The Trouble With Quarterbacks(97)
“You’ve worked here for a year this month, Madeleine, and you’ve only closed on one listing.”
She’s merciful in leaving out the fact that the one listing I managed to close on was for my brother and Daisy’s house. That was six months ago, and I’ve had no solid leads since.
“Because of that, I think it would be best if for the next two months, I put you on a probationary period.”
“What?”
She holds up her hand to silence me. “Nothing too serious. I won’t be breathing down your neck every second, but I think you need a bit more motivation.”
“Don’t you think the problem is with Hamilton? This town is growing, but not that quickly. There are just not enough people looking to buy property!”
She leans back and shakes her head. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. Hamilton is flourishing, and if you really put your nose to the grindstone, I know you could be one of my top sellers.”
She really thinks it’s possible for me to turn my embarrassing sales numbers (or complete lack thereof) around, and when I leave the conference room in a daze, I’m not sure if I’m upset that I’m on probation or inspired by her mini pep talk there at the end. I settle somewhere in the middle at neutral, glazed over. All the other agents are already in their cubicles, placing phone calls and returning emails. Lori has a full headset in place as I pass by her, a blue stress ball throbbing in her left hand. Her face resembles a trader on the stock-market floor as she jots down notes with her free hand.
“That house will sell fast, Barney. The lot is oversized and it’s only a block over from Main Street. Every client I’ve been in talks with has wanted to look at that house…” Her voice fades as I continue walking and then it explodes again out of nowhere. “Yes!” she shouts to the whole office. “I just sold Walnut Street!” Then she proceeds to ring the tiny bell that hangs on the corner of each of our cubicles. Helen wants us to ring them every time one of our clients buys or sells a property. If she had it her way, the office would sound like a handbell choir on Easter Sunday.
My bell has been rung exactly once, although I have bumped into it accidentally a few times. Lori hates that the most. I swear I heard her whisper stolen valor the last time.
“Whoop, there it is!”
“Raise the roof, Lori!”
“YOU GO GIRL!”
The other agents hurry to congratulate her with dated catchphrases and I mumble along with them. It’s not fun being Bitter Betty. I’m not used to the role, and it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Eventually, I will have to leave the agency or learn to put up with Lori in a healthier manner…like killing her with kindness, or murdering her with smiles, or disemboweling her with compliments. That sort of thing.
I drop my coffee and notepad on my desk and take a deep breath. It’s time to get to work. My cubicle is clean, my inbox is empty, and I have one blinking red light on my office phone, indicating a voicemail. I smile as I take my seat, confident that it’s Mr. Boggs getting back to me about one or more of the houses I showed him yesterday. Mr. Boggs has been a client of mine for as long as I’ve been working at Hamilton Realty. While he was passed on to me because no other agent could stand working with him, I feel like he and I share a sort of kinship with one another. He’s old and grumpy and cynical, everything I aspire to be one day. Also, Helen makes us meet a weekly quota for showings, and I can always count on Mr. Boggs to fill up at least one of my days with aimless wanderings around Hamilton’s real estate market.
Too bad the voicemail isn’t from him.
It’s from Daisy.
“Hey, just wanted to remind you about the housewarming party tonight. Lucas has completely gone insane with inviting people. I don’t even know half the guests who are supposed to come, so if you don’t show up, I’ll kill you—before Mr. Boggs does.” Daisy has said from the beginning that at best, ol’ Boggsy is just wasting my time, and at worst, he’s planning on abducting me. I disagree. “Anyway, come early and bring Mouse if you want to. Last week he chewed off a chunk of our living room rug, and Lucas might let me order a new one if he chews off a little bit more of it. Okay, Beth’s calling my name about a patient, so I better go. Have fun dealing with Lore-the-Bore at work today and I’ll see you tonight.”
Just as the voicemail cuts off, Lori’s bell chimes again, announcing another sale.
“I guess I’m just on fire today!” she exclaims.
“You’re all that and a bag of chips!” someone shouts.
Though it’s tempting, I don’t skewer my eye with the nearest pen. Instead, I get to work.
Chapter 4
Madeleine
I didn’t plan to be this dysfunctional at 27, but dysfunctionality has a way of creeping up on you. One second, you’re 22, wrapping up your undergraduate degree from a top business school, and then suddenly, you’re sitting alone in your car at 27, wondering how five years slipped through your fingers without so much as a blink.
There are the obvious struggles—my bills are piling up, my rent is late, and my car is a clunker—but it’s the other, more personal aspects of my life that keep me up at night. The fact that I am currently (and probably forever) single is a much harder pill to swallow than my overdue rent. Dealing with car troubles isn’t so bad if you have someone there to commiserate with.