Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem. Read online

  All right, mashed banana; I can do that. I sit Rory in her high chair and set off for the fruit bowl. The kitchen door swings open and we all turn in surprise. It’s Denise!

  “Denise, what are you doing here?” I ask breathlessly. I just figured she’d been let go.

  She holds up some empty boxes. “You’ll need boxes, so I picked up some at Osaka.”

  Ha! The irony. I almost want to laugh—or cry. Yesterday I was furious because I had to miss an inconsequential luncheon and blamed Denise for going to her own grocery store, and today I’m packing my things in the boxes from that very store. I wonder if I’ll ever even see Victoria Hughes or any of the wives again. Well, why would I? I no longer have envious jet-setting stories to share, or anything of interest. It’s all gone.

  Denise surveys us briefly, marches into the kitchen, washes her hands, and prepares mashed banana for Rory. “You go find a place to live, and I’ll watch the girls while I pack some things for you.”

  I nod, grateful for her control of the situation and for the chance to escape and call Billy. As I make my way up the stairs, I hear Margo ask Denise if we’re going on a trip. My stomach drops at the thought of the kids having to leave the only home they’ve ever known. I wonder how Denise even learned the news. Obviously Micky must have told her, though—what an awkward conversation. I’m furious at Micky for what has happened; but at least he kept Denise on for a couple of extra days. How I could manage the kids, the packing, and the move without her, I’ll—thankfully—never know.

  I speed-dial Billy and fill him in on what’s happened. He sounds more shocked than even I am. “Just a minute, let me toss you on speaker phone. I need both hands for these corsages here. Okay, you’re on speaker, Lane. God, I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Yeah, I know. Listen, we can talk about all this later. For now, I just need a place, and fast.”

  “Well, have you looked online yet?”

  I glance over at my tablet and heave a big sigh. “No, I don’t even know what to search for.”

  I survey my beautiful room. I created this space, from helping design the plans before the house was built, to hand-picking each and every showcased piece. The thought of having to leave it all behind makes me sick.

  “Well, go ahead! Get on your computer and read me some listings.”

  “Really? But you’re busy.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m working as we speak. Go on.”

  “All right, all right.” I jump online and pull up Craigslist.

  “Where are you going to look?”

  “I have no idea. I mean it’s temporary, so it doesn’t really matter.”

  “Yeeeeah, but you don’t know how long it could be for. You might as well like where you are.”

  True. “Okay then, I want to go back to Kitsilano.” There! It’s decided.

  “Good, now search Kits. Just a minute, I’ll be back.”

  I search Kitsilano rentals and leave all options open for prices and bedrooms. Shit, it’s expensive. Nineteen hundred and fifty dollars for a one-bedroom basement suite. Ugh. The thought of living in a basement is pure misery.

  “Okay, I’m back. Find anything?”

  “No. There’s nothing! It’s all super expensi— Oh wait! Here, there’s a two-bedroom for eleven hundred, and the pictures are beautiful. Hardwood floors, balcony, fireplace…”

  “Really?” Billy sounds skeptical. “Read me the ad.”

  “Okay, ‘well-appointed two bedroom suite in the heart of Kitsilano, only two blocks to the beach.’”—Yes!—“‘Suite has dishwasher, granite countertops, fir floors, outdoor terrace, and many other perks.’ Oh doesn’t it sound fantastic?”

  “Yeah. Too fantastic to be true. Keep reading.”

  “‘I am a doctor working in Africa in orphanages. This is my condo, please send a deposit and I will send you the keys.’ Ha! You’re right!”

  “Scam. Well, this might be harder than we thought.” Billy sounds dejected.

  I sigh with bitter disappointment. I’m wasting my time. I need a place TODAY. “I’m going to go there myself.”

  “Where, Africa?”

  Billy is laughing at his stupid joke. Who can laugh at a time like this?

  “Noooo. Kitsilano, dumb-ass! Wish me luck.”

  Billy laughs harder. “What are you going to do, bang on people’s doors begging them to take you in?”

  Well, it’s not a bad idea.

  “I don’t know, but maybe I’ll see some For Rent signs, and maybe I could view places today?”

