Finding Home

by Lauren Westwood

  ‘Hmm,’ Jonathan says with a condescending grin. ‘Hope you’re not planning your retirement. Looks like a “sticker” to me.’

  ‘A “sticker”?’

  ‘As in, a property that sticks. Your tits will sag to your waist before you sell it.’ He laughs at his own vile joke, then swivels his chair around and makes a call on his mobile.

  Claire shakes her head and hands me back my phone. ‘Don’t mind him,’ she says. ‘Even if it doesn’t sell, you might get some good experience showing it. If you’re not busy after work, let’s go the pub and I’ll give you some survival tips.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ I say immediately. ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  *

  When the day ends, I’ve officially made it through my first full week. I’m exhausted from the effort, but luckily, everyone including Claire shuts down their computer at half four. I rinse out my mug in the kitchen and put it in the cupboard (moving it carefully away from the one that says: ‘I’d rather be … GOLFING’). Jonathan breezes by me on his way out the door without so much as a nod or a wave goodbye, and Patricia does the same. When I return to my desk, Claire has her make-up bag out.

  ‘You ready?’ She puckers her lips at the compact mirror.

  ‘Yes, just give me two secs to—’

  Mr Bowen-Knowles’s door bangs open. He stands at the threshold of his office, radiating the familiar frown. ‘Where’s Jonathan?’ He checks his watch.

  ‘I think he’s gone for the day,’ I answer. Claire nods as she applies face powder.

  ‘Gone for the…? Well shit.’ He glares at me like I’m the one who’s buggered off without permission. ‘A couple just called – the Blundells. They want to see that new penthouse apartment in Bristol Docks tomorrow. Eleven o’clock. Jonathan was dealing with them.’

  I look over at Claire, expecting her to jump at the chance to usurp Jonathan’s clients. Instead, she shrugs. ‘I can’t do it, Mr Bowen-Knowles – Atul’s playing football.’

  ‘Shit!’ He pulls out his mobile phone from his pocket. I’m sure he’s about to phone Jonathan—

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I say quickly.

  Mr Bowen-Knowles looks at me like I have three heads. ‘You?’

  ‘Well, why not?’ I challenge. ‘You said in my interview that I could do weekend viewings. Bristol’s not far from me, and I’m happy to take them around the property.’

  ‘You?’

  I wait.

  ‘Sounds like a great idea,’ Claire interjects.

  ‘Well…’

  He checks his watch again like he’s hoping something miraculous will happen in the next ten seconds that will enable him to deny my request to help him out. But since nothing does, he ducks back into his office and returns with a few property brochures, a torn piece of notepaper with the client’s name and number, and a set of keys attached to a souvenir wine opener. Reluctantly, he hands everything to me. ‘Now, just remember,’ he says, ‘talk the place up. It’s a “stunning, ultra-modern penthouse apartment in a top-quality development”.’ He glares pointedly. ‘Don’t say anything – anything at all – that might put them off.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Claire says as she puts away her make-up bag, ‘the Bristol Docks penthouse. Bit toppy, that one.’

  Mr Bowen-Knowles glares and says nothing.

  ‘Isn’t that the one where there’s been some break-ins? A local gang or something?’ Claire smiles at our boss, revealing a set of perfect white teeth.

  ‘Well, obviously she shouldn’t mention that,’ he snaps, ‘or the fact that the residents are suing the developer for faulty wiring and safety concerns with the lift.’

  ‘Or the old lady downstairs who got an ASBO against the previous owners for watching Newsnight too loud?’ Claire is obviously enjoying this. ‘Or—’

  ‘— the ambulance dispatch next door,’ Mr Bowen-Knowles beats her to the punch. ‘In fact, don’t volunteer any information at all. Just let them inside and look professional.’ He hands me the papers and the keys, and I shove them in my handbag.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘No problem.’ At least I no longer have to look ‘pretty’.

  *

  Outside, I punch the air. In less than two weeks, I’ve managed to turn the theoretical ‘odd weekend viewing’ into a real viewing with real clients. Claire, however, seems to have a different interpretation of my success. ‘That was a lucky escape,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘The way he’s taken to you, I’m surprised he didn’t invite himself along to the pub.’

