Finding Home (10 page)

The penthouse is the only flat on the top level. Mary Blundell admires the orchids while I stand in front of the solid walnut door and rifle through my handbag for the keys. Just as I'm about to panic that I've left them in the car, I find them at the bottom of my bag (slightly damp and sticky from my hand sanitizer which has leaked).

Only – they don't fit. I try all three keys. Nothing. Embarrassed, I turn to Fred Blundell. ‘Slight hiccup,' I say. ‘As you can see, the security is state-of-the-art. I can't even open the door.' I give a little laugh as my hand starts to quiver. The keys are wrong – they must be.

I try all the keys again and then begrudgingly admit defeat. ‘I'm really sorry,' I say. ‘Let me go down and see if I can borrow a key from the concierge.'

‘Do you mind if I have a go?' Fred says.

‘Okay, sure.' I hold out the keys, but he doesn't take them. He bends down and examines the lock, then reaches into his pocket and takes out a flimsy plastic card with a V-shaped notch cut in it.

‘State-of-the-art,' he says. ‘No problem.' He wriggles the card into the door jamb. There's a click; the door swings open.

Fred grins at me. ‘Amazing, ehh? Just like in the films.'

‘Umm...' I'm about to protest that it's less like a film and more like breaking and entering, but they're already going inside. I swallow my misgivings and follow behind to make sure they don't try any other “special effects”.

Inside, the penthouse
is
impressive. The enormous main room is all white with a double-height ceiling and an entire wall of windows looking out over the docks and the city. A modern space-age kitchen with glossy chrome units hugs one of the long side walls. The current inhabitants have furnished the flat all in black leather and chrome, with a few gigantic modern art canvases on the walls. A spiral staircase leads upwards to a mezzanine loft with four en-suite bedrooms and continues up to the roof terrace.

Mary Blundell rushes to the wall of windows. ‘It's perfect! Just what I imagined. We've come a long way from Hull, haven't we, Freddie?'

Fred Blundell puts his arm around her waist and kisses her fondly. ‘It is wonderful – and so much better than the other one we saw. This one just feels right.'

‘It does.' Mary puts her hand on her chest. ‘Be still my heart.' She winks at me.

‘I'll leave you two to explore,' I say. ‘When you're ready, just shout and we'll go up to the roof terrace.'

They seem to have forgotten that I'm there at all. Mary rushes around, opening cabinet doors, looking at the kitchen appliances one by one. To my chagrin, Fred goes over to the elaborate wall inset stereo console, presses a few buttons, and suddenly, a Beethoven symphony floods the entire apartment at concert-hall volume.

‘Wow! What a great sound system!' he yells above the booming din.

‘Uhh, maybe you should turn that down just a little,' I suggest. ‘The neighbours and all, you know.'

‘What's that, Amy?'

He presses a button and the room goes quiet.

‘Nothing.' I purse my lips.

‘Quite the acoustics, ehh? Hope the neighbours are deaf.'

I open my mouth to agree with him, but I just can't do it. The deceit is painful – they're loving the place too much. I, of all people, know that there's nothing worse than finding what seems like the perfect home, only to have it end in disillusion. It's better to end it here and now. ‘Mr Blundell, Mrs Blundell,' I say solemnly. ‘There are a few things you need to know about this property. It may not be as perfect as you think.'

I proceed to tell them about the elevator, the old woman downstairs, and the street parking situation, complete with personal anecdote about the hoodies I'd encountered earlier.

When I've finished, I watch their faces, expecting the deserved recriminations – Mr Bowen-Knowles could have told them all these things over the phone and saved them a wasted journey. But Mary's excited smile hasn't budged. Fred wanders back over to look at the view. The noonday sun glimmers on the white tower tops of the Clifton Suspension Bridge, just visible in the distance.

‘I'm sorry if you were misled,' I say. ‘I guess every property has its problems, but I think it's only fair that you should know upfront. It's a shame really – otherwise it really is a lovely flat.'

I wait. Mary walks over to her husband. ‘The particulars mention four bedrooms and a roof terrace,' she says, turning back to me. ‘I'm dying to see it all – is it okay if we go upstairs?'

‘Of course you can – if you still want to.'

