Page 101 of Strictly Pretend

“Oh sorry, I didn’t know you had a customer,” I say, offering the man a smile as he turns around.

He doesn’t smile back. He has gray hair and a thin nose and for some reason looking at him sends a shiver down my spine.

I put the tray of drinks down, because I feel weirdly off kilter. “Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Emma…” Granddad shakes his head. “This man says…”

“Miss Robbins. My name is Michael Smith. I work for Salinger Estates. For their legal team.”

“Hello.” I frown. “Is this about Brooks?” I’m a little weirded out if it is. He didn’t say anything about anybody from the legal team coming here. “If this is about the ring…”

“The ring?” he repeats. “What ring?”

Okay, so it’s not about the engagement.

“It doesn’t matter. What can we help you with?” I ask. Granddad is standing there, not saying a word. He’s as pale as a statue, and I don’t like it one bit. I need to get this guy out of here so I can send Granddad home for some rest.

I never should have left him for so long. Yes, it was just a few days, but he’s too old to be working here alone.

The suited stranger sighs, and then turns to fully face me. That’s when I see he’s holding some kind of leather folio. “I need one of you to sign this,” he says.

“Why? What does it say?” I walk over to where the two of them are standing. “Granddad, are you okay?”

“Miss, I need it signed so I can go see the other tenants.” He holds out a pen and a piece of paper.

“What am I signing?” I ask him.

“For the letter I just delivered to him.” He nods at Granddad.

“What letter?” I look around, and then I see it on the desk. The envelope it came in -- one of those big buff ones that always look official – has been torn open and the letter has been taken out. I recognize the letterhead. It’s the same one I saw the last time we got a letter from Salinger Estates.

The one I replied rather rudely to.

“Is this from Brooks?” I ask, picking it up. For a second – just a millisecond – I expect to see some kind of joke from him. I start to scan the words, frowning as I take it in.

At the beginning there’s some kind of legal preamble, but the intent of the letter is clear. It’s giving us a calendar month’s notice to vacate the property, or Salinger Estates will commence legal action against us.

My heart starts to hammer against my chest.

“You can’t do this,” I tell the man. “We have a contract. You can’t throw us out. I agreed to look at the alternative place. I didn’t commit to leaving.”

“What alternative place?” Granddad asks. “I thought you said we were all fine.”

My gut twists. I lied to him, but I really thought I had it covered. “Granddad…”

Before I can say anything else, Michael Smith butts in. “I have no idea what alternative place you’re talking about. There is no alternative. We found a contract that was signed in 1992 giving us every right to evict you with a month’s notice. There’s a copy inside the envelope. I suggest you take it to your lawyer. In the meantime, you should start looking for a new place to do business.”

I pull the second piece of paper out of the envelope, my chest tight as I skim read it. I start to feel sick, because as much as I hate it, the man’s right, it’s a contract. Dated September 1992. With Granddad and Grandma’s signatures at the bottom.

“It supercedes all other contracts,” Mr. Smith tells us. “And we are now giving you one month’s notice in accordance with the terms. Please sign here to acknowledge you’ve received it.” He holds his pen out, along with a copy of the letter, a little dotted line at the bottom for a signature.

“I’m not signing anything,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice from breaking.

He shrugs and scribbles something on the paper.

“Wait, what are you writing?” I ask him.

“I’m saying the tenant refuses to sign but the notice has been served.”

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