Finding Home Page 8

  ‘Uhh, maybe you should turn that down just a little,’ I suggest. ‘The neighbours and all, you know.’

  ‘What’s that, Amy?’

  He presses a button and the room goes quiet.

  ‘Nothing.’ I purse my lips.

  ‘Quite the acoustics, ehh? Hope the neighbours are deaf.’

  I open my mouth to agree with him, but I just can’t do it. The deceit is painful – they’re loving the place too much. I, of all people, know that there’s nothing worse than finding what seems like the perfect home, only to have it end in disillusion. It’s better to end it here and now. ‘Mr Blundell, Mrs Blundell,’ I say solemnly. ‘There are a few things you need to know about this property. It may not be as perfect as you think.’

  I proceed to tell them about the elevator, the old woman downstairs, and the street parking situation, complete with personal anecdote about the hoodies I’d encountered earlier.

  When I’ve finished, I watch their faces, expecting the deserved recriminations – Mr Bowen-Knowles could have told them all these things over the phone and saved them a wasted journey. But Mary’s excited smile hasn’t budged. Fred wanders back over to look at the view. The noonday sun glimmers on the white tower tops of the Clifton Suspension Bridge, just visible in the distance.

  ‘I’m sorry if you were misled,’ I say. ‘I guess every property has its problems, but I think it’s only fair that you should know upfront. It’s a shame really – otherwise it really is a lovely flat.’

  I wait. Mary walks over to her husband. ‘The particulars mention four bedrooms and a roof terrace,’ she says, turning back to me. ‘I’m dying to see it all – is it okay if we go upstairs?’

  ‘Of course you can – if you still want to.’

  Without further ado, they head upstairs. I follow behind at a safe distance, continuing to let the flat ‘sell itself’. I take a quick peek into each of the spacious, modern loft bedrooms, each with its own shiny chrome and black marble en-suite.

  I catch up with them at the door of the master bedroom. Fred is inside admiring the gigantic fireplace wall.

  ‘And that will be a great space for the big Picasso, won’t it, Mary? We may as well enjoy it before we’ve got to flip it.’

  ‘It sure will.’ She grabs his arm affectionately. ‘Though let’s not count our chickens until it’s through customs.’

  ‘Ha,’ Fred laughs, ‘Piece of cake. He’s changed the frame – old wine in new bottles and all that. It will fool the best of them.’

  Mary chuckles. ‘It’s pure genius—’

  She spots me and cuts herself off. ‘Yes,’ she adds, ‘it will look great there.’

  I retreat awkwardly to the staircase landing. My head is starting to hurt. The Blundells seem so ordinary. But door jimmying; Picassos; old frames; customs? Just what kind of buyers am I dealing with?

  When they’ve seen the bedrooms, we all climb the stairs up to the roof terrace. The wind is bracing, but the 360º view is astounding.

  Fred turns to me. ‘So, Amy, anything else we should know about before we make an offer?’

  ‘An offer? Really?’

  ‘I think we both agree it’s just what we’re looking for, ehh Mary? And fifty grand below budget.’ He winks at me. ‘You only live once.’

  ‘Oh yes, Amy.’ Mary grabs my arm like I’ve just told them they’ve won the lottery (or at least, successfully managed a heist of the lottery funds). ‘It’s perfect.’

  I hardly know what to say. Didn’t Claire and the others say that most viewings are a waste of time? Is this beginner’s luck – or are they pulling my leg?

  ‘I can phone the vendors on Monday,’ I say. ‘What would you like to offer?’

  ‘Why, full price, of course.’ Fred looks surprised. ‘We wouldn’t want to lose it.’

  ‘Isn’t that what’s normally done in these situations?’ Mary asks.

  ‘Well, in this market, I’m sure the vendor will be thrilled.’

  ‘Great, then, it’s settled.’

  As we head back down the spiral stairs, I can’t help but ask: ‘And those things I mentioned earlier – about the neighbours, and the lift – they don’t bother you?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Fred assures me. ‘Not a problem – I doubt that the grand piano and artwork will fit in the lift anyway. And as for the little old lady downstairs…’ he gives what can only be described as a villainous laugh, ‘she’s unlikely to be a factor for long.’

