Discreetly, I nod before addressing Mrs Roberts. ‘They’re great, but in my view, the photos we already have sell your house more.’ The photographer had warned me that Mrs Roberts had been particularly tricky when he’d visited, in fact ‘neurotic’ was the word he’d used. She hadn’t liked the invasion one little bit, was cross that he hadn’t taken off his shoes inside, had objected to all his unnecessary equipment and told him off for ‘snooping around’.
I compose myself. ‘I can see why you want to show off your garden and your greenhouse.’ I tell her about my grandmother’s kitchen garden in Cornwall, her pride and joy, but if Grandad wanted to sell up, the shot we’d want is of the front of the house looking out to the sea. ‘That’s what people will fall in love with.’ I point to the professional shot taken of the outside of her house. ‘This will make people put in an offer.’
‘On to the blurb,’ Mrs Roberts says, almost an hour later, when she has finally conceded that perhaps the professional shots should be used rather than her own, although her husband will be disappointed. Out of her handbag now come pages and pages of single-line text that could be excellent additional material for the brochure, she says. When I see footnotes I start losing the will to live.
‘People won’t read this,’ I say, catching Ward hovering outside, confusion on his face as to why this meeting is taking so long. He knocks on the door, introduces himself to Mrs Roberts. ‘Do you mind?’ He takes a seat.
Don’t stuff it up now, I think to myself, aware his presence makes me want to impress him. I continue, ‘Mrs Roberts, there are only three people who will read your brochure line by line.’
‘Only three?’ she says, crestfallen, looking over to Ward to contradict me. He nods.
‘The agent will because he or she is paid to write it. So, that’s me. The client,’ I gesture to her, ‘because it’s your home, finally, the purchaserafterthey’ve bought it. The only thing that counts is this: your home is stunning, you live within easy commuting distance to London, you have five bedrooms and a conservatory, three acres, you’re near good schools, it’s Grade 2 listed and you have a lovely greenhouse, which I am sure I can somehow fit into the blurb,’ I conclude, hoping for a smile; not expecting Mrs Roberts to burst into tears.
‘I have a wonderful greenhouse,’ she tells Ward, who is now looking decidedly uncomfortable. ‘My son built it for me. You see, he died four years ago.’
It’s six o’clock. Mrs Roberts left five minutes ago and Ward and I are the only two left in the office. I have spent the last half an hour holding Mary’s hand (we’re on first-name terms now) and listening to her tell me all about her son. I couldn’t let her leave so distressed. As I’m about to stick my head round Ward’s door to tell him I’m off, I hear him on the telephone. ‘I’m not sure what time I’ll be back. Marina, don’t be so unreasonable.’
I decide not to disturb him, instead I head back downstairs with Spud, mulling over what to cook for supper tonight.
‘January! Wait!’
I turn and see Ward standing at the top of the stairs. ‘I should think you need a strong drink after that?’ When he clocks my hesitation he says, ‘Unless you have to rush off ?’
Ward opens one of the cupboards in his office, and produces a bottle of red wine along with a couple of glasses. As he pours me a glass I notice a faded scar on his right hand.
‘How did you get that?’
‘This? Er, a stupid accident when I was a kid. Burnt myself on the radiator. I thought you handled Mary really well.’
I tell Ward that she’d raised her son, George, in their family home, and when the photographer had come round it had felt too real, too final for her. Deep down she was looking for ways to delay the selling process. ‘Silly really,’ she’d said, blowing her nose.
‘Her son was only thirty-one, Ward. He died of a brain tumour leaving a wife and little boy behind. Her grandson played in their garden, helped her pick tomatoes in the greenhouse.’ Self-conscious and not wanting any awkward silences I continue, ‘She said her husband can’t talk to her about it. She’s struggled all this time, alone. Her garden was her only sanctuary.’
‘I guess people deal with grief in different ways.’
‘A house is never just a house, is it? It’s like a memory box, each room telling a story.’
‘But when you do move, it’s as if you never lived there in the first place,’ Ward reflects. ‘You don’t drive down that road again. It’s gone, forever.’
‘That’s exactly what scares her.’
‘Why did I become an estate agent?’ Ward repeats my question twenty minutes later, topping up my glass but not his own. ‘Since I was a boy I always wanted to work in property. Mum could leave me for hours building Lego houses. Strange. Most kids want to play football or rugby, but this nerd,’ he laughs at himself, ‘wanted to visit a National Trust House. If I tell you this, you won’t use it against me, will you?’
‘Carry on,’ I say, enjoying seeing a more relaxed side to him.
‘In the school holidays I used to visit loads of estate agencies because they let me go through their brochure drawer. It was like tucking into a jar of sweets. You think I’m weird,’ he says, a twinkle in his eye. ‘How about you, January? Why did you want to work in property?’
‘I didn’t. I kind of fell into this job really. My daughter had started primary school and I was looking for work, this came up. I wasn’t sure at first, you know, about the “estate agent” thing.’
‘I can understand that. I still hate going to dinner parties. I’ve never enjoyed them at the best of times, but the moment I say, “I’m an estate agent” I can almost feel the waves of antipathy around the table. I should think a tax lawyer is preferable to one of us.’
‘Or a traffic warden.’
‘We’re probably on a par with them. Sometimes I consider pretending I’m a doctor, but then fear that, knowing my luck, someone will faint or get a lump of meat trapped in their throat and I’ll be expected to perform the abdominal thrusts – what’s so funny?’
‘I’m just remembering my granny. She was at a WIconference held over lunch and swallowed a Brussels sprout whole.’ I giggle. ‘It went down the wrong way, Granny said tears were streaming down her face, she thought she was going to die. She couldn’t breathe.’
‘You cannot be killed by a Brussels sprout,’ Ward states, and just the way he says it makes me laugh even more.
