Hot Property

by Michele Kleier

  The cab weaves now through the downtown traffic on Park Avenue, which seems even heavier than usual this morning. The cab is still stalled by a red light when Isabel’s BlackBerry buzzes. It’s Alex Fein, an entitled, highly demanding, and frequently annoying client to whom she has shown no fewer than thirty-two apartments in the last three months. Alex is calling to say that she’s so sorry to have to report this to Isabel, but she has—guess what!—found the absolutely perfect Fifth Avenue gem, with everything she has been dying for: the perfect layout, wood-burning fireplace, southern exposures, three full baths, enormous chef’s kitchen, fully planted terrace facing Central Park. This would be great news if not for the infuriating fact that Alex, sneaky, treacherous Alex, bought this apartment direct, having been seated at the Food Allergy Initiative charity luncheon at Cipriani (much to Isabel’s misfortune) next to the exclusive broker, who had yet to put it on the market and, after hearing Alex whine during the gazpacho soup and then most of the striped sea bass about her apartment woes, told Alex she must see her new listing. A disaster, Isabel thinks—and clicks off, furiously.

  She seethes, recalling how Alex rejected apartment after apartment that Isabel showed her. “The hallway’s too short,” she complained about one, and “The lobby looks a little vulgar, don’t you think?” she asked of another. “I’d have to use the service elevator if I had my dog with me?” (The one point Isabel herself agreed with—she, along with everyone else in her family, would never live in a building like that.) “What are these people thinking?” Alex griped about another co-op, stamping her foot (an Alex trademark). That was the way with Alex: in and out of taxi after taxi, apartment after apartment, and each time she managed to find some minute something or other to criticize—and to keep her from saying that all-important yes. (Once, after Isabel brought her to 32 East 64th Street, the doorman had taken Isabel aside and whispered, “She’ll never get past the co-op board—those shoes, that handbag, that screechy voice!”) “Nothing is good enough for her,” Isabel told her mother. But she kept searching, taking Alex to apartment after apartment, saying, “This one has the most perfect layout, and every major room faces Park,” or “This one needs a gut but has the best terraces in the world.” Only to learn today that Alex—who routinely rejected apartments because she didn’t like the pattern of herringbone floor in the dining room—“No!” she’d yell in her clipped, whiny voice—or the height of the towel bars in the master bath— “No,” everywhere they went, “No!”—has bought, in what seems like a split second, without her. Of course this is nothing short of maddening!

  Well, she may be having a rotten day so far, but at least she knows she looks good. Although she is 5’3”, Isabel has the presence of someone considerably taller. In part this is because she’s always in heels—Manolos, Choos, and Louboutins stock her closet—but also because of her outsize personality: she’s quick-thinking, quick-talking, and filled with a bubbly charm that her clients, friends, and family all adore. Her chin-length blond hair frames her attractive face, notable for her green-blue eyes and great smile. A few freckles ornament her cheeks and nose; although she tries to cover them with foundation and blush, her boyfriend finds them endearing. Her best friend from college, Nancy Scarlata, has always told her that she looks like Reese Witherspoon, and so many other people have echoed the observation that Isabel has begun to think perhaps it’s true.

  Isabel is thin and in perfect shape too, like her sister, despite the fact that the Chase sisters have never gone to a gym—their exercise comes from showing apartments all day long in high heels, and when they have time, speed walks and runs around the Central Park Reservoir. Her style at the office or out with clients is classic—she’s partial to Ralph Lauren everything, like his cashmeres in gumball colors, silk shirts, and perfectly cut black pants or pencil skirts in black or dark gray. Her mother taught her and her sister that jeans are for weekends only, and by jeans she means slim-fit, gorgeous ones. Today she’s wearing a kicky, pleated plaid skirt from Ralph Lauren, a clingy silk T-shirt, and lots of jewelry: three tinkling antique charm bracelets, a cluster of Chanel gold chains around her neck, including the Chase favorite, the Chicklet crystals, and her gold monogram ring—Tom gave each girl one on their fifteenth birthday and they never take them off. Like all the women in her family, she’s obsessed with jewelry, and is especially in love with all the vintage pieces that she, Kate, and her mother share.

