Chapter 57
Brendan Walker knew the house was going to be terrible.
The first tip-off was the super-cheerful tone the estate agent, Diane Dobson, used with his mother.
“It’s truly the most amazing house, Mrs Walker,” Diane chirped on speakerphone. “The perfect place for a sophisticated family like yours. And it’s just gone through a major price reduction.”
“Where is this house?” Brendan asked. Aged twelve, he sat next to his older sister, Cordelia, playing Uncharted on his much-loved PSP. He sported his favourite grass-stained blue lacrosse jersey, torn jeans, and weathered high-tops.
“I’m sorry, who is that?” Diane asked from the dashboard of the car, where an iPhone sat in a holster.
“Our son, Brendan,” Dr Walker answered. “You’re on speakerphone.”
“I’m talking with the whole Walker family! What a treat. Well, Brendan” – Diane sounded as if she expected to be commended for remembering his name – “the house is located at one twenty-eight Sea Cliff Avenue, among a stately collection of homes owned by prominent San Franciscans.”
“Like Forty-niners and Giants?” asked Brendan.
“Like CEOs and bankers,” corrected Diane.
“Shoot me.”
“Bren!” Mrs Walker scolded.
“You won’t feel that way once you’ve seen the place,” said Diane. “It’s a charming, rustic, woodsy jewel—”
“Whoa, hold on!” Cordelia interrupted. “Say that again?”
“With whom am I speaking now?” Diane asked.
With whom? Seriously? Cordelia thought – but the truth was she also used “whom” in her more intellectual moments.
“That’s our daughter Cordelia,” said Mrs Walker. “Our eldest.”
“What a pretty name!”
Don’t ‘pretty name’ me, Cordelia wanted to say, but as the eldest she was better than Brendan at being tactful. She was a tall, wispy girl with delicate features that she hid behind a dirty-blonde fringe. “Diane, my family has been looking for a new house for the last month, and in that time I’ve learned that estate agents speak in what I call ‘coded language’.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Excuse me, but what does that mean, ‘I’m sure I don’t know’?” piped up Eleanor, aged eight. She had sharp eyes, a small, precise nose, and long, curly hair, the same colour as her sister’s, that sometimes had gum and leaves in it, if she’d been adventurous that day. She tended to be quiet except in moments when she wasn’t supposed to be quiet, which was what Brendan and Cordelia loved most about her. “How can you be sure if you don’t know?”
Cordelia gave her sister an appreciative nod and continued: “I mean that when estate agents say ‘charming’, Diane, they mean ‘small’. When they say ‘rustic’, they mean ‘located in a habitat for bears’. ‘Woodsy’ means ‘termite-infested’… ‘Jewel’, I don’t even know… I assume ‘squat’.”
“Deal, stop being an idiot,” grumbled Brendan, glued to his screen, irritated that he hadn’t thought up that line of reasoning himself.
Cordelia rolled her eyes and went on.
“Diane, are you about to show my family a small, termite-infested squat located in a bear habitat?”
Diane sighed over the speakerphone. “How old is she?”
“Fifteen,” Dr and Mrs Walker said together.
“She sounds thirty-five.”
“Why?” Cordelia asked. “Because I’m asking pertinent questions?”
Brendan reached over from the back seat and ended the call.
“Brendan!” Mrs Walker yelled.
“I’m
