Buenos Dias - Thursday

‘Where are you going?’ Asks my wife as I gravitate towards a shopfront across the street.

She knows, without needing to ask. Like a pitiful self-harming junkie, I can’t leave it alone even on holiday.

‘Just going to look in the window.’ I tell her, before glancing the wrong way and nearly stepping in front of a pre-pubescent boy on a Vespa. The dark-eyed lad shouts something incomprehensible, in Spanish - I’m guessing not a compliment - and swerves between two parked cars before disappearing.

Sheepishly, I cross with a bit more care towards the brightly lit window.

‘Really. Another one?’ Asks my wife, beside me now with that look of resigned acceptance I’ve seen before.

‘You’ve looked in enough shoe shops to bore Imelda Marcos.’ I tell her unchivalrously then decide not to mention the umpteen trinket outlets we’ve been in. How many scented candle and naff fridge magnet shops can one city support?

I’m gazing in the window now, scanning the quality of the photos, the prices in Euros and even the pointless Energy Performance ratings that nobody needs when you have temperatures that rarely dip into single figure celsius, and an infinity pool.

‘They are all the same.’ Opines my wife. It’s tempting to draw a comparison to handbag shops and perfumery outlets, but I can’t afford a divorce at my time of life. I’ve seen too many men kiss goodbye to a four bed detached and half their pension, to rock the boat. Middle aged blokes, dyeing their remaining hair, joining Tinder and living in a rented studio flat, isn’t a good look.

‘I don’t know why you do it.’ Continues my wife chidingly. ‘It’s not as if you like other estate agents.’

She has a point. I detest most other practitioners. They are either undercutting me on fee and service, or overvaluing to please gullible owners. It must happen in Palma too, just with better looking players and warmer weather. 

‘I’ll be along there.’ Says my wife, pointing to a row of shops with expensive-looking dresses in the windows. Seems like I’ll be paying for my obsession, one way or another.

I turn back to the window and look at the two smart-casually dressed agents, inside. The male is almost prettier than the female. They are both gazing listlessly at massive Apple iMac screens with the sort of resolution that makes you believe you are actually on the terrace, with a glass of sangria in hand.

The woman, or part-time supermodel if the property career doesn’t work out, catches my eye then looks away. She’s made a quick judgment. One I try not to make in my own office, as I’ve sold many homes over the course of my career, to scruffy-looking oiks who haven’t shaved for a couple of days and are dressed like a loser. In this case, she might be right. I’m a time-waster.

‘So what did you learn?’ Asks my wife when I’ve caught up and noticed, with relief, she isn’t carrying any glossily branded bags. We’re looking for somewhere to have a coffee.

‘They’re no different to us.’ I tell her half-heartedly. ‘Just better-looking, with superior lighting conditions for the photos.’

‘Do they have to be qualified to be an estate agent?’ She asks pointedly. She knows how to push my buttons after all these years. I studied after work for a year and sat four three hour papers. Yet nobody has asked about my exams - ever.

‘Well, the rest of the world does, pretty much.’ I tell her curtly. She nods, then points to what looks like a delicatessen ‘Over there might do cappuccino.’

I start to cross and nearly get wiped out by a trio of tourists on those ridiculous Segway machines.

‘You’re out of your element, aren’t you dear.’ States my wife rhetorically, tugging my arm and leading me across the street like an errant schoolboy.

‘I don’t believe it.’ I bellow, as we reach our destination. They sell coffee, and cake. They also have more Apple Mac machines and pretty women. And in the window, property pictures and prices.

‘This is different.’ Announces my wife, gleefully.

It will never catch on.

Will it?

-------

Licensed To Thrill - Sunday

So the holiday that seemed to be forever over the horizon draws to a close and with it comes the inevitable darkening of mood as thoughts turn to work and just how much damage limitation my team have managed, without my increasingly unsteady hand on the tiller.

‘You alright?’ Asks my wife as we meander along a row of sun-drenched shop units. Not really, I want to scream, but I answer in the affirmative. Few people are lucky enough to do a job they love which still remunerates sufficiently to provide the standard of living aspired to. I’ve seen enough impoverished musicians, painters and, yes, writers lose their homes to know following your creative urges can lead to the council house waiting list.

‘Oh don’t do that again.’ Chides my wife, bringing me back to the present. Momentarily I’m befuddled by her admonishment. Earlier by the pool I’d found myself idly rubbing my trunks in a half-baked drowsy stupor. Fortunately I’m not fiddling with myself in full view of the promenading public. Worse in some ways, I’ve stopped in front of another realtor’s window.

‘How many times do you have to check property prices?’ Asks my wife with a distinct chill to match the air conditioned office I’m peering into. 

It’s a good question. The paradox is, I’m fascinated by homes and values, even in Euros or Dollars. I still get a frisson of excitement to match the languid enjoyment of lying in the heat and watching the less obese bikini clad ladies round the holiday pool. It’s a thrill I’ve enjoyed since I didn’t need to shave every day - face or ears. And yet I yearn to break free from the damaging obsession. Property is a cruel mistress.

‘See, he looks good in a short-sleeve shirt.’ States my wife, not for the first time. I glance away from a villa with infinity pool and no asking price - if you have to ask you can’t afford it - to see an impossibly handsome man with dark mediterranean looks, emerging from the office, carrying a man bag. The swarthy swine gets away with that effete monstrosity and effortlessly carries off the chino trousers, deck shoes and polo shirt. The expensive looking sun glasses the man dons are definitely not the “ genuine thing mister” Ray Bans the African guy on the beach tried to flog me for 10 Euros, earlier.