  ‘Besides, we won’t be here too often,’ Mary adds. ‘With Fred’s job, we travel a lot.’

  ‘I see. Then I’m sure it will be fine.’

  The door to the flat clicks shut, locking automatically when we leave. We ride down the elevator. Instead of shaking my hand, they both engulf me in a three-way hug. ‘Thank you so much, Amy,’ Mary says. ‘You’re a lifesaver.’

  ‘Really?’ I smile. ‘You’re welcome.’

  I mean, some questions are better left unasked.

  - 9 -

  On Monday morning I arrive at the office brandishing a well-earned cinnamon latte and skinny blueberry muffin. I’m still aglow after my viewing success (the only downside was returning to a smashed beer bottle on the bonnet of my car). Everyone is already at their desks, and they look up eagerly as I enter – and immediately look away again when they see it’s only me. A few hellos are grumbled.

  ‘Guess what?’ I say to Claire as I plunk my bag under my desk. She looks at me a bit foggily.

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘Have you won the lottery and come to rub it in the faces of your beloved co-workers?’

  ‘No.’ I’m slightly put off by her flippant use of ‘beloved co-workers’. ‘It’s just that the viewing went well – the Blundells loved the penthouse flat.’ I grin.

  Suddenly, all eyes are on me again. This time they linger malevolently.

  ‘That’s nice.’ Claire smiles without warmth.

  ‘Anyway, thanks for the tips.’

  ‘Just don’t get your hopes up, dahling,’ Patricia butts in. It’s only about the second time she’s ever addressed me, and her tone is saccharine with pity. ‘Most of them say that. They don’t want to hurt your feelings.’

  ‘No,’ I protest, ‘they really did like it. Mrs Blundell said it was perfect. It’s just what they’ve been looking for – and fifty thousand under budget. They told me to ring the vendor and put in an offer.’

  ‘An offer?’ Patricia looks at Jonathan.

  ‘Blundell?’ Jonathan’s voice is low and icy.

  ‘Well yes…’ I take a breath. ‘It was after you left on Friday that they phoned. Claire was busy, so Mr Bowen-Knowles asked me to do the viewing—’

  ‘The Bristol penthouse?’ Jonathan stands up and storms towards my desk.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know, don’t you, that the Blundells are my clients?’

  I stifle a little laugh. Mary Blundell’s words come back to me: I’m pleased it’s you showing us around – not that… toff.

  Just before he gets to me, Jonathan swerves and bulldozes straight into Mr Bowen-Knowles’s office without bothering to knock. The door slams shut.

  I shrug at no one in particular and check my emails. There’s one from my former thesis advisor back in London, enquiring hesitantly if I’m ‘well’, having recently heard the ‘news’ about my ‘unfortunate mishap’. I feel a sharp pang for my former life in academia – like a ghost from Christmas past that I’ll never glimpse again. I draft a quick reply thanking him for his concern, and letting him know that I’ve landed on my feet. Sort of. (And if he hears of any job openings and might be able to put in a word for me, I’d appreciate it)...

  The muffled voices coming from Mr Bowen-Knowles’s office grow louder.

  ‘Coffee?’ Claire nods her head towards the back of the office.

  ‘Okay.’ I shrug indifferently, still a bit miffed by her earlier lack of enthusiasm, and grab my mug.

  In the kitchen, I pour myself a coffee and one for Claire.

  ‘G
reat job,’ she whispers. ‘But you really shouldn’t get your hopes up yet.’

  ‘I won’t. But the place was right for them – like the proverbial match made in heaven. Surely you must get those sometimes?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ Claire shakes her head like it’s been a while. ‘But lots of things can go wrong.’ She takes a sip of her coffee and refills her cup straight away from the pot. ‘I remember my first viewing – a cute little cottage in Bradford-on-Avon. The clients walked in the door and it was love at first sight. It was their dream property and was supposed to give them a new start; a new lease of life. I was so excited – for them, and for myself.’ She smiles faintly. ‘It took them six months to arrange their finances. Finally they were ready to go, so I booked an expensive holiday to Euro Disney for the whole family.’ She sighs. ‘On the day they were supposed to exchange, the buyer called. He and his wife had decided on a different “new lease of life” – they were getting divorced. The whole thing went down like the Titanic.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame.’ I frown, thinking back on my own experience of finding the perfect flat, but unfortunately lacking the perfect person to share it with.