  “Maybe. Okay, bye!”

  “Ciao.”

  I get dressed, then grab my purse. To Kitsilano I go, and I’m not coming home until I find something!

  Outside, the weather is beautiful. The sun is bright, which aggravates my headache, and I pull on a pair of Donna Karan sunglasses. I turn the corner and stop in my tracks. A tow truck is hitching itself to my Range Rover. What the hell? “What do you think you’re doing?” I scream.

  A skinny man with shaggy hair continues his work, only much faster. “Hey! Don’t ignore me. This is private property, I’ll call the cops.”

  “Save your breath, lady!” he snarls, as he cranks the hitch and locks it into place. “It’s called pay your bills or the repo man comes.”

  He jumps into the cab of his truck and turns to me. “And I”—he tilts his ball cap—“am the repo man. Good day!” And with that, my baby of a white luxury SUV, complete with customized just-about- everything, rolls its way down the driveway and through the gates.

  I’m left motionless and shocked. Although shouldn’t I have known this was coming after last night’s news? Now I am left homeless and carless. Maybe screw going to Kits. No, I can’t. I have to go. But how?

  For a second, I entertain the idea of catching a cab, but the round trip will probably run me over sixty bucks. I briefly imagine I’m one of those cycling people who can leave vehicle traffic in their dust. But looking at my five-inch heels, I see that’s not going to happen. I press the automatic garage opener for the other garages, and am dismayed to find them all empty. How is it that we lived in such excess but still had a mortgage and car payments? I’d take Denise’s car, but she must have been dropped off today. Well, only one option left. The loser-cruiser.

  5

  When’s the last time I was even on a bus? I don’t remember, but I know it was before I met Micky. Micky would have had a conniption had his precious Lane rode around on public transit. “WELL, LOOK AT ME NOW!” I want to scream.

  I teeter in the direction of Marine Drive to catch the bus. I wish I had a disguise or something. What would the society people say about seeing the wife of venture capitalist tycoon Micky Capello at a bus stop? I’m convinced more than ever that I need to move to Kits and away from people who know me. I don’t need the sneers, or worse—the pity.

  Riding on the bus is even worse than waiting for the fucking thing. I’m crammed between some drug addict chick, who must be on quite the trip as she keeps flailing forward and swinging back up, chanting, “I like, I like…I love, I love,” over and over again. At least she isn’t yelling or doing anything violent.

  The dork on the other side is talking my ear off. The guy has zero social skills and should keep his trap shut. “So, I’m on my way to this job. Yeah, I’m kinda nervous. Hey! I can show you how to make a footprint on the window with your hand. Well, I could if the window was fogged. Yeah, so I’ll be working at Safeway…”

  Oh, just shut the hell up already! Why didn’t I think of bringing earbuds so I too could be blissfully out to lunch like every other passenger who happens to not be sitting on either side of me? Misery!

  And then to add the bloody icing on the bloody cake, a street bum with three overflowing garbage bags of aluminum cans just clambered aboard and is bumping his dirty wet bags into me. The scabs on his skin are revolting. And the stench—I don’t even want to go there! I stuff my face into my sleeve in despair and suck air through the fabric until we
reach downtown.

  The liberation I feel once I step off the bus is short-lived, for now I have to catch another one.

  The ride on bus number two is marginally smoother. I get off at Fourth and Vine. Ahh, Kits. How do I love thee? There is the usual hustle as beautiful people go about their shopping and errands. The storefronts are pleasing to the eye, displaying all the tantalizing goods available inside.

  Okay, where to begin? I head in the direction of Whole Foods. Coffee first, apartment hunting second.

  With my drink and chocolate croissant in hand, I begin pounding the pavement.

  Why I had to wear these shoes, I’ll never know. My toes are murderous after just two blocks. I tread toward the ocean, away from buildings and onto the streets boasting beautiful detached character homes. These houses are exquisite, but they have nothing on mine. “MY HOUSE IS BETTER!” I want to yell. Why do these people get to stay in their houses but I have to leave mine? Why can’t I live in one of these homes? What do these people have that I don’t? Oh right—money. I sigh.