Without further ado, they head upstairs. I follow behind at a safe distance, continuing to let the flat ‘sell itself'. I take a quick peek into each of the spacious, modern loft bedrooms, each with its own shiny chrome and black marble en-suite.

I catch up with them at the door of the master bedroom. Fred is inside admiring the gigantic fireplace wall.

‘And that will be a great space for the big Picasso, won't it, Mary? We may as well enjoy it before we've got to flip it.'

‘It sure will.' She grabs his arm affectionately. ‘Though let's not count our chickens until it's through customs.'

‘Ha,' Fred laughs, ‘Piece of cake. He's changed the frame – old wine in new bottles and all that. It will fool the best of them.'

Mary chuckles. ‘It's pure genius—'

She spots me and cuts herself off. ‘Yes,' she adds, ‘it will look great there.'

I retreat awkwardly to the staircase landing. My head is starting to hurt. The Blundells seem so ordinary. But door jimmying; Picassos; old frames; customs? Just what kind of buyers am I dealing with?

When they've seen the bedrooms, we all climb the stairs up to the roof terrace. The wind is bracing, but the 360º view is astounding.

Fred turns to me. ‘So, Amy, anything else we should know about before we make an offer?'

‘An offer? Really?'

‘I think we both agree it's just what we're looking for, ehh Mary? And fifty grand below budget.' He winks at me. ‘You only live once.'

‘Oh yes, Amy.' Mary grabs my arm like I've just told them they've won the lottery (or at least, successfully managed a heist of the lottery funds). ‘It's perfect.'

I hardly know what to say. Didn't Claire and the others say that most viewings are a waste of time? Is this beginner's luck – or are they pulling my leg?

‘I can phone the vendors on Monday,' I say. ‘What would you like to offer?'

‘Why, full price, of course.' Fred looks surprised. ‘We wouldn't want to lose it.'

‘Isn't that what's normally done in these situations?' Mary asks.

‘Well, in this market, I'm sure the vendor will be thrilled.'

‘Great, then, it's settled.'

As we head back down the spiral stairs, I can't help but ask: ‘And those things I mentioned earlier – about the neighbours, and the lift – they don't bother you?'

‘Oh no,' Fred assures me. ‘Not a problem – I doubt that the grand piano and artwork will fit in the lift anyway. And as for the little old lady downstairs…' he gives what can only be described as a villainous laugh, ‘she's unlikely to be a factor for long.'

‘Besides, we won't be here too often,' Mary adds. ‘With Fred's job, we travel a lot.'

‘I see. Then I'm sure it will be fine.'

The door to the flat clicks shut, locking automatically when we leave. We ride down the elevator. Instead of shaking my hand, they both engulf me in a three-way hug. ‘Thank you so much, Amy,' Mary says. ‘You're a lifesaver.'

‘Really?' I smile. ‘You're welcome.'

I mean, some questions are better left unasked.

On Monday morning I arrive at the office brandishing a well-earned cinnamon latte and skinny blueberry muffin. I'm still aglow after my viewing success (the only downside was returning to a smashed beer bottle on the bonnet of my car). Everyone is already at their desks, and they look up eagerly as I enter – and immediately look away again when they see it's only me. A few hellos are grumbled.

‘Guess what?' I say to Claire as I plunk my bag under my desk. She looks at me a bit foggily.

‘What?' she says. ‘Have you won the lottery and come to rub it in the faces of your beloved co-workers?'

‘No.' I'm slightly put off by her flippant use of ‘beloved co-workers'. ‘It's just that the viewing went well – the Blundells loved the penthouse flat.' I grin.

Suddenly, all eyes are on me again. This time they linger malevolently.

‘That's nice.' Claire smiles without warmth.

‘Anyway, thanks for the tips.'

‘Just don't get your hopes up, dahling,' Patricia butts in. It's only about the second time she's ever addressed me, and her tone is saccharine with pity. ‘Most of them say that. They don't want to hurt your feelings.'

‘No,' I protest, ‘they really did like it. Mrs Blundell said it was perfect. It's just what they've been looking for –
and
fifty thousand under budget. They told me to ring the vendor and put in an offer.'

‘An offer?' Patricia looks at Jonathan.

‘Blundell?' Jonathan's voice is low and icy.

