Finding Home (4 page)

‘Oh God, it hurts! Fuck!'

I put one hand on her back to steady her. She leans over the back of her chair and somehow manages to knock my jacket into the pool of goopy fluid at her feet. Biting my lip, I reach across her to the desk phone. I may never have worked in an office before, but even I know how to dial 999. Sally begins to breathe again as the pain seems to pass.

‘I think it's coming,' she gasps.

‘What? Now?'

‘I've had the pains since last night. Oh… fuck!' She doubles over again.

With forced calm, I try to explain what's happening to the emergency services operator: pains since last night, waters oozing over my jacket and the posh parquet floor of
Tehtherington Bowen-Knowles: Estate Agents and Specialists in Unique and Historic Properties
. I give them the address. No, I'm not her friend or her doula. No, I'm not a colleague. I'm just an interviewee who was about to be shown the door when—

‘Oooohhh! Fuck!!!'

‘Five minutes? Okay, thanks.'

‘Can you type?'

I put down the phone and wheel around, startled. Mr Bowen-Knowles has come out of his office and is standing uncomfortably close to me. His eyes skim to my chest, and I'm suddenly aware how sheer my blouse is.

‘Sorry?'

‘Type, Ms Wood – as in, on a computer.' His eyes return to my face and he mimes a keyboard.

‘Yes, of course. One hundred words a minute.'

‘Fucking help me!' Sally cries.

Mr Bowen-Knowles flicks his hand at Sally, keeping his distance. ‘Obviously I'm not going to have time to do any more interviews. So you can come in if you like – as temporary admin support.'

‘Admin support?'

He looks at me like I'm an idiot. ‘Sally's the receptionist. You don't think we'd actually trust her with anything more than that, do you?'

‘Oh, well, I don't really know…' He must have thought I was a complete moron spouting off about selling historic properties when the only job opening was for a temporary receptionist.

He shrugs at my clear disappointment. His eyes roam downwards again. ‘I'll tell you what. Since you're so – keen—' he grins wolfishly, ‘if you earn your spurs, I might let you do the odd viewing. We've got more rich Londoners down here at the weekend than we know what to do with. You don't deal with any other aspect of the purchase and sale.
And
only if none of the other agents are available.'

‘Viewings? That sounds interesting.' Certainly, the one and only viewing that I went on in London was all that and more. But at least this time, I'd be on the other side of the fence. And doing more than just admin.

‘Oh God, it's coming!'

Outside, a siren wails.

I switch back into crisis management mode as Sally leans over the desk and hikes up her skirt. I'm vaguely aware of the two men standing behind me, their faces paralysed in horror. I grab her hand and squeeze it. ‘Just hang in there,' I yell to Sally. ‘You're doing great!'

The door bursts open and two paramedics arrive. They lift my predecessor onto a stretcher, ply her with tubes and monitors, and give her a gas mask to breathe into.

‘I want an epidural!' Sally yells, gasping.

‘Too late for that.'

‘What? Fuck. No!'

The paramedics wheel the screaming woman out of the office. I hold the door for them to go through, and then turn, sweaty and rumpled, to face my new employer.

Mr Bowen-Knowles frowns so deeply you could almost germinate seeds in his brow. ‘Well, Ms Wood,' he says. ‘You want the job, right?'

‘Yes, but—'

‘So don't just stand there.' He points to the mess on the floor. ‘Take some initiative.'

‘Yes, Mr Bowen-Knowles,' I say through my teeth. I pick up my soggy jacket, and head to the back of the office to look for a loo and a mop.

By mid-morning, I feel like a veteran of foreign wars. In the span of a few short hours, I've got a job, played maternity nurse, mopped the floor, taken my jacket to the dry cleaners, and when I get back, I find that I've become the ‘face' of
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
– the other estate agents are out on viewings and Mr Bowen-Knowles is closeted in his office with the door firmly shut – so I'm on my own. As it's fairly obvious that I won't be getting an induction, I use the time to explore the office. In the back there's a disabled loo with a ‘salesman of the month' chart tacked to the door (someone has crossed out ‘man' with a red pen and written ‘person' instead), a stationery cupboard, and a coffee machine that looks like something out of Dr Jekyll's laboratory percolating a black, poisonous sludge. I settle for a cup of freezing water from the cooler.

