Another estate agent
A railway arch property in a hip inner-city location. Traditional vaulted ceilings create a varying height throughout the premises, providing plenty of unusual character.
The tall man had already been here when the estate agent had arrived, vaping on the doorstep, craning his neck up at the bare exterior.
He’s got a good poker face, this guy, and he doesn’t crack the entire time he’s pacing the rooms, leaning over the bar, running one hand up the cold, slightly sweaty brick of the curving wall.
The estate agent is about to offer to turn off the lights, to show what the place might look like at night, when he’s distracted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Heavy boots on wrought-iron stairs. The viewer turns to the estate agent, arches one of those dark eyebrows.
‘One of yours?’ he says.
The estate agent begins to shake his head, but the person is already peeking around the door.
Two people. A short woman with tangled blond hair and piercing eyes, and a curly-haired ginger toddler trailing after her.
A train passes overhead, and the whole room shudders.
The viewer’s facade has finally cracked.
‘Clara?’ he says, his voice uneasy.
‘Seb.’ The woman shakes her head. ‘I don’t believe this.’
Once-thriving basement nightclub in an east London weekend hotspot, with an established audience and a late-night licence. Perfect for a party crowd.
‘You lied to me,’ Clara is saying, as they reach the door of the second venue.
‘I didn’t lie to you,’ Seb replies, over his shoulder, as he clunks down the stairs. ‘I just didn’t tell the truth.’
They’ve been fighting ever since she arrived. The estate agent is trying to find a gap in the argument to point out some features of the property, but he’s had no luck as of yet.
‘You pretended you’d moved to New York!’ Clara says.
The estate agent raises his eyebrows. Even the woman’s daughter makes a face. From Seb’s expression, it’s clear that he doesn’t have a leg to stand on.
‘I didn’t know what to say,’ he stutters. ‘I didn’t stay because—’ He gives up. ‘Why are you here, Clara?’
‘I had to see for myself.’
‘Well, here I am.’
Seb gestures around the dark room in which they’re all now standing. It still smells of the last patrons’ drinks, and the place hasn’t been open for almost a year.
‘How did you even find me?’ Seb sighs. ‘Maisie?’
‘Nimesh.’
‘I’m going to kill him.’
Clara shakes her head. ‘So, what?’ she says. ‘You’re staying? Buying a bar?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, I’m sorry for interrupting.’
The estate agent isn’t sure who looks angrier. Clara, or Seb. At least the little girl seems to be enjoying herself. She’s found a still-functioning set of disco lights in the corner.
‘I don’t know what you think we are,’ Seb says. ‘But I don’t think we’re this.’ He sounds almost desperate. ‘This is my life. You can’t just turn up unannounced.’
‘Are you fucking serious?’ snaps the woman. She remembers her daughter, lowers her voice. ‘You’re the one who leaves whenever he wants. Or stays, then keeps it a secret.’
The estate agent sighs, props himself up. They could be here for the long haul. He wishes the optics above the bar weren’t empty.
‘It wasn’t a—’ Seb grits his teeth. ‘I’m trying to do something, here. To work something out for myself. I still have money from the film.’ His face darkens. ‘Though you could probably buy this place outright. The famous Clara Cowan.’
She scowls at him from the sticky dancefloor. Her daughter is still in sight, illuminated by multi-coloured lights.
‘Cut the silver-spoon bullshit,’ Clara says. ‘I’ve worked hard for what I have. Every hatchet-job review still hurts.’
Seb shrugs. ‘No one is forcing you to be a director.’
The woman’s eyes glint in the darkness. ‘So I should be like you?’ she says. ‘Do nothing with my life?’
Seb flinches. The little girl is standing up now, making her way back towards them.
‘There are different kinds of happiness,’ Seb says. ‘Different kinds of fulfilment.’
‘But you’ve never been happy,’ Clara says. ‘You never allow yourself to be totally happy, because that would mean allowing yourself to be totally sad, too. You’d rather temper everything. Close yourself off to all of it.’
Seb says nothing. Clara takes a measured breath.
‘This is pointless,’ she says. ‘I just—’ She searches for the words. ‘I expected it from the critics. Not from you.’
‘You shouldn’t expect anything from me,’ Seb says. Then he walks out of the door.
Traditional-style pub on a lively side street with an upstairs function room providing a potential second revenue stream. Original carpets.
The estate agent lets them into the next venue, busies himself with the light switches as the dust settles.
Seb goes on ahead, quietly contemplating the moth-eaten curtains and the dark wood panels.
