Unlike a Virgin (23 page)

I’m blinking quickly like there’s a bug in my eye. Never, ever, ever, ever, have I heard the words, ‘I have no budget.’ Ever. Ever. What do you say to them?

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ is all I can think of.

He smiles and nods. This is unprecedented. This is many, many, many, many, many, money.

‘So, tell me about yourself?’ he says, stroking my knee this time.

‘Um,’ I start. I don’t want to tell him anything except ‘Please get your blinking hands off me’, but the words ‘no budget’ and the thought of the commission and Posh Boy’s face when he knows I’ve landed a dream client mean that I smile, instead, and say, ‘So, what would you like to know?’

Now, I admit, I’ve been a little smug about bagging a ‘show me the money’ client, but that is a void on a blank bit of nothing in comparison to the way Posh Boy has been going on today.

His one and only contribution to our esteemed agency is the paintballing team-building event. Yet, far from hanging his head in shame or repeatedly banging it against the corner of a shelf, he’s strutting about like he’s created world peace. I fear he’ll be bitterly disappointed if he’s hoping for some staff bonding from us lot. We haven’t even had a Christmas do since the year of the Super Hero-themed party. Lube’s wife came as Wonder Woman and, unfortunately, was sick all down herself and most of the Cricklewood Sales team. Chunder Woman we called her. Lube organised a Christmas meal the following year, but he banned booze and only four people turned up.

‘Yah, yah, paintballing. Dislocated my shoulder one time. Wasn’t supposed to tackle my opponent. Ha!’ and other hilarious
anecdotes have been pouring poshly from him all day as he prances about like a prat. I have ignored him and left Wendy to feign interest, which she’s doing so realistically that I think she might actually be looking forward to tomorrow. I can forgive her, though, because she doesn’t get out of the office much.

‘I hope they’ve got lots of ammo!’ he exclaims.

But Wendy isn’t looking at John this time. Something outside the window has caught her eye. ‘Fuckeroony,’ she’s muttering. I turn to see what warrants her favourite profanity.

‘Oh.’ I smile, standing up. ‘That’s Ricardo. My client with no budget. Oi, Fungus Foot, did I mention that I have a client with no budget who wants me to find him not one, but two properties?’

‘That’s Ricardo?’ Wendy sighs. ‘Oh, you cow of all the prized cow herds in the land. You went for dinner with him. Why didn’t you go back to his hotel and shag him?’

‘Did he ask you to shag him?’ asks John.

‘Yes, and she didn’t. Are you mad?’

‘What did he say? Will you shag me?’

‘No! He’s Italian! He said, will you come back to my room?’

I didn’t like that bit at all. He insisted he wanted to pay for dinner, so he asked for the bill. Then he said, ‘Please, do me ze honour of accompanying me back to my hotel,’ and I said, ‘No, sorry, we’d best keep this business.’ Having been blown out, when the bill came he didn’t seem quite so thrilled about paying it. He said he thought he had more cash on him than he did and was very reluctant to put it on a credit card. I could see that he wanted me to cough up, but I didn’t to serve him damn
well right. Mind you, I can understand it, credit cards are the work of the devil.

‘Is he that attractive?’ asks Posh Boy.

‘John, that is … what can I say? He is … wow!’ says Wendy.

‘Wend, close your mouth,’ I hiss. ‘He’s coming in.’

Ricardo enters. He greets us all with a small nod of his head. He’s looking slick. His black pressed trousers fit him perfectly, his black V-neck jumper has no fluff on it and his brown shoes are so polished you could probably squeeze your blackheads in them if you fancied. He stands at a polite distance and smiles at Wendy and then John.

‘Good afternoon.’

He walks towards me and kisses me on both cheeks. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Wendy pretending to fall off her chair. I nod towards the door and we both start walking. Ricardo puts an arm around me. It’s not actually touching me, he just holds it away from me like you do when a toddler is learning to walk. I feel my mobile vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out. It’s my mum. I don’t answer it.

‘Please,’ says Ricardo, gesturing towards the phone.

‘No, we have to find you your future home.’

