The Truth about My Success Read Free Page A

Minnick didn’t get where she is today by always telling the truth. Certain words of Maria’s echo in his ears.
Losing Miss Paloma again… Staying out all night… She has friends… Real friends… Crazy… Worse… If Mrs Minnick says go left, Miss Paloma will go right…
    “For God’s sake, do something!” orders Jack. “Stop her!”
    “Mr Silk,” says Maria, “I am the housekeeper, not one of your football tacklers.”
    Jack hasn’t been having a good couple of years, and it doesn’t look as if things are going to get better any time soon. He leans his head on the steering wheel. Why doesn’t God just have him run over by some crazed, disgruntled actor while he’s crossing the street one day and send him straight to hell? Why play with him like this?
    A new volley of honking sounds behind him. Traffic has finally started to move.
    His phone goes dead.

Bad moods here and bad moods there – bad moods happen everywhere
    Like many of us,
El Paraíso
started out life with high hopes. A simple, two-storey complex, it was never intended to define luxury, but it did offer efficient, modern apartments with good views, parking and a swimming pool at reasonable rents to people who also had high hopes. It shone with newness, and everything worked. The tiles surrounding the pool were squash-blossom yellow and the water was clear and blue as a tropical lagoon. But that, of course, was a long time ago. These days
El Paraíso
is cheerless and rundown, and what does work doesn’t work well. Where they aren’t missing, the tiles surrounding the pool are broken, and the only thing that fills it are weeds. A wire screen stretches over the top to stop garbage, rodents, birds and drunks from falling in. The views are only good if you like strip malls and traffic. You park at your own risk. The first time Oona Ginness saw it her immediate thought was:
If this is Paradise, I really don’t want to go to Hell
. She had to carry Harriet into the apartment because Harriet, who is sensitive to atmosphere, didn’t like it either. Oona’s father wouldn’t get out of bed for two days.
    But now, on a day as bright and full of promise as El Paraíso is dilapidated and defeated, Oona whistles and Harriet wags her tail as they cross the ruined pool area, both of them looking completely at home. Which, of course, they are. El Paraíso may not be much, but it is a home. For their bodies if not their hearts. It’s a lot better than sleeping in the truck. As Oona herself would say, if you can’t change something then you have to learn to live with it. That’s her motto. You do the best you can.
    Mrs Figueroa is waiting for her, peering through the curtain of her living room window. Mrs Figueroa is always on guard. She starts talking even before she opens the door. “I’m so sorry to ask you. I know it’s not really the super’s job.” And Oona, of course, is not really the super. “I know it’s Saturday and you have to get to work, but I really can’t do it myself. Not with my arthritis.” The wonder is not that Mrs Figueroa can’t change a light bulb, but that she manages to do anything – dress or eat or shop or turn on a tap or sweep the floor – with her crimped and crippled hands and her dissolving bones. Mrs Figueroa, however, is a warrior, even if she doesn’t look like one (no muscles, no weapons, and a fondness for bright red lipstick). She may never have heard of Emiliano Zapata, but Mrs Figueroa would agree with his opinion that it is better to die on your feet than live on your knees. She’s not going to let the pain defeat her. She and Oona have a lot in common.
    “It’s OK, Mrs F. It’s no trouble.” Oona doesn’t like everyone who lives in the apartments, but she likes Mrs Figueroa. “I would’ve been here sooner but I had to sweep the stairs and get the cans out, and Mr Janus locked himself out again, and then I promised Andy in number six I’d walk his dog because he sprained his