З життя
Порожня квартира перетворюється на прибуток завдяки хитрим задумам родички.
У тебе така гарна квартира пустує, – натякала сестра чоловіка, таємно здаючи її мешканцям. 😲😳😳
— А що, якщо хтось захоче передивитися квартиру просто зараз? — Оксана постукала нігтем по екрану телефону. — Я можу під’їхати і показати.
— Через годину буду на місці, — відповів незнайомий чоловічий голос.
Оксана швидко накинула пальто і схопила зв’язку ключів. Виходячи з дому, вона зіштовхнулася з чоловіком.
— Сергій, я на огляд. Клієнт, здається, серйозний.
— Який за рахунком сьогодні? — усміхнувся Сергій.
— Третій. Але цей точно зніме, я відчуваю.
Оксана спустилася в підземний паркінг, де стояв її білий “Фольксваген”. Вона вже звикла до цього маршруту — п’ятнадцять хвилин до центру, потім праворуч, через два квартали ліворуч, і ось він — старий цегляний будинок. Квартира зовиці знаходилася на четвертому поверсі.
Піднімаючись сходами, Оксана подумки повторювала завчену легенду. Так, вона господиня. Ні, прописувати не буде. Так, можна з тваринами. Ні, перепланування робити не можна.
Замок клацнув, і Оксана увійшла в порожню квартиру. Швидко відкрила вікна, провітрила. Попередні мешканці виїхали вчора, і в повітрі ще витав запах чужого життя. Оксана дістала з сумки освіжувач повітря і пройшлася по кімнатам.
Все почалося рік тому, коли Іван, її брат, випадково сказав про порожню квартиру дружини.
— Стоїть без діла, — сказав він тоді. — Аня заходить раз на місяць забрати сезонні речі, і все.
Оксана тоді промовчала, але ідея вже зріла в голові. Ключі у неї були — брат давно віддав запасний комплект “на всяк випадок”. І Оксана зважилася.
Перший раз було страшно. Вона довго сиділа в машині, спостерігаючи за під’їздом. Раптом Аня вирішить навідати квартиру саме сьогодні? Але все пройшло гладко. І другий раз теж. І третій…
Дзвінок у двері вирвав Оксану з спогадів. На порозі стояв високий чоловік у сірому пальті.
— Доброго дня, я за оголошенням.
— Проходьте, — Оксана включила свою найрадушнішу усмішку. — Квартира світла, простора. Вид з вікна…
Раптом у кишені завібрував телефон. Оксана глянула на екран і змервіла. Дзвонила Аня.
Оксана скинула дзвінок і вимкнула звук на телефоні. Серце калаталося, але зовні вона залишалася спокійною.
— Вибачте, продовжимо огляд, — вона повернулася до потенційного орендаря. — Ви один будете мешкати?
— З дружиною і дитиною.
— Прекрасно, район тут тихий, у дворі дитячий майданчик. У сусідньому будинку продуктовий магазин.
Оксана провела стандартну екскурсію по квартирі, назвала ціну. Чоловік погодився, вони домовилися про вселення через три дні. Коли клієнт пішов, Оксана передзвонила Ані.
— Привіт! Вибач, була зайнята, — голос звучав безтурботно.
— Оксано, у тебе є час зустрітися? Потрібно поговорити, — в тоні Ані з’явилися незнайомі нотки.
— Звісно! Може, завтра? Сьогодні я…
— Ні, зараз. Я біля твого будинку.
Оксана завмерла. Щось сталося, інакше Аня не наполягала б на терміновій зустрічі.
— Добре, буду через двадцять хвилин.
Всю дорогу додому Оксана перебирала варіанти. Можливо, сусіди щось помітили? Або хтось із квартирантів розболтався? Вона завжди була обережна: ніяких довгострокових договорів, тільки подобова оренда, все спілкування через одноразові акаунти.
Аня чекала на парковці, спираючись на свою машину. Побачивши Оксану, вона випрямилася.
— Як справи? — запитала Оксана, виходячи з автомобіля.
— Нормально. Особливо враховуючи, що моя квартира приносить стабільний дохід.
Оксана відчула, як земля йде з-під ніг, але вирішила не здаватися.
— Про що ти?
