Highest Bidder
Georgia Le Carre
Contents
Acknowledgments
1. Freya
2. Freya
3. Freya
4. Freya
5. Freya
6. Freya
7. Freya
8. Freya
9. Freya
10. Freya
11. Freya
12. Freya
13. Freya
14. Freya
15. Freya
16. Brent
17. Freya
18. Freya
19. Freya
20. Freya
21. Freya
22. Freya
23. Freya
24. Freya
25. Freya
26. Freya
27. Freya
28. Freya
29. Freya
30. Freya
31. Freya
32. Freya
33. Freya
34. Freya
35. Freya
36. Freya
37. Freya
38. Freya
39. Freya
40. Freya
41. Freya
42. Freya
43. Freya
44. Freya
45. Freya
46. Freya
47. Freya
48. Freya
49. Freya
50. Freya
51. Freya
52. Freya
53. Freya
54. Freya
55. Freya
56. Freya
57. Freya
58. Freya
59. Freya
60. Freya
61. Evelyn Anderson
62. Brent
Epilogue
Coming Soon…Saving Della-Ray
About the Author
Also by Georgia Le Carre
Acknowledgments
Many, many thanks for all your hard work and help:
Leanora Elliott
Elizabeth Burns
Nichola Rhead
Kirstine Moran
Tracy Gray
Brittany Urbaniak
Highest Bidder
Copyright © 2019 by Georgia Le Carre
The right of Georgia Le Carre to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and patent act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding.
ISBN 978-1-910575-90-1
Created with Vellum
Freya
“Excuse me,” the woman said loudly, as I turned to leave the table.
That tone usually only meant one thing. I’d messed up. With a sinking stomach, I turned back and faced her.
She was using her knife to dig around the rocket leaves and cherry tomatoes on her plate. “Didn’t I specifically say I didn’t want parmesan shavings on my salad?”
I showed her my apologetic face. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ll take it back and get you another one.”
“What kind of waitress are you? It was just a simple salad and you couldn’t even get that right.”
“I’m really sorry. I was sure I made a note of it. There could have been a mix-up in the kitchen. I’ll just get another one for you. It won’t be a minute, I promise.” I picked up her plate and turned away.
“Er … excuse me,” she calls, her voice now not only loud, but sarcastic as well.
Keeping my expression polite and solicitous, I turned to face her.
“Shouldn’t you take my husband’s meal away too and put it under one of those hot lights to keep it warm?”
The man opposite her spoke up for the first time, “No, it’s not necessary to take my lasagna back. It looks so hot it will probably burn my mouth if I eat it right away, anyway.”
She threw him a death glare before looking up at me and snapping, “Take his meal away, and keep it hot.”
“Yes, of course.” I flashed her husband an apologetic smile, picked up his plate, and carried both plates back to the serving station.
“What’s up?” Alfredo the Second Chef asks as I put the two plates down.
“Table twenty-one. She asked for no parmesan. It might have been my mistake. I can’t remember if I wrote it down.”
He glanced at table twenty-one then completely lost his cool. “It is that fucking bitch again. Every time she comes here, there’s always something wrong with her order.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and demanded, “What about the other dish then? What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. She just wants us to keep it hot while we make her another salad.”
“What a stupid bitch,” he cursed. Muttering ferociously to himself as he shoved the lasagna under the warmer, he walked away with the salad.
Taking out my pad, I flipped back to the order and saw from my carbon copy that it was my fault. I didn’t note it down. That was the third mistake I’d made today.
Maya, one of the other waitresses stopped next to me. “What’s up? You look like someone stole your last dollar.”
I winced. She had no idea how right her observation was. “I messed up table twenty-one.”
“Don’t worry about it. She’s never happy, that one. I don’t know how her husband puts up with her nonsense. I would have divorced her on the wedding day itself, if I were him. He always looks so unhappy as well.”
“It was my fault, Maya,” I admitted. “She told me and I didn’t write it down.”
Maya touched my hand. “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t beat yourself about it. We all make mistakes.”
Yeah, but three mistakes in one shift. I took a deep breath. I needed this job. I needed to concentrate.
Alberto came back with the salad, his face still black with rage. “Here you go. Santini salad without its most important ingredient.”
“Thanks, Alberto.”
I carry the two plates back to the table. “Santini salad without parmesan and meat lasagna. Sorry again, for the mix-up.”
“Sorry, is no cure,” the woman muttered under her breath, as if she was a kid in a playground.
