My phone vibrates; it’s Dave.
Money will be with you in a few hours. I expect my pics by midnight.
I smile as I read. Yes please to the money, Dave.
‘You could help at the agency if you have availability? Our receptionist, she quit a few weeks ago saying she couldn’t stand working there another day, and we haven’t replaced her. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been my suboptimal self at work. I’ve been doing two people’s jobs at once.’
As we know, I’m not exactly dripping with cash. I was never one of those kids given an allowance who didn’t need to work. My dad got made redundant and didn’t work for years when I was a teenager, so I’ve had a job since I was fifteen to pay my way. This current run of unemployment is the longest I’ve ever been without work since then. Even in better times, whenever I walked past a takeaway or a shop with a sign in the window advertising for staff I’d always clock it, wonder if I could fit sixteen hours a week helping out at a bakery into my schedule. For Gavin to offer me any position, especially one I have the skills for and where payment isn’t reliant on the whims of an internet pervert, is too good to say no to. However, no other job before has involved working with estate agents.
‘What do you think?’
Every weekday spent looking at Gavin while I apply for better jobs elsewhere could be nice. ‘I have space over the next few weeks, actually.’
‘Could you come in tomorrow for nine?’
‘Sure.’ No one I know can ever find out about this. ‘Will you be my boss, then?’ The idea of Gavin holding power over me brings back the bad thoughts.
‘Sort of. I mean, I should be, and I will be one day. For now, I manage the day-to-day running of things and Brian is the big boss. Which is… well it’s a whole thing. His wife’s dad started the company, and when he retired Brian was put in charge, despite the fact he is utterly useless.’ They spin their teaspoon around in their fingers. ‘Anyway, you’ll be the receptionist for the whole agency, do our admin, act as his PA at times. His diary is…’
Gavin takes ages to find the word. ‘Full?’ I offer.
‘Complicated.’ Gavin looks sincere, like they’ve shared valuable information with me. I don’t understand how a man who shows people houses for a living can lead that complex an existence, but who am I to argue?
The avenues to asking for further details on Brian and his diary are shut off when the two women who work in the cafe begin noisily cleaning around us. Unlike Gavin, they remember to turn the sign in the window over from OPEN to CLOSED. A yellow plastic wet floor safety sign is placed beside us with a thwack. What is happening is obvious, and yet Gavin says to the woman who has started mopping around our feet, ‘Oh, sorry, are you closing?’
I gather my things and am forced to take a leaping step away from the table so as not to tread on the freshly cleaned patch of floor as I go to the counter to pay. Pressing my debit card against the reader, I will my account to have the funds to cover the two drinks. The machine takes ages to make its decision before it eventually spits out a receipt, which means we’re able to leave.
Outside, under natural light, Gavin looks sleepy, drained, the hint of colour I noted before a trick of TIME’s lighting or my own enthusiastic gaze. ‘You’re not going back to work, are you?’
They stare at the pavement, shake their head. ‘No. It feels like a day I should draw a line under and go home.’
‘OK, well, I’ll let you get back to your’ – I falter as I check their hands and see no rings declaring commitment – ‘to your partner.’ They bristle at my words, so I tack on, ‘Or housemate or parents or whatever.’
‘I live alone. There was somebody until recently but not anymore. Just me.’
‘Ah, I’m sorry to hear that.’ A lie.
‘Don’t be. Even though it still stings it’s better this way.’ This is also probably a lie. ‘Actually, sorry if this is too much information, I was going through it around about the same time you changed your rental agreement after splitting with your ex. I remember feeling less awful because it wasn’t just me it was happening to. Do you know what I mean or have I just made it weird?’
‘No, I know exactly what you mean.’
We do that thing where you look at someone and know the moment is over but don’t end it definitively for a beat or two, until I say goodbye for both of us. Gavin goes one way, I go the other.
5
The air has a chill in it that will dissipate as the day goes on, so I know the grey wool blazer I’m wearing on my way to work will be slung over my arm making me sweat on the return journey. I turn onto the street Perfect Property Solutions is on and catch a glimpse of myself in the window of a competing estate agent’s. Checking my appearance here is less humbling than when I do it in a proper mirror in the flat.
My attention isn’t drawn to my flaws, how one eye is a smidgen smaller than the other, or the rounding of my belly that always juts out under clothes no matter my weight or state of physical fitness. With the sun sheltering behind thin clouds and the listings for rentals interrupting the view, I’m able to be satisfied with what I see. A five-foot-seven woman who is wearing a nice outfit and has blow-dried her brown hair so it sits on her shoulders as the hairdresser intended it to instead of kicking out at the ends the way it naturally wants to go. The finer details of my face are obscured by a family home for rent in Barncluith. I smile to myself, and a hint of a lip rising is reflected back at me.
When I first entered the world of work, being dressed and out and about made me feel more grounded, like I was a real person after all. That faded, obviously, once the repetitive drudgery of working for a living was revealed to me. There’s a bit of that old sensation in me today, though. That is until a shift in the breeze brings the scent of my clothes to me. Even after a soaking of Febreze and a lot of perfume, my office wear still has the faint whiff of damp from drying on the clothes horse in the kitchen. Great. I make my way to the door of the office and compose myself to appear competent and like I don’t smell funny.
Gavin, their eyes puffy, smiles at me from their desk. Before I can say good morning to them, a door at the back opens to reveal a smaller private office, and Brian – the estate agent fromFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer– bowls out in a shiny grey suit with matching shiny patent brogues. The honk of his aftershave relaxes me; with him around there’s no way anyone will be able to smell my musk. He strides over and offers me a dry, too-firm handshake. I glance over to Gavin who looks apologetic that I’m having to meet Brian at all.
‘So you’re the lassie Gavin found?’ Brian corrects his posture so his feet are spread apart, his arms folded like a power pose women’s magazines recommended during the Girl Boss years. He thinks he’s projecting strength and leadership, but what he’s showcasing is how much shorter he is than he appeared on the telly.
‘I am.’
He considers my words as if I’ve said something worthy of thought. ‘Follow me.’