— Кинь, Оксано. Мені відомо все. Я розмовляла з твоїми “мешканцями”.
— З якими ще мешканцями? — Оксана спробувала розсміятися, але вийшло фальшиво.
— Вчора до мене приходила жінка. Вона знімала квартиру тиждень тому. Уявляєш, як вона здивувалася, дізнавшись, що я справжня господарка?
Аня дістала телефон і відкрила фотографію.
— Пізнаєш оголошення? “Затишна квартира в центрі, подобово”. І твій номер телефону.
— Аню, я можу пояснити. У тебе така гарна квартира пустує.
— Не утруждайся. Я вже знаю, що ти здаєш її більше року. Знаю про фальшиві відгуки на сайтах оренди. Про те, як ти представляєшся господаркою.
— Ми хотіли зробити ремонт на ці гроші, — Оксана перейшла в наступ. — Квартира ж пустує, а так хоч користь…
— Ремонт? — Аня гірко усміхнулася. — За рік здавання накопичилося майже шістсот тисяч гривень. Де вони?
— Звідки ти знаєш?
— Виписка по твоїй карті. Сергій показав.
— Сергій? — Оксана спантеличено. — Він не міг.
— Міг. Коли дізнався, що я збираюся в поліцію, одразу здав усі документи. Сказав, це була твоя ідея.
Оксана відчула, як всередині піднімається гнів. Чоловік зрадив її, навіть не попередивши.
— І що тепер?
— Тепер ти повернеш ключі і забудеш адресу цієї квартири. Назавжди.
— А якщо ні?
— Тоді я напишу заяву. У мене є показання квартирантів, сусідів, виписки по рахунках. Хочеш перевірити, чим це закінчиться?
— Іван знає? — тихо запитала Оксана.
— Дізнається сьогодні. Сподіваюся, ти сама йому розкажеш, як обманювала нас цілий рік.
Оксана мовчала. Вона уявила реакцію брата, його розчарування, гнів. Іван завжди захищав її, навіть коли вона була неправа. Але зараз…
— Я візьму гроші в кредит, — нарешті промовила вона. — Поверну все до копійки.
— Не потрібно, — відрізала Аня. — Просто тримайся від мене подалі. І від нашої сім’ї теж.
— Ти не можеш заборонити мені спілкуватися з братом!
— Вірно. Нехай він сам вирішує, чи хоче спілкуватися з сестрою, яка його обкрадала.
Оксана здригнулася від цього слова. Вона ніколи не думала про те, що відбувається як про крадіжку. Це було… підприємливістю. Кмітливістю. Вона ж не взламувала квартиру, у неї були ключі.
— Давай поговоримо спокійно, — спробувала вона знову. — Я все поясню Івану.
— Поясниш що? Як ти планувала благородно ощасливити нас ремонтом на крадені гроші? Або як прикривалася його іменем, коли сусіди питали, чому в квартирі постійно живуть чужі люди?
— Аню, послухай, — Оксана схопила звіску за рукав. — Давай знайдемо компроміс. Я можу віддавати тобі частину грошей від оренди.
Аня змахнула її руку.
— Ти правда не розумієш? Справа не в грошах. Ти зрадила нашу довіру. Використовувала мою власність. Брехала місяцями.
— Я просто хотіла допомогти! — в голосі Оксани зазвучали істеричні нотки. — Квартира пустує, а могла б приносити дохід.
— Припини. Ти хотіла допомогти собі. І не бреши хоч зараз.
В цю мить на парковку заїхала машина Івана. Він припаркувався поруч, вийшов, оглянув обох жінок.
— Що відбувається? Аню, чому ти не відповідаєш на дзвінки?
— Розкажи йому, — вимагала Аня у Оксани. — Або розповісти мені?
Оксана поблідла.
— Іване, я все поясню.
— Що поясниш? — він переводив погляд з сестри на дружину.
— Твоя сестра весь рік здавала мою квартиру. Подобово. Без мого відома.
Іван застиг.
— Що?
— Оксана брала гроші з людей, представляючись господаркою. Використовувала твої запасні ключі.
— Оксана, це правда?
Сестра опустила голову.
— Я хотіла зробити ремонт на ці гроші. Сюрприз для вас.
— Ремонт? — Іван насупився. — На які гроші? Де вони?
