Chapter 19
‘You absolute belter!’ Brian declared when he got in from the wake or wherever he really was, a whiff of alcohol on his breath as he stood over me and told me how he’d rung Leanne from a phone box – a shocking image, given the only ones left anywhere are surely urinals with phones in them at this point – after he’d received my SOS on the phone Leanne has no idea exists.
‘She sounded genuinely concerned about me. Nothing to do with any women, by the way. She really thinks I’m deep in grief for old Colin.
Absolutely phenomenal work. And that bit about me gushing about her in the office?
I think I’m going to get a blowie out of that this evening, so thank you very much in advance.
Amazing she really believes we’re not shagging. ’
‘We aren’t shagging.’
‘I know, I know.’ He dismissed my words with a flutter of his hand, as if we were discussing a point upon which we could both be correct. ‘Anyway, you will be rewarded for your efforts.’
My evening was wasted with concerns the reward would be the offer of Brian’s penis.
Which would have been easier to reject than what my prize actually is: getting to show prospective buyers around a flat.
Briefly, I had got excited thinking I’d get to drive the company car, access to a vehicle of prime importance to get to Pete, but no, this flat is close to the office.
Trudging up to it in the pissing rain, it definitely does not feel like a reward.
The flat is in a converted old house next to the Old Parish Church, which gets a pass on being split into flats because it happened forever ago, so none of this is Malcolm’s fault.
What doesn’t get a pass is the state of the building.
All of the units are rented out; the property manager and landlords must all be rotten as the building looks dilapidated.
On the roof, multiple slates have trickled down from where they are supposed to be to rest in the gutter, waiting to be put back in their rightful place.
The grey stone facade is dingy and manky from years of accumulated pollution.
Inside, the communal space is oppressive and dark, lined with a carpet that is covered in bald spots and clings onto the scent of every person who has ever walked on it.
It’s across the road from the church graveyard, which has buried in it the heads of three Covenanters, which were chopped off as a warning not to disobey the king.
I’d thought it barbaric when we were taken there on a school trip.
Now I know more about the ways of the world, I think I understand the king’s point of view.
The people I’m showing around are first-time buyers, a couple in their mid-twenties.
Aisla is short and has a severe arty bob.
Bob is dressed like he’s just finished a day’s labouring on the farm, which must be a style choice as a flat in the middle of Hamilton next to a dying town centre isn’t a fantastic location for a farmer to live.
‘Are you the estate agent?’ Bob asks.
My PPS-branded umbrella is closed, dripping next to my feet on the stone step.
While for all intents and purposes, I suppose, yes, in this instance I am an estate agent, I’d sooner utter aloud that I genuinely killed a man the other day than announce myself to be one.
‘I’m from Perfect Property Solutions. You’re Bob and Aisla, yeah? ’
They follow me inside. My first impression of the flat is the tang of the elderly in the air inside it, which matches the decor.
We are greeted by thick, swirly orange-tinged carpets and random pieces of furniture.
The previous tenant died, and the landlord decided to sell rather than renovate at great expense.
It looks like the tenant’s family have come in and removed anything of beauty or value and left the dregs behind.
In the living room there’s a cheap imitation wood TV stand that has a VHS player on it but no television.
A threadbare armchair is pointed in its direction, but the sofa that used to be against the other wall has vanished; all that remains of it are the indentation its feet imprinted onto the carpet.
I stop my perusing, because that is not what I am here for.
My role, as I understand it from all my own interactions at a flat viewing, is to say aloud what each room is, even though it is obvious.
This doesn’t take long, because this is a one-bedroom, one-bathroom, one-kitchen, one-hallway, one-living-room flat.
Back in the living room where we started, I ask, ‘Do you have any questions?’ and pray they don’t ask me anything, because all I know is what I can see with my eyes.
The amount of time we’ve spent in the flat seems insufficient for the amount of money they may be about to part with. ‘Would you like time alone to look around? I can wait on the landing outside so you can talk about it.’
Aisla nods as if I’ve offered her something fantastic and not five minutes in a cold, stinky flat.
By the time they open the front door, they have the air of people who have made a decision.
‘How’d you get on?’
‘Brilliant, thank you.’ Aisla’s eyes glisten as she looks up at Bob, who is doing a better job of playing it cool.
Her enthusiasm for finding a flat is making me want them to buy the place, to live an idyllic life together.
The way Bob reciprocates Aisla’s smile when he sees her looking at him, the warmth he has for her, reminds me love is real and it would be nice to experience it some time.
Mercifully, there’s a break in the rain as we re-emerge onto the pavement.
The sky still threatens but holds off for now.
This unexpected turn in the weather leads to me saying all kind of mad things as I try to wrap everything up so I can dash back to the office before the next downpour.
‘It was such a pleasure showing you around, thank you so much for coming. If you’ve any questions, just ring the office and we’ll answer them. ’
‘You’ll be hearing from us very soon.’ Aisla hugs into Bob.
‘Wonderful!’ I declare, before almost jogging away from her, so keen to end the portion of my life where I was an active estate agent.
