Speculate Accumulate - Thursday

‘Here comes the tosser you can’t abide.’ Warns assistant manager T, glancing out the office window.

‘You’re going to need to narrow it down a bit.’ Chips in loose lettings lush B, with a chuckle.

‘Funny.’ I tell her, with a scowl, but she is probably closer to the truth than I’d like. Several decades of dealing with people’s property problems and my milk of human kindness is more curdled than bottles on a dead pensioner’s doorstep.

‘Who is it?’ I hiss at T. I can’t walk to the window without being exposed - and people still won’t let me forget that time I absent-mindedly adjusted my trousers while changing bulbs on the illuminated display.

‘That slimeball of a speculator.’ Answers T.

‘Yuck, I hate him.’ Says negotiator S with a shiver. She’s a pretty good judge of character - most of the time.

‘Well he won’t be wanting to talk to me.’ Predicts B. ‘He’s lets all his grotty homes in multiple occupation himself, too much of a cheapskate to use a proper agent.’

Everyone looks at B in unison.

‘What?’ She demands, but it’s too late, the office door is opening and a chancer oilier than a leak at an olive factory, slides in.

I dislike speculators with a passion. They prey on distressed sellers and corruptible estate agents. Hoping to buy a property below the market value then sell it on with minimal cosmetic improvement, at a huge mark-up. They are not adverse to offering the infamous “brown envelope” to crooked agents - cash in hand for favourable access to a property to the exclusion of other competitors. It’s illegal and one of the few principles I’ve refused to compromise over the years. I act for the vendor, they pay my fee and I never forget it.

‘Alright guys.’ Calls the thirty-something man, dressed in expensive designer jeans and a t-shirt that probably cost more than my suit. I can now see his personalised number plate Range Rover, bumped up on the kerb across the road. There’s never a traffic warden around when you need one - get caught up on a difficult telephone call when you’ve rushed in to collect a set of keys though, and they appear like flies round a turd.

‘You got anything for me?’ Continues the Armani-clad vulture. ‘Repossessions, deceased estates anyone desperate to sell?’

I pride myself on getting the best possible price for any owner that entrusts their home to me, so by definition, flogging their property to a speculator wanting an immediate mark-up isn’t fulfilling my part of the contract.

‘Nothing.’ I tell the man bluntly. ‘Not with an earn in it.’

‘Oh come on.’ he wheedles. ‘You lot never find me anything.’

There’s a reason for that, I think spikily. I may have compromised on some of my youthful principles - the endowment selling scandal wasn’t my finest hour - but I have never knowingly undersold a client’s home.

‘Nothing that would suit you at the moment.’ I tell him, my body language about as unfriendly as it can be, but this guy has a hide like a rhinoceros. Don’t say it, I think as I see the words forming. If I wanted to be insulted I’d just video the sales charts at the monthly manager’s meeting and play it back endlessly…

‘I’ll make it worth your while.’ He spouts, with a salacious grin. He said it.

‘Give you any re-sales,’ he adds, then looking across at B. ‘Or the chance to find me some tenants.’

B smiles back in a sickly fashion. ‘No scumbag social security spongers though,’ continues the man as I see S’s hackles, and breasts rising. ‘They are nothing but trouble.’

‘Well done.’ Praises S as I watch the speculator jog across the road and drive away, as seconds later that hated traffic warden wanders round the corner. Typical.

‘You told him where to get off.’ Continues S with a smile that could melt glaciers faster than global warming.

‘He’ll be back.’ Predicts T. ‘People like that are impervious. He’ll do anything for a quick profit.’

True. But my pride is intact - until the next sales meeting anyway.

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Close The Door - Wednesday

‘Great.’

‘What is it?’ Asks trainee F alongside me in the car, as I pull to a halt near the subject property. Already I’m regretting bringing him on the valuation, but it’s how I learnt the business, pre-training courses run by failed estate agents and smarmy graduates with a degree nobody else wanted.

‘Don’t you recognise the motor’ I ask testily, nodding my head towards a familiar brand of small car, sporting a ghastly corporate slogan down the side.

F stares at the parked cars in the road, eyes slowly rotating along the line. I can almost hear the cogs grinding again.

‘Is it a diesel or something?’ He eventually asks hesitantly.

‘F**k no!’ I snap, breaking my no expletives rule.

F’s head snaps back as if I have actually slapped him, something else I’m not allowed to do. The staff handbook has become pretty extensive.

‘There,’ I say petulantly, pointing at the opposition’s vehicle. ‘It’s our competitors. They are obviously valuing ahead of us.’

‘That’s not good.’ States F, ruining it by adding. ‘Is it?’

‘No it’s not f….. flipping good.’ I tell him just catching myself from two expensive deposits in the swear jar.

‘Do we wait?’ Asks F looking at the dashboard clock. It’s a good question. I always aim to be on time and if I am running late, make sure the potential client is telephoned by the office to forewarn them. A homeowner – or at least some of them – will often tidy the house, prepare a cuppa and be ready a good fifteen minutes before your due appointment time. If you ship up ten minutes late without ringing, there’s a fair chance they’d have been pacing for nearly half an hour. So, you can kiss goodbye to any business.

‘No we don’t wait.’ I tell F decisively, turning to scoop my briefcase from the back seat and yelping as a sharp pain stabs along the sciatic nerve. The painkillers just make me feel nauseous, dizzy and as if I’m slightly detached from the conservation. A feeling F must be fairly used to.

‘We’ll curtail their sales presentation and disrupt any chance of the owners signing up for a sole agency if we ring the doorbell now.’ I tell F. It’s a grubby business, but they’d happily stiff us given the chance. F nods and follows me half a step behind, like some third-world-country wife - without the benefits.

‘It’ll just be a beauty parade anyway.’ I tell F a little negatively, as I open the rusty gate. He subconsciously sweeps a hand through his hair, as I hop from one foot to another and buff my shoes on my trouser bottoms. The old Eurovision Song Contest refrain of “Nil points” plays in my head as a tacky chime – not unlike a long distant Cliff Richard effort – rings out inside the hallway.

After a long wait a figure appears at the glass and the door swings open to reveal a flustered looking man with glasses and a goatee. He’s carrying a clipboard and for a moment I think it’s the other agent, but then I see the twenty-something, Armani-clad lounge lizard behind him. He’s the manger our competitor’s office and has an iPad in his hand and a supercilious look on his face. The bastard would win any beauty competition against me, not run by the Saga over-fifties company.

‘Sorry about earlier.’ Says the owner, after the other agent has left and we’ve done a swift tour of his house.

‘That’s alright.’ I say magnanimously, as we sit in the lounge and F plops himself on top of my hand. It’s a three-seat sofa but I’ve told him to stay close and not do anything stupid - so a 50% strike rate…..

‘Only I’ve got quite a few of you to see this morning.’ Continues the owner.

That’s not alright I think angrily. He’s just going to end up confused on price and baffled by fess. Briefly I wonder if he’ll be interested in my experience, professionalism and qualifications – then junk the notion.

Half way through my pitch, the doorbell rings.

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