And though Clara offers no opinion, she and her daughter are still present.
They traipse around the space, Clara crouching intermittently for the child to whisper into her ear.
‘Does she like it?’ Seb says, his hand upon the glossy wooden bar. He doesn’t look at Clara.
She won’t look at him, either. ‘She thinks it’s haunted. She’s asking about ghosts.’
Seb nods slowly, casts a glance around the cobwebs in the cornicing.
His eyes settle on the rusted mirror behind the bar, in which he briefly makes eye contact with Clara.
Her mouth parts slightly. Then she looks away, her daughter tugging at her jacket, trying to drag her towards something she wants her mother to see.
When Clara looks back at the mirror, Seb is still looking at her.
‘They weren’t all bad,’ he says. ‘The reviews.’
‘Stop it,’ she says, averting her eyes.
‘Stop what?’
‘Stop pitying me.’
‘I don’t pity you,’ he says. ‘I just—’ He looks for the words. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. About New York.’
Clara waves the apology away. ‘You don’t need me and my problems. You’ve got your own.’ A sad smile. ‘I presume. Or maybe you’re problem-free. I hope you’re problem-free.’
‘Well,’ Seb says. ‘Apparently I’ve got ghosts.’
They smile. Taking advantage of what seems like a truce, the estate agent suggests that they head upstairs and check out the venue room.
Under high ceilings, Seb makes silent calculations.
The little girl is spinning about across the dusty floor, her arms spread wide, her curls wild.
Clara has taken a seat on an old chaise longue in the corner.
Her eyes are closed. Seb watches her for a while.
Then he crouches and gently catches the girl. The girl lets him.
‘What do you think, Nora?’ he says. ‘Could we host gigs up here?’
Nora frowns. It’s unclear if she knows what gigs are.
She goes all shy, all of a sudden. So Seb stands, looks down at the floor, then stamps his foot.
She watches him. He looks down at her. She stamps, too.
He jumps. He jumps again. He’s jumping up and down, sending plumes of dust up into the air, and the little girl is laughing, and now she’s jumping with him.
When they stop, while the air settles, a suspicious creak sounds beneath the length of the pitted carpet.
‘No,’ says Seb, out of breath. ‘I don’t think so.’
He hasn’t noticed that Clara is watching them.
A new ground-floor property, carefully designed with a commercial or bar function in mind. Licensed to play live music until almost midnight.
‘This isn’t it,’ Clara says.
Seb looks at her. ‘What?’
‘Do you really see yourself here?’
The room is a bright and airy shell, admittedly more appropriate for a coffee roastery or a Pilates studio than a haven for greasy-haired rockers. Nora is diligently searching the squeaky-clean corners for ghosts that aren’t there.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t.’
The estate agent exhales, shuffles some papers. This venue was the last good option on their books. Seb had said he was serious about his search, but all afternoon, he’s only had eyes for Clara.
‘What problems?’ Seb says, to her. ‘You said you had problems.’
Clara looks at him as if to ask if he really wants to know. His face says that he does.
‘I can’t work like I used to,’ she says.
She looks down at her boots. ‘It isn’t easy, with Nora.
Italy almost broke me, and the result was a half-baked film.
’ She runs her fingers through her knotted hair.
‘I’m trying to direct the odd episode of TV now, and even that I can barely manage.
’ She looks over at her daughter, as if to check she’s out of earshot.
‘Nora isn’t easy. Nursery is never going to happen at this point.
It’s almost two years until she starts school, and the thought of that still terrifies me.
’ She closes her eyes. ‘But she didn’t ask to be born.
So what can I do? Give it all up?’ She opens her eyes again, looks to the wide windows.
‘If I let two more years’ worth of opportunities pass me by, I don’t think my career will ever recover.
Just as I was starting to—’ Her voice cracks. ‘I’m so tired, Seb.’
Seb’s wrist twitches, as if he wants, more than anything, to reach out and take her hand. To draw her in, to hold her. The estate agent stares down into his binder, willing himself to become invisible.
‘You were right about one thing,’ Clara says, with a sniff. ‘I am a terrible mother.’ She stops herself. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair. I’m not at my best.’
‘You look pretty good from where I’m standing,’ Seb says.
A blush reaches Clara’s cheeks. She waves at Nora, if only to avoid Seb’s eyes. On the other side of the room, Nora waves back. Then she returns to her search.
‘I knew you’d make me feel better,’ Clara says, to Seb.
She laughs, apparently at the absurdity of it.
‘Maybe that’s why I came. We used to discuss everything, didn’t we?
