Spots of dappled sunlight streamed through the trees and danced and twirled on the pavement as I waited for her outside the building. She was always late, frantically trying to keep up with her life. Not that I would ever want her life, I snorted to myself. Immediately regretting the thought, I focussed on the distant rush of traffic echoing softly through what had to be the last quiet street in Brisbane's central business district.
The occasional fragrance of Lebanese cooking swirled on the cool breeze from the kebab shop across the road. It looked to be a family business. Mum and the daughters were up front, serving customers and seeing to the salads. The men bustled about backstage, the only ones permitted to shave curls of meat from the giant columns of beef, chicken and lamb slowly turning in the vertical rotisseries. There was something cute about it, I mused. The whole family working together, as opposed to the detached isolation of my own profession.
"Feeling hungry?" a smooth, female voice teased over my shoulder.
I spun on my heel to see Bree smiling at me. Beaming, I proffered my hand. "Oh, hello. How are you? It's great to see you again."
"I'm doing good. How about you?" Her handshake was firm, and her smile soft and genuine. She released my grip and swept back the thick tendrils of dark auburn hair which had blown across her face, tucking them behind her ear. Most women in their mid-forties kept their hair short and manageable, but I thought the collarbone length of Bree's suited her nicely.
"Good," I nodded. "Hey, that's a nice blouse. White really suits you." Every other time I had seen her, she had been wearing something dark.
The compliment threw her. Reflexively, she smiled, but then her brow twitched and she cocked her head slightly. She seemed bemused. Bree briefly broke eye contact, and I jumped at the chance to avoid the rapidly escalating awkwardness.
I shot a fleeting look over my shoulder at the kebab shop. "It's no Jamie Oliver," I apologised. "But it's all right for a quick feed if you don't feel like cooking."
"Oh no," she laughed, obviously relieved with the change of subject. "It's actually perfect. Kebabs are the only thing I can get Jessica to eat."
"Well that's lucky. At least I don't have to make up any lies about how it's the best kebab shop in the city. I ushered her over to the building entrance. As I fished around in my coat pocket for the swipe card, I leaned into her conspiratorially and whispered, "Actually, I think they deal drugs out of there."
Bree laughed and slapped my chest with the back of her hand as I held the card to the reader. It chirped three times, causing the lock of the glass door to click open. I stepped through, holding the door open for her to enter the dark, shiny lobby.
"Oh, the mailboxes are inside," Bree noted, studying the bank of stainless steel compartments opposite the two lifts on the left.
"Yeah, the postman actually has his own swipe card to get in. Really cuts down on the junk mail, and more secure if you want to check your mail late at night." I stepped over to the boxes and tapped one on the top row. "This is yours, Number Fifty-Four."
Bree gave me another bemused grin as I strode the three paces over to the lifts and pushed the call button. I always used possessive pronouns, like 'yours', when showing properties. It was an easy subliminal trick to get buyers in the right frame of mind. But she was having none of it.
The stainless steel doors on the right opened with a soft chime. I held my hand protectively across the door to stop it from closing and guided Bree into the lift first. Using the swipe card again to activate the panel, I pressed the button for the ninth floor.
"Will?" Bree breathed, gently touching my forearm as the doors closed. "I'm really sorry about Monday. Jessica had a bad meltdown, and I just couldn't leave her."
"That's okay," I smiled back, feeling my weight press into the floor of the rising elevator. "Half my day is waiting for no shows and cancellations. At least you have a good reason. I can't imagine how hard it is to look after a disabled child."
"Child with a disability," Bree corrected, removing her hand from my arm.
"Huh? What did I say?" I was genuinely confused, but I knew I had said the wrong thing. My cheeks were warming and I could feel my forehead prickle with sweat.
"My daughter isn't disabled," she explained. "My daughter is Jessica. And Jessica has autism."
I frowned at her. I still wasn't getting it, my embarrassment growing. Trying to mask the move by scratching a pretend itch at my temple, I discreetly wiped the sweat from my brow.
"'Disabled' is a label that defines someone." Bree's tone was patient, her brown eyes serious. "'Person with a disability' is a description of something they have. The person comes first, not the disability."
"Oh, okay," I nodded, finally understanding the distinction. The elevator's electronic voice announced our arrival to Level Nine and I gestured for Bree to step out onto the floor. "Well, you've got to give me some credit. At least I didn't say handicapped this time."
Bree spun around on the charcoal carpet in front of the lift, coming to rest with her hands on her hips. Her soft smile told me that she got the joke, but her brows were furrowed in playful admonishment. I shrugged a cheeky grin and beckoned her to follow me down the corridor. She allowed herself a small giggle, then sighed theatrically with a shake of her head as she fell in beside me.
"This is you, at the end," I declared, stopping in front of the last door on the left of the deep purple hallway. Knocking first to check the owner wasn't home, I slipped the key into the stainless steel lock and opened the heavy charcoal door to the apartment.
I strode in and pirouetted on the dark, porcelain tiles, leaning back against the self-closing door to keep it open for her. Bree paced through into the small foyer and tentatively looked around. The charcoal flooring carried through from the corridor, but the off-white walls in the apartment contrasted nicely with the purple outside. The owner had decorated with sleek, trendy furniture, with the odd flourish of vivid primary colour. It really was a nice place.
"So, this one doesn't have all those great storage cupboards by the front door, like that one I showed you last week," I pointed out as I clicked the door shut. I stepped over to the wall opposite. "But there is space here to put your grandmother's side table and that antique mirror you were telling me about."