My new desk is covered in pink objects of all description: rose-coloured stickies, soft toy bunny rabbits, floral-toned make-up and nail polish, a clock shaped like Cinderella's glass slipper, and a pink mug with frolicking teddy bears. Sitting down in the swivel chair, I whisk everything into a desk drawer that's already overflowing with chocolate, baby magazines, and used tissues with blotted pink lipstick. A clean desk equals a clean slate. As an afterthought, I open the drawer and take out Cinderella's glass slipper. I've never had a clock on my desk before, but somehow it seems appropriate.

Next, I look over the stickies that Sally has pasted around the computer screen. I'm relieved to find the name and number of an IT consultant. I call the number to find out how to log in to the computer system. The consultant sets me up with my very own email address: [email protected]. I hang up the phone feeling confident for the first time in weeks. I have a desk, a computer, and an email address. I have a job – in an office. In a few weeks, I'll have my first pay cheque. Things are definitely looking up—

But the next instant, I notice a couple lurking outside the window looking at the placards. They're both bundled up in layers of tattered winter clothing that's definitely past its sell-by date. I hold my breath… they're at the door… they're coming inside.

Having a desk and an email address is one thing – having actual clients is quite another!

The man guides the woman inside with a hand on her back. His eyebrow twitches like he's almost as terrified as I am.

‘Hello!' I spring to my feet with a welcoming smile, like I imagine Kirsty Allsopp would do. I've watched every episode of her vintage home show, and she really knows how to make people feel at ease.

‘I'm Amy Wood. May I help you?'

‘Uhh…' the man looks at the woman. She twiddles with the paisley scarf around her neck. ‘We're looking for a new house.'

‘Great, we've get lots of lovely properties that I can show you. What kind of home are you looking for? Period or modern, or…' I hesitate, suddenly remembering that I'm only supposed to be doing admin. ‘Or maybe you want to take a seat and wait for my colleagues—' I cut off. ‘I mean… can I take your details?'

Looking confused, they sit down on the beige sofa. I perch on the edge of the coffee table on top of some home-decorating magazines. I scribble my pen in the notebook to get the ink flowing.

‘Your name, please?'

‘Mary Blundell,' the woman says. ‘And this is Fred.'

‘Pleased to meet you,' I say. ‘And your budget?'

‘Three million.'

I sit back and look at her, stunned. Three million? Pounds? Sterling? I'd had them pegged as first-time buyers who'd be after a higgledy-piggledy little cottage in Pucklechurch – or something. My instincts as an estate agent are rubbish!

‘Well…' Mr Blundell seems worried by my hesitation. ‘I guess we can stretch to 3.2 for the right place, you know?'

‘Absolutely.' I stand up. ‘Let me get you some brochures and―'

A door slams in the back. As I reach my desk, the spiky-haired man who did absolutely nothing to help out with the baby birthing has returned. I expect everything to be all smiles again, and if I'm Kirsty, then maybe he can be Phil Spencer. But when the man catches sight of me, he immediately glares in the spitting image of Mr Bowen-Knowles. My fantasy of happy colleagues fizzles like a dud firework.

‘What do you think you're doing?' His accent is like cut glass.

I glance towards the couple on the sofa. Counting them and the newcomer, three people are looking at me like I have two heads.

‘These people are looking for a new home. No one else was here, so I took their details. Mr and Mrs Blundell.' I gesture towards the couple.

When Spiky-hair turns to the prospective clients, his demeanour changes completely. His face erupts into an obsequious grin. Pushing past me, he approaches the couple.

‘Sorry for the confusion – she's new,' he schmoozes. ‘I'm Jonathan Park-Spencer. Please come into my office and I'll help you right away.'

The couple stands up, looking bewildered.

‘It's fine,' I say, secretly seething. ‘Jonathan can take it from here.'

The three of them disappear through a door next to Mr Bowen-Knowles's office.

