‘Hell Bent, Heaven Sent’ A Novel
By: Maria Rattray
Tags: Husband Wife Problem, Fiction, Conflict Resolution, Career Change, Anger Management

‘Hell Bent, Heaven Sent’ A Novel

Image provided by Maria Rattray

One thing Allie appreciated about her partner was that he was almost always fair and calm, but when the situation demanded it, he was a master craftsman at pulling appropriate personas from his psyche, in order to deal with the situation. She knew she needed to make amends, and quickly!

“Brad I am so sorry! Please forgive me. I was seriously out of line,” she said woodenly, too scared to meet his eyes.

“Indeed you were, but they were your thoughts, so you must have felt them at the time. That’s the thing about anger. Truth comes out!”

“You have no idea how sorry I am. I don’t know what came over me. I apologize sincerely,” she said, twisting her rings nervously, a habit she had when she was tense. “It’s just that…well I’m absolutely miserable these days. You’ve no idea. I feel as if I’m on a perpetual roundabout, one I just can’t escape from. I’m forever being painted into a corner by one client or another, negotiating, bargaining, telling white lies here, back-peddling there. It’s exhausting…not to mention soul-destroying.”

“I hear you,” he replied stonily, “but do you think I don’t have to do much of that? Where deadlines are concerned, we all make excuses. It’s how we survive!”

“It’s not quite the same Brad. You’re left much to your own devices most of the time, creating, imagining, and drawing. That sounds like fun to me.”

“Fun? Huh!”

“AND you work reasonable hours. When did I last sit down with you and watch the news for instance?”

“I wouldn’t call that fun nowadays. And you’re hardly right about the imagining and drawing. Architecture is intensive work and you know it. Yes it’s creative, but it also demands precision. I can’t afford to make mistakes. Like you, I have to meet client needs, and like you, I have to meet deadlines.”

“Well be that as it may, at least you get to be home at a reasonable hour. The reality is this. Whether you like it or not, I can’t go on working these bloody long hours, always having to appear bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when I’m dealing with an ever-increasing supply of bargain-hunters who place ridiculous offers with me, ones I am mandated to take to the client.

“Worse still, the rip-off investment merchants who couldn’t give a toss about other people being down on their luck, are driving me to distraction. They should be clapped in jail. They’re totally unscrupulous. And here am I, piggy-in-the-middle trying to conduct a fair sale, knowing that the price they offer is ridiculously below value. All I’m doing is lining the pockets of the wealthy. I’m over the whole sordid business.”

Brad, now calmer, sat down beside her, taking her hand in his. Ever mindful of the perilous path he was now walking, he allowed himself the luxury of a few deep breaths before he continued.

“OK. That’s as may be Allie, but the question remains. What’s your alternative plan? I’m presuming you have one.”

“Have a baby?”

Brad looked at her intently as she fiddled agitatedly with her newly-manicured nails, lips drawn tightly, eyes determinedly veiled. This was a new challenge that he was quite ill-prepared for. He knew there was not even a chance that she wanted to have a baby, certainly not at this stage.

Allie’s plans for the immediate future were almost always egocentric, about how she might personally benefit from them. An inveterate page turner, she had barely time to live in the present, always too busy planning for what hopefully would be the next exciting chapter of her life. So a baby? Taking yet another deep breath he continued.

“It’s an option. It’s always been an option if that’s truly what you want. All we have to do is sell this house, AND your car, and move into a neat little box out in the suburbs, like where we came from actually, far removed from ease of commuting, and even further away from your favorite trendy restaurants, shops, and friends.

“Not that that will matter. There won’t be any spare money for dining out or socializing, but, if that’s what your heart desires, let’s go for it. I can live simply. The million dollar question is, can you?”

It was a risk and he knew it. Eyes intently on her, he chose to say no more. This was a game, Allie’s game, one that he was determined she wouldn’t easily win.

She felt his eyes on her and wished there and then that she had worked more diligently on improving her arguments. Somehow Brad always appeared to be right when they confronted each other.

Ongoing silence, calm, and tight reasoning were his secret weapons, ones that he used expertly, when necessary. Right now these same attributes were infuriating her beyond measure!

“Why do you always have to be so bloody logical?”

“It’s just the kind of guy I am!” he laughed, trying to break the ice a little. “Seriously though, it’s reality. You quit your job and the plans, our plans, will fall like a pack of cards. In some ways I wouldn’t mind it to tell you the truth, but, the reality is that you would. Correct?”

She looked at him, crestfallen, resigned to the naked truth that, as always, he was right. Having a baby right now was not even remotely in her plans. She’d consider having one of those in the distant future when the powers that be had fashioned a designer variety that rarely cried, one that would allow her to sleep late in the mornings, and behave perfectly whenever she had her friends over for a cappuccino.

“Okay, as always, you’re right. I know I’m being melodramatic. I do want to stick to our five-year plan, but it’s so hard. I don’t have a life!”

“If it feels so bad, why don’t you do as I suggested…have some time off, go away for a few days and recuperate?”

“That’s not going to help. All I’d think about would be the financial noose that hangs around our necks. I’m not sure buying this house was worth the agony. We don’t even get to enjoy it.”

Again Brad looked at her, that even, quizzical kind of look that assured her that once again she was being a stranger to the truth.

“That’s not entirely true Allie. Yours is one of the few jobs where you can flex off in the afternoons if and when you need to. And because you’re such an outstanding salesperson, nobody checks up on your whereabouts. You work long hours, you deliver, and so they trust you. It’s a win-win situation for both parties.

“It’s that same trust that allows you to go to the gym almost every day, even do a bit of shopping, have your nails done, AND visit the hairdresser when you need to…and, you’ve often had the odd coffee with friends, right here in this house…in working hours I may add. It’s not really the twelve-hour day you talk about. The hours are just…well different. You have a work freedom that others would kill for.”

