“Mini quiche?”
Derek took the pastry from the tray and shoved it in his mouth. “Thanks.”
The girl holding the serving platter smiled up at him. “Another?”
“Why not?” Derek took a second quiche. “Cheers.”
The girl gave him a slow smile. “I’ll be back soon.”
Derek watched her walk away, silver tray aloft. Decent ass. Bringing him food. He could probably ask her out. His stomach turned over at the thought. He was too hungover. Too hungover and too aware of the three messages Alannah had sent him telling him he was a cunt.
A guy passed with a tray of chicken skewers and Derek took three. Maggie would be pissed, but she wasn’t here. Trays of orange juice in champagne glasses were. Derek took one and drank deeply. The free food and drink was probably an attempt to put bidders in a better mood. It wasn’t working. Of the crowd of people crammed into the backyard of Terrace Avenue, he was the only one eating. Married couples pecked around anxiously, some of them so wound up they looked green.
Still, if they were at the auction, they had money, so there was no sense feeling bad for them. The sugar in the juice was perking him up. He ditched his empty glass and grabbed a fresh one.
The corner of the yard was full of suits. Property developers, he’d bet. They’d buy the house for the land, bulldoze the redbrick property, and throw up a dozen shitty townhouses. One of the suits caught his eye, his weasel face lighting up with recognition. Derek pulled out his phone. Howard might want him to ‘flex a bit of star power’ but he was in no mood to talk, least of all to property developers.
The auctioneer was bouncing around the backyard like a kid on Christmas. He was big and round and stank of cologne and his suit was shinier than any of the developers’.
“Oh, it’s gonna go for over two million,” he boomed to one of the green-looking couples. “Don’t let that put you off, though. It’s a fabulous house. You’d bloody kill yourself for not putting up the money now, wouldn’t you?”
Derek choked on his chicken skewer. Around the yard, heads turned, and the auctioneer gave a loud cackle. “Sorry, folks, I didn’t mean it like that.” He nudged the husband in the ribs. “You get what I mean, though? You’d be devastated if you didn’t give it your all. Put it all on the table, folks. That’s my advice.”
Derek turned away. This was hell. He’d give, maybe not a million, but at least ten grand to go home and get back into bed. But he wasn’t leaving without 101 Terrace Avenue.
When he’d told Howard he wanted a place, he wasn’t looking for perfect—just somewhere to live. But the minute he’d seen Terrace Avenue, everything changed. The house itself was fucked— battered floors, creaky staircases, and barely functional bathrooms. But it had great bones and a massive backyard. And best of all, it was in the heart of Fitzroy, less than fifty feet from Bright Stadium, home of the Hammerhead Sharks. If he bought Terrace Avenue, his new home would be right beside his old home for the rest of his life.
“Two minutes,” the auctioneer bellowed from the back steps. “Two minutes ‘till auction, people.”
Everyone turned to face the doorway, tossing their heads and stomping their feet like restless cows. The girl with the quiche plate returned and Derek took another three. “Cheers.”
“Excited for the auction?”
“Not as much as the free food.”
She laughed too long and hard. “That’s so funny. You’re Derek Hardiman, yeah?”
He smiled, aware the suits were watching. Howard was an idiot. How the fuck was this supposed to help him get a house? “Uh, yeah. I am.”
“That’s so cool. Could I maybe give you my number after the auction?”
Derek’s brain stalled. “Ah, sure.”
“Great! Be back soon.” The cute server ducked away.
He shouldn’t have done that. He didn’t want to go out with some girl he met at a property auction, and up close she had that ‘lie back and take it for clout’ vibe. Derek watched her offer a quiche to the only other single guy he could see.
“No, thank you,” the man said, sounding bored. He had an accent. An American, Derek guessed. The guy stood straight as a plank, hands clasped behind his back like he was the president or something.
“One minute,” the auctioneer shouted.
On instinct Derek swallowed, shifting his shoulders as though he was about to run onto the field.
Okay, Bloke, get in there. Bid high. Win the house. Tell the server I forgot about my girlfriend. Find someone married who likes getting choked. Easy.
He glanced up at the brick house. If he fixed it up, it would look like his mates’ places when he first came to Melbourne for footy. Back in the days when it blew his mind that you could live near a stadium. Back when his whole life had been Albury and football and Mara.
Stop it. Not today.
But he could already see her, sitting in the wildlife reserve with pink and purple flowers in her hair.
Mara. Mah-rah. Mara Temple. The first girl who’d ever made his heart stop. She loved him like her whole world would collapse if she didn’t. She ground her sweet, unshaven cunt against his mouth and begged, screamed, for more. His cock jerked against his leg. Ten years and she was still getting him hard in public. Still sending him searching for her in clubs. When was he ever going to be done?
