Departure(88)

With that in mind, I sit in the estate agent’s messy office, listening to him rattle off figures and facts, some more comprehensible than others. The London market is up this percent over last year. The average price has risen to . . . Interest rates are hovering at . . . but they’re expected to rise this much more, especially if the BOE tightens next quarter, though the labor market has thrown that into question. Your particular neighborhood has this many properties currently offered, with the average days on the market being . . .

Finally I hold my hand up and try to get down to it. I’m not sure when Nick will be back, and he doesn’t have a key. “That’s all well and interesting, thank you, really—but what do you reckon my particular flat might fetch?”

He raises his eyebrows and leans back in the seat, as if I’ve really put him to the test on that one. “Tough to say. But I’ll tell you”—he leans in a bit, speaking a little more quietly, as if to shield this now-confidential conversation from passersby in the hall—“if we were to get it on the market directly, we stand a good chance of commanding top dollar.” He rattles off some numbers, which, to be fair, do sound quite good. More than I expected.

“If we wait—say, go further into winter—the market’s going to get soft. Might already be getting soft. There’s talk of a bubble in the paper all the time, and that’s got some buyers spooked.” He quickly adds, “But probably not for a property your size. There’s strong demand for those . . . at this very moment, at least.”

I nod. “And if I let it? What might I expect?”

He doesn’t like that idea. He would have to hand it off to the letting agent in his office, and when it comes off lease, he assures me it will fetch a great deal less at sale. He details various ways it could go wrong, from bad renters to the distaste in potential buyers’ minds. He reminds me that the property has been in my family for generations. That it’s remained a single-owner property will add a premium at sale—“For the right buyer,” he adds.

I remind him that my income will likely be nonexistent for years to come, that letting it is the only way to hang on to it, which would have been important to my father. I tell him I suppose he would have approved of letting it over selling it, even if it needs a paint job when the lease is up.

Still, the estate agent is sour on the idea, for obvious reasons.

I leave with one more decision to make.

But the bottom line is, I can either advise Mum to sell it or to let it to someone else. Either way, I’m moving back in with her until I can sell the first Alice Carter novel.





Nick isn’t waiting by the door when I get home, and I’m relieved. I do, however, see my neighbor in the hall, and she’s as happy as the day is long, bouncing around like she’s won the lottery.

And she sort of has. Apparently you don’t even need to list your flat to sell it in London.

She cups her hand over her mouth, “Unsolicited offer, Harp. Foreign buyer. All cash.”

Though she won’t tell me the price, she does say she didn’t even have to think about it.

No doubt the estate agent will call tomorrow with this bit of news, pointing out that it just increases the value of my place and that the new neighbors might be dreadful. “Sell now,” he’ll say, “or risk losing even more.”

Inside my flat, I tidy up some, but I can’t help checking the window every few minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of Nick on his way up.





52





I’m lying on the floor, writing in the Alice Carter notebook, when the door swings open and Nick strides in, carrying brown bags that waft delicious smells into the flat: chicken and mashed potatoes.

How does he do that? Always get past the front door?

He smiles. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

I look back and watch him pass the fire and the large windows that look out on the street, where the last rays of sunset paint the shops and bustling pedestrians in an orange glow. He sets the bags on the shabby table in the kitchen, and my nerves rise as one last mental rehearsal of my speech plays in my mind.

“Got dinner,” he calls.

“Great, I’m famished.”

I push up and join him in the small kitchen.

He reaches into his pocket, and my heart stops.

His fingers fumble for something. He looks up, grinning. His hand comes out . . . with his cell phone.

“Listen to this.” He places the phone on the table and clicks play on a voice mail.


“Nick, it’s Oliver. I just got through with Grayson. It was incredible. He’s excited, Nick. It was the best two hours we’ve ever spent together. We talked about the foundation some—he’s got so many ideas, so much energy for it. And we talked about everything else, his mother, things we should have talked about a long, long time ago. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you called me this morning. I’m not a religious person. Never have been. But I believe things happen for a reason, and I think people come into our lives at the right time for the right reasons. I think that’s why we met, Nick. Anyway, I’m feeling sentimental, and I’ve been drinking.” Shaw laughs quietly. “So you might want to delete this. Give me a call right after you do.”


Nick glances up, his eyebrows raised.