Couples Reunited - Wednesday

‘Got another matrimonial valuation for you.’ Says negotiator S with a rueful shrug.

It’s that time of year again. Along with short-lived diets and gym memberships, couples decide it’s about time they ditched their partner along with the pies.

‘Are they serious?’ I ask flatly. Quite often these things settle down after the enforced togetherness of extended Christmas and New year breaks. Couples go back to routines of work and childcare and decide to muddle on, as the annoying habits of their other half are mitigated by time apart.

‘Well they weren’t talking to each other when they came in.’ Says S with a grimace. ‘They communicated through me.

‘Terrific.’ I mumble. ‘Children?’

‘Two.’ Answers S.

It just gets better.

No matter how many times separating couples tell themselves it will be beneficial for the children, that they’ll have quality time alternate weekends, that it’s for the offsprings’ welfare. It isn’t. Trust me I know. It’s the selfishness of adults, pure and simple. The kids would walk through fire and broken glass to avoid a broken home. Saturday sessions in the cinema and a not very happy meal at McDonalds are no replacement for the security of your own room and your own parents.

‘Are you sure they don’t want a formal valuation for court purposes?’ I probe. Often the estate agent is just a stooge giving a free valuation that will be waved in court as the couple argue over who gets what and who has to pay what. If that’s the case they’ll have to pay for a surveyor to carry out a formal appraisal, in writing, one that can be used by the lawyers. If they have no intention of selling I have no intention of wasting my time.

‘I did press them. Individually, obviously as they weren’t communicating directly.’ Says S. ‘But they are adamant they’ll be selling and splitting the proceeds.’

Maybe not once I’ve given them a reality check, I think ruefully, and almost certainly not once the lawyers get involved. Matrimonial solicitors at law LLP- misery and prolonged conflict our speciality…

‘Tell him I’m not changing my mind.’ Instructs the stony-faced woman when I’m sat in their cramped two bed flat, later. So now I know who’s been playing away. Men can be so stupid. The bloke looks suitably shame-faced and a bit beaten. Just wait until he hears what it will cost him, it would have been cheaper and less painful to to pay a Dominatrix by the hour.

‘How soon can you have it on the market?’ Presses the woman as I catch sight of a frightened face peering around the lounge door. A little boy with fear and confusion in his eyes looks at me like a startled rabbit and I’m sent tumbling back forty years.

‘Tell her we don’t know how much it will fetch yet.’ Says the man, via me. He has a point. They paid over the odds for this dark flat, the lease isn’t all it could be, the management company are a bunch of shitesters and there’s a rumoured hole in the sinking fund - and one in the flat roof.

‘We’re selling no matter what. Tell him that.’ Instructs the woman. I’m pretty sure he heard. Suddenly as I prepare myself to give them the bad news, I see another smaller figure in the door frame. A cherubic little girl is clutching her brother’s hand and a small Princess whatever-her-name-is doll, from Disney’s Frozen. It’s frostier here.

For f**ks sake just talk to each other and work it out, I want to scream. It’s a whole lot lonelier and chillier out on your own, particularly as you’ll need to find about twenty grand to pay off the mortgage company’s shortfall. This is a waste of time. They should have called a counsellor. I hit them with the price.

The small boy laughs and his sister puts a hand to her mouth.

‘Umm, mummy said a bad word.’ Says the boy gleefully.

‘We’re not giving it away.’ Sing the pair in unison.

I like to think I’m doing my bit for society.

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Hanging On The Telephone - Wednesday

The phones are jangling insistently as I enter the office after another fruitless appointment. Negotiator S is looking harassed, locked into what sounds like a difficult call. B the letting lush is over by the printer ignoring the residential line again. The ringing in my ears gets louder.

Coat still on, I grab a handset and punch the flashing light. Corporate greeting parroted I find out why we are so sought after.

‘You have a two bedroom flat advertised in the paper for £95,000,’ says an uncultured voice. ‘Can we view it?’

My mind goes blank. Have I finally cracked and regressed back through some sort of mental time warp to the nineties, when I still thought I had career prospects and good hair? The other lines still chime and B still fiddles with the printer paper tray. Where the hell is everyone else?

‘Can you grab one of our lines?’ I ask B fractiously, after I’ve realised what has happened and dumped the caller to a rarely used swear word in response.

‘I’m trying to get a contract sorted.’ Snaps B, shoving the offending paper tray back into the machine with an expensive grating sound. If the engineer comes out again this month he’ll need his own coffee mug.

I take one of the ringing lines as S finally finishes her call and grabs the other one, look of unflattering fatigue on her, as yet, unlined face.

‘It’s not £95,000 madam,’ I say apologetically. ‘The paper have missed a number two out.’

As I say it, M our obese mortgage man waddles back from the direction of the gents’ toilet, my newspaper under his arm. He’s clearly not missed a number two out, I think angrily, as a vision of having to eat my sandwich in a rush while scanning the headlines M’s been perusing before washing his hands, flashes in my head like strobe lighting.

‘So what are you saying?’ Quizzes the lady caller curtly. ‘Is it £95,200 then?’

Can people really be that stupid? I think, before answering the rhetorical thought in the affirmative.

‘I’m sorry it should have read £295,00 madam.’ I say, bracing myself for the vitriol. Quite inventive as it happens, but with a more commonly used expletive this time.

‘You lot are all the same,’ rants the woman, certainly no longer a lady. ‘It’s just a con to get us to call.’ She couldn’t be further from the truth, but I’ve no time to explain as another two lines have just started trilling and I like to answer within three rings. Any quicker and it sounds desperate, much longer and you appear uncaring and understaffed.

S and I simultaneously explain the misprint to another pair of dreamers just as trainee F wanders in, snout in a McDonald’s takeaway bag. I point to a third line just illuminating - which is more than he’s ever managed to be. He nods and takes another bite from his burger. I physically feel an artery constricting.

‘Where on earth is everyone?’ I grumble when the activity has finally quelled.

‘Lunch.’ Says F wiping a dollop of ketchup from his chin and only succeeding in smearing it across his face like some lipstick-smudged tart after a busy night by the wheelie-bins – or B in lettings.

‘So is this, like, a new instruction?’ Asks F when I find a copy of the free paper and angrily highlight the printer’s error.

Punching him is no longer a viable option, although God knows it’s tempting. I make a mental note to bring his lack of awareness up at our monthly one-to-one, if I remember…

‘They can’t really expect us to be selling a two bed for that money in that location.’ Says S wearily as assistant manager T walks back in carrying a brace of expensive-looking shopping bags.

‘Alright?’ He asks warily, the atmosphere frostier than a mortuary fridge.

Not really.

‘Bloody idiots.’ Pronounces T, once I’ve informed him why the phones will be uncommonly busy for the next three days.

‘The paper or the punters?’ Asks S walking towards the kitchen slowly.

‘Both.’ Answers T before adding. ‘Does anyone want to see my new shirts?’

A snip apparently.

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