  “Right here, please,” she tells the cabdriver, pointing to the yellow brick and limestone Art Deco building at 50 East 77th Street. Isabel hands the driver the money for the fare, plus a generous tip. He seems pleasantly surprised, and wishes her a “really, really nice day,” which is ironic because at only five minutes to ten, so much has gone wrong already. “You’re welcome,” she says to the driver, a slender man from somewhere in South Asia with the thin mustache of a teenager. He actually hops out and opens the door for her.

  She steps into the spacious lobby of the Carlyle House. Her clients, the Bennetts, haven’t arrived yet; good. She nods to the doorman, who knows her by now because she has sold and shown in the building many times, and takes a moment to primp in front of the large, gold-framed mirror. This is a fabulous building, she reminds herself; that despicable Alex Fein would have been lucky to get into a building like this, but Alex Fein is in the past. Isabel wills herself to stop thinking about her. The apartment she is about to show—huge master, three additional bedrooms, four and a half baths, a pair of dishwashers (one full-size, the other mini, holding just a handful of plates, glasses, and silverware) in the recently renovated kitchen—is fabulous, a fourteenth-floor jewel. Her phone buzzes, and she flips it open. “Hi Mom,” she says. “No, not yet. They should be here any second.” At the far end of the lobby, she sees Tara Chandler, the broker representing the seller, and she waves to her.

  Tara is standing right by the door that leads into the Carlyle Hotel, which is adjacent to the residence. Isabel knows that owners here have easy access to the hotel lobby and are allowed to use the hotel’s many amenities, such as the bar (with its wonderful mural by Ludwig Bemelmans), café, restaurant, lounge, Sense Spa, and concierge. Classic New York.

  Just then, the lobby door opens again, and there is tall, scrawny Lawrence Bennett and his short, exceedingly pregnant-looking wife, Kimby, trailing behind, clutching the small hands of their four-year-old twins, Skylar and Carlin. The little girls, dressed in matching pink-and-green floral smocked dresses and pink suede Mary Janes, remind Isabel of the way her mother used to dress her and Kate—always alike, whether in white dresses with smocking, or navy blue rompers with candy-apple-red Mary Janes and white tights, wheeling identical doll strollers, the girls always looking perfect and always identical.

  “Gotta go, speak to you later,” Isabel tells her mother, and moves toward Kimby, who is, in fact, not that far along in the pregnancy. But since she is having twins, she looks as if she might be ready to give birth next week. Lawrence, Isabel knows, is a newly anointed partner at a top law firm.

  “Lawrence!” says Isabel, waving hello. She gives Kimby a quick peck on the cheek, and from her bag, she pulls out a pair of lollipops she took from Kate’s jar and offers them to the twins.

  “Gimme!” Skylar screams.

  Kimby hesitates for a second before nodding. “Go ahead,” she tells her daughters, and they both begin to pluck at the wrappers with eager fingers. “You’re always so thoughtful,” Kimby says to Isabel. “Let’s hope all that sugar keeps them occupied through at least the kitchen and dining room.”

  Isabel introduces Tara Chandler to the Bennetts as they all get into the elevator to go to the fourteenth floor. In truth, it’s only the thirteenth, but so many people are superstitious about living on the thirteenth floor that in this particular building, like many others, the architect eliminated it.

  Some clients are even particular about that—they refuse to live on a floor that’s called fourteen but is actually t
hirteen. Then of course there are clients who want to live on a high floor, because they feel that the simple gesture of pressing the top button in the elevator makes them feel “above” the rest of the building. Others only like low floors just in case they need a quick escape. Her client Sabrina Morningstar, who lived on the twentieth floor at 1120 Park and during the blackout a few summers ago had to walk down the twenty long flights with a six-month-old, a three-year-old, and a Havanese puppy, vowed never again to live above nine, despite the fact that her husband loved their reservoir view. Fortunately for Isabel, the Bennetts are not the least bit picky about the floor; they seem to have no feelings about the subject at all. The impending birth of a second set of twins makes them much more concerned about the size and number of bedrooms than anything else.

