Sadly, I need these annoying estate agents more than they need me
What’s worse – dating or estate agents? It’s neck-andneck for me at the moment. I’ve sold my flat in West London and am on the lookout for another place, which means my phone pings every few seconds – not, alas, with messages from admirers, but from men called Jake who claim they’ve got exactly what I’m looking for.
This is almost never true. I meet Jake – pointy shoes, very thin tie, questionable haircut – outside the house we’re viewing. At a couple of them, I’ve been surprised not to see police tape fluttering across the front door. Stepping inside is like falling into a very old yogurt pot – clouds of mould growing up every wall and an offputting smell. “Terrific space, isn’t it”, Jake will say confidently behind me while I peer into a bedroom. I say bedroom; it would only work if a member of your family is very small. Perhaps the guinea pig or the hamster. The bathroom is avocado. “And it’s so close to public transport,” he’ll add, although I’ve arrived at said property via a compass with a half-eaten bar of Kendal mint cake in my bag.
Undeterred, Jake will ring, text and email afterwards demanding to know what I thought. It’s the kind of determined attention a single girl dreams of, if what I wanted in a man was aftershave so strong it constricts my throat and the motoring panache of a getaway driver. Do I want to put a “cheeky offer in”, one of them asked this week. “Jake,” I wanted to reply, “The only thing that’s cheeky is you. I have met skirting boards with more charisma. Please find a proper barber.” But I don’t, of course, because I need these Jakes more than they need me.
The property market is coming out of the doldrums, invigorated by the election, by movement on Brexit, by the fact that so many of us have been sitting, squatting, waiting for the right moment. Two Saturdays ago, Knight Frank reported their “busiest ever” day for viewings. “We had 931 sealed bids last week,” another Jake insisted, “and a house that went for 80 bazillion pounds over its asking price.” It was something like that anyway, I’d stopped listening.
“When did this come on the market?” I asked a different Jake last week, as I stepped over a large floor stain that could have been blood. His eyes, briefly, formed perfect circles of panic before he composed himself. “Three days ago,” he promised. I checked online afterwards and it’s been on for five months.
Twas ever thus, you might think. But I assumed, having been through this process a couple of times before, that I’d be inured to it, less exasperated by the playboy swaggering as they lock up their VW Golf and saunter towards me before announcing they’ve brought the wrong keys. The other trouble is these Jakes have had several years of downtime and now things are on the move again they’re cock-a-hoop, like teenage boys let loose in Magaluf after a long spell at boarding school.
“Darling, it could be worse,” my mother counselled this week, “you could actually be dating an estate agent.” It may still come to that.