  My feet are killing me. They feel like they’re going to fall off any second. I collapse onto my butt right on the sidewalk. I don’t even care. Hell, I should just lie down and die, or at least wait for someone to rescue me. I yank my phone out of my bag and pull up the Craigslist listings. I might as well try to set up some viewings.

  I discover an ad for a place that is expensive but still doable. It’s twelve blocks from the ocean, but still in Kits. Twelve hundred square feet will be tight, but anyway.

  “Hi, my name is Lane Carson and I’m interested in your suite,” I say when the woman answers. I tell her I’m a quiet, non-smoking professional—professional what?—and I ask questions about the suite. She sounds very friendly, and everything we discuss sounds positive.

  “Are there any other people who will live in the suite?” she asks.

  “Yes, I have two small children. Very quiet and well behaved.”

  A pause.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, the suite isn’t suitable. It’s too small.”

  Seriously? “But the ad says it’s twelve hundred square feet. That’s fine for us.”

  “Yes, but some of the space is unfinished, so it’s not suitable,” she says. And then she hangs up. Just like that!

  Half a dozen more phone conversations follow along the same lines. I mention kids and the person I’m speaking with backs away. Well, excuse me. Why are there so many anti-discriminatory laws when hiring someone, but when renting, you can’t find a place that allows kids? That’s bullshit!

  A lawn mower revs up right behind me, and I’m startled for a second. I toss my phone back into the bag and stand to stretch my legs. The man mowing the expansive lawn looks incredibly worn and old. Man, he needs to just sit in the sun and hire someone to do this. I take in the house. It’s beautiful—or at least it once was. It could use some TLC. And some fresh paint. I notice there isn’t a feminine touch to be found. No lacy curtains, hanging baskets, or cutesy welcome mats in sight.

  Well, well, well.

  My pulse quickens and I feel my lips curl into the closest thing to a smile since the devastating news. I cock my head and check the driveway. No cars. I’m going to take a second wild guess and say this isn’t a multi-unit home. Glancing up, I see there are three sprawling floors. Plenty of room.

  Honey, I am so home.

  I stand tall and proud, lift my chin, and stride purposely up the cobblestone walkway.

  The man continues cutting grass, until finally he spots me and kills the engine. His eyes narrow and he starts making shooing motions at me, yelling, “No solicitors, no solicitors!”

  Whoa, calm down, old man. I’m not selling anything. I put my hands up to surrender and shake my head. I plant a fake smile on my face and take a deep breath. “Hello sir, I am not selling anything.”

  “Then what do you want? Everyone wants something.” His voice is crotchety and full of bitterness.

  Wow! I wasn’t expecting this reaction but, okay… “I like your house,” I say.

  “Are you one of those sneaky realtors? Get off my property! No solicitation!”

  “Hey! Just calm down. I’m not selling anything. I like your house and I want to know if you would be interested in renting out the top floor?”

  “Huh?” The old man seems lost for words. He glances up at his sprawling third-story windows and appears momentarily contemplative, when he abruptly blurts, “No way! I’ve lived on my own for thirty-seven years. The last thing I need is to have noise from some pesky tenant.”

  “Oh, I’m not loud. I’m actually looking for a quiet place myself. You wouldn’t even know I’m here. Promise!” My smiling is starting to hurt my face.

  “No. Not interested. Now get off my property!” He shoos me away like I’m some kind of bad dog.

  “Listen, old man!” Before I can stop myself the words tumble out. “You see West Van?” I jab my finger in the direction of the West Vancouver hills visible across the bay.

  “What about it?”

  “That’s where I live. Until tomorrow when the bank repossesses my house, that is. And I only found this out last night. My husband never even warned me! I need a place to live and fast. I like your house, and the location is perfect.” There!

  “What’s with you? Are you a gold digger?”

  I’m momentarily offended, but rebound quickly, narrowing my eyes at his faded gray ones. “No I am not! And if I were, I would have someone much younger and richer than your sorry ass!”

  “For someone who wants to live here so bad, you have quite the mouth.”

