‘I want you to see some of these houses for yourself, January, not just the brochure.’
As coffees are being passed round, all I can think about is the two and a half hour drive with Ward. In fact, I’ll be spending five hours in his car. What are we going to talk about?
‘The Farmhouse,’ Ward continues. This is the pitch we lost to Spencer, who’d bumped up his valuation after seeing our letter. Ward looks as if he has won the lottery when he says, ‘B & G can’t sell it.’
‘Haha,’ I say, sounding like Isla, though my mind is still on that car journey.
‘Ha ha,’ Ward agrees. ‘Flowers paid off as they want us back on board.’
I make a note to call the photographer.
‘The convent hasn’t sold either.’ He looks at Graham. ‘Sister Mary’s prayers aren’t working,’ he suggests with a hint of a smile.
At the end of the meeting he wraps it up with, ‘Keep up the good work. We’ve got a lot of properties coming up over the next few months, we’re beginning to get just as many if not more than B & G.’
‘And let’s face it,’ says Graham, grabbing the last biscuit off the plate, ‘that’s all that counts.’
‘Mint?’ Ward offers me a silver tin.
‘Thanks.’
He taps the postcode into his satnav. ‘Are you cold?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘How about your seat warmed up?’
‘I’m… Oh, go on then.’
Ward presses another switch. ‘Music? Radio?’
‘Either, I don’t mind.’ Are weevergoing to get going?
‘I prefer Radio 4 these days, shows my age.’ Finally he pulls out of the parking slot.
It’sWoman’s Hour. They’re talking about the history of the vagina. I want to die. I want todie. I turn round to check on Spud, perched on the back seat. ‘Hello, Spudster,’ I say, catching the words ‘cervical mucus’. Oh lord, it’s almost as bad as watching a sex scene on television with Grandad.
Ward switches it off as quickly as he switched it on. ‘Can maybe do without that.’
‘Maybe.’ I laugh nervously.
He settles for Radio 2.
‘You must feel like you live in a car,’ I say, already wishing I were back in the office with my faithful old box of brochures and my comforting list of things I have to do, ticking them off as the day goes by.
We hit the M4, neither of us having spoken much, except the odd comment on the weather and Ward taking a couple of telephone calls from the office. My bottom feels like toast now.
‘So,’ we both say at the same time, almost as if we’ve been aware of the long silence between us.
‘You go,’ we both say.
I clear my throat. ‘I was just going to say Graham is quieter than usual.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
Another awkward silence. ‘So, what’s your tip for the perfect pitch?’ Anything to get a conversation going.
‘Be on time. If you’re over fifteen minutes late I reckon you’ve lost the pitch before it’s even begun. Other than that, keep it simple. Let them show off the house. Make all the right noises when they show you a bedroom with purple woodchip paper. Love the chintz and the pink jacuzzi.’ He smiles. ‘Actually if I can’t fall in love with a house just a little bit, I can’t take it on.’
