The best thing about growing up in chaos is that one learns how to think on one’s feet; the value of such an education can’t be underestimated. It can be called on in an infinite number of disasters, crises, and mind-bending dilemmas that for the average person would land them in an insane asylum. Crises — what’s the big deal? I could fix head-spinning calamities with two hands tied behind my back. Executives, film directors, event managers, it didn’t matter. The moment their backs were up against a wall with a tight deadline and no solution, everyone screamed my name, and not like my father had. They turned to me for miraculous solutions to launch new product lines virtually overnight, solve unexpected logistical nightmares, turn bankruptcy-bound properties into multi-million-dollar dream destinations, and create on-the-spot illusions that pulled their collective booty out of impossible press situations. I was known as the red-sea-parter. I could multi-task and crisis solve like a fire-eating, lion-taming, hola-hoop-swirling juggler with three people in the air and one balanced on my right foot. In fact, my vast childhood experience with anarchy enabled me to see a crisis coming before it ever crested the horizon. This ability gave me instant credibility in any professional setting.
The gift provided me with the necessary skill-set to solve the complex issue of the red sofa, my looming marriage, my husband’s lack of financial wherewithal and our need for a fifteen-room home with little to no money all while perfectly positioning us to ride out the worldwide economic collapse before there was so much as a whisper of warning. I was a visionary.
In developing relationships with potential home management companies I first encountered the term showhome, not unlike the Annual Atlanta Symphony Decorator’s Show House, where the public pays to view the lavish works of Atlanta’s top interior designers who have borrowed furniture and art from the top retailers in the city to create their masterpieces. The only differences were that I was the one paying; I was the solo interior designer, the furniture wasn’t on loan by various antique dealers, I had to purchase all of it; and no one bought a ticket to see the house, they simply made a call to a realtor or showed up at the door unannounced. Unlike the annual fundraising event for the arts, we weren’t raising money for a charity, and no one afforded us the respect that distinction demands.
Solicitation of my new husband’s assistance in looking for our new home was met with disinterest at best.
“I don’t need to be involved. You can pick it out,” he said.
“Really?” I asked, deceptively believing he was allowing me to please myself.
“Sure. Bob’s your uncle,” he replied.
“Bob’s what?” I said.
“Your uncle,” he said.
“I do have an Uncle Bob, but I don’t understand what you mean.”
“It’s an Aussie expression,” he said.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“Never mind,” he said.
This was not the first of our untold communication issues. Just because we both spoke English did not mean we spoke the same language.
“Ok. Is there anything that you absolutely don’t want in a home?” I asked.
“Four walls and a roof is fine for me, I’m easy,” he insisted.
“We have four walls and a roof here. It isn’t enough. So clearly that is an inaccurate statement. I’m simply trying to determine is there a part of town you are unwilling to live in, a trait about a house, things you won’t live near and so on,” I said.
“I’d like to be in Buckhead. Otherwise it’s your pick.”
So I did precisely that, choose a house sight unseen by my fiancé.
The 6,500 square foot townhome had an additional 2,000 square feet of unfinished space and an ultraviolet air filtration system for the whole house – preventing me from having to station air-scrubbing centurions at every entrance. The brand new stately red-brick residences, of which three out of four were empty, had been on the market for two years without a sale. I couldn’t imagine why, but I knew from the showhome company that the delay in selling had prompted the builder and his agent to find a home manager who would create a vision that would entice buyers to, well, buy. As the townhome passed my stringent mold test, I inked the deal.
The morning after signing our new showhome contract, I awakened from a dead sleep with a new awareness of my successful negotiation the day before. The transition from petite apartment to Versailles would require tens of thousands of dollars in additional furnishings, not a dime of which my husband could contribute. Clearly the thrill of securing the deal had blinded me to the reality of its cost, just as purchasing the red boulder which now sat destroying the once exquisite view of my perfectly designed blue living room. Abandoning my Violet-only oasis was not the only casualty of the ring on my finger and the red stepchild which had unseated my peaceful universe.
Throwing back the covers, I stormed into my living room with the intent of calling Matthews’ to see if I could return the sofa. Its brick silk and Valentino fringe smiled at me from the center of the room. I growled at it to be silent. It just kept smiling. I shook my head and padded into the kitchen for my morning Joe. Steam wafted from the top of my blue Starbucks mug, wrapping the scent of freshly ground espresso beans around my nostrils. I stared at the object of my resentment, my eyes gradually beginning to caress its sensual form. Aren’t I breathtaking, it said. I know you want me, it said. If you send me back you’ll never find anything like me again, it said sweetly. You’ll be sorry, it whispered. And like the sucker I was, I trotted off to my office to begin packing.
TO READ CHAPTER 8 PLEASE USE THE DROP DOWN MENU BAR ABOVE UNDER “PLANET BEVERLY” and go to Chapter 8.