a life, a history. Everyone loves that stuff. Everyone wants to be part of it somehow. That’s how we market this place!”
“Shall I start marketing right now?”
“Hell, yeah!”
I exclaimed. “Let’s get this puppy sold!”
She got up and went to the door, then turned back around. “Wait. If they live in Silicon Valley and, obviously, that’s where they work, why would they move to LA?”
“Because it’s LA,” I said. “And lots of people have second homes. It could get a great getaway and it’s not that far from the beach or Sunset Strip or Rodeo Drive. This house, to them, would be a jewel in their crown. Owning a house like this would mean they’ve made it. They’re always coming here anyway. If worse comes to worse, this could be an investment.”
“Oh! That makes sense. You’re right!”
I hoped to hell I was. But I knew this would work. I just had a gut feeling that it would. And it did. A few days later, Hailey called me while I was out on a listing appointment.
“We got a bite on Roman’s house,” Hailey said. “I couldn’t believe it. I put out some feelers and contacted a few agents and… Well, we might have a potential buyer.”
I grinned.
“Oh, really?”
“Really,” she said. “They want to see the house tomorrow morning, first thing. They’re flying down via private jet.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
“This super young, super cool couple,” she said. “He came up with some sort of software that does something cool… It was complicated and I’m a natural blonde. Anyway, the gist is that they are young, hip and rich. He’s a brilliant nerd. She’s a blogger. Anyway, you know the story. Together they have money to burn.”
I liked that. “Let me go over there and make sure the house is ready,” I said. “I’ll check in with you later for the time and all that.”
“Cool,” she said. “Oh, wait. Did we do a reduction?”
“Not yet, thank God,” I said. “This will leave us room for negotiation. I don’t expect full listing but I hope they will get close.”
“I believe that if they like it, they will buy it at whatever cost. I’m sure of it. They were
very
excited when I talked to them. The guy is a fan of the house. He knows all about the architect who designed it.”
“Good to know,” I said and we hung up.
I drove over to Roman’s house. His SUV wasn’t there, so I breathed a sigh of relief and let myself into the house. As soon as I entered the living room area, my mouth fell open. The place was a wreck. It looked as though someone had had a good party, to say the least. There were champagne glasses and empty beer bottles everywhere. There were half-eaten plates of food strewn all over the place, even on the several-thousand dollar rug in the sunken living room. The art on the walls were askew and the Italian leather cushions from the built-in couch were on the floor, as if someone had made a make-shift bed for the night. It was in even worse shape than when Roman and Kier had had their fight.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I hissed, getting infuriated.
“
Urgh
!”
I shook my head angrily and looked around to the open kitchen, just off of the living room. The space was wide and sprawling and covered in filth. Someone had made some food and instead of putting their pots and pans into the dishwasher, they just left them on the stove and the marble counters.
Taking a deep breath, I went through the entire house, not once stopping to marvel at its high-design mid-century splendor, but instead at the condition of the house. It looked like a hair band had rented it out, taken it over and trashed it. I was so upset. The expensive white Turkish cotton towels were crumpled on the bathroom floors, bottles of shower gels and shampoos thrown everywhere. The counters were full of ashtrays filled with cigarette butts. Champagne bottles were lying on their sides and the rest of their contents on the floors and counters.
Yes, indeed, someone had had a very good time but it wasn’t me. And now I got to clean up after them.
Maybe Kier was right. Maybe I should just quit this shit and stay home and have babies and bake cookies. It didn’t sound like a bad idea, to be honest. I’d wanted to do
that years
ago, when we’d first gotten married but I was too focused on my career and the market had been booming. Things were very different now. Maybe I should just turn on my heel, lock the door behind me and say farewell to my real estate career.
But the reality was the house was a mess. Someone had, obviously, had a wild party. And now I had to clean it up. I thought about calling a cleaning company but I didn’t have that kind of time to wait around for them nor did I have that kind of money. I’d already sunk a lot of money into listing and advertising this house and I refused to spend a dime more. I could have called Hailey to come and help but remembered she had an audition and I didn’t want her to miss it.
