Finding Home by Lauren Westwood

facilities’.
    â€˜Flexible accommodation?’ I say, feeling a strong sense of dread.
    â€˜Flats,’ he replies with a sniff. ‘We’re marketing the future potential here, not some crumbling wreck of the past. I want to see a bullet-point list – the 120 acres, a list of the outbuildings that could be developed, the number of en-suite bedrooms that could be converted into apartments, square footage – numbers, not fluff. And what about the photographs, are they back yet? We’ve got a tight deadline here and need to get this to the printers ASAP. Plus, it needs to be on Rightmove, Primelocation, Zoopla, Country Life and—’
    I stare up at him with dismay. It probably should have been obvious, but I didn’t realise that I was supposed to arrange the photographs and all those other things. Now I’ve wasted almost a week of my three months. Tick tock.
    â€˜I’m sorry…’ my voice catches. ‘I didn’t know.’ Desperate to avoid the sack, I hand him my mobile phone with the pictures I’d taken of the facade. ‘I took these,’ I say.
    The silence seems to last a lifetime. He stares at the photos, flicking back and forth between them with his thumb.
    â€˜That one will do.’ He hands me back the phone. ‘No point printing photos of the inside. The place is a tip. I’ll talk to the quantity surveyor about going round…’
    I copiously write down all of his instructions. When he finally stops hovering and returns to his office, I let out a long breath.
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ Claire says from across the desk. ‘No one gets it right the first time. I’ll show you how to upload the particulars onto the websites.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ I smile gratefully.
    â€˜Let’s see the photographs, then.’
    I hand her the phone. ‘Wow.’ she says, ‘Impressive pile. Haven’t seen one of these on the market for a while.’
    Jonathan meanders over to Claire’s desk. I’m petrified that he’ll gazump my first exciting project right from under my nose. Claire shows him the photo.
    â€˜Hmm,’ Jonathan says with a condescending grin. ‘Hope you’re not planning your retirement. Looks like a “sticker” to me.’
    â€˜A “sticker”?’
    â€˜As in, a property that sticks. Your tits will sag to your waist before you sell it.’ He laughs at his own vile joke, then swivels his chair around and makes a call on his mobile.
    Claire shakes her head and hands me back my phone. ‘Don’t mind him,’ she says. ‘Even if it doesn’t sell, you might get some good experience showing it. If you’re not busy after work, let’s go the pub and I’ll give you some survival tips.’
    â€˜Oh yes.’ I say immediately. ‘I’d appreciate that.’
    *
    When the day ends, I’ve officially made it through my first full week. I’m exhausted from the effort, but luckily, everyone including Claire shuts down their computer at half four. I rinse out my mug in the kitchen and put it in the cupboard (moving it carefully away from the one that says: ‘I’d rather be … GOLFING’). Jonathan breezes by me on his way out the door without so much as a nod or a wave goodbye, and Patricia does the same. When I return to my desk, Claire has her make-up bag out.
    â€˜You ready?’ She puckers her lips at the compact mirror.
    â€˜Yes, just give me two secs to—’
    Mr Bowen-Knowles’s door bangs open. He stands at the threshold of his office, radiating the familiar frown. ‘Where’s Jonathan?’ He checks his watch.
    â€˜I think he’s gone for the day,’ I answer. Claire nods as she applies face powder.
    â€˜Gone for the…? Well shit.’ He glares at me like I’m the one who’s buggered off without permission. ‘A couple just called – the Blundells. They