Their loss, and she really hoped her gain.
She stepped inside the tiny lobby area, coded in for the elevator.
The commission would be a whopper, and couldn’t come at a better time. She was getting married on Saturday, and thinking of it, she did a little spin into the elevator.
She could close this deal, have all the paperwork in order in a snap, snap, snap. When she and Tony got back from their honeymoon, they’d go to settlement, she’d present the happy new loft owner with a big-ass gift basket full of fancy wines and eats—and most important—collect her big, beautiful commission.
She scanned the little elevator car, nodded approval. Good security, smooth ride, privacy. And the openwork iron doors, she thought when she reached the loft, added that funky retro touch.
They opened soundlessly into a high-ceilinged space with wide, wide windows and a double trio of skylights.
The original wood floors—and how often did you find that—were stylishly distressed. The walls, neutral tones chosen to sell, were fully soundproofed. Kitchen, she mused, wandering through, totally up-to-date. Compact, shining appliances with the fun and funky zebra-striped counters configured for maximum use of space.
The client probably wouldn’t cook for himself. He was from money, and currently trying to make a name for himself as an artist. He’d entertain though, and this was a fine space for that.
Add two bedrooms—one that would stand in very well as studio space with more skylights, more windows—and southern exposure—and what she considered a dream bathroom with jet tub, jet shower, drying tube, smoked glass walls—and he’d never do better.
The place said—no cheered, she corrected—it cheered young, fun, hip, and well-off.
She fluffed her hair, turned to check herself out in the mirror. Appearance mattered. She’d dressed carefully, groomed carefully to suit the client and the location.
He wanted SoHo, arty, a hot spot amid plenty of galleries, restaurants, clubs. And this was it. Karlene figured his real estate agent should reflect the same at a showing. She’d chosen the short black skirt, the high leopard-print heels, and the bold red top with its silver beading rather than a more sedate suit very deliberately.
It transmitted young and frost—which she was, she thought with a laugh—but for some clients you wanted to project maturity, stability, sobriety.
This guy was younger than she was.
Must be nice, she thought as she glanced at her wrist unit, and continued to wander, to fluff some of the wildly patterned pillows on the furniture staged in the living area. Barely twenty-two and able to afford a prime SoHo loft.
She and Tony had a nice place, she reminded herself. And with her eye for decorating and bargains she’d squeezed plenty of juice in it. But one day—and with commissions like this one—they’d be able to afford a big, sunny loft.
She dug into her bag, took out the scent tube she’d chosen. In the kitchen again, she crouched to plug it into the air system. In moments, the loft would smell, subtly, of sugar cookies. A good choice, she felt, for a younger client.
She crossed to the living area’s mood screen, switched it on to a lively, energetic mix of colors and shapes, then ordered the music system on—not too loud.
“Set the tone,” she said, turning in a circle to take it all in, “make it home.”
She considered opening the wall panel to display the security monitors, then decided against it. He was too young to worry overmuch there—and she’d make a point of showing him when they did the tour. Instead she walked to the wide front windows, stood looking out on what she hoped—for herself and her client—would soon be Drew Pittering’s neighborhood.
Like the kitchen, the people walking below were up-to-date. Neo-Bohemian was the tone here, the pace. Artists displaying their wares on the sidewalk, people sipping coffee drinks and having intense conversations outside of cafés and bistros. Too-iced-to-care boutiques squeezed in beside edgy little galleries.
It suited him so well. Commission aside, she worked hard to suit the client to the property, and vice versa. Before she hit thirty, she intended to have her own business. She’d already chosen the name. Urban Views.
Four years left in her goal, she mused. And she just knew she’d make it.
If Drew took the bite here, she’d be on her way.
He was running a little late, she realized. But then, client was king. She took a breath, then pulled out her ’link. She was going to be optimistic, think positive—and make reservations for her and Tony at their favorite restaurant to celebrate the sale.
It wasn’t jinxing it, she told herself. It was anticipating it. Visualizing it. Tonight, they were going to drink champagne and toast the future.
Once done, she ran back through her appointment book to make certain she had the rest of her week—her last week as a single woman—in order. Final fitting, final consult with the caterer and planner, the full day of spa and salon treatments for herself and her wedding party.
Check, check, check.
When her ’link beeped, she checked the display and had one moment of concern. “Please don’t be calling to cancel,” she muttered, then answered with a cheerful tone. “Hello, Drew! I’m standing here looking out your front window. It’s a very frosty view.”
“Sorry, sorry, I’m running late. I got caught up with the work and lost track. But I’m nearly there. Heading down the block now.”