‘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.
----
