An estate agent
Set within a prime location just a stone’s throw from a thriving retail hub, this charming period property boasts a private terrace for entertaining al fresco.
The flat is small, there’s no denying that. And the noise is, for want of a better word, deafening. It rattles the single-glazed windows as the woman runs her gaze up and down the lengths of the mouldy curtains.
‘These come with the property,’ the estate agent says, making to touch the curtains. He’s worried they’ll crumble beneath his fingertips, though, so his hand only hovers near them. ‘The wardrobes, too.’
He does not mention the fact that one of the wardrobes is missing a door handle, and the other, a door.
He does not mention the stain, either, though the boyfriend seems to have spotted it, stooping slightly to avoid contact with the brown cloud that spreads from one corniced corner of the ceiling to another.
He pokes at it, clearly encountering more give than he would have liked.
They’re compromising, this couple. His beard says Bethnal Green.
Her accent says Notting Hill. They’re meeting somewhere in the middle.
The estate agent could imagine them like old sailors drawing with compasses on a map, looking for that one Venn diagram segment of south London where their preferences might actually overlap.
The girlfriend runs her fingers up and down her boyfriend’s arm, up and down, up and down, softly grazing his tattooed skin.
‘Shall we look at the garden?’
Three pairs of doubtful eyes travel towards the French doors and, beyond them, a square metre of weed-infested patio.
A modern second-floor flat within a safe and secure building, this well-proportioned property benefits from contemporary features, bright interiors and a smart bathroom.
Did they really have to put ‘safe and secure’ on the listing?
The man is holding his girlfriend, long arms wrapped around her from behind, but not in a protective way.
It’s just that they seem like they always have to be touching, which is not exactly ideal for a flat with corridors as narrow as this.
They waddle forwards as one, from a bedroom with bars on the windows to a bathroom with no windows at all.
The atmosphere is somehow both humid and frigid, as if the room is inhabited by a sweaty ghost.
‘Is that a mushroom?’ the woman says, from between her boyfriend’s arms.
The estate agent regrets telling them that they could ask him anything.
A roomy ground-floor flat with generous living space throughout. Fall in love with the semi-open-plan kitchen, well-proportioned bedrooms and communal garden.
Shunt. Shunt. Shunt.
He throws himself shoulder-first and with full force into a front door, which, he tells the unimpressed couple behind him, sometimes sticks a little.
In a gloomy living room, they find the current tenants sitting on the sofa.
One of them is playing on a Nintendo Wii; the other is clipping his toenails.
‘Did you not…?’ the estate agent begins.
The toenail tenant shoots him a disinterested look. The boyfriend has to duck under the doorframe to enter the living room, while the girlfriend is already looking disappointedly from the sofa, to the hobs, to the double bed that’s been squeezed into the room beyond the opposite door.
‘It’s compact,’ says the estate agent. ‘But it’s got a kind of cosy charm, don’t you think?’
No one seems to think so. The girlfriend is staring at a shelf lined with empty lager bottles, while the boyfriend is staring at his girlfriend, as if trying to imagine her here.
The estate agent is silently fixated on the toilet situation, on the fact that the only bathroom is a small en suite off the main bedroom.
Does one of the tenants walk through the other’s bedroom every time he needs to go to the toilet?
Even in the middle of the night? What if they have someone staying over?
The estate agent looks at the Wii, the mounting pile of toenail clippings, and decides that this probably isn’t a problem.
Though in need of modernisation, this unique property boasts plenty of character and is within walking distance of local amenities. No deposit required.
‘What’s that smell?’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ says the estate agent, as he wrenches open a window. ‘That will go.’
Enjoy the delights of local green space and nearby café culture in this modest ground-floor flat, with bright interiors, a charming flow and handsome decking outside.
The estate agent has walked straight from another viewing a few streets away, which was a mistake, because it’s hot for this late in summer, and now even his suit jacket has sweat marks.
‘Seb?’ he says, as if they’ve never met before, because he’d rather Seb forget the other viewings. ‘Just you?’
Seb has been leaning against a low and crumbling brick wall, crossing and uncrossing his arms, casting glances at the chunks of scrap metal in the neighbour’s front garden.
‘Yes,’ Seb says. ‘Clara can’t make it.’ A pause. Conversation seems to take a lot of effort for him. ‘She’s at a festival. A film festival.’
The main road thrums at the end of the long street, buses and motorbikes zipping past like insects soaring towards a windshield.
‘A festival?’ the estate agent says. He hasn’t really been listening. He pumps one fist, approximates the bassline of some rave music. ‘Oonts, oonts, oonts.’
In the long silence that follows, the estate agent fumbles with the keys.
This property is on the nicer end of the rental market, a terraced house with plenty of character, split in two some time ago and subdivided into upstairs and downstairs flats.
They’re viewing the ground floor. A decent bay window in the bedroom, and a fireplace which they are under no circumstances allowed to use.
A good bit of decking out the back, which actually gets a bit of sun, on certain days, in certain months.
They move through the space quietly, as if viewing an art exhibition.
Seb caresses the built-in bookshelves, tests the sturdiness of the free-standing bath with one tattooed hand.
Outside, he pauses over the lavender bush in the built-in planter, the bird-feeder hanging from the wrought-iron stairs that lead from the upstairs neighbours’ flat down to their portion of the garden.
His expression is unreadable. At the end of the tour, he clears his throat, then points to his phone.
‘I’m just going to take some photos.’
‘Right,’ says the estate agent. ‘Yes. Let me get out of your way.’
Seb takes a grainy picture of the living room.
‘I’ll just get out of your way.’
Seb takes a grainy picture of the bedroom.
‘I’ll try and get out of your way.’
They reach an impasse in the tiny kitchen, then in the even tinier bathroom.
Still, Seb takes his phone diligently from room to room, showing it every nook and cranny, cradling it with steady care as if the phone itself is his girlfriend.
This photographic tour takes longer than the tour itself.
But the ceilings are high, so the flat is cool.
On a day like today, being stuck in here is a mercy.
‘Hi,’ says Seb, into his phone, once the photos have been sent and safely received.
Seb gives the estate agent a look, and he realises only now that he’s been staring, bug-eyed and thirsty. He wipes his sweaty brow with one damp shirtsleeve, then holds up his hands. ‘I’ll get out of your way.’
He steps into the dim corridor, presses himself up against the now-closed door to hear what Seb is saying.
‘It’s good,’ is what he’s saying. ‘I think it’s really good.’
The girlfriend seems happy to take Seb’s word for it. When the call ends, the estate agent gives it just enough time to make it look like he wasn’t eavesdropping, then re-enters the room.
‘So?’ he says, in the least presumptive voice possible.
Seb’s face doesn’t crack. He taps his phone against his palm a few times. ‘The landlord,’ he says. ‘How do they feel about dogs?’