  “I think you’ll love this apartment,” Isabel says confidently as they step out of the elevator that opens directly in front of 14B, the only apartment on the floor—one apartment per floor being a major status symbol in New York City. “Just wait until you see the kitchen. It’s huuuge! Your housekeeper could cook for twelve children in there.”

  “We’re stopping after four.” Lawrence laughs. “Even if they are cheaper by the dozen.”

  Isabel laughs, more at his attempt at humor than because it’s actually funny.

  Tara slips the key into the lock, steps into the apartment, and then stands back, waiting for the magnificent light to take effect on the Bennetts. Instead, they are distracted by the sound of a loud yawn and feet shuffling along the herringbone floors. “Uh-oh,” Tara says. She’s warned Isabel that she is dealing with an extremely difficult seller, Drew Green, and that try as she might, she can’t get him to leave during showings. And now Drew himself, a thirty-eight-year-old wreck, is stepping into the entrance gallery.

  “Hey, ladies,” he says. He nods in the direction of the Bennetts, who seem a bit surprised. And why shouldn’t they be? They didn’t expect Drew—tangled brown hair, sleepy brown eyes, wearing a noticeably ratty white terry-cloth bathrobe and battered slippers, and showing off a two-day growth on his chin and cheeks—to be there. Sellers are not expected to be home during a showing, let alone shuffling around like they just got out of a three-day bender in bed.

  Tara says to Drew, “Aren’t you supposed to be at work . . . or something?”

  “Me?” He glances down at his coffee-stained robe, as if surprised to find himself wearing it. “I’ve just been glued to the computer,” he explains. “Haven’t had a chance to get dressed yet.”

  “Listen, Drew,” Tara says. She’s eyeing him worriedly now. “I need you to please accommodate us by leaving—we won’t be more than twenty minutes, okay?”

  “Damn straight he needs to leave,” Lawrence says, and Isabel thinks how surprising it is that a partner at a distinguished white-shoe law firm like Lawrence would speak like this. Then, to Drew, he says, “Did you notice that my wife is pregnant? Well, she happens to be pregnant with twins, and time is of the essence here. It was hard enough to set up this appointment—we need to see the apartment today. As planned.” He looks over at Tara, who takes Drew aside and says quietly, “Drew, you’ve got to get out of here. Right away. Please!”

  “Okay,” Drew says. And then, to the Bennetts, “Take a look around. Morning’s the best time, anyway. By the afternoon, all that light turns the place into a sauna.”

  When it comes to reining in this reluctant seller, Tara is apparently useless, Isabel thinks. Drew continues, “And the new AC? It does work like a charm.” Drew looks over at Lawrence. “But it takes a lot of juice. The electric bills? Through the roof! Oh, and by the way, the limestone floor in the kitchen is a disaster—you accidentally spill something like, let’s say, balsamic vinegar on it, and it stays etched in the stone forever. That damn floor is impossible to keep clean, and I mean impossible.”

  Isabel is horrified, and she can tell Tara is too, though Tara can’t seem to do anything other than trail behind them like an eager but ineffectual puppy. Drew is clearly trying to ruin this deal, and Isabel knows why, too—he does not, it appears, want to sell his late mother’s apartment; he’s made that completely obvious today. It’s his two brothers who are so eager to sell, and since Drew can’t buy them out, he’s forced to go along with the family decision, Tara told her. Isabel gives him a cool, appraising look.

  “Why don’t you all go ahead into the kitchen?” she tells the Bennetts. “Tara and I just need to discuss something with Drew.”

  “I wanna go to the park,” Carlin whines as the Bennetts start walking. “This is a stupid apartment!” She makes a loud, smacking sound with her lollipop, as if for emphasis. A drop of blue-tinged saliva trails from the corner of her mouth.

  “You’re a stupid idiot,” her twin tells her matter-of-factly.

  Isabel keeps her face in its frozen smile until she’s alone with Tara and Drew. Then she turns to Tara. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea if Drew left the apartment now?” she says sweetly. And then to Drew, “The damage is already done, so I think you can go now.”

