Please May I Have Some More - Monday

‘You know what,’ spits assistant manager T venomously. ‘ F**k people, f**k all of them.’

I can’t help a quick glance toward B our loose lettings lush, as she’s been working her way through the electoral roll by all accounts. Fortunately she has her head down again - tapping at her smartphone this time..

‘What’s the matter love?’ Asks negotiator S soothingly. She’s never called me love, I think testily, as I turn to wait for T’s reply.

‘Mr and Mrs Greenway are taking their house off the market.’ Says T head shaking in disbelief. The punch to the stomach of a sale falling through still sickens me after all these years.

‘You’re kidding.’ I hear myself say superfluously, as the bile rises in my throat and I think of the hole this news will make in my sales pipeline - and of the conversation I’ll be having with the bean counter boss come stats day.

‘What’s that?’ Asks morbidly obese mortgage man M as he sways back from the kitchen all four sets of cheeks moving unpleasantly.

‘The Greenways’ are pulling out of their sale.’ Says T flatly.

‘Who?’ Asks M face contorted in a frown, several sets’ of chins wobbling in flabby unison.

‘Number 39,’ snaps T. ‘You’re doing the mortgage for their buyers - or were…’

‘You’re kidding.’ Growls M as something gristly escapes his gritted teeth and lands on the carpet. 

‘I wish I was.’ Responds T shoulders sagging. ‘Over £5,000 in commission up the swanee.’ 

‘The buyers will still use me for the finance though, won’t they?’ Pleads M, revealing the perpetual difference in mindset between estate agent and financial advisor - something the banks and insurance companies never got to grips with, when they bought chains en-masse to flog their products for them.

‘How do I know?’ snaps T. ‘I haven’t told them yet. I’ve got that pleasure to come.’

‘No doubt they’ll blame you.’ Suggests S with a half-smile.

‘Can’t you wheel them into something else?’ Asks M desperately.

‘Not like that house. Not in a hurry.’ 

‘Well just make sure they still do their finance through me.’ Continues M. ‘I’ve got two big policies and an arrangement fee riding on them.’

A fundamental difference.

‘Why?’ I say to T as M skulks back to his office.

‘They all want to shaft you.’ Suggests B, off her phone now and possibly referring to our conversation, but just as likely making a personal observation.

‘To be fair,’ begins T. I don’t want to be fair. I want to see the grey-haired couple topple on the next icy pavement, then at least I might get a probate sale. ‘They have been stuffed on their purchase.’ Concludes T.

My mind whirrs, it carries a lot of data, ‘But weren’t they buying that bungalow from a builder?’ I say as the information pops into a mental window.

‘Were being the operative word,’ says T grimly. ‘The bastard has put the price up.’

I grimace. It’s not the first time and sure as hell won’t be the last. Builders are notorious for panicking if sales on a site aren’t happening and just as notorious for getting greedy when they are; raising prices for an overnight boost to their balance sheets. 

‘How much?’ I question, thinking we might be able to squeeze the buyers for some more, maybe even work along the chain for a contribution from everyone.

‘Forty grand.’ Answers T flatly.

‘You’re kidding.’ Says S rhetorically. He’s still not.

‘They can’t do that, can they?’ Questions trainee F, who has been listening intently.

‘They can do what they want.’ Answers T sourly. ‘Subject to contract, means what it says.’

‘I’m guessing you suggested tapping the buyers for more money, to the Greenways?’ I ask T pessimistically. He nods.

‘Yep, they said they wouldn’t do that, they don’t think it’s ethical. They’d given their word.’

The Greenways have my grudging respect but not my commission invoice - on a no sale-no fee basis I get nothing for three months’ work.

‘Builders can’t lose can they?’ States F.

‘What goes around comes around.’ I tell him flatly.

‘What do your mean boss?’

It will change.

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Just Another Day - Monday

‘Before you begin I’m not selling on the cheap.’ Announces the frosty woman who opens the door of a mock Georgian semi-detached house on a late seventies development, that has seen better days. It’s not the best of starts and the opposition estate agent’s board wedged down the side alley gives a big clue as to her – not unique – lack of love for the industry. But sometimes it’s better to be second or third in, when reality has finally started to dawn.

I hand her my card and we do the introductions. She’s standoffish and I sense the hostility even before the yappy dog tries to bite my ankles.

‘He’s just being friendly.’ Announces the woman as the little hairball paws and nips at my suit trouser leg and I have to make a superhuman effort not to kick the bitch half way up the hall.

‘So tell me how the marketing has been going?’ I open once we’ve done a quick tour of the house; flowery décor, kitchen showing its age - like the owner – and sanitary ware in need of updating. We’re now in the lounge/diner and I note the wood flooring is lifting and there’s an ominous looking gap between skirting and parquet. The area is a good one still, but the development has been known to suffer subsidence, as the footings weren’t deep enough originally. I suspect there’s some movement although I’m guessing it won’t be acknowledged, on the walls or on the price.

‘I’ve tried three agents over the last eighteen months.’ Says the woman sourly. ‘All useless.’ I know who they are, as I’ve done my homework and she’s two-thirds right, but then she’s also been trying to get a good thirty grand more than the house is worth. And that’s before a surveyor spots the crooked doors and floors and asks for a structural engineer’s report. I’m not sure I even want this house on my books. Some homes and some owners are more trouble than they’re worth.

‘How do you feel the other agents have been going wrong?’ I probe, looking for ammunition.

‘They didn’t advertise it properly and then they brought entirely the wrong type of people round.’ She replies, with the certainty only a myopic vendor can muster. I briefly wonder how she’d react to a newly rich lottery winner with no manners, no taste, but a desire to live in a dated semi with crooked floors and rotting window frames and happy to pay over the odds. She’d take the money.

‘What are you looking for in an agent?’ I ask, using a favourite question for disgruntled owners who have worked their way through the cheap operators and should be ready to pay a fair fee.

‘Well you’re all the same.’ She pronounces coldly as the dog growls in confirmation and bares her yellowing teeth at me. We’re not: any more than builders, painters or prostitutes.

‘Just want your fee and me to sell for a giveaway price.’ Continues the woman, as I realise why her husband left her for a younger model and a home that didn’t sag, too.

‘What you don’t seem to realise,’ continues the woman hitting her stride, as I think, I do lady, I really do. ‘Is there’s nothing out there as nice as mine for the money. I’m not giving it away.’

I glance at my pad and the suggested asking price I’ve pencilled in. One £25,000 less than she’s grumbling about now. I’ve more chance of the dog liking me than its owner warming to my proposed course of action.

‘You people just try to drive prices down to get a quick sale.’ Rails the lady as her dog senses the antipathy and begins a soft menacing growl while it eyes my trouser leg again. Curiously, a disgruntled buyer unable to find anything they could afford accused me off pushing prices up to unaffordable levels, not thirty minutes ago. This isn’t a profession for insecure people seeking approval.

‘Any joy?’ Asks assistant manager T, as I slope back in the office, wiry hairs clinging doggedly to my suit, questioning of my parenthood, still ringing in my ears.

Not a lot.

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