The Lies I Tell(2)
Does this worry you? It should.
***
“Have you tried the crab cakes?” Veronica appears at my elbow, a cocktail napkin in hand. We’ve become close in the six months I’ve been back in Los Angeles, having met in a yoga class in Santa Monica, our mats positioned next to each other in the back. What started as a friendly greeting with a stranger at the beginning of class was a budding friendship by the end. It’s amazing how easy Instagram stories make it to put yourself in the right place at the right time, next to the right person.
“I haven’t,” I tell her. “I heard they’re serving filet mignon for dinner, so I’m saving myself for that.”
There’s a heat inside my chest, the slow burn of excitement I always get when I start a new job. I enjoy this part the most I think, the setting of the hook. Savoring the delicious anticipation of what’s about to happen. No matter how many times I do this, I never tire of the thrill this moment always brings.
Veronica crumples her napkin. “You’re missing out, Meg.”
It’s still a shock to hear people use my real name. I’ve gone by many over the years, mostly variations of my own—Margaret, Melody, Maggie. Backstories that range from college student to freelance photographer and most recently interior decorator and life coach to celebrities, all of them elaborate fabrications. Roles I played to near perfection. But tonight, I’m here as myself, someone I haven’t been for a very long time.
I’d had no choice in the matter. My entry into this job required me to get my real estate license, and there was no getting around the social security number and fingerprinting. But that’s okay, because this time I want my name to be known. For Ron Ashton—developer, local politician, and candidate for state senator—to know it was me who took everything from him. Not just his money, but the reputation he’s spent years cultivating.
I see him across the room, his broad shoulders a few inches above everyone else’s, his gray hair neatly combed, talking to Veronica’s husband, his campaign manager.
Veronica follows my gaze and says, “David says the election is going to be close. That Ron can’t afford a single misstep in these last few months.”
“What’s he like?” I ask. “Between us.”
Veronica thinks for a moment and says, “Your typical politician. Closet womanizer. Fancies himself to be Reagan reincarnated. David says he’s obsessed with him. ‘He won’t shut up about fucking Reagan.’” She gives a small laugh and shakes her head.
“But what do you think?”
She looks at me with an amused expression. “I think he’s like every other politician out there—pathologically ambitious. But he pays David well, and the fringe benefits are great.” Then she nudges my shoulder. “I’m glad you could come. I think there’ll be quite a few people here who will be good for you to meet. Possibly some new clients.”
I take another sip of wine. My whole reason for being here tonight is to snag one client in particular. “I could use the business,” I say. “It’s been hard starting over.”
“You’ll get there. You’ve got years of experience in Michigan behind you. I mean, the way you handled our purchase of the Eightieth Street property. I still don’t know how you got the sellers to drop their price like that.”
I suppress a smile. Shortly after we’d met, Veronica had mentioned over post-yoga sushi that they were looking for an investment property, but the agent they were using wasn’t finding them anything in their price range.
“Did she show you that property on Kelton?” I had riffed, knowing exactly what they were hoping to find. “The one-story traditional that was on the market for $1.7 million?”
Veronica’s eyes had widened. “No, and that would have been perfect. I should ask her about it.”
“It sold in multiples the day it hit the market, so it’s too late,” I said. “Your agent works out of Apex Realty in Brentwood, right? We’re always getting internal email alerts announcing her deals—ten million, twenty million.” I took a piece of sushi and held it between my chopsticks. “I can tell you, managing escrows at that price point can be consuming.”
My story was that I’d moved home to Los Angeles after a successful career selling real estate in Ann Arbor. My new website links to another one in Michigan, featuring listings pilfered from Zillow and Redfin.
Veronica had set her chopsticks down and said, “She was great when we purchased the Malibu house, but maybe this price point is beneath her.” I took a sip of my lemon water and let Veronica spin this out in her mind. Finally, she’d said, “I’d love to throw you the business. Maybe you can put your feelers out, see what you can find.”
I’d found them something almost immediately. A single-story traditional in Westchester on a tree-lined street. Hardwood floors, a bay window, and a fully remodeled kitchen. When I handed Veronica the listing setup, outlining the house’s features and price, she’d balked. “This is nearly $500,000 above our maximum budget.”
In another lifetime, I’d once taken classes toward a digital design degree. I still have the certificate of completion tucked in a box, somewhere in storage. Granted, it’s a forgery, but I’d learned enough to get by in the beginning, and even more in the years since.