  “Drew, you did say you’d be out of here first thing this morning,” Tara reminds him; she seems to be drawing strength from Isabel’s display of self-confidence.

  “Really?” Drew says serenely. “Sorry. I must have forgotten.” He rubs a hand, almost experimentally, over his unshaven face. “And anyway, what’s the big fucking deal? I mean, you can still show the place. It’s certainly clean enough.”

  “Drew, your presence here is making the clients uncomfortable,” Tara says. When Drew doesn’t reply, she adds, “Do your brothers know you’re here? Because we both know how hot they are to sell this place. Maybe I should give them a call.” She takes out her phone to show she means business.

  “No no, don’t bother them at work,” Drew says quietly. One brother is a venture capitalist, the other a cardiologist; Isabel knows from Tara that Drew, who is a freelance photographer, is a little intimidated by both of them. “Fine, I guess I’ll get dressed and take a walk around the block or something,” he says grudgingly, tightening the belt on his bathrobe and loping off down the hall.

  Tara snaps her phone shut.

  “That was perfect,” Isabel says softly as Drew walks off.

  Then she and Tara walk into the kitchen, where the Bennetts are opening cabinets and remarking how nice two dishwashers would be; one could be devoted to sterilizing the new babies’ bottles.

  “So sorry again about that incident,” Tara says, but the Bennetts don’t look up.

  “Nice kitchen,” Lawrence says.

  “Exactly as we would do one,” Kimby adds.

  “It is pretty perfect,” Isabel says.

  They spend the next few minutes in the square dining room and the entertaining space.

  Drew is still banging around in one of the bedrooms. Carlin is chasing Skylar down the hall now, and Kimby awkwardly lumbers after them.

  “Cut it out, girls!” she calls.

  “Ow!” Carlin cries. She’s collided with Drew, who has just emerged from one of the bedrooms. At least he’s dressed—thankfully—in a pair of faded jeans and an equally faded green T-shirt.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” Drew says, kneeling down to Carlin’s level. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, honey.”

  Carlin looks at him for a long moment and then suddenly starts to wail. “Ow, ow, OW!” Alarmed, Drew vanishes down the hallway.

  “It’s okay, baby,” says Kimby. The two Bennetts murmur consoling words to Carlin while Skylar examines her tiny nails.

  They hear the door close as Drew finally exits the apartment. Isabel hears Tara sigh. “Okay, finally he’s gone! Let’s go see the master suite—the bedroom wing is totally private, which is nice,” she tells the Bennetts.

  “Yes, it’s amazing,” Tara adds.

  And indeed the room is vast, with a corner exposure, and is flooded with light. Although
not renovated as recently as the kitchen, it’s still exquisitely done, with creamy vanilla Venetian plaster walls, herringbone floors covered predominantly by a matching vanilla Stark carpet, all original moldings. Most of Drew’s mother’s furniture is still here, including a king-size bed with a tufted headboard and a down quilt covered by a raw silk duvet the color of the sea. Arranged at the center of the bed is a needlepoint pillow with the words “The Queen Sleeps Here” stitched in scarlet.

  “Now let’s go see the master bath,” Isabel says. “All new, huge Infinity tub, and separate shower. All Cararra marble. Don’t you love it?” She lets Lawrence enter first, and then she follows. Immediately, her nose wrinkles: the toilet, wide open and gaping, makes it abundantly clear that it has been used this morning—several times, by the look of it.

  “Oh, gross!” Kimby says.

  “Give me a fucking break,” Lawrence says.

  Tara flushes the toilet before following them out of the room.

  “Don’t even bother,” Lawrence says.

  “Drew obviously doesn’t want us here,” Kimby says.

  “You think?” her husband says.

  “I’m so sorry,” Isabel says again, and then explains, “This is an estate sale, and sometimes there are major disagreements as to the sale—this is clearly one of them.”

  “Look, I could care less about that guy,” Lawrence says. “He’s not coming with the apartment, and you can be sure he won’t be the one we would be negotiating with. I just don’t care for people who totally waste my time like that.”