Would Love To Meet - Friday

Back from the sandwich shop clutching a low calorie meal deal – I nearly succumbed to the fat-laden all day breakfast buttie – an alluringly breathless S, my well-upholstered negotiator, accosts me.

‘I’ve just taken a cracking valuation,’ she announces excitedly, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet and jiggling unnervingly. ‘It sounds gorgeous,’ she continues as my stomach knots. ‘Can I come with you?’

‘Are you alright?’ Asks S as I choke back a cough and try to banish the thoroughly unprofessional vision her naïvely ambiguous statement has occasioned. I wave the flimsy tuna-lite and sweetcorn sandwich; nearly dropping the flavour-free yoghurt and carbonated drink I collected with it – no bag due to the new shame-the-shopper environmental pressure.

‘No, I’m just a bit hungry.’ I splutter, before blustering something about a missed breakfast.
‘Never skip a proper start to the day.’ Pronounces S, before adding. ‘Unless you’ve got a very good reason.’ I tell S I’ll look at her appointment once I’ve fuelled-up and she skips out the door to get her own lunch.

‘She doesn’t know what she’s doing.’ Says B from her lettings desk with a world-weary shake of her head. ‘But she’ll learn when she’s been screwed over as much as I have.’
Sometimes a smart-arse comment is best left unsaid, so I head for my office.
‘Enjoy your mastication.’ Calls B with a dirty chuckle, as I scuttle into my sanctuary and have to physically stop myself from closing the blinds.

Still not satiated, I emerge twenty minutes later brushing wholemeal crumbs from my suit trousers and catch up with S. The valuation she’s booked does sound alluring I realise, as I concentrate on the matter in hand and discover there’s a rarely available house in a sought after location to look at.

‘Apparently they’ve had architects supervise the restoration and designers in to re-model the décor.’ Enthuses S as I scan the paperwork and look for clues as to motivation. If they’ve overspent, they’ll struggle to get their money back in any market, let alone today’s, although a good location can count for a lot no matter how gloomy the economic forecast.

‘Says here,’ I tell S reading her notes. ‘That we’ll be meting this lady,’ I jab a finger at the name on the form. ‘And her partner.’ I look at S and she blushes, before I ask. ‘Male or female?’ S has forgotten to ask in her excitement, now I’m missing vital information.

Gay or hetro, I really don’t mind if the seller is sensible. As long as they are straight - in a business sense - what people do in the privacy of their own homes is their own concern, as long as it doesn’t involve children or pets. That creepy guy who kept a shorthaired Norfolk Horn in his cramped back garden never really convinced me he was pursuing the Good Life - more like a woolly wife.

Trying not to turn cranky, I press for more detail on the pair. It doesn’t help that the woman styles herself Ms. A term most salespeople hate, as it gives no clue as to the prefix-owner’s status. From experience it can flag-up a prickly female with more issues than the homeless guy, with the dog on the string, flogging magazines.

‘I don’t think she’s a lesbian if that’s what you are wondering.’ Counters S, as B calls out unhelpfully:
‘Don’t disappoint him love.’
‘Anyway,’ continues S undaunted. ‘She said we had to be there before three o’clock, as she has to pick the kids up from school.’
‘You not heard of a turkey baster then?’ Laughs B.

Irrespective of sexuality, I want the place to sell – as long as the price is right – it’s just whether taking S will help my pitch or not. If the partner is a bloke, the last thing I need is the guy drooling over S like an over-salivated Great Dane. If it’s an all female couple, S could make them feel more comfortable if they’re man haters. But then what if one of them fancies her too?

And the public think all we do is stick a photo in the office window and charge an outrageous fee.