I wanted to scream but I didn’t have time. I had a showing. And I had to get to work. I would just have to do it myself.
As I surveyed the wreckage, I got a terrible sinking feeling. I was getting overwhelmed by the feeling that I would never get this place clean again it was so messed up. Good, God, why didn’t I just quit? But something in me wouldn’t let me. I didn’t want to go out like that. I wanted to go out on top. It was a point of pride with me and so, with that, I began the clean up. I gathered the towels in armfuls and took them to the laundry room and started the wash. I went back to the bedroom and stripped the beds, took the linens in piles to the laundry room and put them in stacks to be washed after the towels finished. I got the vacuum cleaner out and sucked up chips and peanuts and God knows what else from every bedroom, put the expensive sculptures back into place along with all the vintage knickknacks that would have been relevant to the house when it was built in the sixties. Roman had taken care with the house, even in the accessories, though I doubted he called them that. He probably just called them ashtrays or vases or whatever.
Soon, the bedrooms were as clean as I could get them and I went into the living room, doing the same thing—vacuuming, straightening up the art on the walls, cleaning off the coffee table, picking up trash, spraying air freshener and opening windows to let fresh air in and the stench out. Before long it looked like it was supposed to and I raced back and forth from the laundry room to the baths and bedrooms until the sheets and comforters were back on the beds and the towels in the linen closet and on towel racks.
The house was enormous, so it took me nearly three hours before I even got to the kitchen. I dreaded it the most. It would take forever. I swept everything out of my mind and just went in there and filled the sink up with hot water and dishwashing liquid. I put what glasses and silverware I could into the dishwasher, turned it on and then got to work hand washing the rest, starting with the disgusting pots and pans. It seemed as though every dish in the house was dirty, along with every utensil and every piece of silverware. I took deep breaths and by the time the last load of laundry was done and out of the dryer, I was nearly finished with the kitchen.
Sometimes, real estate was not the most glamorous of jobs. I’d had to do stuff like this before though, perhaps not on this scale. I’d gone into houses before a showing and had to stuff things behind couches and grab hand-
vacs
to suck up dirt off furniture and stairs. Once, someone’s Great Dane had gotten into their house and covered nearly a thousand square feet of beautiful wood floor with muddy paws. That day, Hailey and I spent two hours on our knees wiping up the mud and shaking our head at the dog, who perched himself outside of the sliding glass doors and watched us sadly, wanting to come in and wreak havoc again.
I smiled at the memory. I did love my
job, that
was true. And I loved houses. If I didn’t love them, I wouldn’t take on the listing. And I loved Roman’s house. And I loved Roman.
I stopped myself. Had I just thought that? I shook my head. No, I didn’t love
him.
I
liked
him a whole lot, but love? No. I loved
Kier
, that
was true. Roman had been a fling. A great fling, but a fling nonetheless. The things he’d done to me… Well, I allowed myself that. They were kinky and they were intense and hot but they were over, just like he and I were over.
The dishwater was getting murky, so I let it out and filled it up again, with clean, fresh hot water. After the sink was filled again, I put what was left—just some champagne flutes that were too fragile for the dishwasher—in to soak and let myself out to the patio area and lit a cigarette. After my first drag, I knew I’d have to quit again soon. I’d only started because of the stress but soon that would go away, I was sure of it. I stared over Roman’s infinity pool and beyond, down to a gorgeous panoramic view of LA. The view alone was worth the listing price. I just hoped my hip, young couple would know enough to appreciate such a thing. When I’d first got to LA, all everyone talked about was the view, about how important the view was. I didn’t see the big deal until I had a house in the Hills and had a showing later in the evening, just after dark. Once I took them outside to see the view, I, myself, was bowled over. All twinkling lights sitting atop a wide, black space was breathtaking. And there we were, high above it all, looking down.
