Page 143 of The Black Trilogy

Three interviewees came and went, and as I spoke to the fourth applicant, I rolled up the sheaf of résumés I’d been given, ready to shove them up the recruiter’s backside. The grumpy old battleaxe in front of me interpreted “efficient” as “I will arrange your life in the manner I see fit and woe betide if you don’t agree with me.” By the time the fifth prospect came in, a nervous girl for whom experience translated as having babysat for her cousin’s children when she was sixteen, I’d resorted to plotting murder.

One person left to see, and I didn’t have high hopes. Perhaps I could ask Nate to build me a robot?

I’d written half a snotty email to the agency when Bradley walked in, or should I say bounced? His pink T-shirt and artfully shredded jeans weren’t typical interview attire, but after we’d chatted for twenty minutes about everything from the new model Corvette to the dire state of the Billboard 100, I figured I should ask some of the questions on my list.

At least, if I could get a word in edgeways.

“So what made you apply for the position?”

“Huh? What position?”

“The personal assistant position? The one this interview is for.”

“Interview? I’m not here for an interview. I already have a job as a stylist.” He indicated his own clothes as an example, and I had to admit the look worked for him. “I just want to rent an apartment. The receptionist said the realtor’s temporary office was the third door on the right.”

Well, at least Bradley could count. Shame the receptionist couldn’t. This was what happened when staff got hired for the size of their chest rather than the size of their brain.

“Sorry, but I’m not the realtor.”

“I wondered where the brochures were.”

I may have lacked brochures, but I did have a few empty apartments. By that point, my real estate portfolio was coming along nicely.

“What kind of place are you looking for?”

“Somewhere I can move into quickly.”

“Hmm… I may be able to help.”

As we walked around the corner to a property I owned, Bradley told me about his flooded home. “So, the guy upstairs left a tap running, the sink blocked, and the ceiling fell down. And the landlord’s being soooo awkward. He thinks it’s fine for the place to stay mushy and mouldy until he gets around to fixing it.”

“Sounds like a real gem.”

“That’s only the half of it. The lady next door has a hearing problem and she plays her stereo loud enough to wake the dead.” He shuddered. “And she only listens to Irish folk music.”

Ouch.

I picked up the spare key from the concierge and showed Bradley around a nice place on the second floor. I’d bought the entire complex for a steal two years earlier from a guy with a gambling problem.

“What do you think?” I asked once he’d seen all the rooms.

Bradley looked out the window at the communal swimming pool. “I’m not sure it’s in my budget.”

“We can sort something out. Apart from that?”

“It’s fabulous. So much nicer than my place.”

“And mine.”

“You have a nasty landlord too?”

“No, I have a building site. Right now, I’ve got no doors or windows, all the walls are bare plaster, and carpets are a distant dream. I don’t know where to start.”

So far, I’d only ordered the gym equipment.

“With decorating? Ooh, I love decorating! You need to get paint samples and decide on a colour theme for each room. Once you’ve done that, you can start with fabric swatches for the upholstery and then comes the fun part.”

“Sleeping?”

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