Virtual Strangers (5 page)

Rose.

I have decided that Hugh Chatsworth is not merely a low life, but a fat little soil living tick. Had a gratifying end to the morning as I had received an offer from the Pringles (my clients) for 62 Bryn Coch (Hugh’s clients’ house.) As Hugh was on viewings, I then telephoned Hugh’s clients, who were happy to accept the offer my clients had made. Lovely, lovely. Indeed, especially lovely, as I had already sold my client’s house too.

Except not
that
lovely.

When I called back Mr Pringle to tell him, his secretary told me he would be out until two. At which time, she promised, he’d call me straight back. Though he couldn’t, as I’d be on viewings by then.

No matter, I thought, when Hugh returned to the office. When Mr Pringle called back, Hugh could tell him himself.

No matter! Huh! Charlie Simpleton, me!

‘Yes, I know,’ Hugh was saying to his telephone when I returned. He glanced up and grinned as I shrugged off my jacket and sat down.

‘Yes, but you’ve got to appreciate my client’s position,’ he went on. ‘
His
client is holding
him
to the asking price. And budgets being budgets, they simply have no choice.’

He then said, ‘Ah, but that was probably before
he’d
made
his
offer. And he’s had to up it......I appreciate that...but we’re only talking, what? Two and a half K here? I’m sure, if you want the house, you can stump up that much.’

I wasn’t taking a whole lot of notice. But I’d just begun typing in ‘pleasing water feature’ when I heard him finish with,

‘Okay, Mr Pringle, I’ll leave it with you.’

I stopped typing.

‘Leave what with him?’

He smiled at me. ‘Upping his offer.’

‘What d’you mean? Upping his offer? They’ve already accepted it.’ I pointed. ‘It’s there, on that scrap pad in front of you. Accepted this morning. No problem at all.’

At this point, Hugh clearly thought he was being deeply impressive, because he prefaced his coming outrage with a cheery ‘aha!’

‘In theory, yes,’ he conceded, warming to his task. ‘But the Pringles didn’t know that, did they? And you know and I know that they have a bit more than that to play with, don’t they? They offered four grand more for that other house last month. Give it an hour and they’ll be back with the asking price. You wait.’ He sat back.

I held in my splutter.

‘I won’t wait,’ I told him. I picked up my telephone. ‘I shall call Mr Pringle and tell him the truth.’

The response was quite gratifying.

‘What the
hell
are you on about?’

‘The truth,’ I said sniffily. ‘That their offer’s been accepted. I can’t believe you’d even entertain doing anything else.’

Hugh’s eyes darted to the receiver and back. ‘Don’t be stupid,’’ he said. ‘We’re talking two and a half grand here.’

‘Exactly. A big chunk of money.’

‘Which they can afford.’

‘But which they don’t wish to pay. Not for
this
house.’

‘It’s worth it.’

‘It might be. It’s entirely subjective. And it’s not the point anyway.’

‘Of course it’s the point. We have a duty to see we keep price levels sensible.’

‘Oh, and ‘sensible’ means inflating them at every opportunity, does it?’

I began dialling Mr Pringle’s office number. Hugh stood up. ‘And what about the business? What about the difference in the
agency fee
?’

I came back in a flash, because I’d already computed it. ‘In this case,’ I said sweetly, ‘a little over thirty one pounds.’

My call was connected.

‘It’s not the point anyway. The point is -’

I stopped him. ‘You, Hugh, can wheeler deal all you want to. I’d like to do my job
without
telling lies. Ah, Mr Pringle. I have some excellent news for you...’

Never really expected to enjoy work a huge amount, but now I realise I won’t really enjoy work at all.

Thursday 6th. Home from work.

Bizarre
event. Small cache of post (propped significantly - and portentously - by Dad, between mail order shrub catalogue and
Britain - short breaks and tours with our heritage in mind
) includes a letter. Hand written. In writing. From
Rose
.

Charlie, hi!

Sorry it’s been such
aeons
since we connected. Can’t
believe
where all the time has gone. Actually, I can. Matt’s been zapping back and forth through Le Shuttle like a manic squid. We have more wine bottles than milk bottles!

