Graham scribbles something in his diary, passes it my way. ‘Does L fancy pants off him?’
I look at Lucie, noticing she is wearing more make-up than usual.
Ward hits a few keys on his laptop and a fresh list of properties comes on to the screen. ‘As you know I visited all the offices recently, some aren’t doing as well as others.’
‘Sevenoaks,’ says Graham, followed by a cough and a rub on his back.
‘Exactly. What’s going on with the Vine?’ Ward asks. It’s a house in Sevenoaks that hasn’t sold for over six months.
‘Nothing,’ says Graham. ‘I suggested tactfully to the owner that we reduce the asking price. She set her terriers on me and showed me the door. She’s loop the loop.’ Graham pulls a dotty face.
Even Ward smiles now. ‘For once, Graham, I agree.’
‘Right, we’re almost done,’ says Ward, an hour later. ‘But before you go,’ Ward takes off his glasses, ‘I’ve been going through the books.’
Graham twitches. ‘Uh-oh.’
‘We had fourteen pitches in March and out of those fourteen we won only six.’
‘Mine,’ claims Graham, pouting. ‘Well, five of them.’
Lucie shoots him a death stare.
‘Yes yes, Graham, without you the ship would sink, but we’re ateam,’ Ward says. ‘So, come on you lot, we’re well into April now and spring is the best time to sell so we should be doing twenty to twenty-five pitches and winning over half. What’s going wrong? And you can’t tell me the market’s dead. Our competitors wouldn’t agree. Barker & Goulding are doing a hell of a lot better than us right now.’
‘They’re bigger,’ Graham whines.
Ward raises an eyebrow. ‘Size isn’t everything.’
As he reinforces how much we need to improve our pitch-to-win ratio my mind drifts to Jeremy again. About a year ago Jeremy had to have keyhole surgery on his knee. After returning to work one of his first pitches was at two o’clock in Reigate Heath, between Dorking and Reigate. He had returned to the office much earlier than expected. ‘What happened?’ I’d asked, watching him furiously pop painkillers out of a silver packet. ‘You won’t believe it, Jan. I thought I’d try and do the pitch without my stick, looks more professional. So, I begin to walk down the garden path, lose my balance and almost fall when this little man rushes out and shouts, “Stop right there! Off my property! I know the likes of you!” He thought I’d had one too many down the pub.’
‘Didn’t he give you the chance to explain?’
‘Oh, I explained all right. I went back to the car and showed him my stick, felt like hitting him over the head with it. Sometimes, January, I wonder why estate agents get such a raw deal. It’s the owners who treat us as if we’re nobodies.’
‘So, what happened when he realisedyou weren’t drunk?’
‘He tried to apologise, but I didn’t want to set foot inside his poxy little house.’
It was a five-million-pound mansion that went straight into the hands of our rival, Spencer Hunt, the 1.5 per cent commission lining Barker & Goulding’s pockets instead.
‘January?’ Ward is standing next to me. ‘Any ideas why this company has slowed down over the last year?’
‘Who does that man think he is?’ Graham says downstairs in our office. ‘The Mary Portas of property?’
‘I think he has a point,’ I say, letting Spud off the lead.
‘So do I,’ Lucie backs me up.
Graham frowns. ‘Well, of course,youwould.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You just want to jump into bed with him.’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, Graham, I have a boyfriend.’
‘Ah yes, Jim, who won’t put a ring on your finger.’