When I came back to the serving station Maya said, “Look, I only have five tables left and the guys on table seven look like they’re going to be here forever finishing that bottle of wine, so if you want to leave, I don’t mind taking over your two tables.”
I really could do with leaving early. An hour and a half ago, the university called to say my mother’s check to pay for my fees had bounced. I needed to go through my mother’s financial records and find out why. “Are you sure?” I asked her hopefully.
She grinned. “Sure. You’ve done it for me before.”
“Thanks, Maya. You’re a star.”
She patted me on the back. “Don’t worry so much. It will be alright, you’ll see.”
I took off my apron, grabbed my bag, and ran all the way to the bus stop.
Freya
Twenty minutes later, I arrived at King’s Road, jumped off the bus, and walked briskly towards my mother’s boutique.
Martin, the bald-headed, spectacled man ‒ who had been my mom’s loyal assistant during her socialite days when we had lots of money ‒ had morphed into her new retail assistant. He was peering through the display window with a frown on his forehead. “What are you doing here, Missy?” he asked as I walked into the store.
“I need to check out something that’s in Mom’s office,” I said, and hurried towards the back of the store.
Closing the door, I almost tripped over a stack of samples in my rush to get to my mom’s messy desk of receipts and l
etters. I sat in her swivel chair and pulled open her drawer. I was actually looking for Mom’s bank statement, but as I opened the second drawer, my eyes connected with a strange document. Curiously, I picked it up, and I thought my heart had come to a stop in my chest.
No, no, no. I reread it and I still couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
I fished my phone from my pocket and dialed my mother.
She picked up on the fifth ring. “I’m at the Food Hall for some groceries,” she said cheerfully.
“Mom, I’m in your office,” I said to her.
“Why are you—” She paused when she realized what my statement meant. “What are you doing in my office?”
“Did you mortgage Grandma’s home to open the boutique?”
For a few seconds there was silence. Then she spoke, “Yes.”
Her voice was so soft I had to strain to hear. I could feel the blood pounding in my ears. “But you told me that you had some savings … that you sold off some of your jewelry.”
“I did, but it wasn’t near enough to get a location on King’s Road.”
“So you mortgaged off the only property we had left?” My voice rose, even though I was trying to keep it down. “That is the only home you have to live in, and it’s Grandma’s apartment. Dad never touched it even when everything was falling apart.”
“Freya,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I did what needed to be done. You know, there’s no point opening in some dreary area. Even my own friends wouldn’t dream of coming to see me if I had opened in Brixton or Peckham—”
Suddenly, it was too much. The university calling me, the Santini Salad woman looking at me as if I was a total idiot, and now this. My voice broke as tears rolled down my cheeks. “H-how could you—do this without telling me, Mom? We talked about it and I told you opening a boutique at a time when everybody is shopping online is pure madness. I even offered to move in with Ella. You could have moved out to a slightly cheaper area and rented out the apartment. You could have used the difference to slowly pay off our debts. That was the safe option, but of course, you had to go and throw every penny we had left into this stupid store. And now we have no more assets left. What are we going to do if the boutique fails, Mom?”
“Freya, come home, let’s talk.”
“Yeah sure,” I said, and disconnected the call. I took a few deep breaths and tried my very best to calm myself down. I didn’t want to upset my mother even further. She was already going through so much, but I felt like I was suffocating in frustration and despair.
* * *
An hour later, and relatively calmer, I walked through the door of our apartment in Chelsea, which was technically no longer ours. I could hear her moving around in the kitchen. After dropping my things off in my room, I went to meet her.
“Hello darling,” she chirped brightly as though we had never had the earlier conversation, as though there was absolutely nothing wrong in our lives. “I’m making dinner. I got you your favorite. Beluga caviar and I’m steaming those small potatoes you like so much so you have them together.”
Whatever bit of calm I had worked so hard to claim was gone. “Mom!” I yelled.
She turned to me. “What?”
I couldn’t believe her. I gazed at my forty-five-year old mother and I could have sworn she was the most naive person that I had ever met. “What part of we are completely broke, don't you understand? We’ve defaulted on several monthly payments already. We’ll be foreclosed on at any moment! And you bought caviar?”
“It is your favorite and,” she said, looking confused, as if she couldn’t understand why I was being so unreasonable.
I couldn’t hold back the agony any longer. “Yes!” I screamed. “When dad was alive. When we were bloody rich, and when we weren’t on the brink of being fucking homeless.”
