51
Panic level: one million (out of a scale of ten).
After those words—It’s a big deal for me too. I’ll show you how big tonight—Nick walked over, kissed me on the forehead, and was out the door before I could say a word. It took several minutes to collect my jaw from the floor.
I’m terrified. Even more terrified than this morning, when I thought he was going to roll over in bed, pinch me on the cheek, and say, “Fun times, Harp. Thanks for the memories.” Wink. “Catch ya later.”
I can’t decide if this is better or worse.
I don’t want Nick out of my life, but I’m not bloody ready to make a major commitment. Not ready to marry the guy, that’s for sure.
But if it’s down to marrying him or losing him forever, then what?
It’s not like he’s going off to war.
Got to settle down. Focus. Think.
A solution. When he comes through that door, I will convey to him that I have things in my life I need to put straight, to get on track before I’m ready for anything that serious. It’s the truth. I feel like, for the first time, I have it together—I know exactly what I need to be doing in life.
I wouldn’t have that without the time I spent in 2147. I also wouldn’t have met Nick. I wouldn’t trade either for the world.
I know what I need to be doing with my professional life.
Alice Carter.
Because when you’re young, life is about pursuing dreams. I have the rest of my life to take the safe road. If I don’t write Oliver Norton Shaw’s biography, someone will. They might even be better than me. Or maybe a little worse. But it will get done.
No one else will write Alice Carter’s story. No one but me. She’s depending on me.
That’s what life is about: finding something you can do that no one else can, and working your hardest at it. It’s about finding someone you love like no one else, someone who loves you like no one else does. That person might be Nick Stone. But I don’t know him as well as I know Alice Carter. Not yet.
Now it’s about making a plan to ensure I get to know them both. It’s going to be risky.
My agent sits quietly, listening, nodding.
When I finish, he glances around his office, as if looking for the words.
I cringe, mentally bracing for the barrage that will cut me to the bone. Throwing your career away. Wasting this opportunity I worked so hard to get you. Irresponsible decision.
Those words never come. Instead I hear, “I respect your decision, Harper. I believe you owe it to yourself to follow your dream. I’ll do my best to help you.” The words are like a parachute I sway beneath, holding me up, saving my life as my feet land firmly on the ground.
One down.
My father passed away eight years ago from a heart attack. I miss him very much, and so does my mum. He was a schoolteacher in my small hometown, and the years after he passed have been tough, emotionally and financially, for my mum. He left her two assets of value: our family home and a flat in London that he inherited from his parents, who had been quite well off at one time.
She rents that flat, and for the past few years, she’s rented it to me. It’s a good trade: I insist on paying her slightly more than the unit would fetch on the market, and on occasion, when I’m between projects and a bit late with the rent—well, she’s the best landlord a girl could have.
If I’m vacating, if I’m about to make the change I’m contemplating, something will have to happen with the flat. I want to present her with some options, a clear plan. I want to save her the trouble of coming to London and going through it all. She deserves that. Plus, she’s even worse at decisions than I am.
With that in mind, I sit in the estate agent’s messy office, listening to him rattle off figures and facts, some more comprehensible than others. The London market is up this percent over last year. The average price has risen to . . . Interest rates are hovering at . . . but they’re expected to rise this much more, especially if the BOE tightens next quarter, though the labor market has thrown that into question. Your particular neighborhood has this many properties currently offered, with the average days on the market being . . .
Finally I hold my hand up and try to get down to it. I’m not sure when Nick will be back, and he doesn’t have a key. “That’s all well and interesting, thank you, really—but what do you reckon my particular flat might fetch?”
He raises his eyebrows and leans back in the seat, as if I’ve really put him to the test on that one. “Tough to say. But I’ll tell you”—he leans in a bit, speaking a little more quietly, as if to shield this now-confidential conversation from passersby in the hall—“if we were to get it on the market directly, we stand a good chance of commanding top dollar.” He rattles off some numbers, which, to be fair, do sound quite good. More than I expected.
“If we wait—say, go further into winter—the market’s going to get soft. Might already be getting soft. There’s talk of a bubble in the paper all the time, and that’s got some buyers spooked.” He quickly adds, “But probably not for a property your size. There’s strong demand for those . . . at this very moment, at least.”
I nod. “And if I let it? What might I expect?”
He doesn’t like that idea. He would have to hand it off to the letting agent in his office, and when it comes off lease, he assures me it will fetch a great deal less at sale. He details various ways it could go wrong, from bad renters to the distaste in potential buyers’ minds. He reminds me that the property has been in my family for generations. That it’s remained a single-owner property will add a premium at sale—“For the right buyer,” he adds.
I remind him that my income will likely be nonexistent for years to come, that letting it is the only way to hang on to it, which would have been important to my father. I tell him I suppose he would have approved of letting it over selling it, even if it needs a paint job when the lease is up.
Still, the estate agent is sour on the idea, for obvious reasons.
I leave with one more decision to make.
But the bottom line is, I can either advise Mum to sell it or to let it to someone else. Either way, I’m moving back in with her until I can sell the first Alice Carter novel.
Nick isn’t waiting by the door when I get home, and I’m relieved. I do, however, see my neighbor in the hall, and she’s as happy as the day is long, bouncing around like she’s won the lottery.
And she sort of has. Apparently you don’t even need to list your flat to sell it in London.
She cups her hand over her mouth, “Unsolicited offer, Harp. Foreign buyer. All cash.”
Though she won’t tell me the price, she does say she didn’t even have to think about it.
No doubt the estate agent will call tomorrow with this bit of news, pointing out that it just increases the value of my place and that the new neighbors might be dreadful. “Sell now,” he’ll say, “or risk losing even more.”
Inside my flat, I tidy up some, but I can’t help checking the window every few minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of Nick on his way up.