tiles, each with the miniature yellow, blue and green figure of a bird emblazoned on it, and by the tarnished faux-brass fixtures and cut-glass towel racks that gave the place the feel of the ladies’ room in a Mexican restaurant. Ah, well, each to her taste, Kyra was thinking, and then she caught a good look at herself in the mirror.
It was a shock. She looked awful. Haggard, frowsy, desperate, like some stressed-out Tupperware hostess or something. The problem was her nose. Or, actually, it was Sacheverell and the night she’d spent, but all the grief and shock and exhaustion of the ordeal was right there, consolidated in her nose. The tip of it was red—bright red, naming—and when the tip of her nose was red it seemed to pull her whole face in on itself like some freakish vortex, The Amazing Lady with the Shrinking Face. Ever since she’d had her nose modified when she was fourteen, it had a tendency to embarrass her in times of stress. Whatever the doctor had done to it—remove a sliver of bone, snip a bit here and there—it was always just a shade paler than her cheeks, chin and brow, and it took on color more quickly. It always seemed to be sunburned, for one thing. And when she had a cold or flu or felt agitated or depressed or overwrought it blazed out from the center of her face like something you’d expect to find at the top of a Christmas tree.
You couldn’t move property with a nose like that. But why dwell on it? She took out her compact and went to work.
Just as she was putting the finishing touches to her face she heard Sally Lieberman chiming from the front door, “We’re here!”
Sally was mid-forties, dressed like she owned the store, worked out at the gym, a real professional. Kyra had closed six properties with her over the course of the past two years and she valued her input. The buyers, though, left something to be desired. They hung back at the door, looking sulky and hard-to-please. Sally introduced them as the Paulymans, Gerald and Sue. He was frazzle-haired and unshaven, in a pair of blue jeans gone pale with use, and she had pink and black beads braided into her hair. Kyra knew from experience not to judge from first appearances—she’d once had a woman in her seventies who dressed like a bag lady but wound up writing a check for a two-point-seven-mil estate in Cold Canyon—but they didn’t look auspicious. Maybe they were musicians or TV writers, she thought, hoping for the best. They had to have something going for them or Sally wouldn’t have brought them around.
“So what’s with the wet spot on the porch?” the husband wanted to know, confronting her eyes, his voice nagging and hoarse.
You couldn’t be evasive—evasive didn’t work. Even the most complacent buyer would think you were trying to put something over on them,, and a buyer like this would eat you alive. Kyra put on her smile. “A broken sprinkler head. I’ve already called the gardener about it.”
“That porch has a real pitch to it.”
“We offer a one-year buyer-protection policy on every house we list, gratis.”
“I can’t believe this carpet,” the wife said.
“And look at this,” the husband whined, pushing past Kyra and into the living room, where he went down on his hands and knees to wet a finger and run it along the baseboard, “the paint is flaking.”
Kyra knew the type. They were looky-loos of the first stripe, abusive, angry, despicable people who’d make you show them two hundred houses and then go out and buy a trailer. Kyra gave them her spiel—deal of the century, room to spare, old-world craftsmanship, barely been lived in—handed them each a brochure with a glossy color photo of the house reproduced on the front and left them to wander at will.
By two, she had a headache. Nothing was moving, anywhere, there were no messages on her machine and only six people had showed up for the realtors’ open house she’d catered herself on a new listing in West Hills—all
It was a shock. She looked awful. Haggard, frowsy, desperate, like some stressed-out Tupperware hostess or something. The problem was her nose. Or, actually, it was Sacheverell and the night she’d spent, but all the grief and shock and exhaustion of the ordeal was right there, consolidated in her nose. The tip of it was red—bright red, naming—and when the tip of her nose was red it seemed to pull her whole face in on itself like some freakish vortex, The Amazing Lady with the Shrinking Face. Ever since she’d had her nose modified when she was fourteen, it had a tendency to embarrass her in times of stress. Whatever the doctor had done to it—remove a sliver of bone, snip a bit here and there—it was always just a shade paler than her cheeks, chin and brow, and it took on color more quickly. It always seemed to be sunburned, for one thing. And when she had a cold or flu or felt agitated or depressed or overwrought it blazed out from the center of her face like something you’d expect to find at the top of a Christmas tree.
You couldn’t move property with a nose like that. But why dwell on it? She took out her compact and went to work.
Just as she was putting the finishing touches to her face she heard Sally Lieberman chiming from the front door, “We’re here!”
Sally was mid-forties, dressed like she owned the store, worked out at the gym, a real professional. Kyra had closed six properties with her over the course of the past two years and she valued her input. The buyers, though, left something to be desired. They hung back at the door, looking sulky and hard-to-please. Sally introduced them as the Paulymans, Gerald and Sue. He was frazzle-haired and unshaven, in a pair of blue jeans gone pale with use, and she had pink and black beads braided into her hair. Kyra knew from experience not to judge from first appearances—she’d once had a woman in her seventies who dressed like a bag lady but wound up writing a check for a two-point-seven-mil estate in Cold Canyon—but they didn’t look auspicious. Maybe they were musicians or TV writers, she thought, hoping for the best. They had to have something going for them or Sally wouldn’t have brought them around.
“So what’s with the wet spot on the porch?” the husband wanted to know, confronting her eyes, his voice nagging and hoarse.
You couldn’t be evasive—evasive didn’t work. Even the most complacent buyer would think you were trying to put something over on them,, and a buyer like this would eat you alive. Kyra put on her smile. “A broken sprinkler head. I’ve already called the gardener about it.”
“That porch has a real pitch to it.”
“We offer a one-year buyer-protection policy on every house we list, gratis.”
“I can’t believe this carpet,” the wife said.
“And look at this,” the husband whined, pushing past Kyra and into the living room, where he went down on his hands and knees to wet a finger and run it along the baseboard, “the paint is flaking.”
Kyra knew the type. They were looky-loos of the first stripe, abusive, angry, despicable people who’d make you show them two hundred houses and then go out and buy a trailer. Kyra gave them her spiel—deal of the century, room to spare, old-world craftsmanship, barely been lived in—handed them each a brochure with a glossy color photo of the house reproduced on the front and left them to wander at will.
By two, she had a headache. Nothing was moving, anywhere, there were no messages on her machine and only six people had showed up for the realtors’ open house she’d catered herself on a new listing in West Hills—all
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