— Сергій вже показав виписки, — втрутилася Аня. — Усі гроші пішли на нову машину твоєї сестри. І на відпочинок у Туреччині.
— Значить, Сергій знав? — Іван провів рукою по обличчю. — І ти мовчала цілий рік?
— Я боялася, що ти не зрозумієш.
— Не зрозумію чого? Що моя сестра злодійка?
— Не говори так! — Оксана заплакала. — Я все виправлю!
— Як? — запитав Іван. — Як ти виправиш зраду?
— Я поверну гроші! Продам машину!
— А довіра? — Аня схрестила руки на грудях. — Її теж продаси і купиш нову?
Оксана повернулася до брата:
— Скажи їй! Скажи, що я не навмисне! Що виправлюся!
Але Іван мовчав, дивлячись кудись поверх її голови.
— Де ключі? — нарешті запитав він.
— У сумці, — всхлипнула Оксана.
— Дістань.
Трясучимися руками вона витягнула зв’язку.
— Віддай Ані.
— Іване…
— Віддай, — його голос став різким.
Оксана простягнула ключі. Аня забрала їх і сховала в кишеню.
— Що тепер? — запитала Оксана.
— Тепер ти перестанеш з’являтися в нашому житті, — відповіла Аня. — Назавжди.
— Іване! — Оксана кинулася до брата. — Не дозволяй їй вирішувати!
— Вона не вирішує, — він відступив на крок. — Вирішую я. І я погоджуюся з дружиною.
— Але я твоя сестра!
— Була нею. До того моменту, як почала красти у моєї сім’ї.
Оксана всхлипнула:
— Отже, ось так? Обираєш її?
— Ні, — похитав головою Іван. — Я обираю чесність. Порядність. Повагу. Усе те, чого у тебе немає.
— Йди, — твердо сказала Аня. — І не намагайся зв’язатися з нами.
Оксана зрозуміла – це кінець. Вона повільно пошкутильгала до своєї машини. Сіла за кермо. У дзеркалі заднього виду бачила, як Іван обіймає Аню за плечі, як вони разом йдуть до під’їзду.
Завела мотор. Телефон на пасажирському сидінні висвітив повідомлення від чоловіка: “Пробач. Я повинен був так вчинити”.
Оксана усміхнулася. Тепер вона залишилася зовсім одна. Без брата, без підтримки чоловіка. І винна в цьому тільки вона сама.
Aunt Rita I’m 47 years old. Just an ordinary woman—a bit of a wallflower, not attractive, not blessed with a great figure. Lonely. Never been married, never wanted to be, because I believe most men are all the same—interested only in stuffing their faces and lounging on the sofa. Not that anyone’s ever proposed or asked me out, for that matter. My elderly parents live up in Newcastle. I’m an only child—no brothers or sisters. I do have cousins, but I don’t keep in touch. Nor do I want to. I’ve lived and worked in London for 15 years, in a regular office job. Each day is work and home, work and home. I live in a standard block of flats in a typical residential neighbourhood. I’m bitter, cynical—I don’t love anyone. I don’t like children. At Christmas, I went to visit my parents in Newcastle, as I do once a year. When I got back, I decided to clean out my fridge, throwing away old frozen food—dumplings, burgers, things I’d bought and never liked. I bundled it all up in a box to toss it out. In the lift, there was a little boy, maybe seven; I’d seen him with his mum and a baby sibling before. I even thought, “Some people—she’s gone and had another one!” The boy stared at my box. When we got out, he quietly followed me to the bins and asked in a timid voice if he could have the food. I warned it was old, but let him take it—none of it was rotten, after all. As I turned to leave, I watched him gently pick up the packets, close them up, and clutch them to his chest. I asked where his mum was. He told me she and his sister were ill—couldn’t get out of bed. I went back home and started cooking dinner, but couldn’t get that boy out of my mind. I’m not usually inclined to help, but something nudged me. I grabbed what I had in the kitchen: sausage, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions, even some meat from the freezer. I realised