I lowered her phone to the table.
Tommy’s face flushed. “Oh, I’ve gone and done it. Sorry, my love. Ignore me. I wasn’t there. You should trust your gut.”
“No,” I said slowly. “You have a point.” She wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t thought myself.
I stared at the phone in my hand—at the empty reply tab I’d opened. “There aren’t any pictures of me online and very little information. Daniel and the rest of our security team ensure anything that does pop up is immediately taken down. The only connection Live Right would have is my first name and that I own an expensive pack. A background check won’t yield anything.”
“I’d just hate for you to be drawn back into that game,” she said in a hushed voice.
Rock and a hard place. Somewhere I hated to be—except for that one time with the Caveman.
“If I stay at Live Right for a week or two, I get money for that time, right?” I asked Tommy.
She nodded.
“Then I’ll work there for now and keep interviewing to find something else. If I feel like they’re using me for my estate connections, I’ll jump ship. I can resist for a couple of weeks if they pressure me.”
“A solid plan,” Tommy declared. She threw Misery a third look.
He didn’t budge.
“And he’s out,” my friend said, wrinkling her nose.
I held back a snicker as I typed a quick reply to the receptionist who’d signed off the previous email with the name Angelica.
Brr. Her name was as cold as her eyes.
Hitting Send, I’d hovered a finger over my grandmother’s email for barely a minute before a reply from Live Right came through.
“Angie doesn’t muck around,” I said, impressed by the sadness of her life. It was 8:00 p.m. Woman had to be a workaholic.
I read aloud. “Miss Basi, welcome to the team. We are glad to have you aboard.” I scanned the rest of the email. “She said that we’ll go through details on Wednesday. What details?”
My friend slurped back the minty dregs of her drink. “Bank account number, tax number, address. That kind of stuff.”
As she spoke, my face slackened. “What?” I croaked. “I don’t have any of those things.”
Tommy answered between slurps. “Of course you do.” She took one look at my face and stopped slurping. “You don’t know your bank details and tax number?”
Mutely, I shook my head. “I have credit cards that draw on the estate. I’ve never had a real job before.” Hysteria entered my voice. I gripped the table. “What if I don’t have a tax number? How long do they take to get? Where do I get one?”
“Basi. Basi.”
Tommy rounded the table again and clicked her fingers in front of my face. When I fixed on her chestnut eyes, she threw money down on the table and shouldered my pack.
“Come on, lovely,” she said, dragging me off the stool.
I trailed after her, panic holding me tight. I’d spent all day being shat on by people and now I miraculously had a job and might have to turn it down.
“You have an address,” she said as we walked. “Just use mine. We can go to the bank tomorrow morning and open an account for you.”
There was just one problem. “Can I use a fake name?”
“Nah, that’s illegal. Pretty sure.”
I sighed. “What if there’s not a single bank owner in Bluff City that I’m not on first-name basis with? They’ll recognise my name.”
Tommy swore. “Ah, crap. Sir Olytheiu. I forgot about him. Dang.”
He owned the largest bank here, yes. Not the only one.
I straightened suddenly. “I could use your bank details for the job.”
She shot me an amused look.
“No, seriously. Your middle name is Beatrice. What if I use your last name? Then I’ll use the initial B? Would the bank process that and put the money in your account?”
Her expression turned contemplative.
“It would probably work,” she said. “I’ll have to check if using my tax number will mess with my tax bracket because your salary coming in will be classed as a second job. I used to work two jobs, but the total only made up what I earn now. And my second job was taxed at a higher rate than the first.”
A pain stabbed over my left eye.
“How much of that did you not understand?” Tommy asked after a beat.
“From tax number to higher rate,” I confessed. Rich people had teams for all this fiddly shit.
She cracked a grin, but her eyes were serious. “I’ll look into it tonight. We’ll check how long the tax number application takes. In the meantime, you can call the tax office and see if you already have one. That would make everything easier. I don’t mind lending you my bank number, but I’d rather not do the same with my tax number unless we have to.”
I was putting her in a tricky situation. I didn’t know just how, but clearly I was. “Sorry, Tom. I didn’t consider it might drag you into trouble. I’ll figure something out. Truly. I’d hate to mess with your… bracket.”
She threw her head back, laughing. “Y S I S, bitch. That was a bad one.”
Yep. I really had no idea what any of that stuff meant.
“Plus, I said we, didn’t I?” Her expression was ferocious. “We’ve got a whole day to figure it out. It’ll be okay, Basil. Promise.”
I appreciated that big time considering I felt about as emboldened as a sober karaoke singer right now.
“I love you,” I told her, sighing heavily.
“Loves ya, too, babe,” she answered, flashing a carefree smile.
Was this how the poor lived? How did they just keep going when the entire world was against them? How did they have any fight or laughter left?
I released a breath, forcing away the dregs of my panic. This job business just became exponentially more complicated, but I’d come so far already.
I had to keep going.
5
I stopped outside of 47 Wreath Street and gave it a once over. The rental left a lot to be desired. Put another way, there wasn’t a single desire it fulfilled. Aside from possibly being the first place I’d rent of my own accord.
The house had no grass to speak of—the owner had elected to fill the garden space with concrete instead. The grey slab showed mould where water must pool when it rained. The paint on the weatherboard cladding was cracked and chipped worse than Tommy’s home. Her place looked like a freakin’ palace compared to this joint.
The one thing it had in common with her home was the orange roof.
“You here for the viewing?”
Hand gripping my throat, I whirled to the man behind.
The condition of the house reflected the condition of the owner. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. The stubble on his face passed five o’clock shadow three days ago. Food stains dotted his shirt, and the top button was open, displaying a rug of hair a mouse could get lost in.
I cleared my throat. “I am.”
He grunted and pushed past. “Come on then.”
Nice and polite. What a keeper.
Trailing in his wake toward the entrance, I peppered him with the list of questions Tommy made me memorise. “I understand the house is ready for tenants immediately?”