I rush over to Ward’s desk, lean over him for a pen, scribble in his diary since it’s the only paper I can see.
‘Absolutely, Mrs Harman,’ says Ward, ‘we’ll be in touch.’
I nudge him, pointing to my note, ‘TELL HER bee orchids amazing June.’
Ward reads it. Hesitates. ‘Just before you go, I had a thought. Your bee orchids will be looking their best in June for the photos.’ There’s a long pause as I’m scribbling another idea down. ‘Yes, I love gardening, am very green-fingered, me.’ Ward reads my next note, glances at me in disbelief.
‘SAY IT,’ I mouth.
‘And the pink willow herb and…’
‘SAY IT.’
‘… and the snake’s heads…’
He looks at me anxiously. I stick my thumbs up. His shoulders relax as he says, ‘My mother grew them, MrsHarman. It’s rubbed off on me… Yes!’ He laughs. ‘It’s about the only good thing that has…’ Long pause. Ward grabs his pen. Jots something down in his diary. ‘Really? No, I’m sure your husband won’t mind. My wife makes all the decisions. Mrs Harman, you won’t regret going with us. Nor will your husband.’
The phone slams down. Ward stares at me before a small smile creeps on to his face. ‘You are amazing, January Wild,’ he says. It’s only then that I realise Ward has a certain power. I might not like him most of the time, but I care about what he thinks of me, and right now I feel as if I’ve won an Oscar. ‘Grab your coat,’ he orders. ‘It’s not often we have a good day.’ Ward flings on his jacket, heads downstairs, announcing that it’s drinks in the pub. ‘January has just won us the Sittingbourne pitch.’
‘As long as you know the boss always buys the first round,’ chirps Nadine, gathering her jacket and handbag, acting as if it’s payday already.
‘To Sherwoods,’ says Ward, holding up his pint of beer. We all raise our glasses, sitting round a table in the corner of our local pub, which is fairly empty late in the afternoon. It’s an old-fashioned pub with swirly carpets, the walls painted in an unattractive mustard colour, the bar mahogany. It’s pretty dark, even on a summer’s day. ‘To January,’ Ward adds resting his eyes on mine. ‘And to snake’s heads and bee orchids.’
‘Snake’s heads and bee orchids,’ we all say, receiving strange looks from behind the bar.
‘Do you know the best thing about winning?’ Ward asks. ‘It didn’t go to Barker & Goulding.’
We cheer. Spud barks and jumps up against my legs, wanting to be in on the action. I pick him up and let him perch proudly on my knee as Nadine gives him a stroke and scratch around the ears. ‘Let’s face it. The only thing that counts is beating our opponents,’ Ward continues. He really means Spencer.
Another cheer, all of us are caught up in the excitement, anticipating a possible bidding war. It’s been a long time since we won a house like Sittingbourne Park. Today reminds me of the good old days with Jeremy, when we were winning pitches more often than losing them. In so many ways Jeremy influenced me today. He always used tosay selling a house wasn’t just about facts and figures and negotiating commission fees. It was about engagement. If he knew the breed of a potential client’s dog or that their beloved car in the garage was an Aston Martin, it showed an interest in the same things. Suddenly you had a connection that bonded you, and with a little help that’s exactly what happened with Ward and Mrs Harman.
After a couple of rounds of drinks it’s too late to go back to the office. Lucie is meeting her boyfriend in town; Graham has to shoot off to Paddington. Nadine lives in east London, leaving Ward and me sharing a cab home, Spud sitting on the floor between us, watching our every move. Ward loosens his tie. ‘How do you know about snake’s heads? What do they look like? I’d better swot up before she discovers I’m a fraud.’
I show him a picture on my mobile of the bell-shaped flowers that hang down like pendants. ‘Ah, I see, their petals look like snake skins.’
‘The majority come out in spring, but I always remember seeing them at Sittingbourne. My grandmother was fanatical about flowers.’
Ward peers closer to the picture again. ‘Hang on, the petals are checked.’
‘Uh-huh. Their name comes from the Latin wordfritillus,a dice-box.’ I stop before I sound too like my grandmother.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re showing off now. You sound close to your granny.’
‘I was. She’s not around anymore.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘She raised me. My parents died when I was little.’
Ward is stuck for words. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again.
‘It was a long time ago. My grandfather is still alive, he lives in Cornwall.’ I find myself telling Ward briefly about my childhood, Grandad sitting in his study reading scripts and eating chocolates, one by one, out of a two-tiered box. ‘I used to eat them too and then substitute a stone from the garden for an orange cream, wrap it up in its gold foil and put it back in the box.’ Ward laughs with me, saying he’ll never bring chocolates into the office.
‘How about you, Ward?’
‘I’m an only child. Father dead,’ he says with little emotion. ‘My mother lives too close for comfort. Only round the corner from us to be specific. She’d give Graham a run for his money in the hypochondria department. She’s lonely, you see, with Dad gone. She was never happy with my father, but he was at least a presence in the house and could nip out to pick up her prescriptions.’
His mobile rings. I see Marina’s name on the screen and gasp, realising I forgot to pass on the message. ‘Hi… Sorry, I was in a meeting.’ He glances my way. ‘I can’t talk right now, Marina. I’ll be home soon.’
