by Cate Woods
After her feed, with Dot obligingly dozing in her pram, I tell Claris about my new hot dentist – leaving out some of the more eye-popping details, as I should probably save those for a more broad-minded audience (i.e. Jess). I thought Claris might disapprove of me lusting after another bloke while things with Luke are still so murky, as her moral compass has always been finely tuned, but instead she seems really pleased that I have – I quote – ‘got a bit of your old spark back’.
I cut myself another slice of cake, which is possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
‘Talking about old sparks,’ I say, ‘when I was leaving the dentist I bumped into a friend from my photography days. Riva – she’s a stylist. I don’t suppose you remember her?’
Claris thinks for a moment. ‘No, but then I was always completely intimidated and flustered whenever I met your fashion friends. They were just so cool. Ooh, do you remember that model you had a bit of a thing with? What was his name . . . ?’
I grin; I know exactly who she’s talking about. ‘Tomo.’
‘That was it!’ Claris smiles, shaking her head. ‘I couldn’t even look him in the eye, he was just too beautiful . . . So was it strange seeing this girl – Riva – again?’
I chew a mouthful of cake, thinking this over. ‘Actually, not as strange as you might imagine. We’re going to meet for lunch and I think we’ll probably be able to just pick up where we left off years ago – although obviously our lives couldn’t be more different.’ I don’t mean to, but I let out a sigh. ‘Seeing her reminded me what fun we used to have. It made me miss my old job – my old life.’
‘Well, I like the Annie of today far better,’ says Claris stoutly. ‘I hardly ever saw you back then, you were always jetting off somewhere glamorous or spending the entire weekend in a club.’
‘Yes, but wasn’t I more fun? I certainly think I was more interesting . . .’
Claris shoots me a severe look. ‘Annie Taylor, what could be more interesting and rewarding than raising a human being? I know how much you enjoyed the photography, but I guarantee that you wouldn’t find all the partying and wild shenanigans half as appealing as you used to. People grow up and their lives change. Enjoy the memories, but don’t ever regret the way things have turned out, not for a moment.’ She tops up my tea from the pot. ‘Besides, it would be impossible to have that sort of lifestyle with a child. The only time you used to be at home was when you were getting ready to go out!’
‘But Riva . . .’
Claris looks at me quizzically. ‘Riva what?’
I was going to say that Riva is a mum too and still manages to have a life with more to it than just naps and nappies, but think better of it.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘Right, enough about me, I want to hear what you’ve been up to . . .’
14
It’s the start of my first working week, the day I rejoin the workforce and become a valued member of society once again. (And yes, I do know that being a mother is the most important job of all blah blah blah but you don’t get paid for it, there are no lunch breaks and you can’t even go to the loo without company. Plus, there’s something fundamentally pleasing about having a job: doing an honest day’s work in exchange for an honest day’s pay. It’s as satisfyingly straightforward as motherhood is bewilderingly complicated.)
Before Karl lets me loose with my camera on Curtis Kinderbey’s portfolio of ‘superior prestige properties’, however, he has decided it would be a good idea for me to spend a day shadowing a member of his team to make sure I’ve got a feel for what he calls ‘the C-K way’ – or, as Fiona puts it, ‘smiling and lying at the same time’.
On the way into the office I drop Dot off with her new childminder, a local woman called Helen who comes highly recommended. If you’re entrusting your baby to a stranger, then you’re going to want them to look like Helen: smiley, rosy-cheeked and in possession of a cosily ample bosom and a lovely house full of toys. Unfortunately, Dot didn’t get the memo – or else she’s just sick of being handed round to different babysitters (oh, hey there, Guilt, nice to see you again!) – and she howls as soon as we arrive.
Helen, bless her, does her best to put my mind at rest, reassuring me that Dot is sure to settle once I’ve gone; nevertheless, I arrive at Curtis Kinderbey already frazzled and wondering if this job is worth the heartache – and whether perhaps Luke was right after all about Dot needing to be with me. Weeing on your own is probably overrated anyway . . .
But then I think about the Raggy Rhyme Time power mums who seem to juggle multiple kids, executive jobs and still make time to get their nails done, and I think: you’ve got this, Annie.
‘Ah, here she is, our little David Bailey!’ Karl hustles over as quickly as his trousers allow, rubbing his hands together. ‘So, are you ready to sell some houses, Annie?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say with a beaming, I’ve-got-this smile.
‘Terrific, terrific . . . So, as I said to you on the phone, today will be an invaluable opportunity for you to observe how the business works first-hand and give you a helicopter view of the world of prestige property . . .’
As Karl rattles on, the management-speak flowing as freely as if he was reading straight out of a handbook, I sneak a look around the office for Fiona. There’s no sign of her. Bugger. I’d hoped – we both had – that Karl would pair us up for today’s outing, but it looks like I’m going to be palmed off on somebody else instead. Oh well, I know most of Fi’s colleagues and they’re a nice bunch; I’d be happy to tag along with any of them – any of them, that is, except for the inscrutable Rudy. I glance over to where he’s sitting, his lanky frame hunched over his computer screen, long fingers drumming on the desk. I’m not exactly sure why, but he unsettles me. There’s definitely something a bit off about him, like he’s an alien who’s trying to pass as human after careful observation of their behaviour . . .
‘. . . so we’ll touch base offline EOP. Sound good, Annie?’
I realise Karl has stopped talking and is now waiting for me to respond.
‘Fantastic,’ I say, brazing out my total ignorance of what he’s just said with my best cheerleader smile. ‘Let’s do this!’
But Karl carries on looking at me, as if expecting me to do something. But what? I stopped listening after ‘. . . blue-sky thinking’. I look around, searching for a clue as to what’s expected of me, and discover that Rudy is now standing by the door, coat on, and staring straight at me.
