Chapter 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 from Fixer 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.’
Before I fall in line behind him, Gavin mouths to me, Sorry.
Brian’s office is exactly how I would have pictured it.
Loads of men our age believe minimalist style means not having stuff, rather than the select stuff you do have being beautiful.
These Ikea shelves are not it, pal. The walls are a muted grey, his desk an imposing block of black with only a laptop on it.
There is one bookshelf loaded with books.
Beneath it is a ring light and a small tripod.
On a wall to the side is a framed signed Rangers shirt.
I have to make a conscious decision not to roll my eyes at it.
Not for any sectarian-related reason, although all that is obviously nonsense, but because men can get away with decorating their professional spaces with remnants of childhood passions.
If I had a framed poster of Ben Adams from A1 on the wall I would be treated, rightfully, like a numpty.
As Brian sits down on his very padded, very comfy-looking black leather office chair, he unbuttons his suit jacket.
It reminds me of Hollywood actors sitting down to talk on chat shows, which strikes me as sophisticated and slick, and I momentarily wonder if I have Brian all wrong.
Then I clock some of the titles on the bookshelf and notice the only literature he has decided is worthy of display consists of self-help books and and the work of pseudoscientific chauvinists like Jordan Peterson. Yeah, I know who Brian is.
He leans back in his chair, one foot resting on his knee.
‘So, Jemma. Tell me all about it.’ This is not asked like a question and so I pause, waiting for one to come.
‘About?’
‘You know, your work history, what you bring to the role?’
Gavin was off their face with grief yesterday, and here I am assuming they had the authority to employ me.
Shit. Of course I’m not the kind of person who’s gifted a job; of course I have to interview for it.
The world doesn’t work that way – your arsehole landlord dies and then steady employment is just given to you, no questions asked? Obviously not.
‘Well, I was a receptionist and personal assistant at Denton Piper in town for the last six years. Before then I was the office manager at a small law firm that went bust called Staunton and Sons. So I’ve lots of experience welcoming clients, sorting admin, overseeing calendars, that sort of thing. ’
That piddly, accurate summation of a life’s work is met with Brian banging his feet onto the carpet. ‘Gavin said you’re freelance?’
With his books of bullshit business logic looming down on me, I channel the answer I think will most please Brian.
‘That’s right. I wanted to be in control of my own destiny, and part of that was taking an active lead in my career.
You can’t do that when you’re permanently tied to one role, one company.
Don’t get me wrong, I will commit myself fully to the task at hand, but I like to know that whatever I’m doing, wherever I am, it’s my choice. ’
Brian leans forward. ‘That’s the kind of spirit we could be doing with more of here. It’s exactly what I brought with me when I took over the agency.’
Gavin knocks at the door, whether through genuine need or because they’re worried I’m floundering, I’m not sure. They don’t enter. Brian keeps them at bay with, ‘Five minutes, Gavin dear.’ I hear their feet plod back to their desk.
‘Remind me, how is it you know Gavin?’
Not for a second do I believe he doesn’t know the story.
There’s a twinkle in his eyes; he wants the gory details.
I appreciate how he’s trying to find out delicately.
He needn’t worry, it would be a delight to recount them.
I’ve been replaying the events on a loop since they happened.
This morning, making my breakfast, as the bread was in the toaster, I stood at the doorway and stared at the spot Colin perished, so hypnotised by my mind’s own rerunning of it I didn’t notice my toast had popped until the bread was cold and hard.
‘Well.’ I readjust myself in my seat. To Brian, I probably appear unsettled at having to relive a recent trauma.
To me, I notice the way my body tingles, the same way it did when I thought about Gavin’s mouth on me yesterday.
Retelling the story, I’m aware I have to dull my excitement as I recall discovering Colin unresponsive, the life having disappeared out of him already, the heft of his body underneath the shoves of my chest compressions, the finality of it all for the sake of saving ￡100.
He is my first audience for the new details the police rang me with last night.
Colin’s postmortem will take place today; an electrician is coming to check the wiring tomorrow.
In death, Colin is even more of an irritant to me than he was in life.
When I’m finished, I notice my chest is trembling, adrenaline filling me up as if it only just happened.
Brian’s pensive, his brow furrowed, his chin resting on his curled hand, the motions of a man who is acting the way he should upon hearing the details of a death.
‘His wife died not that long ago, and he had a complicated relationship with his… kid. Families can be difficult, ye know? No doubt there’ll be all kinds of legal mess about who inherits his properties. ’
The interview, or meeting, or whatever this is supposed to be, feels like it’s ended. Brian asks no more questions. ‘Shall I get started, then?’
‘Not just yet. I have two things I still need to cover.’
I ease back into my chair, having pre-emptively begun to shift out of it.
‘The first is the most important question I will ask you in this entire conversation.’
If this is about rate, I’ve no idea what to say.
￡150 a day? Does that sound too steep for sitting at a computer and willing the hours to pass?
Or will he respect me for going in high and showing I believe in my worth?
As I calculate what will both cover my expenses and be the highest amount he will pay, Brian roots around in his drawer and plucks out a well-worn book, The Shape of Business.
‘Great read, this. I used the introduction of it to make a really informative Instagram video about business minds. You should watch it.’ He flicks through it until he finds what he’s been searching for, a page showing five shapes drawn in solid lines.
There’s a square, a triangle, a rectangle, a circle and a squiggle.
Brian hands me the book. ‘As quickly as possible, I want you to tell me what your first thought is when I ask you which of these shapes best represents you. Go.’
Looking at the page, my thought process goes like this: what the actual hell is this?
I need to answer though, so what seems like the right answer?
A squiggle isn’t a proper shape, so that’s out.
A square seems boring, ditto the rectangle.
So that leaves circle and triangle, and the time is ticking on this so I go, ‘Triangle,’ then shut the book, which produces more of a thunk than I would have expected.