‘He thinks he does.’ The cameraman puts the camera on his shoulder, checks what he’s capturing by squinting through his viewfinder.
The sound recordist is putting his stuff in a pile in a corner.
‘So what was it he was doing today that was weird?’
‘When I got here, he was at the neighbour’s door, asking the old guy who lives there if he wanted a selfie. The guy said naw, because you would, wouldn’t you?’
‘Why’s he doing that?’
The cameraman directs me, pointing that I have to move left a bit, then right a bit. ‘Why does he do anything? Pip says he’s been doing it a lot recently.’
I’m asked to walk through the room, look at the ceiling, run my finger along the windowsill, then walk through the hallway. We tick off the shots one after another until we’re done. It takes no more than ten minutes. Pippa reappears as we get the last one of me admiring a crumbling ceiling rose in the living room. She’s holding my bulging handbag and my coat, ready to see me out of the house like a guest that’s overstayed their welcome.
‘Thank you so so much. You did a bloody brilliant job, and you didn’t even try and sneak in Brian’s silly catchphrase. We’ll definitely have you back.’ She thrusts my things at me. ‘Don’t know what you carry around with you, that is one heavy bag.’
‘Oh, this? Just the essentials.’ I take it off her as casually as I can.
‘The guys are going to get you walking down the street and then you’ll be free to leave.’ She kisses me on both cheeks like we’re old showbizzy pals then opens the door, startling the other estate agent who’s been waiting. He doesn’t yield the doorstep to me to pass.
My handbag clatters into his legs and I tread on his toes as I brush past him, punishment for his lack of manners. ‘Oops.’ I don’t bother with an apology because I am not sorry. Pippa beckons him into the home, her plummy voice saying the same empty words she said to me when I arrived about how pleased she is to see him.
The cameraman has me go to the corner of the street and asks me to walk to the pathway, then turn and admire the house. The first time, a pigeon gets close enough that I have to stop through fear it’ll fly into my face. The second, my facial expression is deemed ‘a bit odd’ and so I do it a third, final time, where I visualise the house is Gavin looming above me in bed last night, which is declared ‘perfect’.
The crew say thanks while already in motion back to the house, as I attempt to put my jacket on. One of the arms of it is inside out, which I don’t realise at first while I struggle to get it on. By the time I’m dressed the street is empty; no trace of television being made is evident. The void of vibrancy matches my inner thoughts. I had expected to be proud of myself if my performance went as well as it did. Instead, I feel, for the first time in ages, a familiar vacancy. The weight of the hammer suddenly a burden, the idea of carrying my bag even another centimetre further makes me want to cry. From its depths I pull out my phone, ignore several messages from Gavin and open the local taxi company’s app to book a car. There’s nothing nearby, I’ll have to wait for ten minutes at least.
I settle in, sit on the wall. Contemplate reading what Gavin has to say but don’t actually open the messages. Then I try calling my mum to tell her I’m going to be on television and, whether she recognises it or not, I’m important to other people. The call cuts out after two rings and sends me to voicemail, something which will only have happened because my mum sent my call there. I do not leave a message.
With nothing to do but wait, I find myself staring ahead, trying to figure out a way of remedying this lost opportunity. Right across from me is a silver Mercedes, which is not ancient enough to be considered vintage but is definitely old enough to be considered decrepit. The back seat is filled with boxes and bags like the owner is moving. A brave choice in this neighbourhood to keep valuables on display.
There’s no one in the front seats so I think no person is occupying it, until it begins to rock from someone or something moving inside of it. The door on the faraway side opens. I hear the hinges squeak, a few items drop onto the pavement, and whoever has got out picks them up and throws them into the back seat. A cloud of sweet raspberry vape smoke comes from them and drifts over to me. When they stand to full height and reveal themself, there’s no mistaking the crumpled, red-faced, hedgehog-haired man who is putting a long puffer jacket on over the tweed jacket he’s wearing. It’s Malcolm. He’s here to save the day.
Fixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer
Behind-the-scenes.
No transmission date planned.
JEMMA sits at the bar of the Premier Inn Glasgow (Bellshill) nursing a pint of coke, positioned so she can see into the lobby.
The far-off CLUNK of wheels becomes audible. JEMMA pays attention and watches MALCOLM enter the scene. He uses the self check-in with a tatty suitcase beside him, a half-full blue poly bag in his grasp.
A few minutes later MALCOLM enters the bar.
MALCOLM
You came!
MALCOLM clumsily embraces JEMMA. When the cuddle ends, he sits beside her.
MALCOLM
I can’t believe you actually came.
JEMMA
Why wouldn’t I?
MALCOLM
