Sales Office
“Stay in the car, I want to look at something,” said Tim as he pulled into a grand entrance and took a sharp right turn onto a no-through road with a roundabout at the end.
He stopped outside a low temporary building covered with generous tropical plants, stepped out of the car and dashed up a few shallow steps, disappearing inside and leaving the engine running.
I swung my legs across the long deep red leather Cadillac seats and looked out of the windows towards nothing but scrubland.
Eventually two figures, deep in conversation, appeared on the steps, and as I leaned forward I saw a tall young woman of about my age. There were a lot of hand gestures.
I was about to open the car door when he glanced in my direction and feverishly beckoned me over.
“Here, come with me. This is my wife, Mel - Mel is in real estate and is Gary’s wife.” She was full of vitality and stared at me with curious big brown eyes.
We went inside a large open planned office, in the middle of which a huge scale model of the entire development was mounted, including golf courses.
Around the room drawings, maps, and large photos displayed the stunning architecture of each of the villages.
This was Florida living; buying a plot off plan in a golfing community that offered a house and a lifestyle between three-hundred thousand and five million dollars.
On top of that was an annual property tax (a percentage of the value of the house), owner dues for upkeep, plus a golf membership (at least $60,000 and a tennis membership about $5,000 per year).
There was a hush; a feeling of reverence, and telephones kept ringing by the reception desk, answered by velvety voices asking if they can help them, with a willingness that the Samaritans lacked.
A small waiting area, with pastel wicker chairs, water, toilets, and awards beautifully displayed in a lit cabinet, had a couple of prospective new clients arrive.
I leaned over the architect’s model but it was too huge to comprehend. Tiny plastic figures depicted dwellers, rows of little Spanish style houses hugged bends in paper roads, and plastic trees divided up the villages.
All around us were glossy photos of azure blue pools, Columbian emerald-green grass, sunsets, and golfers.
“What do you think?” Tim asked, breaking my reverie.
“I don’t know, there’s so much to take in,” I answered, but was he really asking me if we should buy a house, or had he decided to and was asking me which one? Or was that just a question that meant nothing much at all?
Mel returned with sheets of papers and brochures, smiling like she had just cracked a code.
Taking us over to the ‘holding area’, she spread them over a table and started talking floor plans. She turned the plans in all directions, and when one was about to make sense, she pulled another from underneath, placed it on top, and started again.
Tim didn’t give any of these much attention, but asked a lot of other questions about a whole host of things.
I sat in silence and watched them both alternately like I was at an invisible tennis game, waiting for an outcome.
“We hope you have found something of interest for us, I don’t want to waste your time, or mine, you understand. I don’t mean to be difficult, but let’s weed out the unsuitable ones and see what possibilities are left,” Tim was speaking with his fingertips together in an open prayer formation.
He was being really polite because she was pretty but I don’t think she realized that.
“You weren’t too specific on what your budget will be, so I will go across the board until you have a feeling for how much buys what,” she replied. It seemed like a perfectly good idea to me, and she had directed her words at both of us, which I thought was very considerate of her.
She was very tall, with a warm golden complexion, and she could have sold property off her looks alone if the wives resisted strangling her first.
I smiled enigmatically, excusing myself and wandering off to find the ladies’ room. I paused to read names on awards for the last year’s sales person and noticed her name was the top of the list. I knew she would not be sparing any effort to reach that target again this year.
Thirty minutes later, papers, mobile phone, and brochures in hand, we made for her car. Tim and I fought for the back seat; he won and I sat in the front.
Swinging around bends that led to boulevards then tree-lined avenues that opened onto fairways, I looked into the distance towards grand and generous properties that beckoned us closer.
I wanted to see them all- even the ones that weren’t for sale. Every marble entrance, every double-etched glass door, every elegant flight of blush stone steps, enclosed Italian courtyards decorated with hand-painted tiles and fountains.
If she wanted enthusiastic clients I was first line, but I wasn’t sure about the checkbook belonging to man I was with.
It was not all about the owning; it was about the pure pleasure of looking and learning, and my curiosity was overwhelming, but I had to look calm and collected.
We pulled up outside Venus Island and each house looked like a mini palazzo; wrought iron doorways laden with bougainvillea and a three-car garage.
Turning to us, she said, “this house has never been lived in. The guy bought two; he needs to sell one and the price is right. Let’s go straight in.” I didn’t need to be asked twice.
The drive was laid with angled brickwork in a soft blush pink and we entered a portico with a twenty-foot double outdoor set in high walls that lead into a courtyard. A pool and fountain that tumbled down the entire wall of Spanish tiles and it looked like a luxury boutique hotel entrance.
A guesthouse with sliding French doors, a small fridge, and air-conditioning stood next to the entrance gates.
It was adorable and I would have been happy just in there and leave the big house to Tim…most of the time.
“That would be great for the kids,” she said helpfully, and I smiled, envisaging me trotting across a courtyard serving them food.
We entered a thirty-foot double-etched glass front door, and facing us was an expanse of perfect cream marble like an ice cream cake. I stood transfixed, as on the far end of the room were huge glass French doors that lead out directly onto a terrace and the actual golf course. It was stunning!
“Em…” was the only thing I could say, and I fell into line and followed the others so they would not see how I stopped and stared.
Each bedroom suite had French doors that led back onto the pool in the enclosed courtyard.
There was no furniture, and just thick mushroom-colored carpet-like virgin moss underfoot.
The white bathrooms looked efficient and medicinal, with oversized chrome taps and showerheads spread wide like fountains.
An open-plan kitchen topped with a million light bulbs casted shadows that made the cabinets look like wall sculpture. She was trying to impress me with the quality of the appliances, which were the biggest I had ever seen, but I was already impressed.
The pièce de résistance was the master bedroom on the opposite side of the house away from all the other bedrooms, facing the pool and courtyard. With double doors, one would have been enticed to run naked at dawn and splash in the pool in full view of all the guests.
It had two walk-in closets, which in Europe would have been described as individual rooms; a master bathroom filled with a small quarry of more cream marble, double sinks, and a shower in which you could invite guests and entertain.
“No bidet? What a shame,” I said, trying not to be difficult. I had to say something to stifle the screams of delight I felt inside.
“There’s plenty of room to have one put in if you want. Fuck, there’s enough room to put in a hundred damn bidets!” Tim said walking off, pushing his hands down deep into his pockets.
“Well, I told you it was some house. Thank you so much. I will be in touch. Bye for now,” said our glamorous broker, and she left.
We nodded to the owner on the way out. He was the least interesting detail about the whole place - the type of man who could have committed murder and got away with it, because he was so grey and faceless no one would have remembered him enough to identify him.
Non-descript, grey hair, five foot nine inches, pale grey skin, with watery eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses. He stood off in a far corner like a light fitting, hardly spoke, and obviously loved the shade pale mushroom.
This was the smaller of the two houses and his wife only visited twice a year.
He must have done something to earn his money that required great detail and anonymity. In my mind he was spy, and a good one at that.
We walked back out into the hot afternoon sun and the air clawed at our skin.
“Some house right?” Tim said rocking on his heels, hand still deep in his pockets.
“I want to see more things. I’m not really sure, what do you think?” he asked, looking through me.
I hesitated. I wished I had the power to make a decision there and then because the house was breath taking.
Perhaps he could see himself living in such splendor, but did he want to spend all that money to put me in such paradise?
The motto should have been “live in Florida - you already have one foot in heaven.”
But Florida came at a price, financially and emotionally, which forever rose and I was not sure we wanted to pay for it.