‘You have to live south of the Isle of Wight and still be living with your pasta-making mother to get away with short sleeves in my business.’ I tell my wife curtly, as I watch the realtor stroll across the road and blip his keys to reveal the bastard is smoking a top-of-the range Alfa Romeo. It’ll break down and cost you a fortune in garage charges I want to sneer. But he’s gone with a screech of tyres, plus I can only just mange to order a beer in his native language.

‘Nonsense,’ continues my wife. ‘You’d be so much cooler if you just wore a summer shirt when it’s hot.’ Pointless telling her you are never going to look cool with a fading suntan, post holiday stomach bulging over your too-tight waistband, while driving a bog-standard mass-market saloon to a repossession in an ex-local authority tower block.

‘Lot of people reading Kindles and the like.’ Reports my wife as we take the last rays of our two weeks. She’s right. At least two-thirds this year are holding up e-readers, although it’s a fair bet not one of them has downloaded any of my output. Writing anonymously seemed a good idea, but in terms of marketing yourself it’s akin to not putting a photograph of the house you’re selling, in the office window.

‘I wish we’d met you before the last night.’ Chortles the woman sitting at our table as the sun sets. I’ve been avoiding this couple for thirteen days but relented, having drunk too much. I’ve fed her and her fat husband a few anecdotes for amusement and to see if I’ve still got it. Inevitably, she asks what I do? I give her my default evasive answer.

‘Why, are you a secret agent then?’ She responds jovially.

Something like that.

Time At The Beach Bar - Saturday

‘Keep your head down.’ I tell my wife. ‘They’re coming towards our table.’

‘Don’t be so anti-social.’ She replies tartly. ‘It’s our last day and they’re nice.’

‘They’ll want to talk about property prices.’ I caution, concentrating hard on the Greek salad I’ve been picking at.

The holiday is nearly over and I can feel the tension rising. The thought of my in-box and what is lurking on my desk has drawn a darker shadow than the ancient olive tree our beachside table is sheltering under. I’d rather spend the remaining hours with my wife drinking the all-inclusive wine package not discussing what sort of plot £100,000 would buy in an impoverished economy. No chance.

‘Hiya.’ Cries the well-honed lady in an excitable voice. ‘Thought you were hiding from us for a moment.’

I was. My wife waved pointedly.

‘How’s the old property pirate?’ Chortles her bald-as-a-coot husband, in an attempt at humour. I nearly lied, on first meeting, and said I was a writer but I coughed the information, half-hoping it might put them off. It didn’t.

‘Looking forward to repossessing a few homes when I get back.’ I reply, to a stunned silence. Momentarily, I think they might opt for another table. But the wife laughs hysterically and slaphead grins, pulls up a chair and says.

‘You estate agents, can never tell if you’re telling the truth or not.’

It’s a cross I have to bear.

‘Do you fancy a beer?’ Asks the man, skull gleaming so brightly I need to pull my sunglasses off my head. Terrific, the only time a member of the public has ever offered me a drink – apart from a backhander to secure a home they couldn’t have – and I’ve already paid upfront for as much as I can consume.

I decline and watch with waning appetite, as a trio of overweight German women with more cellulite than a naturist’s weight-watchers’ group, waddle in to the sea. If anything would make the waves part, it’s about 600lbs of Teutonic blubber displacing more water than a small oil tanker, but the sea takes them with an unpleasant sucking sound.

‘I’ll call Amy over.’ I say, as the woman starts nattering inanely to my wife. I’ve named most of the staff and a good number of the guests, in order to pass the time. The waitress in question has a resemblance to Amy Winehouse, her tartier peroxide-died colleague has the moniker Debbie, after Blondie’s horny early years and the portly waiter - who I tend not to use - is Elvis, for his likeness to the King in his spandex-stretched Las Vegas days. Simple pleasures.

‘What do you reckon a beachfront lot like this would cost in Euros?’ Asks Eddie – The Eagle.

I don’t know, but the crumbling clientele might not enhance the price - not unless it was a retirement development. The ancient women wading in and out of the sea are spattered with more liver spots than a clumsy butcher and if I see another pair of saggy bosoms in a one-piece, I might start to bat for the other side.

‘Ah, look at the cats.’ Sighs Eddie’s other half – I’m torn between Selina and Fiona at the moment. She’s referring to the feral moggies that plague the open air dining area, encouraged by a group of elderly French women. The Gallic cat-lovers feed the furballs with gnarled fingers then return to the buffet to ferret for food without washing their hands. And as for the buffet, well that’s an education in obesity-levels and portion control. At one end, you have the anorexic-framed women who expend more energy climbing the steps to the restaurant than they take on board with the frugal, fruit and celery selections they make. At the other end of the scales there’s an army of thigh-chafers who wobble back, plates layered high with gravity defying calorie intake, resembling some sort of obscene gastronomic Jenga game. Like most estate agents, I dislike humanity.

‘Oh dear, what are those cats doing?’ Asks Eddie, face as wrinkled as his shaven-head. Copulating fiercely, I think, suppressing a laugh as the cats shag uninhibitedly under a table of Croc-clad, mottled Parisian legs.

The end is coming.

-----