Reserving judgement on the local primary. Though the kids seem to have settled in really well, there is a definite whiff of champagne socialism in the air. Joe has a new friend called Oberon (which says it all, does it not?), and Ellen has become almost pathologically attached to her teacher (thoroughbred counties but aggressively
Ms
) who has a nose ring and bunches and is a spit, apparently, of Angelica from Rug Rats.

But the comp, as you’d expect, looks reassuringly like a more dissolute place. Despite the location, there seems to be no shortage of surly and dysfunctional pubescents here, which, as you’d expect, makes me feel quite at home!

How are things with you? I hated leaving you at such a low ebb (hated leaving, period) - and what with all the chaos of your Dad moving in and then Dan going off to Med School, you must be feeling quite strange and bereft. Again, apologies for being so wrapped up in things here that it’s taken me this long to get in touch. At the moment I’m oscillating between knowing we’ve done the right thing (and being happy for Matt, of course; he’s settled in well at work, and seems to be enjoying it) and an overwhelming sadness for everything we’ve left behind. I can’t quite believe we’ll find friends like we’ve left. And you suddenly seem a long, long way away.

Anyway,
finally
re-connected to reality. After threats of sanctions on al fresco sex come the spring Matt dragged himself inside and unpacked the computer last night - I swear he’d sleep outside if it weren’t for the slugfest he’s inspired with his hoeing. (So strange for a agri-chemical whiz kid to be so enthusiastically
organic
, don’t you think?) Send me your email address
asap
, so we can update the shag lists and share all the goss - your phone, I have to tell you, is always engaged. Does your dad have some sort of 0898 habit???!!!!

Miss you lots.
Lots.
Take care.

Rose. xxxxx

What? How?
Eh?

[email protected]

Dear Rose,

Very confused by your letter. It’s great to hear you’re all well etc. But what do you mean by ‘it’s been aeons since we connected’? It’s been two days. And why don’t you ever answer
your
phone? Please explain. Asap.

Charlie.

PS What’s an 0898 habit?

7 pm.

Telephone Rose. Matt says;
We’re just too busy chilling
and so on. Leave a message. ‘Rose, it’s me. Where the bloody hell are you?’

Turf Ben off the computer.

7.30 pm.

Telephone Rose.
We’re just too busy
chilling
etc. Leave another message (needs must). ‘Me again. I guess you must be out. Sorry about the ‘where the dot dot dot are you’ bit earlier. Hope you play this when you get home so you can wipe it before the children hear it. Sorry. Anyway. Call me soon as you can.

Turf Ben off the computer.

9pm.

Call Rose.
We’re just too busy
chilling etc
.

Turf Ben off the computer. Turf Dad out of the bath (through keyhole, obviously). Turf Ben into the bath. Turf hissing, smoking, stinking, spitting preserving pan with new black crackle glaze interior out into the garden.

10pm.

Call Rose.
We’re just too busy
chilling
etc.

Put Ben in bed. Put Dad in place. But! Ah! Post! At last!

[email protected]

Dear Charlie,

Oops. Suspect I have been rumbled. I suppose it was only a matter of time. I apologise.

PS. 0898. If you don’t know, I don’t feel it’s my place to enlighten you. Why d’you ask?

10.05pm

[email protected]

Dear Rose,

What do you mean ‘rumbled? What’s been going on? Is that you, Matt? Is this some sort of joke?

10.10pm.
Instant reply again. Spookily on-line.

[email protected]

Dear Charlie,

Not exactly. But this isn’t Rose. Or Matt. Sorry.

10.15pm.
I’m beginning to feel as if I have stumbled across a left over alien from the Outer Limits. Or a comedy extra from Star Wars. Whizz a terse reply back.

[email protected]

Dear whoever you are,

Forgive me if I seem a little slow on the uptake, but are you telling me I’ve spent all this time sending emails to an absolute
stranger
? And what the hell are you playing at, replying? And just who are you anyway? Tell me
now
. And what
is
an 0898 habit?

10.45pm.
Now suspiciously off-line.

[email protected]

Dear ‘Rose’

I said
now.

Ditto. Hmm.

