Даниэла Стил - All That Glitters

“Christ, we have to be psychic with clients like that.”

“That’s your forte,” Leslie complimented her, “you always seem to know what they really want and aren’t telling us. Oh, and he wants a good kitchen. He likes to cook.”

“He sounds interesting.”

“And difficult. Spoiled, I suspect. He also wants a gym somewhere in the neighborhood. He’s forty-one.”

“Married? Girlfriend? Gay? Kids?” Coco knew all the right questions to ask now.

“They didn’t say. He sounds like something of a loner.” Leslie looked at the profile again, and another item caught her eye. “No kids in the building. Too noisy. He claims his dog never barks and sleeps all the time.” Coco nodded, and had jotted down some notes. The first thing she had to do was call realtors and find a location. A year would be easier than a few months. And house or apartment was good too. He didn’t seem to care how many rooms, as long as there was a good room for him to write, and a bedroom for him. The fancy kitchen might be harder.

After a week of endless calls to all her contacts, Coco had six places to see on a Friday. She had the authority to rent a place at her own discretion, which was an awesome responsibility.

She was meeting with three different realtors, one of whom she preferred. She had never lied to her, which many did, claiming attributes the apartment didn’t have and hiding flaws.

None of the places she saw felt right, until the last one. It was in a quiet residential street near a park. The house was owned, as an investment, by a Swiss couple who almost never came to London, and had kept the two top floors for themselves, and occasionally lent it to their son, who was a banker. They rented out the two lower floors, if they liked the tenant. The house was relatively small and well maintained. They had people who came regularly to check on it. There was a two-car garage no one used, and the entire apartment was sunny and faced south. On the main floor were a living and dining room of modest proportions, and a sizeable kitchen with state-of-the-art equipment.

“Their current tenant is a chef from Rome. He’s the star chef at Harry’s Bar. His father died, and he went home to run the family restaurant for a year for his mother. The kitchen equipment and all the furniture belong to him. He’s not letting the place go, but they’re allowing him to sublet it.” The kitchen definitely checked out for an amateur chef. There was a large dining table in it, so the tenant could use the dining room or kitchen to entertain. The dining room was wood-paneled and more formal, and both the living room and dining room had fireplaces.

On the second floor were a big bedroom, a small guest room, and a den which could be used as an office. It looked like the perfect lair for a writer. It had a warm, inviting feeling, with a fireplace and wood paneling. The décor was masculine, with big comfortable leather chairs and dark Persian rugs. There was a big well-appointed bathroom with shower and bath, another one with only a shower in the guest room, and a powder room downstairs for guests.

“Wow,” Coco said, looking at her, “it’s perfect. I’ll take it. I haven’t met the client, but it matches his profile perfectly.”

“It helps that the subletting tenant is a guy. Everything is the right proportion for a man to feel comfortable here and not confined.” She had done her job well, and Coco was thrilled.

“Is there a gym nearby?”

“Two blocks away. It’s expensive and fairly exclusive, but if the production company is paying, as you said, they may not care.”

“Perfect,” Coco said again. “I’ll take it.”

“First month’s rent, one-year lease, security deposit. They want five thousand in security because of the dog, in case he does any damage.” The rent wasn’t even too high considering how nice the space was. “And the chef who lives here wants any of the pans replaced if the tenant damages them.”

“We can take care of that when he leaves,” Coco said, and for once she didn’t need to have the place painted, carpeted, curtains made, or find decent not-too-expensive art to put on the walls. It was all there. “When can he move in?”

“Immediately. The Roman chef left a week ago. They already had the place thoroughly cleaned. And china and linens are included of course, since it’s a furnished rental. I checked and they have very nice sheets.”

Coco signed the check for the rent and deposit on the office account, as Leslie allowed her to do. The production company was going to sign the lease, and she looked delighted when she got back to the office.

“We really lucked out on this one. It’s everything he wanted and more, including the fancy kitchen. A Roman chef lives there and went back to Rome for a year. Ian Kingston is going to love it. If he doesn’t move in, I will, and he can have my house. It’s really a great setup, and there’s a wonderful den where he can write. I can’t wait till he sees it.”

“We may never hear from him,” Leslie said, “since the production company is the client. But they’ll be happy too.”

“Do you know when he’s arriving?”

“They said April first, but they said he might arrive in March if we had something for him by then.”

“He can come tomorrow if he wants. It’s all his.”

She handed the file back to Leslie with all her notes, and went back to the file of another client they hadn’t found a place for yet, an American family arriving with six kids under the age of ten. They needed a big house, and landlords weren’t thrilled to have a lot of children. Leslie had suggested a house to them, rather than an apartment where the neighbors would be complaining about noise all the time. And they had a black Lab. Their work was teaching them both a lot about people, relationships, and how some people wanted to live.

—

In March, Coco went to court for the divorce for the first time. It was a preliminary hearing, to hear what each party wanted. They got a female judge, which Coco’s attorney said could go either way. Some women judges were tougher than men, others seemed more sympathetic to their own sex. The one they were assigned had already reviewed the case.

The judge, in her navy blue robe, looked directly at Coco when it was her turn. “Are you comfortable with this arrangement, trading a country property for your ex-husband’s parental rights? I gather he doesn’t want to be involved with the child,” she said with a look of disapproval.

“Apparently not, Your Honor,” Coco said politely.

“Who owns the house? In other words, who paid for it?”

“I did, Your Honor.”

“It’s free and clear?”

“Completely.”

“It’s a very unusual request, but I’m going to grant it. You’re sure you can manage alone?” She had noticed Coco’s age, but she looked mature and sensible when she appeared in court. She wasn’t some wild thing with piercings all over her face. She looked like a grown-up, with her hair pulled back, in a dark gray suit and high heels.

“I believe I can manage, Your Honor.”

“Are your parents going to help you? Are they here?” She could hear that Coco was American.

“No, they’re deceased. They died almost three years ago. But I’ll be fine.” Coco looked calm and capable when she spoke.

“You’re employed?” The judge looked over her glasses at her, observing her keenly.

“Yes, I work in the relocation business, finding and setting up homes for executives and families moving here, usually from other countries, for determinate stays. Corporate executives, some diplomats, researchers, writers, movie producers.” She smiled at Coco’s description and thought she looked like an enterprising girl, despite her age. Her parents being deceased also explained the kind of numbers her ex-husband was bandying around, if she had inherited money from them.