“It is only a thirty-gram tin,” she muttered.
Gazing at her small frame and bedazzled turban made me feel a strange mixture of admiration and exasperation. She refused to cower down to the lowly status my father’s death had brought us to. She looked nothing like an impoverished widow. Her robe was of the finest silk, her ears glistening with diamond studs, and her house slippers were made out of some kind of special material that was imported from llama growing country.
“Mom,” I wailed, not knowing what to say or even think. “Mom!”
I felt so sorry for her, but at the same time, I felt even more sorry for myself. This past year had been a nightmare beyond compare and it seemed as though we weren’t done falling yet. I wanted to break down, but I couldn’t. It would finish us both.
So, I turned around and stormed out of the kitchen.
“Freya …” She came after me. “Where are you going? Freya!”
I banged the door shut, and half ran all the way to the bus stop.
Freya
I had run out without even a coat over my jeans and jumper so when my best friend, Maddie opened the door I was standing on her doorstep shivering like crazy.
Her eyes widened in shock. “What are you doing?”
“Visiting you,” I said through chattering teeth.
She pulled me into the house and shut the door.
When she turned around, I threw my arms around her body.
Automatically her arms went around me and for a while neither of us spoke. Then she quietly asked, “What’s the matter, Freya?”
When I didn’t respond, she went on. “Did something happen to your mother?”
I shook my head.
She scowled. “So what happened? Why are you like this?”
I tried to hold the tears back, I did everything I could, but instead they rolled helplessly down my cheeks.
She didn’t ask any more questions. She pulled me toward her warm living room and together, we plopped down on her couch. Then she held me in her arms, whispering again and again, “It’s okay. It’s okay. Whatever it is we’ll work it out together.”
The doorbell rang suddenly, making both of us jump.
I jerked away and we stared at each other.
Her brown eyes widened in the warm light of the lamp on the single book shelf behind her. The bell rang again, this time more insistently.
I sniffed. “Are you expecting someone?”
“No.” She stood up and headed towards the door.
I wiped the tears off my face and grabbed the remote to her television.
A few moments later, I heard Ella’s high-pitched voice, say, “Freya’s here? Just the person I wanted to see.” Seconds later, she appeared in the doorway wearing a fantastically skimpy dress. “Hello, babe.”
She peered at me. “Why are your eyes red?”
“Why are you dressed like that in winter?” I asked back.
“Have you forgotten?” she asked airily. “I’m on a mission to find a stinkingly rich idiot.”
“We’re still on that project?" I asked, looking away.
“Bagging a rich guy so I don’t have to lift a finger for the rest of my life? Yes, we are.”
“You know that was what my mom did,” I commented quietly. “Twenty-four years later, she’s a struggling widow about to be homeless.”
The room turned so silent I could hear the winter wind as it blew past, and footsteps of strangers passing on ground level above the basement apartment.
“Um,” Maddie began.
I turn just in time to see her share a perplexed look with Ella.
Ella immediately joined me on the couch. “You're about to be homeless?”
Maddie came over to sit at my feet.
"It’s almost certain. Mom mortgaged the apartment to open the store six months ago.”
“Noooo!” Maddie gasped in horror.
“How did you find out?” Ella asked.
“The university called to say Mom’s check had bounced so I went to her office this evening to look at her bank statement. While I was there, I saw the mortgage documents.”
“What did your mom say?”
; I shrugged. “What could she say? Anyway, I am convinced she is deliberately refusing to understand what is going on. Like she is still shopping at the food hall in Harrods. And when I called her, she knew I’d be pissed so she went all out and got me Beluga caviar and steamed eggs to appease me.”
“Damn.” Ella used a hand to hide her smile. “Your mom is adorable.”
I looked at Ella in astonishment, but Maddie concurred. “Yeah, she is the best. Every time I go to her store I walk away with something new. I’ve already told her I’m in the market for a new mom whenever she’s tired of you.”
“Well, you can have her,” I replied, frustrated that both my friends could not see how bad our situation was. We were thousands and thousands of pounds in debt, and I would almost certainly have to leave university and get a full-time waitressing job, and Mom would probably have to declare bankruptcy, lose her home, and maybe even move into a Council flat. It would kill her to do that.
“Why?” Ella demanded loyally. “What did she do? I don't get it? She just tried to make you feel better. You’re the one sounding highfalutin now.”
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