You were terrible at making decisions. But you’d always be the one to talk me up.
To say I’d got this, that I was going to blow people away.
’ Her voice falters. ‘If anything goes wrong, you’re still the first person I want to tell,’ she says. ‘That’s weird, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not weird,’ Seb says. He’s the one looking at his shoes, now. ‘You ruined my life, and the only person I want to talk to about it is you.’
A former pub-venue in a beloved character building, this once-popular nightspot has a colourful history. In need of modernisation.
Last stop. They stand on the pavement of Hoxton Street, staring up at a place that clearly means something to both of them.
‘Well,’ says Clara.
‘I’ll be damned,’ says Seb.
The estate agent covers his mouth when they step inside.
Wallpaper peels from the walls. Mouldy old newspapers hang from the windows.
Rattling and scuttling suggests life in the old sofas, beneath the built-in tables.
And yet, Seb and Clara walk as if in a trance, trailing the dust on a specific booth near the front, heading into the back room and looking up towards the hanging lights.
‘It looks exactly the same,’ Seb says, his voice dreamy.
‘A little older, maybe,’ says Clara, eyes on him. ‘But that’s the charm.’
Nora looks like she’s seen a thousand ghosts, and she’s fascinated with all of them.
Clara stands in front of the crumpled stage, perhaps remembering something, swaying ever so slightly.
Seb is close behind her, looking like he might move closer.
The estate agent coughs, steps into the shaft of dusty light that filters down through a hole in the high ceiling.
‘It needs a renovation before a refit,’ he says. ‘But we could always—’
‘It’s the one,’ Seb says.
The estate agent splutters. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve never been surer.’
The rest is a matter of formalities. They shake hands, agree on a time frame, decide to head straight to the office on Great Eastern Street to iron out specifics.
As the agent gathers his things, he sees Seb and Clara move towards one another, hug tentatively.
It’s stiff, awkward. It doesn’t last long. Seb holds briefly on to Clara’s arm.
‘I can’t believe I’m about to do this,’ he says. Then he turns away from Clara, crouches once again on the grimy floor. ‘Nora?’
The girl is still gazing upwards. Now she turns towards him. She has her mother’s eyes. Under that shaft of light, her hair blazes orange.
‘Yes?’ she says.
‘How would you like to hang out with me sometimes?’ Seb says. ‘Who knows, maybe you can help me rescue this place.’ He glances to Clara. ‘While Mum is at work.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Clara begins, from behind him. ‘I’d never ask you to—’
‘OK,’ Nora says. Then she returns to what she was doing.
Seb stands. Before Clara can say anything, the estate agent steps between them. He needs to get Seb back to the office before closing time. He opens the door and the light from outside rushes in, a blast of winter air with it. He ushers them out.
‘Seb,’ Clara says, outside. ‘Do you want to go for a drink after? To celebrate?’
Seb doesn’t say anything for a second. Then: ‘I can’t. Sorry.’
Clara nods silently. Seb grimaces, rubs the back of his shaven head. He glances at Nora, who is lingering back in the doorway. He glances at the estate agent.
‘I’ll get out of your way,’ the estate agent says.
He steps away. But not so far away that he can’t listen in.
‘You asked if we were friends, when we were messaging,’ Seb says, quietly, to Clara. ‘Well, what if we were? What if we could be?’
‘Friends?’ Clara says. ‘I once stormed out of a pub at that suggestion.’
A tense silence, punctuated by the rush of traffic.
‘That was a long time ago,’ Seb says. ‘But, you know…’
The estate agent checks his watch, then glances back at them. Seb is giving her the opportunity to walk away. She doesn’t take it.
‘I hate to say it, but I think you’re right,’ she says. ‘I think we should be.’ She extends her hand. ‘Friends.’
They shake on it. They take a little too long to let go.
‘Maisie and Nimesh will be thrilled,’ Clara says, eventually.
‘I think they’ll be hoping for more.’
Another moment passes between them. Clara tucks her hair behind her ear. Seb watches her do so, his jaw flexing beneath his beard.
‘It’s better this way,’ Clara says, eventually. ‘We’ve hurt each other enough. Right?’
Nora is coming over. Seb watches her. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘This is better.’
Now Nora is tugging at her mother’s hand. Now Seb is saying goodbye to the little girl, and Clara is steering her towards the road.
‘Clara,’ Seb says, after her.
She looks back.
‘Text me,’ he says. ‘About Nora.’
And all the estate agent can think is: I don’t look at my friends like that.