I hadn’t a clue what floor their flat was on, but knew it was above mine, so I worked my way up, floor by floor. I got lucky; after two flights, the boy opened the door. He hesitated, but let me in. The flat was poor but spotless. His mum lay curled up on the bed next to her youngest, a bowl of water and cloths on the table. High fever, trying to cool her daughter down. The medicine they had was long out-of-date. I felt her mum’s forehead—hot as a stove. She woke and stared at me in confusion, then suddenly sat up, asking where her son was. I explained I was a neighbour and quickly got the details before calling for a paramedic. While we waited, I gave her tea and sausage—she wolfed it down, must have been starving. Barely able to feed herself, yet still breastfeeding her baby. The ambulance came, checked them over, wrote out a long list of medicines and injections needed for the little girl. I went out, picked up everything from the pharmacy and groceries for them, plus—on a whim—a ridiculous neon yellow monkey toy. I’ve never bought a child a present before. Her name’s Anna, she’s 26. She grew up in Manchester’s outskirts. Her mum and gran were Londoners, but her mum married a local and moved up there to work in a factory. Anna’s dad died in an accident at work. Her mum was left alone, jobless, and quickly spiralled into trouble. By the time Anna was three, neighbours contacted her granny in London, who took her in. When Anna was 15, her gran told her the truth—her mother died of tuberculosis. The gran hardly spoke, was miserly, and chain-smoked. At 16, Anna took a job at the nearest shop, first as a shelf-stacker, then at the till. Her gran died a year later. At 18, Anna dated a boy who promised everything but disappeared as soon as she became pregnant. She kept working, saving up, knowing there was no one to help. When her son was a month old, she’d started leaving him on his own so she could clean stairways and make ends meet. As for her daughter—the shop owner she went back to, when her son was older, raped her repeatedly and threatened to have her fired so she could never work again. When he found out she was pregnant, he gave her £100 and told her never to come back. Anna told me all this that night—thanked me, said she’d repay me by cleaning or cooking. I stopped her, said goodnight, and left. I couldn’t sleep at all, thinking, “Why do I live like this? Why am I so cold? I don’t care for anyone, not even my own parents. I have all this money saved with no one to spend it on, and here’s a little family with nothing—not even enough to get well.” The next morning, the little boy, Anton, brought me a plate of homemade pancakes and dashed off. I stood there, plate in hand, feeling warmth coming from the food, spreading through me as if I were thawing out. Suddenly, I wanted everything at once: to cry, to laugh, to eat. Not far from our block is a small shopping centre. The owner of a children’s shop there, after some confusion over sizes, even offered to come with me to Anna’s flat. I don’t know if she wanted the business, having seen I’d buy a lot, or was just moved by my mission. An hour later, four huge bags of clothes for the kids stood in Anna’s hallway. I bought bedding, food, vitamins, even toys. I wanted to buy everything—I finally felt needed. It’s been 10 days now. They call me Aunt Rita. Anna is quite the crafty homemaker—my flat feels cosier already. I’ve started calling my parents. I even text ‘KINDNESS’ to children’s charity fundraisers. I can’t believe how I lived before. Every day after work I hurry home, because I know someone’s waiting. And this spring, we’re all heading up to Newcastle together—tickets have already been bought.
