Nobody Knows (2 page)

Chapter Two

After the death of my parents I had to get out of the small, suffocating town I had grown up in. It was too hard with them gone. Every time I walked along the beaches or ducked down to the local shops someone would ask how I was doing, or express their condolences or tell me they knew exactly how I was feeling. It pissed me off to no end. How could anyone possibly imagine what I was going through? I was nineteen and completely alone. Well, that’s not entirely true; I wasn’t completely alone, and I had a whole tonne of responsibility to keep me company.

My parents had been school teachers at two of the local schools, which meant everyone within a fifty kilometer radius knew them. Some loved them, some loathed them, but everyone knew them. At the time they died, they owned quite a few properties, mainly in Canberra. They owned the home they lived in, only a hundred meters from the beach, two units, and a house in Canberra.

I remembered sitting in the dreary solicitors’ office on a particularly lovely afternoon. The sun was shining, the water was warm and inviting and because it wasn’t a weekend the locusts of Canberra had not taken over the beach, so it was mainly deserted.

It was exactly ten days since the funeral. I had put it off that long but it was something that had to be faced. I had hoped facing it would make everything hurry up so I could get back to a normal life.

A smelly old man stumbled into the conference room carrying three large manila folders held together with rubber bands. I hoped that I didn’t have to go over every piece of paper in them. Without realizing, I was staring directly at the dirty great wart on the bottom of one of his chins, which was surrounded by what could only be described as a forest of thick grey hair.

One of the teachers who had worked for my father, a lovely old lady with a heavy English accent and too many wrinkles to count, had taken to dropping off salads and casseroles with me daily. She often stayed and we had superficial conversations about the weather and the local town gossip. But the day before I had been requested to meet with the solicitor she sat down, had a cup of chamomile tea, and explained what would probably happen. They would read the will, I would sign a few papers, and that would be that. I prayed she was right.

“Ms. Dempsey,” he announced, panting. The beads of sweat congregating on his forehead captured my attention. He was sweating and panting as if he had just run a marathon. I noticed the wet patch on his white shirt with a slightly reddish tinge on his bulging belly. The only marathon this guy had run was from the lunch room to the conference room. “I’m Mr. Sanders, but you can call me Jack.” He took my hand and shook it forcefully.

“Hi,” I murmured, wiping my damp hands on my shorts under the table.

“I’m very sorry to hear about your parents. They were great people,” he began.

I held up my hand in a mock salute. “I’m sorry if this is rude, but can we just skip all this crap? I mean, if we could just get this done as quickly as possible, that would be great.” I felt mean and bitchy but I was exhausted with the fake pleasantries.

“As you wish.” He smiled as he attempted to open the first file.

I couldn’t help but laugh as he tried to remove the rubber band and it broke, flicking up and hitting him on one of his chins. As soon as the giggle passed over my lips, I felt guilty. My parents were barely cold in the ground and here I was laughing. It was wrong.

A skinny redhead in an overly short, tight black skirt slipped in the door. “I’m Angela.” She smiled seductively. I don’t think she knew how to smile any other way. “I’m just here as a witness to record everything that goes on. Feel free to ask any questions or ignore me as necessary.”

For the next twenty minutes, Mr. Sanders explained to me in legal speak what was happening and what he read. I didn’t understand a word of it. “Now, if you are happy with everything that I have just said, I just need you to sign a few papers and I can let you get back to your day.”

“Okay.” I shrugged.

“Sorry, Jack,” Angela said, sliding forward on her chair, puffing out her chest. “Gillian, did you understand any of what Jack just told you?” she asked. I found myself realizing that maybe I had judged her too quickly. She had obviously caught the glazed-over look in my eyes and the absent-minded nodding in agreement with everything Jack had said.

“Not really,” I answered honestly.

I saw the look exchanged between Angela and Jack, but neither said a word. For a long time they just stared at each other, eyes fixed, neither blinked. Then Jack waved his hand in a mock invitation, and Angela turned back to me. “Basically, Gillian, your parents have left everything to you. The life insurance, the superannuation fund, and the properties. However, they have designated that the sum of one hundred thousand dollars be donated to Palliative Care Australia. Their wills stipulate this and leave no room for argument or negotiation,” Angela summarized, staring directly at me. “Do you have any questions?”

“No,” I mumbled. Even though it had all been explained, I didn’t really comprehend what they were saying. I had no idea how much money we were actually talking about, and I had no idea whatsoever as to what I was supposed to do next.

“If you’re sure,” Angela invited, swinging her chair around and sitting next to me. “We just need to sign some papers and everything will be transferred to your name. Have you given any thoughts to what you might do with the property portfolio?” she enquired. Although it seemed casual enough, when she reached her manicured, bright red nails out and took hold of my wrist I felt cornered and I didn’t like it.

As forcefully and maturely as I could, I straightened myself in the chair, and spoke in my clearest voice. “Not as yet. I haven’t been given the opportunity to consider my options or consult independent advice. Now, which papers do I need to sign?”

Slightly taken back by my rebuff, Angela removed her hand from my wrist and flicked to the first page for me to sign.

After the meeting I was an emotional wreck. I had so many thoughts screaming around inside my head, and none of them were answers. What was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to do everything on my own? How did I survive this? I checked my email and my Facebook page and it was just more of the same—messages from family and friends, offering their condolences or advice. It was all too much. Slamming the computer shut made the flimsy plastic hinges holding the screen on snap off. That was the last straw. I picked up the laptop and threw it as hard as I could against the wall, watching as it smashed and left its mark on the pristine white paint. I knocked over a vase, staring blankly as the water seeped into the carpet. I slid down the wall and cried. It was all that I had left to do, cry and cry some more.

