“Mr. Thompson? Are you home? Hello? Mr. Thompson, it’s Alison Campbell. Hello?”
Alison Campbell, real estate agent to the extraordinary, lifetime member of the Million Dollar Club, let herself into the condo of Peter Thompson, the writer to whom she had made her latest sale. She had knocked and then used the key she had come to deliver. Not that this was common practice, mind you. She had called first and he had told her to come around after work and let her self in if he wasn’t at home. He had a few errands to run, he explained, and would return before too long.
Alison released a big sigh and stepped through the door. What was she doing here? She could have very easily mailed the key to him. It wasn’t like she didn’t know the address. But for some reason, she felt the need to see him again.
And she wasn’t sure why. Was it because he was a writer, a profession she herself had aspired for in her younger days? Was it because he was young, 26 if she remembered correctly? What was it her daughter called men who were so good looking? Eye candy?
“Yes”, Alison muttered to herself, “look but don’t touch.”
Alison walked through the condo’s living room, spacious and absent of furniture, and into the kitchen. She planned on placing the gift basket she had brought into the refrigerator. Another one of her hobbies (or wastes of time, he ex-husband had said) was gourmet cooking and basket making. She had included a variety of foods for Peter Thompson, marinated shrimp, coriander chicken, black bean salsa, pasta salad and a bottle of chardonnay. She was attempting to impress the man for future sales, she reassured herself.
Alison opened the refrigerator; it was empty except for a few bottles of wine and a six-pack of beer. “This man’s going to need more than what’s in this basket” she said to herself. Turning from the kitchen, Alison noticed a note on the counter. It read:
Alison,
Back in 30 minutes. Make yourself at home. Open a bottle of wine.
Peter
Well, thought Alison, a glass of wine would be nice, and she wasn’t in any hurry. Ever since her daughter started driving, she was never at home. And with her son at college, it wasn’t like there was a man waiting for her anywhere. Alison opened a bottle of white zinfandel, poured a glass (a paper cup, actually), and decided to look over the condo’s layout. She was going to have to move soon, as the house was being sold as part of the divorce settlement. These condo’s, more like lofts actually, were a bit expensive, but she did have an image to uphold.
Alison’s first stop was the bathroom. She studied her reflection in the lighted mirror. Not bad for almost 40; large breasts, curvy hips, a bit too much padding here and there but what did you expect after two kids? And why had Eric left her for that bimbo? Oh yes, she remembered his words clearly; “it’s become old hat. There’s nothing new anymore and you make me feel old”. Well, he was 50; and at 11 years his junior, she had made him feel young once. Weren’t they supposed to grow old gracefully, together? Apparently not.
Alison sighed again and removed her jacket. She smoothed down her powder blue silk shirt, allowing her hands to linger at her breasts, posing for herself (who else was there?) in the mirror. Her long, curly blonde hair was pulled back loosely. She removed the combs and allowed her tresses to cascade across her shoulders. She turned her head over, fluffing her hair as she went. Maybe a little lip-gloss? She retrieved her purse from the kitchen and returned to freshen her makeup. Alison paused. What was she doing? Setting a trap? “As if.” she said aloud.
The first glass of wine was gone. Alison went back for another and decided to look through the rest of the condo. Off the living room and already established was an office. A desk littered with papers, a computer, a bookcase, all were already in place. In the few days Peter Thompson had inhabited his new home, it was clear that this was his personal space and where he spent most of his time. Alison backed from the room, feeling like an intruder in a sanctified space.
“What the hell”, she thought, “ I might as well take the grand tour.” She passed through the kitchen, refilling her cup, and made her way to the bedrooms.
The guest room was empty of furnishing. The master bedroom didn’t fare much better. There was a mattress (on the floor), an end table and nothing else. “Well” said Alison, a bit tipsy at this point, “Mr. Thompson needs an interior decorator”.
“Actually, I do”.