“Alright, everyone. Gather round! Gather round!” The auctioneer waved his hand at the house behind him. “I’m Matthew Pane, and on behalf of everyone at Pane Real Estate, I’d like to thank you all for coming here today. Bidding’s about to start. So, get your pointing fingers ready because it’s gonna be—”
There was a small crunch. Derek craned his neck and saw Matthew Pane from Pane Real Estate had stepped on a lawn light embedded in the grass. Pane gave a loud, cackling laugh. “Sorry about the property damage, folks! I’ll pay to replace that, of course. Or I’ll take it off the house price, eh? Eh?”
Derek saw a muscle jumping in the American’s jaw and his appreciation of him rose.
“Anyway, what was I doing? Running an auction, that’s right!” Pane grinned around at them. “One small announcement before we get started, and don’t look so grim because it’s a bit of a fun one—”
The auctioneer’s gaze searched the crowd, locking in on him like a heat-seeking missile.
“—we have a celebrity in our midst today! Derek Hardiman of the Hammerhead Sharks!”
Derek tried to smile as everyone except the American turned and applauded. He fought the urge to pull out his phone and stare at it until everyone looked away.
“Jesus,” a husband muttered. “How are we gonna outbid Derek Hardiman?”
The guy threw him a disgusted look as he and his wife pushed their way toward the back gate. There was a pause and two other couples followed.
“Oh, don’t be like that, folks!” the auctioneer called. “Stay and have a play!”
Derek looked away. This was so fucking gross. The showmanship, the competitiveness. He wished he could have made a private offer, wished it wasn’t so fucking hard to buy a house. The American had turned away slightly. Derek felt like he’d failed him. It had been the two of them, normal humans here to bid on a house, and now the auctioneer had outed him.
Matthew Pane rubbed his palms together, a move so cheesy Derek would have laughed if it had been on TV.
“Alright, folks, without further ado, I’d like to open the bidding on this lovely house at eight hundred thousand.”
And they were off, bids flying every ten seconds. Eight hundred and fifty thousand, nine hundred thousand…
“One million!” Pane bellowed. “Can I see a million one?”
Derek held off. He had orders from Howard to wait until the bidding hit two million.
“The house’s a piece of shit, and the land block’s awkward,” he’d said. “Developers can’t do much with it. I’d be surprised if it goes for over two mill. Hold your horses. Let the amateurs get out of the way before you jump in.”
He didn’t have to wait long. In five minutes, most of the couples had bowed out, ducking away with phones pressed to their ears, as though they’d suddenly remembered an appointment.
“Two million!” the auctioneer cried, his cheeks red with excitement. “Can I see two million one?”
There was a pause. His stomach churning, Derek raised his finger. The auctioneer spotted him at once. “Mr Hardiman has entered the fray! That’s two-one! Can I see two-two? Two million and two hundred thousand?”
There was a loaded silence. Derek felt his heart inflate.
“Can I see two-two?” the auctioneer pleaded. “Anyone? Mr Thompson?”
The developer shook his overly-gelled head. Derek held his breath. He was close—he might even have it. Then slowly, almost lazily, the American raised his hand.
Derek felt betrayed.
“Two million and two,” the auctioneer said gleefully.
And to his dismay, they were off again, three of the developers jumping back in to bid along with two remaining couples.
Two million and eight hundred thousand.
Two million and nine hundred.
He wasn’t the only one who’d been holding his cards to his chest. Derek went back to waiting, determined not to spike the price, but it didn’t seem to matter. Whenever bidding stalled, the American raised his hand. The same subtle motion over and over, as though he had all the time and cash in the world.
When the price hit three million, both couples backed down. The women were in tears and one of the husbands was muttering death threats. The developers huddled together like scared penguins. Derek guessed they weren’t expecting the bidding to go this high. But he could still afford it. It would be tight, but for his dream house, he could swing it.
“Three million and one?” the auctioneer demanded, raising his arms like a gladiator. “Three point one, ladies and gentlemen?”
The American raised his hand.
“Come off it,” hissed one of the suits.
“Three million, two hundred,” crowed the auctioneer. “Three million and three?”
There was a long, painful pause. Derek pictured his kids, dark-haired and blurry-faced, running out the door and seeing crowds flocking to Bright Stadium on game day. He put his hand in the air.
“Incredible!” the auctioneer bellowed. “Just incredible! Derek Hardiman has come back in for the win. Can I see three point four? Can I see it?”
One of the developers raised a nervous hand and Derek cursed his parents.
“Three million and four hundred thousand,” the auctioneer hollered. “Who’ll see fifty k more? Who will get this house!?”
There was a beat and the American raised his hand. Derek glared at him. He was younger than he’d thought. Mid-thirties, max. His expression was neutral, but Derek could tell he was enjoying himself. His own guts were like lead. He wasn’t out of the running, but Howard would be pissed if he spent three mill on a house that needed at least half that in renovations.
A developer bid three million, four hundred and fifty thousand and the American swiftly raised his hand.
The developer swore. “It’s not worth that! The Yankee’s a fucking scalper.”
