Page 11 of Strictly Pretend

“Your father,” my dad barks out, pushing past Luke without being asked to come in. “We need to talk.”

Of course we do. I pinch the bridge of my nose because it’s only nine o’clock in the morning and today is already shaping up to be the worst day of the week after yesterday. And the day before.

“I’m busy,” I say as my father sits down on the leather sofa in the corner of my office. Which used to be his office, once upon a time, until he stepped down from his position as head of Salinger Estates to spend more time with his wife and his ex-wives. One of whom is my mother.

It’s complicated. Like the rest of my life.

When my father stepped down a year ago, I was the natural choice to step into his role. Not just because I’ve been working for Salinger Estates for the last five years, but because none of my brothers were interested in the job.

It took me about five minutes to work out why. My dad isn’t exactly hands off. Thank god for my stepmother, who insists that he travels with her and his ex-wives when they go on their cruises. She’s already told me she chooses the ones without Wi-Fi so he can’t keep interfering.

“The Redfern Building. Have you sorted it out?” he asks.

I grit my teeth together. The Redfern Building was his mess. It was part of a big auction lot he bought right before he stepped down. He bid on it because he wanted a landmark hotel in Manhattan. Along with that hotel came several other small buildings he intended to refurbish and sell for a profit.

But he didn’t read the damn fine print. One building – The Redfern Building in some tiny town in Long Island – has been a thorn in the business' side ever since.

“I sent an offer to the tenants,” I tell him.

“And have they accepted?”

The letter went out last week. It was a more than generous offer. At this point, our lawyers say our hands are tied. Unless the tenants leave willingly, we can’t refurbish the building and sell it.

And dammit, weneedto sell it.

“Not yet, no.”

I look down at the letter I received this morning. Luke brought it in earlier, a grimace on his face.

Dear Mr Salinger.

You can shove your offer where the sun doesn’t shine.

Yours sincerely,

E. Robbins,

Manager, The Vintage Verse

There’s nothing funny about that letter. But it’s a perfect illustration of the tail wagging the damn dog. They have an unbreakable lease and they know it. I’m fuming at the way we can’t buy our way out of this problem.

“We should just sell the damn thing with sitting tenants then,” he grumbles.

“We tried,” I tell him. “Nobody wants a building with three failing businesses occupying it, especially when one of them has an unbreakable lease.”

He lets out a huff. “Life used to be so much easier when you could just intimidate your tenants out of the building.”

I shoot him a look. My father – Rupert Salinger – built his business up from almost nothing, back when Manhattan real estate was a surefire way to make money, and landlords held all the cards.

Now — rightly — there are more curbs on landlords. He doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

“It’s under control,” I tell him, my voice tight. “I’m going to visit the tenants later in the week. Make a deal face to face.”

“You are? Isn’t it two hours away?”

Yes it is, and nobody is more annoyed than me that I have to negotiate over a stupid building we never wanted. It’s going to take at least half a day and I’m working my ass off trying to manage everything here.

“Did you need anything else?” I ask my father pointedly.

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