  I laugh as we walk, certain that she’s joking. ‘He really hates me, doesn’t he? And I thought all that Cheltenham Ladies College stuff was just for show.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m serious. When I started, he didn’t speak to me for over two months. It was three months before he trusted me with showing a property.’

  ‘He must be desperate.’ This time, my laugh is a little forced. I remember the ‘incident’ with the magazine under the seat, but decide not to tell Claire.

  ‘Oh, he’s desperate all right.’ Claire shakes her head. ‘He used to be okay, believe it or not. A regular bloke’s bloke, good for the odd laugh and a round down the pub. But two years ago, his wife walked out on him. She found him with Sally in the loo at the Christmas party. Since then, he’s been your garden-variety bastard.’

  I cringe as the image of Mrs Harvey’s niece undressed like the page 3 girl flashes into my head. We arrive at All Bar One and push our way through the crowd to an empty table. Claire continues her rant. ‘We all thought he’d go crawling back to his wife. But instead, he bought a Porsche and a swish flat with home cinema, sauna and gym – the works. To hear him talk, he’s probably got a round vinyl bed with a fur coverlet and a harem of models popping out from underneath.’

  I shake my head. Alistair must be ten years older than Simon, but the mid-life-crisis mentality is the same.

  ‘The only one who’s got any time for AB-K is Patricia,’ Claire adds. ‘She’s fancied him for years now. And naturally, she’s the only one he’s never looked twice at. Anything else female has to put up with the odd roving glance here and there, not to mention the sexist digs.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Well, it’s a living,’ she says. We sigh in unison.

  Claire offers to buy the first round. While I wait for her to return with my glass of Rioja, I look around at the bustling throng of young professionals in suits, most of whom would not have been out of place in London. It’s a far cry from the long hair, torn jeans and Che Guevara T-shirt crowd I’d grown used to spending Friday evenings with at the ‘Hand and Shears’ near the college. Suddenly, I begin to feel lonely. I had lots of friends in London, though most of them were ‘couple friends’ of Simon and me. When I left him behind, I left them behind too. Should I have given up my entire life just to end up here?

  Luckily, Claire comes back quickly with the drinks (making me feel instantly guilty when I note that she’s only drinking Coke). We settle easily into conversation. She regales me with more stories of AB-K, Jonathan, and the Ghost of Christmas Parties Past. I ask her about her barrister course and tell her about my time at UCL. I get the next round (Cokes for both of us), and end up telling her about Simon. I tell her about the flat that I went to view that seemed so perfect, and the cruel revelation that it might have really been perfect – for Simon and Ashley, not me.

  ‘And did they end up buying it?’

  I rake my fingers through my hair. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Everything happened so quickly.’ Solemnly, I reveal my great shame – the thrown mobile phone and getting sacked from my job. I recount how I’d tried to talk to Simon when I went back to the flat in Docklands one last time to collect my things – still hoping against all hope that he would tell me that I’d somehow misinterpreted what I’d seen. He didn’t – and I hadn’t. He did tell me, however, that that the only reason he’d ever thought of looking at flats was because of the text messages from estate agents that I’d signed him up for.

&n
bsp; When I’ve finished my lament, to my surprise, Claire laughs with unrestrained delight. ‘That’s a brilliant story!’ she says. ‘And sounds like it was completely worth it. You’re lucky, you know.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘Just think – a new start. New home, new job…’

  ‘Well I don’t know. It still feels so unreal.’

  Claire launches into an account of her own woes: specifically her husband, who can’t understand why she doesn’t want to live in Birmingham – in a 3-bedroom semi- with his extended family from Goa. ‘I only see him on weekends,’ she says, a bit sadly. ‘Maybe someday when I’ve made it as a barrister I’ll be able to buy one of these trillion-pound properties we’re supposed to be shifting every day of the week. An “exclusive executive retreat” – or something. Then we can stick his family in an annexe and Atul will have his dad back.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ I feel bad that her situation seems almost bleaker than mine. But then she launches into an amusing account of Jonathan getting drunk at an ‘Estate Agents of the Year’ luncheon and hitting on Patricia’s (now ex-) boyfriend. As someone who’s been ‘unlucky in love’ (as Mum would say), it would seem that I’m in good company at Tetherington Bowen Knowles.

