The estate agent is angry. His usual chirpy cockney patter has given way to something a little harsher and more menacing.
“Can you just explain why, please madam,” he says bitterly through gritted teeth, “because I will obviously have to tell your vendor who is going to want to string me up . . .”
I have just told the estate agent that we are not, after all, going to buy the derelict house he has been trying to flog to us for the past four months. We are pulling out. Why? Because we can’t bloody well afford it. And it’s a rip off.
Not only that, it smells, has no functioning kitchen or bathroom, the roof is about to fall down and it costs nearly a quarter of a million pounds. I’ve heard of a worse deal, but it was struck at a crossroads, at midnight, with a cloven-hooved stranger.
“We just thought better of it,” I reply. I’m really starting to enjoy this. Finally, I can stick it to the estate agent, after long and painful months of having to laugh at his sexist jokes, compliment him on his nauseating shiny clothes and generally suck up to him. “It’s too expensive.”
“I see. Well obviously I think you’re making the wrong decision here,” he says. He sounds really pissed off. Ha. Good. “You do realise that this is absolutely the only house you are going to get in this area for this price. If you drop out now, you are staying right where you are.”
“I know. I’m OK with that.” And the funny thing is, I am. I thought I was desperate to move out of our slightly-too-small flat, in which there is barely room for a dining table, let alone for a baby and an increasingly boisterous toddler intent on practising flying kicks. But the moment we decided to stay here, I felt the stress lift from my shoulders as if by magic.
Our flat may be too small, but it doesn’t smell and it doesn’t require me to go back to work full-time and never see my kids.
Also, seeing as we are saving tens of thousands of pounds by not moving, I will be able to treat myself to that ice-cream maker I’ve been lusting after.
Hell, I might even get a new coat – even Curly thinks my mud-stained Primark puffa is looking a bit past its best, which means it must be really bad. “Right. Well I’d better get on the phone to your vendor.” The estate agent sighs. “It’s a great shame, madam. I’ve really gone out on a limb for you here. Well, that will teach me.”
Dammit, I am not going to start feeling sorry for him. “Look,” I say, relenting slightly. “Just tell him circumstances changed. My work is making redundancies, and if I lost my job we couldn’t afford it. We just can’t take the risk.”
“Ah! I see. Now I understand.” The estate agent’s voice regains a shadow of its old chirpiness.
“But you mustn’t worry about that, my dear. If you lose your job you can always come and work here with me. We’re run off our feet!”
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