We carry on walking towards the door in our strange embrace.

‘Er, Grace, your mum’s on line two,’ shouts Wendy.

‘Can you tell her … ?’

Wendy shakes her head and gives me the ‘your mum’s being a bit of a fruit cake’ look. I need to take the call so I walk back to my desk.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I say into the receiver.

‘Grace.’ She’s sobbing.

‘Mum.’

‘Oh, Grace. I need that money.’

Of course she does. I haven’t even tried to take out the loan I promised her yet. Partly because the thought makes me shudder, but also because I’ve been going through a lot, what with Dan leaving me with such a complicated parting gift. I notice John watching me with interest.

‘I’ll pop round. I can’t talk here. Love you.’

I join Ricardo outside.

‘Trouble?’

‘It was my mum.’

‘Oh, your beautiful mother. How is she?’

‘Well, in a bit of a state. Do you mind if I just run in and speak to her for thirty seconds? I’m normally much more professional than this, but it is on the way to our first property and we’ve got loads of time. Do you mind?’

‘Grace. Your mother is more important than your job or my house. All we ’av ees family,’ he says and then he tries to open the passenger-side door to my car.

‘You’re a star. Sorry, but I’m afraid you need to crawl into the car through my side. That door doesn’t work. I really need to get it fixed.’

I wish I could say that I didn’t look at Ricardo’s bottom as he crawled into the passenger seat, but I can’t.

As I tear off with Ricardo next to me, I open the window to combat the effects of aftershave in the confined space of a Nissan Micra on an easily nauseous woman.

I park the car in the driveway and quickly run up to Mum’s house, leaving Ricardo in the passenger seat.

‘Mildred, what’s been happening here, eh?’ I exclaim as I open the door.

‘Oh Grace!’ Mum calls from the kitchen. I run in there to find her seated at the table clutching a gin. She stands up. ‘Do you want one?’

‘No, Mum, I’m working. I’ve got a client in the car. Are you OK?’

I look at her. She looks different. She’s slightly flushed in the face and her eyes are blotchy, but it’s not that. She looks nice. My mother always looks nice, but now I see what the difference is, today she looks sexy nice. She’s wearing her mid-calf black pedal pushers, a black T-shirt and a pink neck scarf. She looks like a character from
Grease
that puts out!

‘That nice man from the construction company came here again and he was so kind. We spoke for a long time. Oh, Grace. It’s a lot of money.’

‘Mum!’

‘Grace, he was ever so nice.’

‘Ever so nice! Ever so nice! Please don’t do this to me,’ I say in panic.

‘But Grace, I need the money. He said he’d give me twenty-five thousand, just like that.’

‘Mum, I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit distracted but I will get it for you.’

‘I don’t want to take your money.’

‘But I’m family, it’s what families do. What they don’t do is sell their graves.’

She looks down at her feet.

‘Mum, promise me you won’t change your mind. Promise me. I don’t know if I could speak to you again if you sold the grave. I just don’t.’

Her eyes remain fixed on the floor.

‘Look, I’ve got to go. It will be all right. I’ll go to the bank and sort out this loan. The guy I’m showing property to today is minted, and that means loads of commission. Don’t worry, Mum. We’ll sort this.’

She finally looks up and offers a pathetic smile. It’ll have to do because I have to go.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say as I get back into the car.

‘Grace,’ Ricardo turns to me and takes my hand. ‘Family is everything, please don’t apologise. Do you want to talk to me?’

‘No, we need to show you some houses.’

‘Your mother she has a beautiful home. Where is your father?’

‘Oh, he died,’ I say.

‘Oh, Grace, I am sorry. He would be very proud of you.’

I nod, but the thing is I don’t think my dad would be proud. I mean, he’d still love me, but he would be alarmed to see me now. The me I am now was not the me I should have become if you’d known me as a child.

‘Hmm.’

‘So your mother ees alone and she ees sad.’

‘Yeah. And there are money troubles. It’s complicated.’

‘But your mother, if she ’as money worries, she could sell ’er house. And you could help ’er find another smaller one. That house would be worth how much?’