Maybe I should change the listing appointment for that night. I could hire a caterer to make a delicious meal and have some wine, as well. The couple could settle into the house, have a great meal, and envision themselves cooking for their friends and entertaining. That was actually a really good idea. I made a mental note to do this.
I finished off my cigarette and put it out, then went back in. I walked around the house, making sure everything was perfect,
then
went back into the kitchen to finish the dishes. I stopped in front of the sink and sighed heavily. The dishwasher was off and ready to be unloaded. My stomach growled. I rummaged in my purse for the protein bar I always carried with me in case I didn’t get lunch. I ate it quickly and unloaded the dishwater then went back to the sink.
“Hello, Red,” a voice said out of nowhere.
I whirled around to see Roman behind me. He sometimes called me Red, referring to my strawberry blonde hair. But I hadn’t heard him do this in a while as we hadn’t seen each other that much lately.
At first glance, my heart did a flip-flop. He was so handsome, dressed impeccably in his tailored and well-fitting black pants and light blue button-up shirt that made the distinct blue color of his eyes come out. Those eyes scanned me and my dress and I could tell he was a bit displeased. I had reverted back to wearing the dresses I usually wore. Today I was wearing a cream-colored one made of cotton and gauze and, just like my other dresses, looked like it came from the fifties but with a modern touch. I always wore them with black, nude or tan colored Italian leather ballet flats. Today I had on black flats and I had set the dress off with a black leather studded, punk-rock belt. It made the dress a little edgier. My hair was up in a high ponytail and I knew I looked pretty. But he didn’t like these dresses and had told me not to wear them because he liked me in tight black cocktail dresses, dresses that showed my figure.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I turned back around in embarrassment. “Someone had a good time, didn’t they?”
“Pardon?” he asked, his French accent coming out strong.
I turned back to him. “We have a couple interested in the house. Good thing I came over to get it ready. The place was a wreck. Didn’t you have a party?”
“I’ve been out of town,” he said and looked around. “It must have been Hubert. He’s a slob.
And a troublemaker.”
He turned back to stare at me.
“As I told you.”
I nodded and turned back to the champagne flutes in the sink, hoping he’d just leave and let me get done. There was just a few of them and I could get clean in a matter of minutes. I put my hands in and started to wash them.
“So, was the mess bad?” he asked.
“I’ve been at it for a few hours,” I replied and stared at him. He stared back with indifference, concealing his emotions, as usual. I knew the reason for his indifference and I hated it. I just wanted out of there. I didn’t like confrontation, which was probably the reason Kier had gotten away with cheating on me for so long.
“Would you like me to call my maid?” he asked.
“No, that’s okay,” I said, wanting to snap at him or maybe even burst into tears, but refusing to allow him to see how much just being in the same room with him got to me. “I can do it. In fact, I’m almost done. I should have taken pictures though. I’d never seen a place in so much disarray. Oddly enough, though, nothing got broken.”
He nodded, staring at my hands in the soapy water. “I can finish the dishes,” he said.
“That’s okay,” I said.
“No, I can do it.”
“It’s fine, I like washing dishes,” I said. “Don’t ask me why.”
“I see that,” he said and came up behind me and dipped his hands into the soapy hot water, scooping it up and then pressing it onto my chest. I gasped as the water soaked the front of my dress. His hands began to rub my breasts, squeezing them hard. A soft moan escaped my lips.
He kept at it and I didn’t know what to do. So, I just stood there and pretended to wash dishes and he kept dipping his hands in, grabbing handfuls of water and suds and pressing them onto my chest, rubbing my breasts with his big hands, getting me all messy, all soapy, all hot and bothered. His hands slid into my dress, down into my bra and grabbed my breasts. I threw my head back and moaned loudly. God, what I wouldn’t give for him to kiss me right then. But he wasn’t that easy.