  We chat and laugh together for a while longer, until the crowd begins to press around our table. I return to the bar and get us two glasses of tap water. Claire downs hers and checks her watch. ‘I’m sorry, Amy, but I’ve got to shoot off now.’

  ‘No problem. I’ve got to go too. My parents will be worried.’

  She gives me a look – like maybe my situation isn’t quite as envious as earlier portrayed – and I blush. As we leave the bar and head back to the office car park, suddenly I remember the viewing tomorrow.

  ‘Claire,’ I say, ‘is there any trick to these viewings? Am I really supposed to lie like Mr Bowen-Knowles… uhh… AB-K said?’

  ‘Ninety-nine per cent of viewings are a waste of time,’ she says. ‘So it doesn’t really matter what you say. The property will sell itself – or not. Just be yourself.’ We arrive at the cars. She unlocks hers while I’m still digging for my keys. ‘See you Monday,’ she says with a hurried smile.

  As she gets into her car and drives away (I’m still looking for my flipping keys), I smile too. One way or another, I’ll get through tomorrow. I’ll just be Amy Wood – who has just made her first new friend in her new life.

  Amy Wood: Estate Agent.

  - 8 -

  When the alarm goes off the next morning, I’m wishing that I was the Amy Wood who’d had one less glass of wine last night with Mum’s cottage pie when I got home from the pub. I’ve never had a head for alcohol, and on a Saturday morning I should be able to have a lie-in.

  But not today.

  In the shower, I practise my spiel: ‘Hello, Mr and Mrs Blundell. I’m confident that we can find you the perfect home…’ Water gushes over me. ‘Oh my, isn’t this such a stunning showpiece flat.’ Talking the talk seems easy enough. But will I be able to field the challenging questions? ‘Neighbours? Oh yes, the downstairs neighbour is lovely. Completely deaf – think of the parties you can have. With plenty of safe street parking for all those friends who’ll be flocking over…’

  The water goes cold and I turn it off, shivering. I just can’t do it. Even if I never sell anything, I’m not going to lie. I may be working in the profession that everyone loves to hate – and with good reason in some cases. But I’m going to be different.

  I get dressed and look at the clock: it will take me forty minutes to drive to Bristol, half an hour to show the flat – which means I should be back here by lunchtime. If it’s all a waste of time, at least it’s only half a Saturday.

  Driving through Bristol, I begin to feel better. The city centre has been revitalised – it’s vibrant and trendy; the waterfront is bustling with people. Workmen are putting the finishing touches on the huge cascades of white lights strung along the esplanade, in readiness for the big switch-on. I can imagine a hip, trendy couple living in a penthouse flat in the midst of it all. But the Blundells? To me they still seem like Edwardian-semi-material; maybe a mews house at a stretch. But I suspend my disbelief – after all, the customer is always right.

  I park the car a few blocks away from the waterfront. A group of teenagers in matching hoodies is loitering across the street from the pay-and-display machine. As the machine spits out my ticket, I debate whether to move the car. But then I see a Mercedes parked a few spaces in front of me. If they can risk it, so can I.

  The hoodies cross over to my side of the street and lean against a wooden construction fence. I’m careful not to make eye contact as I walk past, but even so, one of them whistles and a glob of spittle lands on the pavement in front of me. I’m relieved that I’m only showing a flat here, not buying one. Surely the Blundells will feel the same? My erstwhile commission is slipping away like sand through an hourglass.

  As I walk along the embankment, the water shimmers in the sunlight. Nearly all the old warehouses have been converted into expensive apartments with shiny glass atria and hothouse flowers in the lobbies. In between are trendy restaurants and chain coffee shops. The quayside is abuzz with people: families with prams going towards the tall ship museums; couples laughing and drinking coffee; elderly people sitting on benches watching the gulls. I find the building: a converted warehouse in yellow brick with a glass atrium. There’s a Costa Coffee and Pizza Express in the lobby, and in the centre, an elegant Nordmann pine decorated with silver and purple baubles. There’s no sign of the Blundells, so I buy a skinny vanilla latte and sit down to wait for them.