‘Oh, God knows. Well over a million now, though, definitely. It’s listed and the garden’s quite big, so I could see it going for crazy money actually. But we don’t want to sell the house. It was in Dad’s family for years.’

‘But she owns it.’

‘Yes.’

‘So she should just borrow money against the house. People do it all the time.’

‘Hmm, maybe. Please, Ricardo, you’re very kind, but we have work to do.’

‘To infinity and beyond!’ he exclaims for some reason.

‘Yes.’ I laugh. ‘Infinity and beyond. Or maybe just Notting Hill.’

Doctor’s appointments, paintballing, bank-manager meetings – when am I supposed to get any work done? Bob’s fallen off the radar since the hot-tub fiasco and I still haven’t managed to sell Claire’s flat. I’m starting to worry that my hormones are interfering with the old Gracie sales magic. I’m still doing well, just not well enough. I’m about to fiscally fry myself for my mother by taking out this loan, so I need to be making sales. I’ve got everything crossed to the point of discomfort that the bank will give me a loan today. Although I’m not just relying on luck, that would be foolish, I’m prepared. too. I’m a big fan of the six ‘P’s: ‘Perfect Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance.’

Wendy helped me. She sent me lots of articles about how to successfully nail your bank-loan meeting. She’s a bit obsessive when it comes to online articles. She can barely blow her nose without consulting one. If chicken fillets are on offer in Sainsbury’s, she’ll be stood there typing, ‘Easy delicious
chicken fillet recipe,’ into her phone. If she buys a red top, she’ll go online and tap in something like, ‘How to look gorgeous in red,’ and if that doesn’t work she’ll try, ‘Sexy hot in red,’ although that would lead to porn, which would make her start shrieking. The articles she sent me about bank-loan strategy were brilliant, though, and I now have the lingo, the jargon, the strut. Basically, I’m Alan Sugar in a slightly overworked pencil skirt.

The main point they all railed on about was that you have to look smart. Hence, I am wearing heels and there’s goo in my hair. The goo is supposed to make me look officious and not like, as Wendy said I am prone to resembling, a defiled farm girl. I’m not convinced as I think it looks greasy and it feels like I’ve wiped my hair on a battered cod. My favourite piece of advice was that you have to walk into the room from a position of power. Wend and I got quite excited by this and agreed that the ultimate powerful entry would be to abseil in dressed as Wonder Woman. But there’s never time to learn to abseil when you need it, is there? Anyway, now that I’m here there’s no window to abseil through, so I’m standing very straight and trying not to look apologetic. It’s actually quite hard to keep all this up, because although the door is open and I can see the man I need to speak to, standing in my way is a lady with a buggy. She’s just left the room and her toddler is yelling, so she’s trying to get him or her to drink some Irn-Bru out of a plastic bottle, whilst muttering to the bank manager man who is looking awkward.

‘Thanks for nothing,’ the woman eventually says, so that half of West London can hear her, and strides off pushing the buggy with venom.

‘Grace Flowers,’ the man says with relief.

‘Yes, very pleased to meet you. Thank you for taking the time to see me today,’ I say, shaking his hand and sitting on the seat he proffers. A very impressive start, as I think all my online articles would agree.

‘Well, Grace, I must say, you’re a rarity as a client. You’ve never been in debt.’

‘Thank you,’ I say with a smile. ‘I like to keep my finances in order.’

‘I can see that,’ he replies.

‘Now,’ I say, leaning forward and clasping my hands together on the desk. ‘I’d like, if I may, to put a motion on the table.’

Businesslike, formal, brilliant, if I do say so myself. I’ve been working on my business jargon and it has paid off.

‘Oh, ho, I’d rather you didn’t, we have toilet facilities for that.’

I stare at him. He laughs. It takes some time for it to dawn on me that he’s referring to a bowel motion – I definitely wasn’t planning on putting one of those on the desk. I start to blush. I can feel the hotness in my cheeks spreading and I know, I just know, that I now look like a red edible fruit rather than a sleek businesswoman and it’s all gone to pot.