They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

96 September 2017

After leaving Dr Eberstark’s consulting room, and running the gauntlet of the receptionist in the adjoining room who acted as his sentinel, I crossed busy Widenmayerstrasse and strolled over the grass towards the path that ran along this side of the Isar river.

It was my ritual after every session, to stroll or jog along the bank. A time for collecting my thoughts and reflecting on what we had discussed. An hour to myself, before I had to head off and collect Bruno from school.

The sky was a wintry grey, with faint drizzle falling, and my thoughts were grey.

Although I’d rented a really beautiful apartment on Widenmayerstrasse, in general my lifestyle during our recent years in Munich had been pretty modest. I’d bought a second-hand VW Golf, similar to the one I’d had in England. Bruno was in a private school but the fees were reasonable. And all our holidays had been relatively local. In summer we’d gone to Lake Constance, Bodensee, and to a ski resort near Salzburg in the winter months, where I’d enjoyed watching Bruno learn to ski — and really take to it.

As a result of being reasonably frugal, and the prudent investments of my gambling win in Frankfurt, made by the finance management company my lawyer had introduced me to, my portfolio had increased to over £2 million.

The asking price for our house in Welbeck Street, Hove, was £880,000. I’d contacted the estate agent first thing this morning and put in an offer of £850,000. He’d told me he already had an offer for £875,000 and it was a cash buyer.

Without hesitation, I told him I was a cash buyer too and upped my offer to £900,000.

He told me he would speak to the vendor and get back to me.

Actually I AM THE VENDOR! I wanted to joke with him. Or at least 50 per cent the vendor.

Except I wasn’t. Not any more. I was dead. Legally dead, anyway.

I’d called my lawyer in Frankfurt to try to understand where I stood. He didn’t know the procedure and promised to get back to me. By the time of my next session with my psychiatrist, two days later, he had still not come back.

And in this strange status, I realized I was the very embodiment of Schrödinger’s cat, which was both alive and dead at the same time.

I decided I would begin my next session with Dr Eberstark, on Wednesday, by telling him this.

Then I pulled my phone out and saw there was a text from the estate agent, saying he’d just tried to call me.

Damn, stupid me, I’d put my phone on silent for my session with Dr Eberstark and hadn’t put the sound back on. I called him back immediately. When he answered he sounded, as he always did, like he was chewing gum. He told me the news that the other party had raised their offer to £910,000.

‘Are you playing silly buggers?’ I asked him, straight out.

‘I’m afraid it’s a bidding war, Mrs Lohmann. This is happening a lot these days.’

I could imagine him lording it at some desk in an open-plan ground-floor office in full view of the street and, with each increased bid, going kerchinggg!

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll go to nine hundred and fifty thousand.’

‘Nine hundred and fifty thousand?’ he said, double-checking, still chewing.

‘Correct.’

‘Final offer?’

‘Final offer.’