You Had It Coming by B.M. Carroll (snow like ashes series .txt) 📗

heavy on make-up and jewellery. A framed certificate on the wall declares her as the highest-selling local agent last year.

‘Megan, so nice to see you again,’ she says, standing up from behind her desk, her rings squeezing Megan’s fingers as they shake hands.

‘Hello, Paula.’ Megan pops in every few months, to chat about the market and the saleability of their house.

‘Got the day off work?’ Paula is the kind of woman who remembers not only your name, but where you live (is it a good street or bad street? How many beds, baths, etc.?) and what you do for work (full time or part time? Professional or trade? Cashed-up or a potential credit risk?). This level of retention is exactly why she’s ranked as the highest-selling agent in the area.

‘Four days off, actually. Almost makes up for the six a.m. shifts this week.’

‘Hats off to you. Couldn’t do what you do. Nearly fainted when my grandson cut his knee the other day … I assume you’re after a market assessment?’

‘Yeah.’ Megan smiles and sighs simultaneously. ‘Just wondering if there’s any improvement since we last spoke.’

‘Clearance rates were up last weekend. It’s the tail end of winter and buyers are coming out of hibernation. Not a lot of supply yet, so that would work in your favour. I think September and October will be quite strong.’

‘How strong?’

‘Better than six months ago. Maybe even better than twelve months ago.’

They should have sold after her dad died, when the market was at its peak, but they weren’t emotionally ready to say goodbye to the house and were unaware that prices were about to plummet. Even so, they wouldn’t have come out with much money. Her dad had been out of work, her mum caring for him full time. They’d been paying mortgage interest but not any capital. Megan should have insisted on taking financial stewardship earlier. After all, it was her fault that they’d ended up owing so much.

‘Look, it’s a weatherboard and crying out for renovation, if not knocking down.’ Paula is especially blunt. This is why Megan likes her, trusts her. ‘You’re not going to get a premium price, but who knows what will happen if two buyers are genuinely interested in the property!’

‘I’ll talk to Mum.’

Roslyn will be conflicted, too. They love the house. They hate the house. It’s seen them through the best of times and the worst of times. It’s where everything fell apart for Megan, and then for her dad, but it’s also the place where she and Roslyn recalibrated and got back on track. The bottom line is that it’s bigger than they need and costing more than they can afford.

It’s time to move on. Megan is just hoping her mum won’t fight it.

‘How much did Paula say?’

‘She didn’t … But I’m hoping we’ll clear the million. Otherwise, it isn’t worth doing.’

Roslyn has showered and is wearing a pink towelling robe and slippers. Her laptop is resting on her knees, her fingers clicking on the plastic keys; she’s searching for recent sales of three-bedroom houses in Hornsby.

‘It says here the average price is one-point-two.’

‘Most of those houses are brick, Mum. And renovated.’

The bathroom and kitchen are in original condition, the roof needs replacing and there’s asbestos in the wall cavities. As Paula pointed out, there’s a strong argument for knocking down and rebuilding, which means they should be seeking land value only.

‘We have a big block. That’s something, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, Mum, that’s something.’

Maybe someone will fall in love with the garden. Megan and Seb used to have a swing-set, a cubby-house and plenty of room left over for ball games and hide-and-seek. It’s nice to think of other children filling the garden with their noise, toys and games.

This is the right thing to do.

‘Where would we go if we sell?’

Her mum looks so vulnerable with her shiny face and baby-pink towelling robe. Megan hates hurting her. At work they’re taught to inflict pain quickly. Don’t dither sticking in the needle or applying antiseptic. The more protracted it is, the worse for the patient.

‘I might move closer to the city.’ Megan’s voice is raspy with guilt. ‘And you might stay around here or try somewhere new?’

Realisation dawns on Roslyn’s face. She’s shocked and upset, then understanding and resigned; she has one of those faces that shows every thought and feeling. During the trial, Megan had to avoid looking in her mother’s direction. Roslyn’s face would crumple when something hurtful was said about her daughter. It flared up with anger and indignation when the defence went on the attack. And filled with despair when it became evident that the verdict returned would be ‘not guilty’. Looking at her mum was too much like looking inside herself. Megan used to look at Jess’s mum instead: Margaret. Stony faced, chin resting on her hand, her long bony fingers concealing one side of her face. Megan used to imagine those fingers slapping her. She deserved a slap for being so stupid and reckless.

‘I’ll sleep on it,’ Roslyn says now, putting down her laptop on the couch. She stands up with an exaggerated yawn. ‘Goodnight, love.’

‘Night, Mum.’

She’s definitely hurt. It’s not even 8.30 p.m.; she’s not going to bed, she’s going to lick her wounds, perhaps cry a tear or two. The bathroom door opens and closes. The sound of running water; she’s brushing her teeth. Megan sends Seb a text.

Mum and I talking about selling again. I think we’re actually going to do it.

Seb lives in Melbourne with his wife Cassie and baby daughter, Tia. He’s been encouraging them to sell for years. The fact that the sale price needs to be enough to cover the loan and selling costs is lost on him. He’s a musician, hopeless with numbers and money.

Do it! You’re far too old to be living at home.

Megan smiles. There’s nobody like her brother for issuing an insult in the same breath as his undying support. Seb has been gone from Sydney fifteen years and can only