Love Actually - Wednesday

I’m sat at assistant manger T’s desk while he swans round the town looking at designer suits in his lunch break. I swear the credit crunch has passed that man by – although the way our commission payments have plummeted in the last eighteen months, maybe he’s just another one in denial.

‘Joining the troops then? Asks bloated mortgage man M as he sways back through the door clutching two baker’s bags full of something sugary and greasy in turn.
‘Showing solidarity.’ I tell him, in answer to why I’m sat in the outer office rather than the relative sanctuary of my office.

‘Turning into a union man then? Scoffs M, before heading off to give the same treatment to the cholesterol-risers he’s clutching.
Like the lager makers, estate agents don’t “Do” unions; if they did they’d probably be the most militant on the planet, putting up with bean counter bosses and ungrateful clients on a daily basis.

‘It’s quite nice to have you out here.’ Offers negotiator S sweetly, before nodding towards the just departed M and adding. ‘The only thing solid about him is his butt cheeks.’ For a moment I think I’m in love, until I spot a young couple looking in the window and my thoughts turn to a marginally more attainable target.

‘Look like students to me.’ Sneers B from her lettings desk. ‘I need them like a hole in the head.’
‘No, I think they might be buyers.’ I counter, as all eyes track the pair as they move from B’s letting display, to our meagre supply of affordable homes.

‘Try not to stare.’ I murmur as the young lovers hesitate on the threshold and I curse the fact M closed the door when he re-entered. Sometimes I just yearn for the simplistic thrill of a sale, despite the increasing jaundice with the job. It’s why I like being out in the office, sharing the banter and buttoning down deals. Plus the manger’s office, with the door closed and a spreadsheet open, can be the loneliest place in the world.

‘You’re welcome to them.’ Snipes B as the couple vacillate at the entrance. ‘I can do without any more time-wasters.’
‘I think it’s sweet,’ responds S. ‘You can see they are in love.’
B sticks two fingers down her throat, while I offer a silent prayer the two punters, have visited the bank of mum and dad for a healthy deposit, before venturing out, literally window shopping.

‘It won’t last,’ continues B in her acidy vein. ‘It never does.’ I’ve a feeling another one of her Internet sourced divorcees has just dumped her again, but it might just be the time of the month.
‘Love can last can’t it?’ Says S looking at me pleadingly for confirmation. It might be her charming naivety, or more likely those traffic-stopping tits, but I find myself muttering. ‘Of course it can.’ just as the buyers finally gain enough courage to push the door open.

There’s a thin line between leaving a customer too long unattended and pouncing on them in seeming desperation, as soon as they enter the premises. After a suitable pause, I make eye contact and rise to greet the young pair, conscious of the fact both S and M are watching my performance with all the intensity of those Strictly Come Dancing judges.

Position of the pair established – God bless those baby boomer parents with equity to release, in order to finally fledge reluctant twenty-something’s – I harvest the requisite contact details, mentally ticking off the possible earning opportunities as I go.

I’m conscious I’m being monitored and in a rather juvenile way, I’m determined to give a good show. They say every salesman is a frustrated actor.

Fifteen minutes on, there’s a trio of viewings booked for later, a mortgage lead for M and an intro to our tame conveyancing solicitor – the local one who does lunch, not the corporate battery-farm we’re supposed to use. You can leech the life out of the man, but somewhere deep inside is the rebel who pogoed to The Stranglers.

‘Now watch them buy something from me this afternoon.’ I crow as the pair exit.

They didn’t show up.