At least I have you (by Heather)

Write about a millionaire who suddenly loses his fortune and finds himself without any possessions.

“I missed that. Run that by me again,” Rosie said, articulating carefully through clenched teeth. Jason leaned in closer, trying to converse privately over the general commotion in the apartment. A skinny guy in a bomber jacket and blue jeans stepped in front of them, grabbed the Matt Blatt coffee table, swung it over his shoulder and headed out of the room. A fat guy in a jacket and track pants picked up the Jimmy Possum recliner, Jason’s favourite, and lumbered after him.
Jason looked warily at Rosie. “I was explaining about how the margin calls caught me out. I mean, they caught a LOT of us out. Willy, Matt, Geoff, they all lost millions.” He met her hard eyes and then glanced away. “A margin call is when…”

She cut in furiously. “I married a stockbroker: I know what a margin call is. But somehow in the education you gave me I missed the part where Mafia types come into your apartment and take everything you own….” She stopped and willed back tears.

“I know, I know, I’ll explain,” Jason put a hand on her knee, which swiftly slid out from under his gesture. He forged on. “When the margin calls came in and I had to repay all the money, well, I was only $20,000 short at that point. So I borrowed it from a guy Matt knows…”

She controlled her voice. “Jason, a lot of people are losing a lot of money these days. But you gambled away our salaries, your mother’s inheritance, the money from my paintings, every penny we’ve saved in the last five years together. And I don’t know any other idiots who got themselves so tangled up that guys show up to take everything in the house.”

Jason swallowed. Fat Trackies returned to stand, legs akimbo, in front of them. He spoke: “I gotta take the sofa. You gotta get off.”

Rosie wasn’t sure her knees would work so stood carefully. Walking toward the window, she nearly bumped into Skinny Jeans, making another trip from the bedroom, this time with a stainless steel shoe rack containing 12 pairs of Jason’s Berlutis and Florsheims under one arm.

At that moment, Skinny Jeans reached for the watercolour on the wall behind them. Rosie swung toward him. “Don’t even think of taking that. That’s a painting I did, it’s mine personally, you can’t have it.”

“Yeah, well, ma’am, we gotta take everything.”

She looked at him evenly. “You touch that painting and I tear your eyes out of your head whether or not you get your gun out and shoot me.” She noticed the bag he was carrying on top of the shoe rack. “And put that canvas bag down because you will not be taking my painting supplies either.”

The pair looked uneasily at each other. “Well, whatever.” They did a cursory inspection of the art bag and dropped it at Rosie’s feet.

Skinny Jeans said, “Well, okay then, that’s the end of it. We’re outta here.” He and Fat Trackies shuffled out of the apartment with their final cargo.

Rosie and Jason stood facing each other as the door slammed, echoing slightly in the empty apartment. Jason’s white face forced a smile. “Well, at least we have each other,” he said.

The comment fuelled in Rosie an intense desire to scrape skin off with her words. “You’re outta here too, Jason,” she said calmly. “Get nicked before I say something I’ll regret.”

Defeated, Jason looked around for his jacket, then realised he no longer had one. Hands in his pockets, he walked to the door, closing it softly behind him.

Rosie slid down to the floor and buried her head in her hands. Moments later, she stood and walked over to the windows. This might be the last time she’d look out the floor-to-ceiling windows of this expensive apartment with its renowned views of Bondi Beach. She pressed her forehead to the glass.

The furniture, joyously selected with Jason when they moved into the apartment three years ago: gone. Their wine collection: gone. Her designer clothing, mostly chosen by Jason: gone.

All of it: gone.

And what she saw in that moment as she watched the fading light playing on the water, was a truth forged in the heat of the events of the day – that none of it had any value to her, really. It was game she’d played, a game that had been stripped bare this afternoon over the course of a couple of hours.

Then: Jason, gone.

Her heart tripped. Did he have any value to her? She wasn’t sure. He’d been stupid. But then, she’d been stupid. Was his an irreparable character flaw any more than hers was?

In front of her, the water glowed. The rays of the sun slanted in from the west, turning the waves to black and gold. A tanker hung on the horizon, waiting for its call into the harbour.

Rosie grabbed her sketch pad out of the canvas sack. She flicked to a clean page and sketched furiously for a few moments. Then she yanked out her waterpaints and brushes, got some water from the sink and started to swirl colour onto the paper.

Within an hour the roiling sea, the tanker, the lights and the people in the bustling cafés below emerged on the paper. The painting captured for Rosie a world of beauty, life, industry. She gathered up her remaining things and walked to the door. She paused to look back into the apartment, thinking of Jason’s last words. “At least I have this,” she whispered.