THE MALL

Chapter 1

The offices of Halifax Partners

Sydney CBD, Australia

Friday, 7 July 2017: 10.45 a.m.

“So, what the fuck happened?”

Curtis felt the knot in his stomach tighten as Greg’s voice sliced through the office air. At 46 years old, Greg Stanton had been in the industry for years. Impeccable suit, impeccable tie, impeccable hair. Tall, like all real estate bosses. He looked every inch the successful real estate agent. Literally every inch. If you asked him, he would describe himself as the G.O.A.T. His reputation was for shmoozing, keeping his clients happy no matter the cost, and being a tyrannical boss. Not to mention, he thrived on office politics. He understood that in commercial real estate agencies, fee income in your department made you untouchable. But right now, with over fifty thousand dollars in fees evaporating before his eyes, Greg wasn’t happy.

Curtis shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking down at Greg's desk like he’d never seen a desk before, desperately avoiding Greg’s piercing gaze. The deal with Galata, a well-regarded high-end Turkish restaurant, had seemed rock-solid. Until it wasn’t.

“It’s Westfield,” Curtis started, trying to keep his voice even. “They stole Galata from us.”

Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Westfield? Those fuckers.”

“Yeah,” Curtis continued, the frustration clear in his voice. “They came in at the last second with an offer Galata couldn’t turn down. Prime location, bigger space, everything they wanted. They jumped ship.”

“And you didn’t see this coming?”

“I didn’t get any warning,” Curtis shook his head. “I was blindsided. One minute, they were ready to sign the leases, and the next, they were gone.”

“We are going to have one hell of an angry client because of this. I’m having lunch with him in a couple of weeks, and I need something to tell him. I can’t show up empty-handed; Tony will probably sack us. And that might be a good result.”

Tony Hamoud was a stereotypical dodgy developer. Born in Lebanon and moving to Sydney in his twenties, he boasted a rags-to-riches story. Now he drove flash cars and flaunted an even flashier trophy wife.

Tony Hamoud’s reputation was murky at best, and both Curtis and Greg were wary of him. He was a new client, and so far, they hadn’t had much contact with him. They only knew what they read in the papers—that he was friends with all sorts of Sydney underworld types. The newspapers always ran pictures of him talking to shady-looking characters—often at opening nights and the like—but they never actually wrote anything factual about criminal activity. It was all guilt by association. People assumed that not all his money was legally gained, but nothing was ever said publicly. Murky.

There was also the ongoing presence of Tony’s wife in the Daily Telegraph, always wearing tiny outfits and hanging out with Sydney’s B-grade celebrities and influencers. She, too, drove flashy cars and wasn’t shy online. Plenty of pictures with ‘the girls’ in Tuscany or New York. It was fair to say she was a trophy wife, and Curtis, along with the rest of Sydney, assumed she hadn’t married Tony for his looks.

He had made his money putting up questionable high-rise apartments throughout the western suburbs of Sydney, but this new building he had under construction in Green Square, one of Sydney’s brand-new inner-city high-density areas, was the real deal. Green Square, once an old industrial area, had been fully razed to the ground. The government then subdivided the land, put in an underground rail station, built new roads, and was currently building a library. Now, developers were lining up to build apartments, including Tony. He had even hired some Danish architects who had produced an amazing design. Needless to say, it didn’t look anything like his typical buildings.

The new tower was on a busy corner, and Tony wanted an iconic restaurant on the ground floor to give the building some presence and activity at street level. He had to compete for unit sales against some of the long-standing Sydney developers like Lend Lease, Mirvac, and Meriton, who were also building in the area, and he was after any advantage he could find.

People loved having nice restaurants downstairs, and Curtis had signed up Galata. Well … nearly. 

The message Curtis received last night had been from Galata, informing him that they were pulling out. When he called back, no one answered. The same happened when he tried again this morning. Finally, their solicitor called him back, but not until ten this morning, minutes before he came in to see Greg.

“Actually,” said Greg, “I might make you come to lunch too, and at least Tony won’t be tempted to have me whacked at the table.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Curtis nodded. “Maybe he’ll wait till after lunch to send his goons around!”

They both laughed nervously. When it came to Tony, it was hard to separate fact from fiction.

Curtis pulled on his collar, still feeling hot under Greg's glare. “I’m already working on a replacement. I’ve got a few leads, but nothing solid yet. I’ll have something by the time you have your lunch.”

Greg wasn’t buying it. He leaned forward, his voice cold and precise. “I don’t need ‘something’. I need a solution. This is a key space, Ryan, in a prime location, with a new client. If we don’t fill it, we’re going to be in serious trouble. Tony Hamoud isn’t going to care that Westfield poached our deal—he’s going to want a tenant, and fast.”

“I’ll find someone. It’s going to take some work, but I’ll get it done.”

Greg’s eyes stayed locked on Curtis. “Do whatever you have to do. You’ve got ten days. I need a name, a proposal, something solid. If we lose this listing, it’s on you.”

“I understand.” Curtis was already thinking of the calls he’d need to make. Replacing Galata wouldn’t be easy—this was supposed to be a standout restaurant, something big and special, which would draw people in. He needed to find a tenant that could match those expectations.

Greg gave a curt nod. “Good. Now get on it. And Ryan—don’t let this one slip. I don’t want to explain to the CEO why we lost this deal and the fees, and I really don’t want to have to tell Tony about it over lunch.”

Curtis stood up, giving a quick nod before leaving Greg’s office. As he walked back to his desk, the reality of the situation hit him hard. The leasing team at Westfield had stolen the tenant right from under him, and frankly, he was a little embarrassed. The lawyers had agreed on the final wording, everything was ready for signing, and he had relaxed, thinking the deal was done. He should have been chasing the tenant down to execute the final documents. He had been slack. He had left the door open for Westfield.  

Rules of Retail Property #7—Time kills all deals.

Now he had less than ten days to find a replacement that would keep Tony satisfied and Greg off his back.

Sitting at his desk, Curtis stared at the screen. Friday morning and the clock was already ticking. The Sydney retail leasing scene was competitive, and plenty of his competitors were also looking for restaurants to go into their developments. Finding someone who could replace Galata wouldn’t be easy, but Curtis wasn’t looking to be on Tony Hamoud’s shit list.