  ‘But,’ she brightens, ‘I got over it. Thank God for credit cards – we still went to Euro Disney, though I’m still paying for that trip. The cottage sold through another agent – no commission for me. But enough doom and gloom.’ She clinks her coffee cup against mine. ‘If you do sell the Bristol flat, it will be a real coup. Those Blundells must be richer than they look – how did they make their money, anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ My bubble is in danger of bursting. Claire is right: there are so many things that could go wrong. What if they ‘can’t get the “Picasso” through customs’? What if they can’t ‘flip it’? And then there’s the not-so-simple matter of Jonathan…

  Claire is looking at me like she expects me to say something more. ‘I don’t know much about them,’ I say. ‘But thanks again for the advice. In fact, I’m sure you’re right—’

  Mr Bowen-Knowles’s door whooshes open, banging against the wall.

  Jonathan blusters out, glares at me, and goes back to his desk. He rakes his fingers through his spiky hair, and begins furiously stabbing at his keyboard.

  ‘Amy.’ My boss beckons to me.

  I square my shoulders and brandish my coffee mug. I walk into his office and close the door.

  ‘Good morning,’ I say.

  ‘Sit down.’ He begins flipping through a stack of papers.

  I do so.

  ‘We’ve got a situation,’ he says.

  ‘So I gather.’ I’m determined to stand firm, stick up for myself. The Blundells are my clients now, and I’m not about to let two old boys—

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘We’ve got exactly three months to shift this place, right?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Rosemont Hall.’

  ‘Oh… yes.’

  He frowns like I’m completely thick. Did I not just witness Jonathan’s tirade? Is my boss going to sweep the Blundell debacle under the carpet? Still, I play along. ‘I’ll be picking up the brochure from the printers this afternoon, and the details are up on Rightmove, Primelocation, Country Life and Zoopla. I’m happy to help in any way I can.’

  ‘I got an email from Kendall earlier,’ he says. ‘Apparently his client – Mr Jack? – has his knickers in a twist over this whole thing. He’s been in direct contact with Hexagon already.’

  ‘What?’ My stomach drops.

  ‘He sounds like one of those American tightwads who’s trying to screw us out of our commission. But we’re not going to let that happen. Are we?’

  ‘No sir.’ I feel like I ought to salute.

  He hands me the paper he was reading when I came in. ‘This is a list of all the people in the last year who’ve been looking for a country property – two to five million quid.’

  I flip through the list. Over two hundred names!

  ‘Ring round to all of them, see if they’re still looking, and send out the details to them. It’ll be a complete waste of time, but we need to look like we’ve got our skates on.’

  ‘What about Mrs Bradford?’ I ask under my breath.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The elderly housekeeper who lives there.’

  His glare sends a chill through the office. ‘What about her?’

  ‘Should I speak to her about moving out?’

  ‘That’s Kendall’s job,’ he snarls. ‘We have to assume we’re selling with vacant possession.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ I feel a stab of sadness for the old woman whose life in her little room at Rosemont Hall is now nothing more than ‘vacant possession’.

  He turns away and stares at his computer screen.

  ‘What about the price?’ I say. Surely, that’s something even he would agree is a valid question.

  He fiddles with his right cufflink. ‘Excess of two million plus renovation costs,’ he says. ‘Which reminds me, I phoned the quantity surveyor – he’s going round tomorrow morning. He’ll estimate the costs needed to get it up to scratch for development – probably gutting the interior.’

  I grimace. My boss gives a little smirk. ‘He’ll be there around eleven. Someone needs to let him in— you. You’ve got the keys, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His eyes stray for a second down to my (high) neckline, and he frowns again. ‘That’s all.’ He waves his hand like he’s dismissing a servant.

  I stand up and straighten the creases from my skirt. ‘What about the Blundells?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh that.’ He swats away my question like a pesky fly. ‘Don’t let them fool you. That will almost certainly come to nothing.’

