Money Makes the World Go Around #1
Part 1 of 2: She was tall, dark and willowy, the kind that can somehow look dressed to kill in a man’s cotton shirt, skirt and flat sandals.
Part one:
As soon as I had finished my Business finance degree, Uncle Stan, who owned Long Reach Tower, employed me to keep an eye on things for him. If any tenant inquired and went on to buy their apartment, I would receive a 5% commission. They were priced between 220k and 440k, so I was always on red alert for new customers. After all, everyone who was anyone wanted a home on the waterfront.
Every new arrival got my special, personal welcome. If you had just moved in, I was your new best friend. Champagne on ice, a glossy brochure listing local amenities, restaurants, etc. A how-to guide for the building itself and a telephone number where I could be reached. I kept a special phone for tenants to ring — I called it my Staniphone. At first, I accepted calls 9 to 5, Monday to Friday, but our tenants were too busy chasing the next billion-dollar bubble during office hours. Once I extended the hours to 8 p.m, seven days a week, within a month I’d made my first sale.
Even if people just called to bitch about the electronic keys not working I’d get involved, it was worth it. For me, every call was an opportunity to make a personal contact, with one eye on a commission somewhere down the line. This worked well for me. I’d closed seven sales already.
I had some natural advantages in the sales department. It helped that our typical tenants were city-boys. Brokers and dealers. We had six floors of smart, pushy youngsters straining to imitate their millionaire bosses. On the phone, I made damn sure I was the kind of girl they admired. Efficient, friendly, with a hint of flirt on top. When we met in person I’d be impeccably groomed, ebony hair shining, nails glossed, high heels clicking on the tiles below. Not to mention a figure-hugging designer dress.
I also made a point of modelling pricey-looking jewellery, borrowed from my pal Amy who sold gems in the Wharf Arcade. I repaid her with loans from my wardrobe I charged to Uncle Stan. We were two of a kind: busty, trim and self-aware. We shared pretty much everything.
I never looked like anybody’s idea of a cheap date, but I wasn’t inclined to screw around on the premises — that was my ‘golden rule’. So I passed the hot ones on to Amy. Occasionally we’d go double-dating on the wharf and take our pick from the tempting offers that came along.