Authors: Bebe Wilde
Then, after a few years of not doing anything, he suddenly had a big write-up in a famous architecture magazine when he set his sights on the Alden house, the mid-century monstrosity, which was located fairly close to my house. It was an odd choice, given that he liked “functional” houses and mainly worked out of the suburbs, an odd choice that he chose to make this house his own. It was a sixties modern house built by a very famous minimalist architect, Gunner Alden, who was later said to have disowned the place. It was considered one of his lesser designs because it was so out of character with everything else he did. Unlike his other clean and efficient designs, this house was grand and broad and just so audacious. It was rumored he designed it for an ex-wife, who later sold it at auction just to get it off her hands. It was just so over the top a lot of people either loved it or hated it, which was more likely the case. It had a Japanese soaking tub made entirely of teak. Teak! It also had a sunken living room with a built in sofa that spanned the entire rounded room.
It was a house that seemed to be built for a fictional character, like an ultra rich and sophisticated secret agent, not for an ordinary person. It was the movie idea of a bachelor pad. Yet, it looked good but was completely impractical on every level. But what Roman did was take the impracticality and refine it, transforming a once completely un-functional living space into one that was more modern, more open and more suited for today’s living. He had fixed all its quirks and problems so now it worked on a grand level. Still, it was a bachelor pad that only a true bachelor would love, which was, kinda, sorta, went against everything he was about.
But we all have flights of fancy, don’t we?
Even so, Roman was that true bachelor. He spent two years restoring it to its former glory. The place had been ransacked, taken over by squatters, graffiti on the walls and trash and drug paraphernalia on the floor. I’d seen the before pictures. It was horrid. But Roman saw the vision and he knew he could restore it. It was a labor of love, like he thought he was giving back to the world what time had taken away—a house that would never be built today but was a true vision of modern living, and living well, when it was constructed. And, some would say, temporary insanity on the part of the architect.
He had money to burn and he burned through it bringing this house not only up to modern living standards but up to code. Once he was done, he was bored again and ready to sell and move on. And I was ready to make that happen for him and for me. I had to get this listing. I had to.
But I knew it would be a hard sell. Though I had yet to see what he had done with it, I loved the idea of the house. But would anyone else? However, the market was so
bad,
I just couldn’t see it happening. Maybe I was a little delusional in my ability to sell such a place in such a market, but I just had to have it; the idea appealed to me, the challenge of it. I had to prove I could still sell multi-million dollar homes.
Just before I went over to his house, I stopped by my house and changed into my best dress and best ballet flats, as well as freshened up my makeup. I had to look like a million bucks if I were to sell a multi-million dollar home. I checked myself out in the mirror, nodded with approval, then headed over to Roman Juniper’s house.
As I pulled through the gates, then up the drive and then stopped in front of the house, I gasped a little at the size of it. It was gigantic, wide and concrete and just so damned sci-fi looking. The grounds were meticulous and
very
understated.
Just a little grass in the front and a few topiary shrubs.
Simple and modern; clean lines to the crazy extreme.
If only I had a spy on speed dial, I could have gotten this thing sold in a heartbeat.
Or, maybe, a porn king.
I got out of my car and walked up to the house, taking it in, falling in love. I just didn’t realize the extent of the renovations. It looked brand-spanking-new, like it had just been built. I was awe with the gigantic widows that I knew would let in so much light into the rooms. In a word, I was in love with it. And I had to love the houses I listed. If I didn’t love them, how did I expect my clients to love them and to eventually purchase them and move into them?
I looked over the house for a few minutes, dollar signs adding up in my head and almost giggling with glee. This place was worth a fortune. I was getting really, really excited.
But then, something happened that caused none of that to matter. No, the house, and the sale of it, took a backseat, if only for a minute or two. It took a backseat because once I rang the doorbell, and once he opened it, I was, as the English say, gobsmacked. I couldn’t concentrate on the house any longer because he had taken me by surprise. As soon as Roman came into my line of vision, he was all I saw. Maybe it was because he was so damned good looking.
