I’d be lying if I said the connection didn’t comfort me, even if it is remote and awkward and ancient history. For a week, I’ve been running scenarios in my head: Fritz, jovial in an old-school way, rubber-stamping the overdraft and maybe catching up over coffee. I never factor in the possibility of rejection. I can’t bring myself to even consider it.
I take one last look in the hall mirror: charcoal-grey trouser suit, checked for lint; plum silk blouse; black patent boots, buffed to a gloss; hair half pinned. Despite a watery sun, October has wasted no time making it clear that summer is gone, so I add my most businesslike black wool coat and a lightweight, patterned scarf. Okay, that’ll do.
Walking up the High Street, the wind is so fierce it makes my eyes water. I keep my head down, realising too late that the tears are probably ruining the eyeliner I was so proud of. By the time I get to the bank, I’m sniffling and can barely focus.
Inside, the air smells of printer paper and carpet glue. There are three people ahead of me in the queue for a cashier, but I head straight to the help desk. The woman behind the counter is maybe forty, with the brisk, managerial aura of someone who could transition into aviation security without missing a beat. Her badge says ‘Marion’.
I clear my throat and paste on a smile. ‘Hi, I have an appointment with Fritz Marsden for nine fifteen. Name’s Bella Newbury.’
‘Of course, Ms Newbury. If you’d like to take a seat?’ Marion’s voice is professional. She disappears into a door marked ‘Staff Only’, and I perch in the designated waiting area – a corridor with a row ofseats facing a pale green wall with black and white prints of Lymington Quay. Part of me wants to twiddle with my phone, but it seems unprofessional. Instead, I peer down the corridor to the queue where a woman’s trying to fill in a form with a pen on a chain that’s too short.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. My nerves start to chew at my insides, nibbling at the confidence I built up all morning. I go over my pitch in my head, but it’s starting to sound like excuses. I clutch my phone like a talisman.
At 9.32, Marion reappears, this time with a look of apology that I know all too well from years of managing angry landlords.
‘So sorry, Ms Newbury, Mr Marsden has had to step into an emergency meeting this morning. He sends his regrets, but we can reschedule if you like?’
My stomach drops. I try to keep my face neutral, but I can feel it stiffen.
‘Or, I can see if one of our other business managers is free to see you?’
I weigh up the options. It took me two weeks to get this meeting with Fritz, and I don’t think I can afford to wait another two. ‘Yes, please. Another manager should be fine.’
‘All right.’ Marion nods. ‘Charmaine Taylor should be free in ten minutes if you’re able to wait.’
I glance down at my phone, pretending to check my calendar, then look up. ‘That would be great.’
‘Super. I’ll let her know you’re here.’
Marion vanishes again. I sit and try to recalibrate. Charmaine Taylor – not a name I’ve heard before. I imagine someone steely, with little patience for sob stories. But maybe, I tell myself, a fresh face will mean a fresh perspective. I rehearse the pitch all over again, but now the lines feel wrong. They were prepared for an old friend, not this unknown business manager.
Eventually, a door opens, and a woman calls my name. She’s taller than me, maybe forty-five, wearing glasses, dressed in a cheap black trouser suit with a coral necklace. The handshake is brisk, dry-palmed, more of a statement than a greeting.
‘Bella Newbury? I’m Charmaine Taylor. Why don’t you come through?’
She leads me into a small, sterile room with no windows, like a police interview room – not that I’ve ever been inside one of those – and two chairs arranged at a diagonally non-confrontational angle. The table between us is cheap laminate, peeling at the edges. There is nothing on the table but a tissue box and her laptop, which she opens as soon as we’re both seated.
‘Newbury’s estate agents, right?’ she says, taking a seat behind the desk.
It’s Newbury New Forest Property Group, but I don’t correct her. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘So, Ms Newbury. What brings you in today? The business, or your personal account?’ She looks up; her smile is professional but doesn’t reach her eyes.
‘The business,’ I confirm, a little worried that she’s not up to speed – I thought she was supposed to be a business manager. ‘I had a meeting planned with Fritz, but...’ I splay out my hands. ‘He’s busy.’
‘Let’s have a look.’ She shifts her gaze to her laptop screen, and there’s a bit of to-and-froing while she tries to find the account. This isn’t filling me with confidence, but I can’t very well get up and leave now.
I launch into my rehearsed explanation about ‘cashflow volatility’ and ‘short-term liquidity challenges’, careful not to sound too desperate. I talk about the buoyancy of the property market, how our agency is on the verge of securing a big developer (a little white lie, but not beyond the realms of possibility), how an increase in overdraft is just a ‘tide-over’ until the commissions hit from the deal I’m lining up.
Throughout my pitch, Charmaine types, occasionally lifting her eyes to interject: ‘Mmm’... ‘I see’... ‘Go on’. Her accent is tricky to place – somewhere between London and Hampshire.
‘And what’s the current arrangement with your overdraft?’ she asks, tapping keys. Her nails are short, unpolished, and unforgiving.
‘It’s meant to be thirty, but I’m currently two and a half over that.’ I force a smile, as if it’s just a harmless oversight, nothing to worry about.
‘For how long have you been over that?’ She doesn’t blink.
‘Three. Maybe four weeks.’ In reality, it’s closer to six.
