Back For Good - Tuesday

The internal line rings, tugging me away from the laboured misery of my profit and loss account. God, that idiot maths teacher still haunts me. I knew my chances of the numerical fog clearing were doomed when he was so inept at controlling my unruly class, that the majority began to place chairs on desk-tops fully ten minutes before the bell then began edging towards the door, leaving just me and that gawky girl with body odour, struggling to grasp the relevance of logarithms.

‘A Mrs Lancashire asking for you.’ Announces negotiator S warily.
‘And?’ I respond frostily. S knows full well I need a prompt to go with the name, after too many years in the business. Theory is; my brain, like an ailing computer hard drive, is too full of worthless data to cope efficiently any longer. Perhaps S can defrag me after work?

‘Says you’ll remember her.’ Apologises S, knowing I probably won’t.
‘A clue?’ I probe, mind spinning towards a blue screen moment.
‘She sounds old and a long way away.’ Offers S sheepishly. And then it comes to me.
‘Spain! She moved to Spain eighteen months ago.’ I cry in triumph, and I ask for a few more moments to compose myself.

In any selling situation the knack is to be ahead of the curve, as far as the conversation goes. You need to cultivate the skill to be asking a question while framing a response, and the next enquiry. A little like a snooker player, break building.

Chances are Mrs L wants to come home after the first brush with illness and a foreign consultant. Chances are she won’t be able to, as the Spanish property market is even more depressed than ours. I remember thinking at the time the couple would have been better off renting their home in the UK and keeping a foothold in the market. Only the lure of the commission and the thought of having to recommend the pair to B in lettings, might just have caused me to keep my own counsel.

‘Mrs Lancashire.’ I croon as though she’s never been far from my thoughts. ‘How are you keeping?’ And I’m just about to ask after Mr L as well, when some sixth sense along with my planned route from red to black ball, makes me listen, not speak.

‘Not so good duck,’ she says, voice both faint and distant. ‘I’m afraid I’ve lost Mr Lancashire.’ Now I’m thinking several shots ahead, and wary of snookering myself. Trouble is, an absurd vision of a sun and sangria sozzled Mr L adrift somewhere along the promenade, is invading my brain. It’s wholly inappropriate because he’s doubtless in a Catalonian casket awaiting the last flight home. Turns out I’m right.

And I’m suddenly into a free-of-charge long distant counselling service, as Mrs L sobs about her loss, both life partner and fiscal. Can’t really tell with all the static on the line, if she’s mourning the company, or the twenty-five percent drop in her pension paid in pounds against the Euro, the most.

‘Can you send me some properties to look at?’ Pleads the woman, after I’ve established she’s yet to grasp broadband and needs to totter to an Internet café to keep in touch. And the numbers are back to haunt me. Mailing sets of details to Spain, when the recipient will probably only be leaving her admittedly sunny concrete box, in a wooden one some years down the line, isn’t going to improve my bottom line.

Of course Mrs L isn’t alone. Ex-pats suddenly remembering they have a UK passport when the overseas climate isn’t all they thought it would be. I’ve lost count of the number of South African realtors, desperately hawking a hastily assembled C.V. round the town, while staying in a flat above commercial premises, just until the house with en-suite servants and a pool, is sold in Cape Town.

Later, S enters with a mug of tea. It’s welcome break from the stats and the haunting echo of a distraught Mrs L.
‘She won’t be back in a hurry then.’ Concludes S, as I tell her the tale.

Nope. The numbers just don’t add up.