So tall.
So handsome.
It was like I rang the doorbell, he opened the door and, bam! There he was, looking at me, smiling slightly, telling me he was glad I had come over. I was so bedazzled by him I could barely mumble an intelligible introduction of myself. I think I said something like, “Teagan Finney. My assistant spoke to you earlier?”
“Oh, yes, hello, Teagan,” he said in his slight French accent. “I have been expecting you.”
I nodded. But I hadn’t been expecting him. He was a little rough looking. Not a pretty boy. My ex-husband had been a pretty boy. I pushed him out of my mind. I didn’t like to think about him. I shook myself, coming out of the fog and held out my hand.
“Nice to meet you.”
“You as well,” he said, surmising me, nodding slightly and giving my hand a good, firm shake. “Roman Juniper.
Odd name, Teagan.”
“My mother is Irish,” I said. “Well, Scots-Irish.”
He nodded. “I see.”
“Uh huh,” I said then looked over his shoulder into the house. “May I?”
“Of course,” he said and stepped back, allowing me into the vast foyer. “Please come in.”
I looked around and nodded with approval. A massive curved wall covered with grasscloth wallpaper led into the living room. Wow, cool. This place looked as good on the inside as it did on the outside. It was the bomb. I couldn’t get over how much I loved it already. I glanced at Roman and felt something, which I immediately shook off. I smiled a little and said, “And how long have you lived here?”
“Just under a year,” he said.
I nodded. “Why don’t you show me around?”
“Let’s sit down in the living room and talk first,” he said.
“Okay,” I replied, following him. The room took my breath away.
Big points,
major
points.
I looked around at the rounded, sunken living room and at the couch, which spanned the room and was covered in this yummy, soft Italian leather the color of a well worn saddle. I
loved
it. The coffee table was very rich looking and chic, made of black glass and sitting on an ornate gold frame. It was a wow piece, to say the least and stacked with a few, well chosen design books and some kitschy yet cool vintage ashtrays and knickknacks. Behind the living room was the open kitchen which was fabulous. I wanted to go in there and look around but Roman gave me a look.
“Please sit,” he said and waved me to the couch.
I sat down, still taking the place in, the fluffy white sheepskin rug, the expensive modern art pieces on the wall, the low bookshelves which were filled with smaller sculptures by famous artists and more coffee table books, the gigantic flat screen TV on the wall. I had to smile at that, remembering his quote about having a place for the TV. He certainly had it here.
The room was so nice, so well put together, so well thought out. Who wouldn’t love this place, if they could afford it? I looked around, thinking I could do this; I could sell this place. I just had to get back on my game.
“My parents were French, as am I,” he said and sat down a few feet from me. “You were an only child?”
I shook my head. “No, I have a brother, Harry.”
He nodded. “And from your accent you’re from the South, oui?” he asked.
I nodded, being concerned where this line of questioning was going. I said
,
just to make sure he knew we were to keep it professional, “I don’t know what any of this has to do with anything.”
“Making chitchat,” he said. “I like to talk.”
“Oh,” I said and blushed slightly. “It’s just I’m so excited to list your house.”
“And you’re impatient to do so,” he said. “I understand. It’s just a house. I can tell you it was a mess when I bought it. The former owner was a hippie record producer of some sort. He turned the conservatory into an herb garden, not the sort of herbs you put in spaghetti, either.” He chuckled to himself.
I thought about that. “Okay,” I said slowly. “I didn’t read anything about the conservatory.”
“It was added on in the eighties. We tore it out,” he said and waved his hand. “It was not cost effective to keep it. Besides, it looked terrible.”
I nodded that I understood.
“It took well over two years to bring this place back to its former glory but I also made sure the renovations would suit the modern buyer.”
“Did you buy this place with the idea of flipping it?” I asked.