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DO I REMEMBER? I CAN’T FORGET! “Polly, listen… Remember my illegitimate daughter, Anastasia?” My husband spoke in riddles, making me uneasy. “Do I remember? I can’t forget! Why?” I sat down, bracing for bad news. “Well… Anastasia is begging us to take in her daughter—my granddaughter,” he mumbled. “And why on earth should we, Alex? Where’s Anastasia’s husband? Disappeared into thin air?” I was intrigued. “The thing is, Anastasia doesn’t have much time left. She never had a husband. Her mother remarried and lives in America. They’re estranged, and she has no other family. That’s why she’s asking…” Alex couldn’t meet my eyes. “So, what’s your plan?” I had already decided. “Well, I’m asking you, Polly. Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll do,” he finally looked at me. “How convenient. You made mistakes in your youth, and now I’m to shoulder the burden of a stranger’s child? Isn’t that right?” My husband’s feebleness made me furious. “Polly, we’re a family. We should decide together,” Alex pushed back. “Oh, you remembered now! Yet, when you fooled around, did you consult me? I’m your wife!” Tears welled up and I stormed out… In school, I dated a boy named Peter, until a new boy, Alex, arrived and swept me off my feet. I broke up with Peter. Alex noticed me, walked me home, kissed my cheek, and picked flowers for me. A week later, he led me to his bed. I didn’t protest—I fell head over heels for Alex. After we graduated, he went off to serve in the army in another city. We wrote to each other for a year. Then Alex returned on leave. I was overjoyed. He promised we’d marry when he came back for good—already considered me his wife. His sweet words melted me every time, even years later: one loving look from Alex, and I’d melt like chocolate in the sun. Alex went back to the army. I waited, confident I was a betrothed bride. Six months later, a letter arrived: Alex had found “real love” in his garrison town and wasn’t coming back. But I was already carrying Alex’s baby. So much for a wedding—just as my gran warned me. When the time came, I gave birth to my son, Ivan. Peter, my old boyfriend, stepped in to help. Desperate, I accepted. Yes, Peter and I became intimate. I’d long given up hope of seeing Alex again. Then he turned up, surprised to see Peter there. “Can I come in?” Alex asked. “Come on in, since you’re here,” Peter reluctantly allowed. Sensing the tension, Ivan clung to Peter, wailing. “Peter, why don’t you take Ivan for a walk?” I was at a loss. When they left, Alex asked, “Is he your husband?” “What’s it to you? Why are you here?” I was angry and confused. “I missed you. I see you’ve made a life with Peter—you didn’t wait for me. Well, I’ll go—sorry to intrude on your happy family,” he said, heading for the door. “Wait, Alex. Why have you come—just to hurt me? Peter helps me cope with loneliness. He’s been raising your two-year-old son, by the way,” I tried to keep him there. My love for him hadn’t died. “I’ve come back for you, Polly. Will you have me?” Alex asked, hope in his voice. “Come in, dinner’s ready,” my heart leapt—he came back, so he hadn’t forgotten. Why resist? Peter was shoved aside. My Ivan needed his real father. Later, Peter married a lovely woman with two children. A few years passed. Alex could never love Ivan as his own—he was convinced Ivan was Peter’s son. Alex never really cared for Ivan. He always had an eye for the ladies. He was forever chasing after women, easily smitten, just as easily moving on—including some of my own friends. I cried but kept loving him, determined to hold my family together. It was easier for me than for him—the one who loves is always blinded by hope. I never needed to lie or invent excuses; I just loved him. He was my sun. Sometimes I wanted to leave, but then I’d scold myself: Where would I go, who could compare? Besides, Alex would be lost without me. I was wife, lover, and mother to him. Alex lost his own mother at fourteen—she died in her sleep. Maybe that’s why he always looked for lost affection elsewhere. I forgave everything. Once, after a bitter argument, I threw him out. He moved in with his relatives. Months passed—I forgot why we argued—but he didn’t return. At last, I went to his family’s house. His aunt was surprised to see me. “Polly, why do you want Alex? He said you’d divorced—he has a new girlfriend now.” I found out where she lived and paid them a visit. “Hello! Could I see Alex, please?” I asked politely. She just smirked and slammed the door in my face. I left in silence. A year later, Alex came back. By then the girl had given birth to his daughter, Anastasia. To this day, I blame myself for throwing him out—maybe that girl wouldn’t have scooped him up otherwise. I tried harder to please and adore Alex. We never talked about his illegitimate daughter. It seemed if we did, our family would fall apart. We let sleeping dogs lie. After all, what’s one stray child? It happens. I blamed the “temptresses” instead. In time, Alex settled down. Flings ended. He stayed home watching TV. Our son married early, gave us three grandkids. Then, out of nowhere… Anastasia, Alex’s daughter from long ago, reappeared—asking us to take in her daughter. How would I explain a new little girl to Ivan? He never knew about his father’s youthful escapades. In the end, we took legal guardianship of five-year-old Alina. Anastasia passed away, gone at thirty. Graves grow over with grass, but life goes on. Alex spoke to Ivan man-to-man. After hearing his father’s confession, Ivan said, “What’s done is done, you don’t answer to me. But the girl should stay—she’s family.” Alex and I breathed easier. We’d raised a kind son. Now, Alina is sixteen. She adores her Grandpa Alex, whispers secrets to him, calls me Granny, and says she’s my spitting image at her age. I never argue…
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