  “I just don’t sugar-coat things!”

  “Well, neither do I.”

  “Good. Finally something we can agree on. Lane Carson, pleased to meet you.” I extend my hand, and the old man throws his hands up as if to say he gives up, and places one wrinkly, soft hand into mine. I smile at him, this time genuinely.

  “How can you say you want to live here? You haven’t even seen upstairs.”

  “Like I said—location, location.” With the ocean views and Kits Beach less than a block east, well, I couldn’t imagine a sweeter spot.

  The old man sighs. “The name is George, George Harris. I’m a retired admiral. Follow me.” He swings the front door open, and in we step to my new home.

  “Take your shoes off!” he orders.

  I feel like telling him he’s not an admiral anymore and should drop the sergeant voice. I pull my heels off and feel instant relief. Ahh, much better.

  The foyer to the home is bare. Pretty tidy for an old bachelor, but lacking any warmth or décor. The house is old, most of the walls are fir paneled and the windows are a mix of lead pane and stained glass.

  “This is my washroom, and it’s not to be used by you or your guests.” George motions to a bathroom door beside the main staircase.

  “Done,” I say.

  Together, we climb the stairs, each step creaking. The walls along the stairs are also wood paneled and lack picture frames or paintings. We make it to the second landing, which boasts a long corridor and numerous rooms. This house is pretty massive. We continue the climb to the third floor. I feel weary just imagining lugging Rory and a bunch of groceries, but remind myself it’s short term.

  “George, how long have you lived here?”

  “Sixty-three years. I moved in as a newlywed.”

  Wow! I can’t imagine living in the same house for sixty-three years. “So, that makes you pretty old.”

  “Well, I stopped counting at eighty,” he says.

  “And I stopped counting at twenty.” I laugh at my own joke—mostly because it’s true—and to my amusement, George gives a small chuckle. We come to the third floor, which has a small landing and a single door. George turns the amethyst-tinted glass knob and swings the door open.

  My first thought is, Wow it’s bright! Then—I see the carpet. Oh. My God. It looks like someone cloned Oscar the Grouch a thousand times to make this rug. The slime-green sh
ag carpet is at least two inches long; and it’s everywhere!

  The attic is so dusty, I start sneezing. Trying to look past the carpet, I take in the rest of the space. The entire space is open-concept, except for the washroom—if there is one.

  “Where’s the washroom?”

  “There’s two. One has a toilet, and the other has the sink and tub.”

  No shower? I follow George across the room to a set of doors. He swings one open, and there it is—the toilet. The room is decorated with floral wallpaper; but that’s the extent of it. The second washroom has an enormous claw-foot tub, which I like—until I peer inside and see yellow stains from what looks like years of water residue. I’ll have to Google how to get rid of those stains. And yes, no shower. Sigh. The sink is a pedestal sink, and there’s a wooden medicine cabinet to the side. This larger bathroom has a window that would look out to the ocean if the view wasn’t obstructed by the massive elm tree. Maybe there are views in the winter—not that we’ll be here then.

  We leave the washrooms and return to the main space. I notice some sparse furniture. A small dining room table is situated by a single french door leading to a balcony. I attempt to open the door but, fortunately, glance outside first, and halt to a stop. That is NOT a balcony. It’s an accident waiting to happen. It’s a decrepit, shaky sort of ledge at best. There’s no way in hell I’m going out there.

  “Fire escape,” George says, coming up behind me.

  “Yeah, you know, I think I’d rather stay inside with the fire than try to escape on that thing.”

  “Oh, it’s fine. Stable enough. This house is solid; I’ve been here for sixty—”

  “Three years, yes you’ve said.” I move away from the deathtrap and try to imagine where the furniture would go. My bed can go near the door, and— Ooooh, a fireplace! “You have a fireplace here,” I say, drifting over to admire it.

  The fireplace is tiny and adorable. It has a mosaic of turquoise tiles and a handsome wooden ledge. I run my hand along the dusty but smooth surface of wood and imagine a lovely fire crackling away. Now I need to learn how to build a fire—a proper fire that won’t die out once the newspaper has burned away.