I sit back down at my ‘de-pinked' desk. Obviously, as I have no experience, it was right for Jonathan to take charge of the clients, but I should have asked to sit in and listen so that I can start learning the ropes for when I'm called upon to do viewings. I stare at the door, listening to the muffled voices behind it, but I can't make out what they're saying. To make myself more useful for next time – if there is a next time – I grab a pile of glossy property brochures from a nearby desk and flip through them to familiarise myself. New-builds, modern flats, development sites, office space for lease, a few semis-; my eyes glaze over. Where are the ‘unique and historic' properties that this place is supposed to specialise in? If I had a budget of three million (three million!) pounds like Fred and Mary Blundell, I wouldn't come to
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
based on the placards in the window. For that kind of money they could buy themselves a Thornfield, a Pemberly, a Manderley. In so many classics that I've loved since my girlhood, there's a notable house – grand, quirky, sometimes even a little bit sinister – and I love all of their fictional idiosyncrasies. My heart momentarily flutters with excitement. How lovely it would be to find a buyer for a historic home; a kindred spirit to chat with over Earl Grey tea, currant scones and cucumber sandwiches. Maybe I could help them find craftspeople to help with any needed restoration, and even help them source antiques for the place. Or I could do research on the history of the house or—

The door in the back slams again. An attractive Asian woman with shiny bobbed hair comes in, looking daring in a teal satin suit and matching heels. She sets her handbag on the desk opposite mine and actually smiles at me.

‘Hi, I'm Amy Wood – new here today.' I lean over my desk and proffer my hand.

‘Claire Kumar.' She shakes my hand firmly. ‘Is he back?' She nods her head at Jonathan's desk.

‘Some clients came in. He took them to the spare office.'

‘Typical.' She shakes her head. ‘The one day I'm late, Uriah Heep gets all the action.'

The literary reference makes me like her instantly. Before I can muster up my own Dickensian reply, the door to Mr Bowen-Knowles's office bangs open.

‘Wood,' he yells, ‘where's my coffee? I always have it at half eleven. And Kumar…' he makes a show of checking his garish gold watch, ‘nice of you to join us. You'll be pleased to hear that there's a viewing at two for that dump in Chipping Sudbury. You know the drill –it's a “character property brimming with potential, in need of a little TLC”.' He wrinkles his nose. ‘Make sure you whisper in their ears that the vendor's desperate to sell and will probably pay some poor sod to take it off his hands. Just don't mention the subsidence – or the roof, or the new chicken shit plant, or the frackers or…' he scratches his head, ‘anything really. I want that place under offer in a fortnight.'

‘But Alistair, that listing is Jonathan's.' Claire sounds incensed. ‘He should be handling it—'

‘Save that for your barrister course – if you get there. And at this rate…' he flashes her a vulpine smile, ‘your hair will be grey by then and you won't have to bother with a wig.'

With that, he returns to his office and slams the door.

‘Ugh,' Claire says. ‘That man is insufferable.'

‘Are you studying to be a barrister?'

‘Yeah. And as soon as I can get a pupillage, I'm out of here.'

A less than ringing endorsement of my new place of employ, but I'm hardly surprised. Mr Bowen-Knowles's outburst has shaken the chat out of her. She stares at her computer screen and begins typing. I clear my throat. ‘Um, I was wondering – could you show me how to use the coffee machine?'

‘Sure.' With a sigh she stands up and we walk to the kitchen. I stand aside and watch as she disembowels the machine, puts in a filter and a packet of coffee, empties the sludge from the pot, fills it with water, and presses a series of buttons. I think about how in the staffroom at the college, all the coffee is instant. Memories of the chalky, acidic taste triggers a little pang of loss.

‘The boss likes his with no milk and two sugars,' she says as the machine begins to sputter and gurgle. ‘And his special mug is in here.' She opens a cupboard and takes out a huge white and green mug with the words ‘I'd rather be ... GOLFING!' scrawled in black across it. Instantly, I recoil. In hindsight, I realise that in my relationship with Simon, I missed plenty of warning signs that something rotten was lurking beneath the surface. Like the fact that we used to do the Saturday
Telegraph
crossword together in bed, but he suddenly started buying the
Times
. Or the fact that he went to work at an investment bank instead of finishing his theology thesis. Or that every other week on Sunday afternoons, he liked to play golf. It's not that I have anything against golf per se, but it's one of those things that just seems so
male
. Secretly, I've always agreed with Mark Twain: that ‘golf is a good walk spoiled'. As such, I always found an excuse never to go with Simon – even to watch. One of my many mistakes, perhaps. I imagine ‘Ashley' in a little white golf skirt and polo shirt, dangling her long, tanned legs over the side of the golf-cart and pursing her bee-stung lips anxiously as Simon tees off with his prized 3 wood. My hand trembles a little and I almost drop the mug.