  When they don’t show after ten minutes, I start to get nervous. After fifteen minutes, I begin to wonder if this is all an elaborate ploy by Mr Bowen-Knowles to test my loyalty. After twenty minutes, they walk through the main door into the atrium. My pulse jolts. The moment has arrived.

  ‘Hi.’ I stand up and wave in their direction. Mary Blundell looks startled for a second, like she doesn’t recognise me (and why would she?). They walk over.

  ‘I’m Amy Wood, we met once before at my office.’ Smiling, I shake hands with them.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Amy,’ Mary Blundell says. ‘I’m pleased it’s you showing us around – not that… toff.’

  ‘Mary!’ Her husband nudges her with his elbow.

  I like them already. I’m glad that it’s my job to play matchmaker – find them a ‘together home’ that suits their life. But could it really be – here?

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘You’ve expressed my sentiments on Jonathan exactly.’

  Fred Blundell apologises for being late. I ask them if they want a coffee, and they decline – they’ve got another viewing to get to.

  ‘No worries,’ I say. I will find them the perfect home. ‘Let’s go right up to the penthouse.’

  We walk over to the lift (which luckily seems to be working) and rumble up to the top floor. The door opens onto a stark white marble foyer. There’s a vase on a marble pedestal full of purple and pink orchids. Natural light floods in from a cantilevered skylight. It’s all very chic and minimalist, with a fresh smell that says ‘conscientious cleaning staff’.

  The penthouse is the only flat on the top level. Mary Blundell admires the orchids while I stand in front of the solid walnut door and rifle through my handbag for the keys. Just as I’m about to panic that I’ve left them in the car, I find them at the bottom of my bag (slightly damp and sticky from my hand sanitizer which has leaked).

  Only – they don’t fit. I try all three keys. Nothing. Embarrassed, I turn to Fred Blundell. ‘Slight hiccup,’ I say. ‘As you can see, the security is state-of-the-art. I can’t even open the door.’ I give a little laugh as my hand starts to quiver. The keys are wrong – they must be.

  I try all the keys again and then begrudgingly admit defeat. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I say. ‘Let me go down and see if I can borrow a key from the concierge.’

  ‘Do you mind if I have a go?’ F
red says.

  ‘Okay, sure.’ I hold out the keys, but he doesn’t take them. He bends down and examines the lock, then reaches into his pocket and takes out a flimsy plastic card with a V-shaped notch cut in it.

  ‘State-of-the-art,’ he says. ‘No problem.’ He wriggles the card into the door jamb. There’s a click; the door swings open.

  Fred grins at me. ‘Amazing, ehh? Just like in the films.’

  ‘Umm...’ I’m about to protest that it’s less like a film and more like breaking and entering, but they’re already going inside. I swallow my misgivings and follow behind to make sure they don’t try any other “special effects”.

  Inside, the penthouse is impressive. The enormous main room is all white with a double-height ceiling and an entire wall of windows looking out over the docks and the city. A modern space-age kitchen with glossy chrome units hugs one of the long side walls. The current inhabitants have furnished the flat all in black leather and chrome, with a few gigantic modern art canvases on the walls. A spiral staircase leads upwards to a mezzanine loft with four en-suite bedrooms and continues up to the roof terrace.

  Mary Blundell rushes to the wall of windows. ‘It’s perfect! Just what I imagined. We’ve come a long way from Hull, haven’t we, Freddie?’

  Fred Blundell puts his arm around her waist and kisses her fondly. ‘It is wonderful – and so much better than the other one we saw. This one just feels right.’

  ‘It does.’ Mary puts her hand on her chest. ‘Be still my heart.’ She winks at me.

  ‘I’ll leave you two to explore,’ I say. ‘When you’re ready, just shout and we’ll go up to the roof terrace.’

  They seem to have forgotten that I’m there at all. Mary rushes around, opening cabinet doors, looking at the kitchen appliances one by one. To my chagrin, Fred goes over to the elaborate wall inset stereo console, presses a few buttons, and suddenly, a Beethoven symphony floods the entire apartment at concert-hall volume.

  ‘Wow! What a great sound system!’ he yells above the booming din.