I get halfway back, when it hits me: I’ve not locked the flat up properly. Fuck. I imagine this is the kind of thing that gets you the sack in the estate agent biz and so I dash back. Bob and Aisla are still on the street, assessing the property from the other side of the road.
At first I think they don’t see me, then Bob shouts, ‘Back so soon?’ and instead of admitting to being an idiot, I say, ‘Another viewing, actually!’ which is a stupid thing to have done, because once I discover I did lock up fine, I am forced to spend quarter of an hour inside the house waiting for Bob and Aisla to clear off.
By then, the sky has ripened for rain at any second, so I break into a full-on run, successfully dodging the storm.
I wasn’t as quick as Aisla and Bob, who Gavin tells me have already had their solicitor put in an offer ￡5,000 over the asking price.
‘Wow.’ I gulp for air while trying not to seem out of breath. ‘That’s great.’ It’s not to me, really. What do I care who does and doesn’t buy a flat.
There’s a crack of thunder, which is timed perfectly to Brian opening his office door. ‘Absolutely sterling work yet again, Jemma.’
Because I can recall nothing of note I’ve done today, I take this to be sarcastic. ‘What was?’
Brian laughs. Has he been keeping an eye on my online activity? Does he know he gets a maximum one hour of work from me per day?
‘You’re an absolute natural. Telling them you had another viewing? Getting a bit of fire under them to get things moving? Brilliant. Cannae believe you wirnae in the game before Gavin found you.’
I know he thinks this is all complimentary, but I am horrified to hear what a good job I am doing at this, the worst profession in the world.
I would like it noted I am only doing any of this because we live in late-stage capitalism and there is no escape from needing a job to survive.
Let us remember this is both a great cover for my activities outside of work, and that those activities more than make up for what I have to do in my day job by participating in the corrupt property system in this country.
‘And once that sale goes through that’ll be a lovely little five hundred pounds commission for you.’
My cheeks raise in a smile. I do like money. ‘How long will that take?’ Mentally, I have already splurged the lot on a haircut and fancy skincare.
‘It depends on the chain, but that pair are cash buyers so probably within a month or two.’
Aisla and Bob looked young, like ten-years-younger-than-me young. Although that’s how the system works, isn’t it? You pair up, and then you can pool resources and buy somewhere unattainable to a single person.
‘Where they getting seventy thousand pounds in cash?’ Almost always, the secret to having money is for your family to have tonnes of it, but maybe, if I keep asking, one day I’ll find another answer.
‘I think they inherited it from their gran.’
I drop my body into my office chair, which pushes back on its wheels an inch or two from the force of me landing on it. ‘Their gran? Aren’t they a couple?’
‘No. Brother and sister. They’re sinking their combined money into it as a rental.’
All that joy, all that giddiness, hadn’t been about a life together. They weren’t in love with each other, they were in love with the prospect of money.
‘You alright?’ Brian asks. ‘You look a bit spacey.’
I’m replaying the sexual chemistry I saw between them in my head. Not for the first time, I am concerned I have no barometer for what real love looks like. ‘Think I just need a drink.’
In the kitchen, the artificial light gives the space an unreal quality, which is only amplified when I hear a tinny version of – it really does sound like him but it can’t be – Nicol’s voice chanting, ‘Here to stay, here to fight, housing is a human right.’
There’s a fleeting second where I think this has all been a weird dream.
That is the kind of thing he’d say, and he wouldn’t be wrong, would he?
Then I walk a few paces, and the toes of my tights, soggy from the rain, confirm I am indeed awake and there is a voice that very much sounds like Nicol screaming.
Back on the office floor, I see Gavin is on the phone, their hand over the ear that’s not attached to the handset so they can hear over the chanting. Brian is standing looking out into the street, hands on his waist. ‘Fucking renter’s union.’
Gavin hangs up their phone. ‘The police will come, but, like I said before you made me call them, this isn’t an actual emergency.’
Getting close to the window, I see what is happening.
In good news, I am not experiencing auditory hallucinations.
In bad, my worst nightmares are coming to fruition.
‘Here to stay, here to fight, housing is a human right!’ Nicol shouts on a continuous loop into his loudspeaker.
Despite being the source of the racket, in his dream position of loudly spewing his views where it is inconvenient for people, Nicol is hard to locate.
It takes me some time to spot him, because he’s wearing a blue anorak I’ve never seen before.
We can all assume this is second-hand, as Nicol would be the first to tell you, as he has told me many times, that the environmental impact of the textile industry on the planet is disgusting.
I would expect Amara to be beside him in support, but she’s nowhere in my eyeline.
If she’s not close to him, then this must mean she’s on the day shift.
A sadness sweeps over me. I’ve retained her shift patterns alongside thousands of other facts about her I will never have cause to use ever again.
Moving further back from the window, a new protester in a long grey parka rocks up, their hood obscuring most of their face. From this angle only their nose peeks out, and that’s all it takes for me to know it’s Amara. So maybe I do know what love looks like after all.