Flat viewing

The estate agent is a special kind of bastard: a kid in a suit from most angles, late by an hour from the rest. The shirt’s nice at least, but his collar’s tight, rolling his neck up into his face – and the wispy moustache makes you wonder if he’s snorted the cat with the rest of his baggie. As it goes, I saw his Audi and made the call – but when he said my girlfriend sounded gorgeous on the phone I moved to attack formation and didn’t look back. And now we’re in a lift together.

The development, it opens up from the middle. Flats fall either side of the lifts, and the long brown corridors go every which way but home. It’s a maze after four pints, is what I reckon, and I’m already lost with the minotaur.

The estate agent struggles with the lock and opens the door, chatting on, already choking on his sales lines. Fabulous, fabulous, superb, tremendous. He walks cocky, the spoiled kid grown up. All he needs is the braces.

We go in and it’s all of those things for sure – the wood floor, the inter-dimensional telly. We walk through, quiet. You’re meant to be quiet in places like these. They’re not yours, so you feel like you’re trespassing. It’s never going to be yours, so you’re on the way up to tip-toes.

There’s a way to be when you’re looking at somewhere to live, and it’s deceptive, shifty. The whole thing is about lying. We’re lying, he’s lying, and the flat is nothing like the photos. You look out the windows, find yourself looking at the ceiling as if you’ll find a reason to sign the contract in the smoke alarms and the halogens. You judge hobs, weigh up bins, imagine where you’ll write. The estate agent, well he judges your relationship.

He says things about the lounge he’s said to others a million times over. Calls the kitchen new. Doesn’t seem to notice that the bedroom is the kitchen is the lounge. I think he calls the floor shiny.

My girlfriend mentions it’s small. Ah, but good things come in small packages, he says – a man proud of his proverbs and quick-witted besides. Then he smiles, smiling like we’ve never heard it before. Only I’m thinking good things don’t come in small packages, you urbanite bastard – letter bombs do.

But it is small, and expensive, so it’s not right. We don’t want to smell our food on our pillows, and if he mentions management fixing the bathroom tiles again I’m going to drag him to B&Q and grout his mouth shut. Then, I’m going to plug him into the mains.

He smiles at my girlfriend a lot. I must look as comfortable as a folded turtle. I’m biting my lip so hard I’m chewing my chin. There are many ways to kill an estate agent, and I’m listing them all. Then, sooner than he can pretend he’s sensitive about council tax, we’re out, away.

I give him a limp handshake so he thinks he’s won. And when he wheelspins away, my girlfriend laughs and laughs and laughs at the boys.