Unlike a Virgin (16 page)

‘Lu—’ Terrible start. I stop, freeze and try to come up with an alternative ending. ‘Lu-ook!’ Yes, I know. Dreadful.

‘What you lu-ooking at?’ asks Wendy, acting innocent. She’s very good at acting is Wendy, it’s in her genes, although she’s sucking her cheeks in, so I know she’s trying not to laugh and that’s not very RSC. I’m pleased she’s nearly laughing. She took it really badly when I told her that Freddie had asked me out, but I had to tell her, didn’t I? I couldn’t
not
have
told her. Although now I’ve made her unhappy and I hate that. Still, at least she’s enjoying my current predicament.

‘Oh tell us, Grace, what you lu-ooking at?’

‘Oh, just lu-ooking at the lovely day.’

Lube, Posh Boy, Wendy and I peer outside at the inarguably drizzly, grey sky.

Not today, but one day, I’m going to tell him. I’m going to say, ‘Ken, we call you Lube. Have done for years. It doesn’t mean that when we think of you we think of sexual organs that
need to be moistened. We just call you Lube. And I can’t cope with trying to cover it up in your presence any more.’

Gah! Now I’ve forgotten my brilliant opening line.

‘Ken, I’d like a word with you …’ I say. I don’t think that was it. That sounded too pushy. ‘Please,’ I add to soften it.

‘Jesus, Grace,’ he exclaims as soon as I have his attention. ‘Have you had a boob job?’

Not a
Guardian
start. I went for cleavage and, looking down, I realise it wasn’t a wise choice and do the other button up.

‘Ken, do you mind if we have a quick chat?’

‘I’m all yours, Gracie Flowers, except for the bits that are my wife’s.’

‘In private, if that’s OK?’

‘Whoa.’

‘Where’s private?’ asks Posh Boy, and I hate to say it, but it’s actually a very intelligent question.

‘The caff or the loo,’ answers Wendy.

‘Righto.’

One more time. I mean it. Stapler. Tie. Desk.

Lube looks at his watch. ‘No time for the caff, babe. I’m picking Rosie up from ballet at half past. Two left feet, love her, and twice the size of the other girls. That’s my side of the family, that. She’s got legs like my mother’s, poor love. Big and don’t go in at the ankles. Still, you can’t stop them having hobbies, can you. Stops them nicking stuff from the paper shop like I did.’

This is so Lube. He’s either orating like a Roman Emperor about to invade Byzantium – or somewhere, I didn’t do my history GCSE – or he’s gossiping like a girl.

‘The loo then,’ I say, taking his elbow and steering him towards the office toilet.

‘Ooh, up close with Pammie.’

‘Pammie?’

‘Pammie Anderson. Big bazooms.’

There are no words. We get to the toilet, which is one cubicle and a sink, and I sit Lube on the loo and stand in front of him.

‘Cor blimey, Grace, I don’t know where to look.’

‘Try my face, Ken, my face.’

‘You all right, petal? What can I do you for? Problema?’

Ken and his wife are looking to buy a house in Spain, hence the habit of putting an ‘a’ on the odd English word.

‘Your Spanish is coming along.’

‘
Gracias.’

‘Ken, I understand that you’ve employed John and he’s Estate Agent of the Year, which if you ask me is a major travesty to the profession.’ I kept that bit in, but Lube laughs all the same. There’s nothing he likes more than a bit of back-stabbing rivalry in his team. ‘Well, I think you know that I was hoping for the Head of London Sales job myself. I bring a lot to this company, in terms of time and money. No other negotiator at Make A Move brings in even half as much as I do in a month, as you well know. I kick arse, Ken. So as a goodwill gesture, to encourage me to stay here so I don’t feel that my hard work might be more appreciated elsewhere, can I have a pay rise?’

Oh my God, I did it. I think I need a lie-down now. Lube is staring at me and blinking.

‘Jeez, Grace.’

‘Do you understand where I’m coming from?’

‘I do, Grace, and I love you like one of my girls.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Come here, love,’ he says, pulling me towards him for a hug. ‘Big, big respect for that, Gracie.’

‘Do you think I’ve got big balls?’

‘Oh, yeah.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, Grace, but I can’t do anything straight away. I’ve got accountants looking at the company at the moment. Give us a month, two months tops, and I promise you, Gracie, you’ll be sorted out.’

I must appear devastated by his answer because he immediately stands up and takes his wallet out of his back pocket. ‘Do you want to borrow some?’

I consider saying, ‘Yeah, can you do me twenty grand?’

‘Five hundred quid do you for now?’

I smile. ‘No, you’re all right, Ken. I’ll sort something out.’

Debt. I’m going to have to go into evil debt. I’ll probably be parking in bus lanes soon.

‘Righto. Are we off?’

‘AGAIN! You’re not going to shadow me again, are you?’

He keeps doing this. Every time I have a viewing he stands up, puts his jacket on and says righto. ‘You don’t need to come to every viewing with me!’

‘The last time you showed this family a flat, Grace, it was what you call in the trade a cock-up, so I’m coming along. I am, after all, here to mentor you.’

Him
mentor
me.
Count slowly to 6,897 now, Grace.

‘Sorry, John, how many sales have you made since you started here? Oh, let me count them for you.’ I stand still and raise my eyes to the ceiling for a nanosecond. ‘That didn’t take long. None.’

‘I’m expecting an offer on a—’ he blusters.

‘I started here as a sales negotiator on the Monday. On the Friday morning I had my first offer accepted. And I wasn’t Estate Agent of the Year before I started. I was a receptionist.’

‘Well, yes, but I have … It’s early days for me. I’m here to learn the ropes and work it all out.’

‘Come along, stop polluting the silence with your voice. We’ve got to get to a viewing,’ I say, striding to the door.

‘Never, never, never have I seen balls so big on one so small,’ he mutters behind me.

Now I hate, loathe and detest Posh Boy, but I
love
the comment he just made. See how my positive big-ball affirmations are working!

‘They’re gigantic, John!’ I yelp, and then I straddle my legs and waddle out of the door, nearly crashing into a lady with a toddler on the street outside. The toddler shows excellent initiative for one so wee and walks straight between my legs. Luckily, I’m wearing leggings or it could have been damaging. I laugh, and when John comes outside he laughs, too. John and I stand on the Chamberlayne Road laughing. But let’s not get too excited by this. I still think he’s a twat. Suddenly he gets me in a head lock and ruffles my hair.

‘I know you love me really, Flowers. Righto. Where’s your car?’

I wriggle free and punch him in the tummy. It’s very hard. I bet he tensed.

‘Over there,’ I say, pointing at Nina.

‘Oh, dear God.’

‘Nina is very sensitive.’

‘Nina. You’ve named that Nina.’

‘She’s Nina the Nissan Micra.’

‘Why Nina?’

‘After Nina Simone, why else?’

‘Which one’s she?’

‘Which one’s she?’ I say, stopping dead in my tracks.

‘Come along, stop polluting the silence with your speech. We’ve got to get to a viewing.’

‘Which one’s she?’ I repeat.

‘Can’t we go in my car?’

‘No we frigging can’t. No one believes a word a man under thirty says if he drives a Porsche. I’m doing this for your own good. Now, the passenger side door doesn’t open so you’ll have to crawl through my side.’

‘Oh, dear God,’ he mutters as he folds himself up to get into the car. While he’s crawling across to his seat, I notice his bottom. It’s not bad … for a twat.

My phone buzzes when I’m in the car. Danny? No. It’s Bob the Builder.

‘Hey, sis. Just had an appointment cancel. I’ll join you at the viewing. Chat to the lady about the garden.’

That’s good news, but the fact that I haven’t heard from Dan isn’t. Something is very wrong. It’s Wednesday today and he still isn’t back. I got a brief text Monday night saying he’d be a few more days in Wales. It’s weird.

‘You all right?’ asks Posh Boy.

‘Fine,’ I reply, starting the engine.

We’re showing my favourite family one of Bob’s new super duper flats. The kids are quite excited by this one, apparently, on account of the fact that it has a hot tub.

‘Nice.’ Posh Boy wolf whistles when we pull up.

The family are already assembled outside and I wave.

‘Yeah, Bob’s stuff’s always good,’ I say, getting out of the car and leaving Posh Boy to make his own way out of Nina.

‘Hello there, how you all doing?’

‘We’re fine,’ says the mother, smiling.

‘OK, this one’s empty. I’ve got the key. It should be immaculate. Sorry about last time.’

‘Don’t worry.’

I let us in. The smell of new paint and plaster hits my nostrils straight away. I don’t normally like this aroma, but funnily enough today I do.

‘Oh, yes,’ the mother says as I lead her into the living room where we find high white walls, a tasteful fireplace and big sash windows. Her husband stands in the middle of the room and makes a ‘bah’ sound. It echoes slightly in the emptiness and he starts humming to himself. Emma, his daughter, runs up to him and sings something – a word or name, I’m not sure exactly – and her dad responds. It’s a song they both know and it’s familiar. Suddenly I recognise where it’s from.
Evita
! That’s it, they’re singing a duet from
Evita.
Oh, I just love this family. They sing and smile together. I watch them and it could be me and my dad, when I was fifteen and he was still alive.

I clap when they finish and then we walk through to the all-mod-cons kitchen/breakfast room with patio doors out onto the garden.

‘So the garden’s not as big as the last one. He’s going to turf it, but he said if you wanted any areas left for flowerbeds we can discuss that. He’ll be here any minute so you can discuss it with him yourself if you like.’

The mother stands there with a dreamy look in her eyes. This is going very well. This is much more like it. I lead them back into the hallway.

‘Now then, this room is very important,’ I say in a hushed
reverential tone. ‘This, is the hot-tub room. Oh yes, with electrics for a telly as well. Are we ready?’ I wait with my hand on the doorknob for a few moments to build the tension, because this bathroom really is pumping. Bob the Builder loves a hot tub at the end of a working day, so it’s become his trademark.

‘Yes.’ The son giggles.

‘Are you sure you’re ready?’

‘YES!’

‘Absolutely sure you’re ready to see the biggest hot tub in the world.’

‘Hello there.’ It’s Bob, striding through the hall towards us. ‘Has my sis been looking after you?’

‘Is that your brother?’ the girl asks.

‘He’s my chosen brother,’ I tell her.

‘What do you think?’ he asks Mr and Mrs Hammond.

‘Beautiful.’

‘Yes, they’ve turned out well. This is my favourite room in the house, I’m a hot-tub fiend, me,’ Bob explains with a smile.

‘Ta da!’ I say, opening the door. I don’t look inside. Instead I watch their faces. Their mouths drop open, but not in delight, as I’d expected, but in horror. Bob takes a step back and looks as though he might faint. I look inside.

‘OH MY GOD!’ I scream. And that causes the woman sitting on the edge of the hot tub with a man’s head between her legs to scream as well.

‘ARGH!’we both holler.

She tries to cover herself with her hands while the man bobs his head underwater.

‘Oh my God!’ I shut the door. ‘Oh my God, I am so sorry.’

Bob’s gone. No one speaks. Whoa. That goes straight in at number one in my top crap viewings chart.

‘I think we’d better go,’ says the dad, and they all file out silently.

‘I am so sorry. I am so sorry. I am so sorry.’ I’m stuck on repeat. Jesus. This is terrible. I’ll lose my favourite family. I’ve scarred the children for life. But that’s not the worst of it, the really awful part is that the lady in the hot tub was Bob’s girlfriend Stella. Bob’s one of life’s good guys; he doesn’t deserve this. I walk back to the car, feeling sad, and find Posh Boy already seated inside.

‘You all right?’ he asks.

‘No, I’m in shock.’

‘Yeah, that was bad. Not as bad as the time a bloke had a heart attack on me.’

‘No?!’

‘Yeah. That’s my crap viewing number one. What’s yours?’

‘Well, until now it was the time I walked in on a naked old man having a poo.’