‘Well yes…' I take a breath. ‘It was after you left on Friday that they phoned. Claire was busy, so Mr Bowen-Knowles asked me to do the viewing—'

‘The Bristol penthouse?' Jonathan stands up and storms towards my desk.

‘Yes.'

‘You know, don't you, that the Blundells are
my
clients?'

I stifle a little laugh. Mary Blundell's words come back to me:
I'm pleased it's you showing us around – not that… toff.

Just before he gets to me, Jonathan swerves and bulldozes straight into Mr Bowen-Knowles's office without bothering to knock. The door slams shut.

I shrug at no one in particular and check my emails. There's one from my former thesis advisor back in London, enquiring hesitantly if I'm ‘well', having recently heard the ‘news' about my ‘unfortunate mishap'. I feel a sharp pang for my former life in academia – like a ghost from Christmas past that I'll never glimpse again. I draft a quick reply thanking him for his concern, and letting him know that I've landed on my feet. Sort of. (And if he hears of any job openings and might be able to put in a word for me, I'd appreciate it)...

The muffled voices coming from Mr Bowen-Knowles's office grow louder.

‘Coffee?' Claire nods her head towards the back of the office.

‘Okay.' I shrug indifferently, still a bit miffed by her earlier lack of enthusiasm, and grab my mug.

In the kitchen, I pour myself a coffee and one for Claire.

‘Great job,' she whispers. ‘But you really shouldn't get your hopes up yet.'

‘I won't. But the place was right for them – like the proverbial match made in heaven. Surely you must get those sometimes?'

‘Sometimes.' Claire shakes her head like it's been a while. ‘But lots of things can go wrong.' She takes a sip of her coffee and refills her cup straight away from the pot. ‘I remember my first viewing – a cute little cottage in Bradford-on-Avon. The clients walked in the door and it was love at first sight. It was their dream property and was supposed to give them a new start; a new lease of life. I was so excited – for them, and for myself.' She smiles faintly. ‘It took them six months to arrange their finances. Finally they were ready to go, so I booked an expensive holiday to Euro Disney for the whole family.' She sighs. ‘On the day they were supposed to exchange, the buyer called. He and his wife had decided on a different “new lease of life” – they were getting divorced. The whole thing went down like the Titanic.'

‘Oh, that's a shame.' I frown, thinking back on my own experience of finding the perfect flat, but unfortunately lacking the perfect person to share it with.

‘But,' she brightens, ‘I got over it. Thank God for credit cards – we still went to Euro Disney, though I'm still paying for that trip. The cottage sold through another agent – no commission for me. But enough doom and gloom.' She clinks her coffee cup against mine. ‘If you do sell the Bristol flat, it will be a real coup. Those Blundells must be richer than they look – how did they make their money, anyway?'

‘I don't know.' My bubble is in danger of bursting. Claire is right: there are so many things that could go wrong. What if they ‘can't get the “Picasso” through customs'? What if they can't ‘flip it'? And then there's the not-so-simple matter of Jonathan…

Claire is looking at me like she expects me to say something more. ‘I don't know much about them,' I say. ‘But thanks again for the advice. In fact, I'm sure you're right—'

Mr Bowen-Knowles's door whooshes open, banging against the wall.

Jonathan blusters out, glares at me, and goes back to his desk. He rakes his fingers through his spiky hair, and begins furiously stabbing at his keyboard.

‘Amy.' My boss beckons to me.

I square my shoulders and brandish my coffee mug. I walk into his office and close the door.

‘Good morning,' I say.

‘Sit down.' He begins flipping through a stack of papers.

I do so.

‘We've got a situation,' he says.

‘So I gather.' I'm determined to stand firm, stick up for myself. The Blundells are my clients now, and I'm not about to let two old boys—

He raises an eyebrow. ‘We've got exactly three months to shift this place, right?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Rosemont Hall.'

‘Oh… yes.'

He frowns like I'm completely thick. Did I not just witness Jonathan's tirade? Is my boss going to sweep the Blundell debacle under the carpet? Still, I play along. ‘I'll be picking up the brochure from the printers this afternoon, and the details are up on Rightmove, Primelocation, Country Life and Zoopla. I'm happy to help in any way I can.'