I’m sitting in my office watching the sales floor. My
colleagues hate me lurking and observing but then some agencies monitor their
staff remotely with closed circuit cameras, at least I go for a piss regularly.
More regularly than I used to unfortunately.
B, the loose lettings lush, has a young hippy-looking
couple in front of her and the discussion is getting heated. B isn’t even
bothering to try and chat up the male as he has longer, glossier hair than she
does and his girlfriend – the one who’d be wearing the trousers if it wasn’t
for the flowery maxi skirt – is looking daggers at her. Not a lot of love lost
for estate agents.
‘I’ve told you.’ Reiterates B sternly. ‘You won’t be
moving anywhere until I get the employers references back and we sort out why
you have a bad credit score.’
‘It’s just the man on our case.’ Replies the beta male
dreamily. He’d still be smoking something in the office if it weren’t for the
legislation. I stifle an audible scoff at his risible, persecuted lefty
response just as M our fat mortgage man waddles by, scoffing more visibly.
‘My father will act as guarantor if necessary.’ Responds
the flower girl in a cut glass accent that echoes privilege, a horse of her own
and a private education. She must be shagging the shaggy-haired-loser just to
piss of her parents. The same ones she expects to underpin her rental
agreement. Age brings failing eyesight, but 20/20 insight.
‘He hasn’t responded to our correspondence.’ Snipes B,
forgetting half a dozen customer service courses and countless reminders from
me, to treat people she’s not screwing with a bit more courtesy. I hear a
grinding noise in my head and realise it’s my molars again. A trip to the
Polish dentist can only be days away.
Without consciously deciding to, I’m out of my seat and
in the main office. If a complaint is coming I’d like to nip matters in the
bud. The last thing I need is the bean counter and head office requesting reams
of written reports on why someone wants to speak to the Property Ombudsman. You
usually subscribe to an organisation for a benefit or two, but I get the
feeling the Ombudsman’s office hate agents as much as everyone else does.
The straight A* girl is out of her chair and on her
iPhone, moving towards the window imperiously while her slumming it f**k buddy
looks pretty vacant and plugs in his MP3 headphones. B is visibly coming to the
boil. I try to attract her attention, with a calming signal that makes me look
- on reflection in the window glass - like a pianist with an invisible
keyboard. The girl is speaking haughtily, her boyfriend tapping his fingers on
B’s desk, while B shuffles paper at a speed that might cause combustion.
‘Daddy,’ urges the girl in a voice that has dropped a
decade in age. ‘These beastly people are giving Virgil and me a hard time. You
need to sign some silly undertaking before we can have our flat.’ I sense an
overworked man, in an office grander than mine, trying to swallow his pride and
an obligation to pay six months rent about five months after his daughter has dumped
slacker boy and run home for mummy’s cooking and cleaning - and the chance to
ride Dusky the gelding more regularly than Virgil.
‘Please.’ Inveigles the girl persuasively. ‘I just must
have this place Daddy. I’ll die if we miss it.’
I sense but can’t hear another beaten man, on the end of
the phone. Women are the decision makers where most property transactions are
concerned. B is not even bothering to disguise her distaste but then she’s
shafted plenty of men too. The boyfriend is oblivious to the drama, sat
engrossed in his own audio-cocooned world, longhaired head nodding
rhythmically. He’ll be bald and on the council accommodation list before his
thirtieth birthday.
‘You could have been more understanding.’ I coax gently
after they leave. B bites, as she’s rumoured to do out of hours.
‘I hate bitches like that.’ She snaps. ‘Manipulating,
conniving, using.’
Put pot, kettle and black on the inventory.
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