“But…”

“Sorry! I hadn’t finished — and please don’t go for my jugular when I say this. Dinners and drinks with regular clients and colleagues are also factored into those long days. I know it’s not all beer and skittles, but it’s a social job that I know you enjoy and excel at.’

“But…”

“No, hear me out. As for not getting to appreciate the house, that’s not quite correct either. We spend as many hours here in our home, as most couples do in theirs, and given that we have a house cleaner and somebody to mow the lawns and weed, I’d say we’re ahead of the pack in terms of time.”

“But I’m OVER it Brad! I need a job that uses my creative talents.”

“Selling houses is creative!”

“Oh puleeze!! In what way is it creative? Go on Mr. Know-It-All, you tell me HOW.”

Brad was reluctant to say too much. Past experience had taught him to say little when Allie was in one of her moods. But right now it didn’t matter much, as any response eluded him!

“I’m all ears Brad.”

Brad’s mind worked overtime in an effort to justify his statement. Whether he was right or wrong wouldn’t matter a fig. Allie’s mind was deliberately myopic when she chose it to be. But he knew a justification was expected. Another few deep breaths and he blurted out.

“Well, you get to do make-over jobs on people’s houses, rearrange furniture, declutter, add accessories, hire some furniture if necessary, get rid of all the bad taste…and buy and arrange flowers. That’s pretty creative.”

“Creative? Huh? Is that what you call it? Well, do I have news for you! Just for the record let me tell you, that much of that is damned hard, physical work. I’m finding muscles I never knew I had.”

“So, now you can cut out going to the gym.”

“That’s so amusing Brad. Building muscle can be seriously unattractive in women.”

“Ok, I get you, but that apart, you ARE a miracle worker. You turn the ugliest homes into miniature palaces and everybody loves you for it. They rave about your talents. I’ve heard them.

“And something else to think about is that you’re also keeping that group of small-business tradesmen that you hire, in work. It’s your word, your recommendations that get them so many ongoing contracts. And they work hard for you at reduced rates. A bird in the hand is how they look at it…assured work and no advertising fees. They know they’re onto a good thing.”

Allie, chin now resting on her left clenched fist, stared angrily at the floor, her right hand drumming annoyingly on the base of her wine glass. She was biding for time, struggling to keep her side of the argument robust. So Brad courageously went on.

“Moreover, potential buyers get sucked into the cheap transformations, imagining themselves living there. Not for a second do they factor in the idea of their less-than-ideal furniture fitting into that same space. That’s the very reason you manage to sell the homes to them where other agents would fail. You have talent Allie.”

“That may be the case, but there’s a presumption that I, Allie Cashmere, am a magician. They think I can click my fingers and their houses will sell, just like that! Poof! It’s pure, unadulterated magic! As if! Have you any idea how I feel when I walk into their homes initially? Can you even imagine? I have to wonder how they manage to live in them! Furniture placed in front of pictures that they couldn’t be bothered taking down, patterned cushions, patterned rugs and patterned curtains, rooms painted in pinks and blues, colors their children chose twenty years back…all screaming to be put out of their misery.

“I sit them down, explain very carefully about all that has to happen to make a good sale, and give them a few days, or however long they need, to get it all together. Do they do any of it? NO! It’s almost as if we didn’t even have the conversation. And then they effectively bow out of the equation, leaving me a minimalist budget to work on, and I’m left hiring the trades people, shifting and repositioning furniture around their houses, getting rid of garbage and adding my own brand of charm. I’ve even added ‘superior bed-making’ to my résumé.”

“But…”

“I haven’t finished Brad! Yes, I get the squeals of delight and thanks when they see the finished product. ‘Oh you’re so clever…such good taste…wish we could do that…how can we ever thank you enough?’, but apart from the subsequent offer of a glass of cheap wine after the sale, that’s as much thanks as I get. I’m presumed on!”

“Well, you do get a substantial commission. That’s not to be sneezed at.”

“That’s peanuts compared to my efforts!”

“Oh my goodness, peanuts must have got very expensive since I last bought them!”

“Funny!”

“Besides, it all adds up. And let’s face it, what you do pays off. You then sell the houses for much more money.”

“Just stop right there Brad. We’re not talking about really high-end market here, well not always,” she added, remembering the local bank-manager’s house that had looked much more like a war zone than the executive mansion it once had been. When she’d got rid of the hideous furniture, the drab curtains and the flocked wallpaper, she realized that the bones of the house were a work of art, the building speaking for itself. That was indeed a serendipitous find!

“Do you realize that at the end of the market we’re talking about, it makes very little difference to my commission whether I sell for more or less? I’ve explained that to you a hundred times. Your problem is you never listen.”

“But you sell houses faster than any other agent in the neighborhood, so effectively you ARE making more money. They’re jealous of you. That’s got to be a plus.”

“And that’s precisely why I am so goddamned tired. NOW do you get it? I never get to have a mental flex-off.”

”Maybe we could have that holiday. Then when…”

“Would you just stop right there! I’ve told you. A holiday’s not going to cut it! I’m serious. I NEED A DIFFERENT JOB. I just can’t do this. I WON’T do it.”

“OK, so you’ve made your point. What do you have in mind? I’m presuming you DO have something in mind…other than reproduction that is?”

There was a brief, uncomfortable hiatus in their dialogue whilst Allie, eyes once more cast to the floor, frantically searched for the right words. Brad waited patiently, newly-filled wine glasses in each hand, wondering whether sculling the two would make him more relaxed about what was to come. But experience had taught him otherwise.

Eventually she looked at him through her thick bang of dark hair, that sultry look that always set him on guard.

“I had a dream last night.”

Chapter one: