Читать книгу Sold - Blair Denholm - Страница 14

Gary took the long way to work Wednesday morning, via the beach road. He drove fast, his mind anywhere but on the road. Frequent lycra-clad cyclists slowed him down. Dickheads.

He pulled into the kerb at his favourite beachside park and stepped out to have one last smoke before work. Far out in the aqua surf some dudes with bleached dreadies stood on long boards, paddling one side then the other, with poles like tooth picks. He hoped some of them were going to have a shit day. He glanced at his watch. Time to head back to the car yard and give Max the news.

The car screeched into the driveway. Gary jumped out, slammed the door and hurried to his office. He pulled Dawn MacMillan’s business card from his wallet and stared at it before dialling.

‘Hi. It’s Gary Braswell. I’ll make it quick. Can you get me a job interview at your agency?’

‘Of course. I’ve already mentioned you to my boss. I’m sure he’d be delighted to talk to you. How’s Monday morning?’

‘No worries. I’ll be there.’

At five o’clock that afternoon Gary handed Max Buckley a plain envelope containing his resignation.

Later that evening he sat opposite Maddie at the kitchen table, reached over and took her hand.

‘You did what? You love that job! I can’t believe you just dropped this on me. What the hell are we going to do now? I’m only part time at the coffee shop. Jesus, Gary–’

‘It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ve got something else lined up. A real estate career. There’s opportunities for huge earnings and advancement. Game changer.’

His wife’s raised eyebrows and tilted head told Gary she didn’t share his optimism.

‘You’d better be right, cos I’m not making enough to pay for your bloody smokes, gambling and beer. I swear, after that last bender you’re on borrowed time.’

Maddie’s words were a punch in the solar plexus.

‘I’m going to stop all of that, babe. I promise.’

‘Sure you are. How many times have I heard that before?’

Gary approached a set of traffic lights, vehicles bumper-to-bumper in a late-afternoon snarl. A pair of curvaceous meter maids in shiny golden bikinis waited at the pedestrian crossing. They smiled at him, and for a moment he forgot what the hell he was doing. A quick mental head slap and he refocused on the GPS which told him to turn left at the next intersection.

Beachscape Realty sat in Park Avenue, around the corner from the Burleigh Heads Bowls Club and a short stroll from the foreshore lined with iconic, heritage-listed Norfolk pines. A billboard soared above the redbrick façade; the avuncular visage of Jerry Luscomb smiled down upon the burghers of Burleigh.

The receptionist peeked around her computer screen, wide as the Kirra surf break. She had on one of those headsets that meerkats in call centre cubicles wear to keep their hands free for other jobs, like scratching crotches and sucking biros. She was on a call clearly more important than Gary’s arrival. She mouthed: Be with you in a minute.

After a hurried smoke and a quick Internet surf on his mobile, an office door opened and the owner of Beachside Realty thrust his hairy-knuckled hand at Gary. Densely implanted hair plugs crowded the man’s expansive scalp which offered plenty of acreage for more.

‘Morning. I’m Jerry, owner of Beachside Realty. It’s great to finally meet you.’

Gary felt a buzz in his pocket. Probably another intimidating text from Jocko. Ignore for now.

‘So,’ said Jerry, ending a rambling monologue about the vagaries of the real estate industry. ‘Tell me about yourself and what you hope to achieve.’

Gary described his meteoric rise as a used car salesman and touched on previous jobs. He skipped details of his dysfunctional childhood, his violent foster father and neglectful foster mother. And his descent into alcoholism from the age of 17. Nobody needs to hear that stuff.

So he kept it upbeat – sunshine and frangipanis all the way.

A firm handshake signified the start of Gary Braswell’s new career.

On his way back to the car, Gary felt the mojo flowing through his veins again. He was going to become an important man in town. The most successful real estate agent in the city. Make that the state. He’d wield power and influence, command everyone’s respect: mums and dads, business owners, politicians, all the movers and shakers. Filthy pond scum like Jocko Mackenzie would tremble at the mention of Gary Braswell’s name. If they didn’t bow or show proper respect, he’d crush them like empty beer cans.

Outside in the burning sun, he checked the SMS that arrived during the blitz interview. There was an image of Maddie embedded in the message. She had company. Bradley Jones.

Under the picture were the words:

Just gettin to no ur missus arsehole. Dont forget to pack ur toothbrush for the trip.

Gary squatted beside his car and wept.