3.48am

I wake in a cold sweat as the contents of several weeks worth of mindless/ pathetic/revelatory/bitchy etc. emails rain down like a shower of whitebait on my head. I could surely be sent to the colonies for less.

4.59am

Oh,
God
! Harris-Harper! Dishy Jones! Richard Potter! Richard Potter
in boots!

5.42am

Who the hell is it? Who? Who? Who? That’s it. I’m finished. I will never be able to show my face in Wales again. I will have to move to Canterbury and rent tent space among Matt’s perpetual spinach. And grow a beard or something. Oh oh oh.

6.31am

Christ! And I called Phil a prat!

6.32 am

And Davina a baggage!

Friday. AM-ish.

Bad start to the day. Got ready for work harangued by the burgeoning horror that I have spent weeks communicating my personal romantic fantasies to a complete stranger via email. But who?
Who?
Population of Wales: three million. Population of south coast of Wales (Cymserve main area): two million. Population of south coast of Wales with computers..er..one and a half million? Pop. of south Wales with on-line capability...er....
can’t
be more than one million, can it? Pop. of south coast of Wales actually
using
on-line capability (i.e. spending leisure time emailing as opposed to watching rugby/watching documentaries about Welsh Assembly/sitting in pubs pretending to know all about the Welsh Assembly/ in street answering questions from thrusting journalists about who
exactly
, local Euro MPs actually
are
etc.) half a million?
Half a million?
Only five hundred thousand. Could easily be someone
I actually know
.

And it got worse.

If there’s somewhere cool

in your neighbourhood

grab-yourself-a-pad

Call Metro!

Seen a hip townhouse

an’ it looks real good

grab-yourself-a-pad

Call Metro!

Yeuch.

No peace to be found. Couldn’t even listen to the radio in the car as a diversion, for fear of further assault by the truly appalling din that is the new Metro Homes advertising campaign, which has suddenly burst into terrible life, with a vocally challenged Rugby player as the all-wailing front man, pretending to be a Ghostbuster. I decided that I must alert the film company and advise them of this blatant pilfering, and thus wreak revenge on behalf of my ears.

Davina bursts into the office in her usual thrusting, in-your-face manner, causing almost total defoliation of our moribund weeping fig, and a swirling mound of leaf litter.

‘Pah!’ she says, glaring at me. Then (glaring again harder, or possibly narrowing her eyes to escape all the green), ‘You know it’s not my usual practice to gripe unnecessarily, Charlie, but do you really think looking like you’ve been through a rinse and spin cycle is in keeping with the new WJJ corporate image?’

Oh, sod off, Davina. ‘I’m
really
sorry,’ I say. ‘I had a bit of a bad night. I hardly slept, and –’

She slides a jewel coloured nail over a perfect arch of brow. ‘Yes, yes, yes. We all have our problems. For goodness sake get yourself sorted, will you? Drag a comb through your hair. Plump your bow up a bit. I’ve got Austin Metro due here any minute and the window display is an utter shambles.’

Oh, Davina, Davina,
Davina
.

I don’t know why I let Davina get to me so much. Actually, yes I do. And it’s not that she’s younger, richer, smarter (only sartorially), taller, leggier and, by some yardsticks, more successful than me. Bar the husband, the confidence and the flawless complexion, there’s not a lot Davina has that I think I’d really want, but, somehow (daily - and I’ve worked here for years now) there is something in the way we interact with one another that makes
me
feel that
she
feels I wish that I did. Which is wholly preposterous and needles me greatly. Though why I needle her, I do not have a clue.

And why should
I
care if she wants to spend half her life sucking up to her ancient ex-boss? (Who’s real name is, in fact, Austin Evans, as everyone well knows.) Nevertheless, the arrangement of my window is a thing very dear to me. ‘I just did the window display!’ I sniff.

‘That’s as may be, but as I came in I noticed a gap. Third panel. Bottom row. Second from the left.’

Ha! ‘That’s because I’m just adding the ‘sold’ sticker to it.’

Ha ha ha. Yah boo sucks.

‘Ah. 27 Peasdale?’

‘Full asking price.’ Ha!

Better. In anticipation of getting hold of a lovely lovely commission-enhanced salary cheque, I despatch an extra £300 to my MFI/Everest fund on my way home.