“I hate that word, flipping,” he said with a shudder. “But I didn’t. I saw something that was beautiful that had been let go. It was decaying, such a travesty. But after I finished, I knew I couldn’t live here. It is just too large for me.”
I nodded.
“It was a labor of love, as they say,” he said.
“I see,” I said and made some notes. “Let me ask you, when you did your updates, did you keep with the style of the house or are they totally modern?”
“Obviously, we had to gut several rooms,” he said. “And update electrical, the plumbing. But I kept with the style, the mid-century, but it needed to be suitable for modern living, like I said. I tried to imagine what the architect would have done if he was designing it with what was available today. Let’s take a look at the kitchen.”
He stood and walked out of the room. I followed him into the kitchen, looking around at the marble countertops, the stainless steel appliances,
the
beautiful slate floor. It was a masterpiece of walnut cabinetry with a gigantic skylight that let in lots of good light. The kitchen was vintage looking and very well done. I loved it on site.
“And the bathrooms?”
I asked.
“Let’s have a look.”
He showed me a powder room, a guest bath and then the master. All had been gutted and outfitted with modern fixtures, all new and sparkling. The master bath had a super white oval-shaped soaking tub and a gigantic shower with two rainfall shower heads.
All done in beautiful, soft green subway tiles.
“What happened to the Japanese soaking tub?” I asked.
He chuckled. “You heard about that?”
“I did a little research before coming over,” I replied with a smile.
“It was much too large to keep,” he said. “So we got rid of it. These tubs are better and someone can get into and out of them without a stepstool. Besides, nobody really wants a tub that big anymore.”
I nodded and stared around the room.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“You’ve done a fantastic job,” I said. “I love it, of course.
However…
Well, let’s just be honest here. The market isn’t dictating that a house like this will sell quickly. But I think with my contacts, I can find the right buyer. I’m thinking a rich international businessman or a younger trust fund couple of some sort. Maybe even an actor, recently divorced, who wants a new bachelor pad.”
He nodded. “You seem to be on the right track.”
“Why do you want to sell?”
“I think the place is haunted,” he said, then chuckled to
himself
.
What?
I thought and stared at him.
He saw the look on my face and laughed.
“Kidding.
I’m just ready to move on.”
I loved hearing that. If he was ready to leave, that meant he was ready to sell and would take what the market was dictating, which, right now, was in the low millions. If I got this listing, it would make my year. Depending on the purchase price, it might make my career. “I can do this,” I said. “But there is one caveat.”
“And that is?”
“The price,” I said. “We have to price it to get people in here to see the beauty that you’ve created. If the price is too high, they will pass it by.”
He considered this. “I understand that but I think you can get what
it’s
worth.”
I thought about that. The reality was that houses were worth what people were willing to pay for them. I didn’t think he understood this, so I said, “What were you thinking?”
“Come with me,” he said and lead me through the house and to the wall of floor to ceiling glass doors that lead to the backyard and pool. He pushed the doors back, sliding them into the wall. I loved pocket doors like that. He waved his hand over the backyard, which was mostly the magnificent pool, surrounded by a plot of green, green grass. I was glad to see that he had kept the character of the yard instead of going with xeriscaping.
I stepped out of the house and looked at the pool. It was an infinity pool which seemed to float off the hill and into the urban sprawl below.
“This view will sell this house,” he said. “I stare at it every night before going to bed.”
The view was great, but he was wrong about it selling the house. It was beautiful, unobstructed. You could see all of Los Angeles below.
But the house…
Well, it was still going to be a hard sell just because it was so different, good view or no good view. It would take a unique buyer that I would, personally, have to ferret out. There was no way around the fact that selling it would be a lot of work but the commission would be huge, even at a discounted price. It was unique because of its pedigree, the fabulousness of the finishes, the lot, too, was unique and quite large for this area. It had it
all,
it was just an odd bird. Odd birds, even in a good market, were a hard sell.