Finding Home by Lauren Westwood Page A

want to see that new penthouse apartment in Bristol Docks tomorrow. Eleven o’clock. Jonathan was dealing with them.’
    I look over at Claire, expecting her to jump at the chance to usurp Jonathan’s clients. Instead, she shrugs. ‘I can’t do it, Mr Bowen-Knowles – Atul’s playing football.’
    â€˜Shit!’ He pulls out his mobile phone from his pocket. I’m sure he’s about to phone Jonathan—
    â€˜I’ll do it,’ I say quickly.
    Mr Bowen-Knowles looks at me like I have three heads. ‘You?’
    â€˜Well, why not?’ I challenge. ‘You said in my interview that I could do weekend viewings. Bristol’s not far from me, and I’m happy to take them around the property.’
    â€˜You?’
    I wait.
    â€˜Sounds like a great idea,’ Claire interjects.
    â€˜Well…’
    He checks his watch again like he’s hoping something miraculous will happen in the next ten seconds that will enable him to deny my request to help him out. But since nothing does, he ducks back into his office and returns with a few property brochures, a torn piece of notepaper with the client’s name and number, and a set of keys attached to a souvenir wine opener. Reluctantly, he hands everything to me. ‘Now, just remember,’ he says, ‘talk the place up. It’s a “stunning, ultra-modern penthouse apartment in a top-quality development”.’ He glares pointedly. ‘Don’t say anything – anything at all – that might put them off.’
    â€˜Hmmm,’ Claire says as she puts away her make-up bag, ‘the Bristol Docks penthouse. Bit toppy, that one.’
    Mr Bowen-Knowles glares and says nothing.
    â€˜Isn’t that the one where there’s been some break-ins? A local gang or something?’ Claire smiles at our boss, revealing a set of perfect white teeth.
    â€˜Well, obviously she shouldn’t mention that,’ he snaps, ‘or the fact that the residents are suing the developer for faulty wiring and safety concerns with the lift.’
    â€˜Or the old lady downstairs who got an ASBO against the previous owners for watching
Newsnight
too loud?’ Claire is obviously enjoying this. ‘Or—’
    â€˜â€” the ambulance dispatch next door,’ Mr Bowen-Knowles beats her to the punch. ‘In fact, don’t volunteer any information at all. Just let them inside and look professional.’ He hands me the papers and the keys, and I shove them in my handbag.
    â€˜Sure,’ I say. ‘No problem.’ At least I no longer have to look ‘pretty’.
    *
    Outside, I punch the air. In less than two weeks, I’ve managed to turn the theoretical ‘odd weekend viewing’ into a real viewing with real clients. Claire, however, seems to have a different interpretation of my success. ‘That was a lucky escape,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘The way he’s taken to you, I’m surprised he didn’t invite himself along to the pub.’
    I laugh as we walk, certain that she’s joking. ‘He really hates me, doesn’t he? And I thought all that Cheltenham Ladies College stuff was just for show.’
    â€˜Oh no, I’m serious. When I started, he didn’t speak to me for over two months. It was three months before he trusted me with showing a property.’
    â€˜He must be desperate.’ This time, my laugh is a little forced. I remember the ‘incident’ with the magazine under the seat, but decide not to tell Claire.
    â€˜Oh, he’s desperate all right.’ Claire shakes her head. ‘He used to be okay, believe it or not. A regular bloke’s bloke, good for the odd laugh and a round down the pub. But two years ago, his wife walked out on him. She found him with Sally in the loo at the Christmas party. Since then, he’s been your garden-variety bastard.’
    I cringe as the image of Mrs Harvey’s