“Incredible!” the auctioneer bellowed. “Just incredible! Derek Hardiman has come back in for the win. Can I see three point four? Can I see it?”
One of the developers raised a nervous hand and Derek cursed his parents.
“Three million and four hundred thousand,” the auctioneer hollered. “Who’ll see fifty k more? Who will get this house!?”
There was a beat and the American raised his hand. Derek glared at him. He was younger than he’d thought. Mid-thirties, max. His expression was neutral, but Derek could tell he was enjoying himself. His own guts were like lead. He wasn’t out of the running, but Howard would be pissed if he spent three mill on a house that needed at least half that in renovations.
A developer bid three million, four hundred and fifty thousand and the American swiftly raised his hand.
The developer swore. “It’s not worth that! The Yankee’s a fucking scalper.”
He wasn’t bothering to keep his voice down, but the American didn’t so much as blink. As much as he was growing to hate him and sincerely wish he was dead, Derek had to respect his form.
The auctioneer called for three point five million and Derek raised his hand one last time. He’d be fucked. His accountant would kill him, Howard would kill him, he’d have to spend all summer doing any and every ad Howard could get him, but it would be worth—
The American flicked his fingers in the air and Derek’s heart compacted like a dying star. He wasn’t getting the house. He was never getting the house. The American would keep bidding until all of them lay in the dust. He folded his hands under his pits as the auctioneer cried that they were almost at four million.
“Come on!” he begged like a fan screaming for a winning goal. “COME ON!”
But there were no more bids. The American had won.
Derek and the other developers wandered away bitterly. Three million and six hundred thousand for a biggish house in the northern suburbs. What a fucking world.
“Hey.” It was the server girl. “Here’s my number.”
She handed him a slip of paper and Derek shoved it in his jean pocket.
“You’ll message me, right? Or can I have your number?”
“Ah, sorry. I don’t give that out.”
He expected her to say ‘well, won’t I have it if you message me?’, but she just gave him a sneaky smile. “I’m off work now. Do you want to go somewhere?”
He considered it. A fuck might numb the misery of losing his dream home. Then he spotted the American grinning at him. The guy was going to tell someone this story, and not in a good way. Derek gritted his teeth. “Sorry, I’m pretty busy. I’ll uh, message you later?”
The server rolled her eyes and strode away.
Derek followed the developers scurrying to their BMWs, but instead of getting into his Mercedes G-Class, he leaned up against a telephone pole. The American might be a while, but he was going to talk to him.
It was half an hour before he appeared. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a lightness to his step. A lightness that faded the second he spotted him. Derek pushed off the telephone pole. “Hey. I’m Derek Hardiman.”
“Yes, I heard.” The American walked to a no-nonsense Toyota Yaris, pulling out his keys.
Derek followed, his arms loose so The American wouldn’t misread the situation. “You just bought that place outright, yeah?”
The American flicked his gaze over him like he was a dog barking too loud. “I did.”
“For someone? Like a company?”
He glanced at his watch. “What do you want?”
Derek frowned. Crazy as it sounded, he wasn’t used to being treated like this. “Look, I normally wouldn’t do this, but I assume you’re working for someone, and I wanted to let you know, this is the perfect house for me. Like…the only place I want.”
The American’s face was blank. Worse than blank, Derek sensed amusement dangling just out of sight.
“What are you suggesting?” he asked.
“I dunno,” Derek said, feeling stupid. “Maybe we can arrange something?”
“That’s not possible.”
“So, you’re gonna knock down the place? Build a bunch of shitty townhouses for rich dickheads to invest in?”
The American’s smile was cold. “Mr Hardiman, you have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
The line should have been laughable, but something in the American’s delivery meant it wasn’t. He flashed him a thin smile and slid inside his sensible, mid-priced car without another word. Derek watched him drive away, wanting to smash his fist through the rear window. The Yaris turned a corner and was out of sight. He pulled out his phone and called Howard.
“How’d you go, boyo?”
“I got shoved on my ass. The place went for three point six million.”
“What?!”
“It was some American guy and—”
There was a sound like a fist on wood. “It’s that fucking communist company! It’s them!”
“Huh?”
“This American—was he tall? Thin?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s the one. He works for this not-for-profit—they’re buying up places all over Melbourne.”
“What?”
“Look, it’s too fucking hard to explain over the phone. You leave this with me.”
Derek rubbed his brow. “Fine. But what shou—”
“Call the investment group and see if they can line up more open houses. And get back to your place. You’ve got that call with Adidas at eleven, remember?”
“Yeah, but…”
Howard hung up.
“Fuckwit!”
What the hell was Howard on about? What communist company? And how could communists afford to buy a three-million-dollar house in Fitzroy? He glanced back at 101 Terrace Avenue and an idea occurred to him.
He strolled into the property trying to look like he’d forgotten his phone. The server girl’s eyes lit up when she saw him and Derek avoided her gaze as he approached the auctioneer. “Hey, mate. How are you?”
The guy’s cheeks were still beet-red from shouting. “Good, Derek. Sorry today wasn’t your day.”
As long as he lived, Derek would never get used to strangers calling him by his first name. “No problem. Hey, I was wondering—who was the guy who bought the place?”
The auctioneer cast a theatrical look around the empty garden. “Not trying to buy the place out from under me, are you?”
“Nah, of course not. We were chatting before, and he told me he works for a not-for-profit. I didn’t catch his number and I’m hoping to make a donation.”
“Oh well, that’s no problem!”
Derek held his breath as the auctioneer scribbled on a slip of paper and handed it over. “Now, if anyone asks…”
“Nothing to do with you,” Derek agreed. He looked at the paper.
Chase Hansen,
Housing For All
0413 453 234
Grinning, he jogged back to his G-wagon. Now he was getting somewhere.
4
Mara had barely put the box of macaroons on the table before Himeko elbowed Amir out of the way, grabbing as many of the brightly-coloured treats as she could hold.