  ‘But—’

  His phone rings. I turn to leave and walk slowly to the door.

  ‘Oh hello Mr Blundell,’ he says. I wheel around. Mr Bowen-Knowles covers the receiver with his hand. ‘That’s all,’ he says. ‘Shut the door.’

  Resistance is futile. I leave his office.

  *

  Mr Bowen-Knowles stays closeted away all morning. Jonathan refuses to look at me, and I’m relieved when he finally leaves for a viewing. Meanwhile, I begin the task of cold-calling the list of potential buyers for Rosemont Hall. I phone the first three and leave messages. The next two I reach and begin my spiel, only to find that they’ve both been sacked from their hedge-fund jobs. The next three have already bought their dream country piles. The one after that – an American – listens to my entire pitch, and then informs me that his country ‘fought a revolution to get rid of the Georges’, but to let him know ‘if you’ve got any nice English Tudors on the books’.

  As I cross each name off the list, I begin to realise that it’s a thankless task. To see what I’m up against, I open the internet and type ‘Hexagon’ into the search engine. The first few results are all emerald-green lawns, modern glass clubhouses, smiling weekend golfers. There’s a corporate site that’s more of the same, as well as annual reports, shareholders’ information, and a picture of a balding man receiving some kind of award for sustainable development. But as I scroll down, I find a few articles that aren’t quite so rosy. Hexagon bullying local OAP conservationists; Hexagon ‘accidentally’ knocking down a wing of an old house, leaving it a ruin. There’s also an article on a sad old house called the Parsonage in Herefordshire. Apparently, Hexagon purchased the site for a water park and promised the council that it would shore up the house. But seven years later, the water park is up and running next door, and there’s no sign of any work being done on the house. There’s a photo of its once-proud stone walls bowing behind a chain-link construction fence, the roof slateless and sagging. Mr Kendall had obviously done his research when he said that Hexagon doesn’t have the best record for conservation. I can’t let Rosemont Hall become a pawn in their chess game – it’s imperative that I succeed. I close down the websites and pick up the phone again. A dozen more calls and still nothing.

  At lunchtime, I invite Claire t
o go for a sandwich, but she has errands to run. Feeling discouraged, I buy a BLT at Marks & Spencer, and sit down on a bench near the Roman Baths. Tourists are flocking in and out of the Pump Rooms and a group of schoolchildren in bobble hats are singing carols. In front of Bath Abbey, the Bavarian Christmas market is in full-swing. When I’m done with my sandwich, I wander among the little chalets strung with icicle-shaped lights that are selling local products, jewellery and knitwear. I reluctantly avoid the hot glühwein, and instead buy a bag of chocolate-dipped gingerbread for Mum. I end up eating it as I walk. Everything is busy and festive, but all I can think about is how quickly time is passing. Three months – Mr Kendall said that I had three months to sell Rosemont Hall. So how dare this Mr Jack get involved already?

  I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck to stave off the cold, and consider this faraway scourge on the future of Rosemont Hall. I bet he has a nice life. I picture him: middle-aged with a beer belly, wearing a baseball cap over his balding head as he mows the lawn at his house in a dusty American subdivision – huge houses on tiny plots of lands, all identical to each other. Mr Jack will drive some kind of fancy ‘mid-life-crisis’ car – maybe a Porsche – no, a vintage Mustang. In candy apple red. Roaring off to work each morning while his wife piles the kids into a huge SUV to drop them off at school on the way to yoga class. And at the weekends – of course! – golf at the local country club.

  And meanwhile, back in Blighty, a house that he’s never seen will continue to crumble; a hollow shell where once there was laughter, warmth and life. The memories it holds will crack and fade like old paint, and one of the finest examples of Georgian Palladian architecture in the South West will end up as little more than a paragraph on a website about England’s lost country houses.

  Unless I can do something about it.

  I throw the empty biscuit package in a bin and head back to the office. I must, as Mum would say, ‘keep calm and carry on’.

  When I return, everyone is back, and Mr Bowen-Knowles is chatting to Patricia. Five pairs of eyes bore into me as I enter, and a silence descends.

  ‘What is it?’ My cheeks flush in the dry office air.