By the time I managed to pull myself together, I had made some decisions. I couldn’t stay in the small, suffocating town any longer. With my parents now gone, I had no reason to stay and every reason to go. One of their properties in Canberra, a two-bedroom apartment in Greenway’s town centre, had become vacant only weeks earlier. That’s where I was going. Walking purposefully towards the bedroom, I started stuffing my belongings into suitcases. When I was done with my wardrobe, I curled up in the fetal position on the end of my bed and fell into a much needed deep, dark sleep.

A week later I pulled into the undercover parking garage with my bruised and battered Barina stuffed as full as I could manage. The furniture removalists would arrive the next day, but I had to get out as soon as I could. That town was suffocating, and if I had my way I would never see that dead, dreary beachside village again. That night I slept on the floor, with only a pillow and sheet covering me. I almost froze to death.

Once the furniture arrived and had been unpacked, I thought I had better start looking for a job. I was on my own and I had to support myself somehow. Flicking through the paper was depressing. There wasn’t a lot around at the moment, and, of what was available, I either didn’t understand what an APS was or they were for places I didn’t want to work. I had no idea what it was that I actually wanted to do, but I knew I didn’t want to be a receptionist at a panel beaters or a shop assistant at the local Athlete’s Foot.

It seemed that while I was just lazing around the apartment, taking myself out to lunch and shopping, I was also fielding a million and one questions from property managers about various tenants and maintenance issues with the other properties my parents had left me. It was on the third straight day of complaints, while I was having a pedicure, when the property manager decided to inform me that the tenants hadn’t paid rent in nine weeks and had smashed holes in the wall, that I had enough.

As soon as my feet were dry—I didn’t even wait for the nail polish—I stormed down the road and ducked into the first real estate agency I found, Max Meredith & Sons. The tiny redhead behind the reception desk stood up meekly and without a word handed me a rental list.

“I’m sorry, I don’t need this,” I informed her casually.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t do property management here, just sales.” She smiled sweetly. She looked like she was barely fourteen, her wide innocent eyes staring at me apologetically.

Feeling sorry for her, I smiled back. “No troubles. I was wondering if you have a sales agent here that I could speak to. I have a few properties to sell,” I offered.

With her eyebrows raised, she whispered, “I’ll see who I can find,” jumping up from her chair and walking out the back.

I could hear the sounds of a busy office. The photocopier was churning paper out rapidly. Someone not far away was typing as though their life depended on it. And the phones. Office phones, mobile phones, and people squashing keys incessantly. The talking was animated. From where I was standing I could see an arm waving about wildly as laughter filled the air.

A short man, in a very fat, very pink tie, ducked past me, smelling of cigarette smoke and coffee. “You all right?” he asked, almost as if it was an afterthought.

I just nodded, having already decided I did not want to deal with him. The longer I was left standing at the counter, the more time I had to think about the decision I had made. Was I doing the right thing selling the properties? Maybe if I just stuck it out a bit longer, things would get easier. Maybe they were just teething problems.

When the redhead appeared again, she mumbled, “Joel will be with you shortly.” Without even a smile or a hesitation, she sat back down in her high-backed leather chair, pulled the telephone headset back over her ears, and dialed away.

I sat down in the cold, sterile waiting area and flipped through the various magazines. They weren’t what I thought they would be. There were no house magazines, no
Better Homes and Gardens
, no DIY books. Only a couple of car magazines and old issues of
Rolling Stone
. I could hear the redheaded receptionist making her weekend plans with what could only have been her girlfriend on the other end of the line.

Above her head, lined up on the wall, was a long line of framed awards. It seemed as though there was one there from every year. I had obviously picked a half-decent agency to stumble into, although I had never heard of them beforehand.

Just as I was thinking of leaving, the most beautiful man I had ever seen walked around the corner and smiled at me. He had spiky brown hair, gelled into a perfect position. His aqua eyes penetrated my soul as soon as he looked at me. His black suit and white shirt were immaculately tailored and pressed, and his smile melted me in moments.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting.” He reached out and shook my hand professionally. “I’m Joel Matthews. How can I be of assistance?”

“I-I’m…Gillian,” I stuttered pathetically. “I need to sell some houses.”

“Well, why don’t you come through into the conference room, and we can figure out what we need to do here?” he invited warmly. “I’ll just grab some papers and be right with you.” He opened the door for me and ushered me into the room, even pulling out the chair for me.

I had never met a gentleman before, but Joel Matthews may just be the perfect example of one. He was charismatic, charming, intelligent, and so very sexy. I sat in the bland conference room staring vaguely at the blue and orange walls, and fantasized about Joel. I had definitely made the right decision to sell.

Rushing back in, his arms were full of papers, and he had pens hanging out of his mouth. He looked so disorganized it was enchanting. “Sorry about the wait.” He smiled again, looking straight into my eyes. I felt my breath catch in my chest, and my cheeks blush. “So, what are we selling?” he invited.

I sat there for almost twenty minutes describing the house in the suburbs and the unit on the water. I answered many questions, some I didn’t even know the answers to, but Joel assured me not to worry, that was his job and he would find out. When he asked whose name the properties were in, I felt myself tear up. Praying I wouldn’t embarrass myself, I began to explain. “I’m not exactly sure whose name the titles are in at this point. They were in my parents’ names, but they have both been left to me. They were transferring it over, but I’m not sure where they are with the process.”

A strange, almost sad look crossed his face, “Mind if I ask why it’s being put in your name?”