He wasn’t bothering to keep his voice down, but the American didn’t so much as blink. As much as he was growing to hate him and sincerely wish he was dead, Derek had to respect his form.
The auctioneer called for three point five million and Derek raised his hand one last time. He’d be fucked. His accountant would kill him, Howard would kill him, he’d have to spend all summer doing any and every ad Howard could get him, but it would be worth—
The American flicked his fingers in the air and Derek’s heart compacted like a dying star. He wasn’t getting the house. He was never getting the house. The American would keep bidding until all of them lay in the dust. He folded his hands under his pits as the auctioneer cried that they were almost at four million.
“Come on!” he begged like a fan screaming for a winning goal. “COME ON!”
But there were no more bids. The American had won.
Derek and the other developers wandered away bitterly. Three million and six hundred thousand for a biggish house in the northern suburbs. What a fucking world.
“Hey.” It was the server girl. “Here’s my number.”
She handed him a slip of paper and Derek shoved it in his jean pocket.
“You’ll message me, right? Or can I have your number?”
“Ah, sorry. I don’t give that out.”
He expected her to say ‘well, won’t I have it if you message me?’, but she just gave him a sneaky smile. “I’m off work now. Do you want to go somewhere?”
He considered it. A fuck might numb the misery of losing his dream home. Then he spotted the American grinning at him. The guy was going to tell someone this story, and not in a good way. Derek gritted his teeth. “Sorry, I’m pretty busy. I’ll uh, message you later?”
The server rolled her eyes and strode away.
Derek followed the developers scurrying to their BMWs, but instead of getting into his Mercedes G-Class, he leaned up against a telephone pole. The American might be a while, but he was going to talk to him.
It was half an hour before he appeared. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a lightness to his step. A lightness that faded the second he spotted him. Derek pushed off the telephone pole. “Hey. I’m Derek Hardiman.”
“Yes, I heard.” The American walked to a no-nonsense Toyota Yaris, pulling out his keys.
Derek followed, his arms loose so The American wouldn’t misread the situation. “You just bought that place outright, yeah?”
The American flicked his gaze over him like he was a dog barking too loud. “I did.”
“For someone? Like a company?”
He glanced at his watch. “What do you want?”
Derek frowned. Crazy as it sounded, he wasn’t used to being treated like this. “Look, I normally wouldn’t do this, but I assume you’re working for someone, and I wanted to let you know, this is the perfect house for me. Like…the only place I want.”
The American’s face was blank. Worse than blank, Derek sensed amusement dangling just out of sight.
“What are you suggesting?” he asked.
“I dunno,” Derek said, feeling stupid. “Maybe we can arrange something?”
“That’s not possible.”
“So, you’re gonna knock down the place? Build a bunch of shitty townhouses for rich dickheads to invest in?”
The American’s smile was cold. “Mr Hardiman, you have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
The line should have been laughable, but something in the American’s delivery meant it wasn’t. He flashed him a thin smile and slid inside his sensible, mid-priced car without another word. Derek watched him drive away, wanting to smash his fist through the rear window. The Yaris turned a corner and was out of sight. He pulled out his phone and called Howard.
“How’d you go, boyo?”
“I got shoved on my ass. The place went for three point six million.”
“What?!”
“It was some American guy and—”
There was a sound like a fist on wood. “It’s that fucking communist company! It’s them!”
“Huh?”
“This American—was he tall? Thin?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s the one. He works for this not-for-profit—they’re buying up places all over Melbourne.”
“What?”
“Look, it’s too fucking hard to explain over the phone. You leave this with me.”
Derek rubbed his brow. “Fine. But what shou—”
“Call the investment group and see if they can line up more open houses. And get back to your place. You’ve got that call with Adidas at eleven, remember?”
“Yeah, but…”
Howard hung up.
“Fuckwit!”
What the hell was Howard on about? What communist company? And how could communists afford to buy a three-million-dollar house in Fitzroy? He glanced back at 101 Terrace Avenue and an idea occurred to him.
He strolled into the property trying to look like he’d forgotten his phone. The server girl’s eyes lit up when she saw him and Derek avoided her gaze as he approached the auctioneer. “Hey, mate. How are you?”
The guy’s cheeks were still beet-red from shouting. “Good, Derek. Sorry today wasn’t your day.”
As long as he lived, Derek would never get used to strangers calling him by his first name. “No problem. Hey, I was wondering—who was the guy who bought the place?”
The auctioneer cast a theatrical look around the empty garden. “Not trying to buy the place out from under me, are you?”
“Nah, of course not. We were chatting before, and he told me he works for a not-for-profit. I didn’t catch his number and I’m hoping to make a donation.”
“Oh well, that’s no problem!”
Derek held his breath as the auctioneer scribbled on a slip of paper and handed it over. “Now, if anyone asks…”
“Nothing to do with you,” Derek agreed. He looked at the paper.
Chase Hansen,
Housing For All
0413 453 234
Grinning, he jogged back to his G-wagon. Now he was getting somewhere.