My heart sinking, I turn back to Karl, who makes a little shooing action with his hands like he’s herding chickens. ‘Chop chop, Annie, your carriage awaits.’
As I walk over to Rudy, he raises a hand in greeting. I can’t say he looks pissed off to see me, but then he doesn’t look particularly thrilled either. I feel a pang of shyness at the prospect of spending an entire day under that serious, unflinching gaze. He has the look of a man who would rather die than use an emoji. He probably handwrites messages with a quill.
‘Good morning,’ he says as I approach.
I plaster on a grin. ‘Hi Rudy! Thank you so much for letting me tag along today. I promise not to do anything stupid – well, I’ll try not to, at least! Ha ha!’
My lame attempt at banter ignored, Rudy just nods then turns and heads out the door.
I’m actually quite intrigued to watch him at work, because I can’t imagine how a man of so few words can possibly be any good at selling anything. Perhaps he persuades people to buy houses through the medium of mime, or interpretative dance.
I’m only comfortable with silence with someone I know well, so as we drive to the first appointment I can’t stop myself from filling the chat-vacuum with mindless babble, spilling out all sorts of personal details as if I’m a lonely drunk sitting at a bar. I’m in the middle of telling Rudy all about Dot’s meltdown at the childminder’s, and how I’m worried that I’m actually a terrible mother, when it occurs to me this is really not an appropriate conversation to be having with a new wo
rk colleague. I immediately shut up and we drive on in silence. I’m staring out of the window, wondering if I should call Helen to check on Dot, when suddenly Rudy speaks.
‘So you have a daughter?’
‘Yes. Dot. She’s four months old.’
He doesn’t say anything else and I assume that’s the end of our chat – really, he’s quite the conversationalist – but after a few moments, he asks: ‘How old are you?’
‘Don’t you know that it’s rude to ask a lady her age?’
‘Sorry,’ he says, completely seriously.
‘I’m joking! Thirty-one.’ I turn to look at him. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m twenty-two.’
‘Well, you don’t seem twenty-two.’
We’re waiting at traffic lights and he glances at me with the beginning of a smile. ‘How old do I seem, then?’
‘Fifty,’ I say. ‘Possibly older.’
And now he breaks into a proper grin and I feel almost proud for making him smile like that: it was hard won, but at least I’m in no doubt that it’s genuine. And it completely transforms his face; until now I hadn’t even noticed that his eyes are different colours: one brown, one blue, like David Bowie, or a husky.
‘Yeah, people often think I’m older than I am,’ he says, shifting into gear as the lights turn green. ‘I guess I’ve just got one of those faces.’
A few minutes later we arrive at an imposing golden-bricked house and Rudy eases his car into the driveway behind two black Range Rovers and something sporty and super-expensive-looking, shaped like a wedge of Parmesan on wheels. The enormous front door is flagged by twin bay trees; Rudy presses the buzzer and we wait. I’m curious and more than a little intimidated: I’ve never been inside such a grand house before.
‘We’re being watched,’ I mutter, nodding at the security cameras pointing menacingly at us from above the door.
Rudy just raises his eyebrows in response.
Moments later the door opens to reveal a petite woman, immaculately dressed in navy with gold jewellery and swept-back dark hair. The word ‘elegant’ immediately springs to mind, swiftly followed by ‘loaded’.
‘Good morning, I’m Rudy Sheen from Curtis Kinderbey and this is my associate, Annie Taylor.’ His tone is considerably warmer and more upbeat than it was a moment ago. ‘We have a valuation appointment at 9 a.m.’
The woman nods. ‘Come through to the drawing room, I’ll let Mrs Franklin know that you’re here.’ She shows us into a room that’s straight out of ‘Posh Interiors for Very Rich People’ magazine. ‘Can I get you a coffee or tea?’ she asks.
‘You’re very kind, but nothing for me, thank you,’ says Rudy with a gracious smile.
‘No, thank you,’ I mutter, stunned by all the luxury.
After she’s gone I look around the enormous room, marvelling at how anyone can keep pale blue silk sofas so spotless – especially in light of the fact that there seem to be at least three children living here, judging by the silver-framed family photos that litter every surface.
‘That woman isn’t the owner then?’ I whisper.
Rudy shakes his head. ‘Housekeeper.’
Just then I hear the sound of approaching heels on marble and a woman appears in the doorway, pausing for just a moment as if posing for a photograph.
She is over six foot tall with the hair (and waist measurement) of a Barbie doll. God knows how old she is – anything between twenty and fifty seems possible – but I’m guessing she was once a model as I’m sure you can’t be that beautiful and not try to make some money out of it. The most striking thing, however, is the sheer glossiness of her: glowing skin, glistening blonde mane, diamonds glinting all over her – she looks like she’s powered by solar panels.
This is what rich looks like, I think. And it’s very, very shiny.
‘You’re from Curtis Kinderbey?’ she asks, already bored.
‘We are, Mrs Franklin. I’m Rudy Sheen – we spoke on the phone last week? – and this is our property photographer, Annie Taylor.’ He smiles in a way that suggests he’s thrilled to be here. ‘Thank you so much for taking the time to see us, we won’t keep you long. Your house is exquisite.’
She glances around the room and sighs. ‘Mmmm, we’ve outgrown the space,’ she says, with an airy wave of a diamond-clad hand. ‘I suppose you’ll want to see the rest of it. This way . . .’
We trail Mrs Franklin around the house, my mind increasingly blown, as she points out the cinema room, the housekeeper’s quarters and a ‘mindfulness suite’ with the careless complacency of someone who has absolutely no idea quite how incredible their home is, and how bloody lucky they are. You know that expression ‘how the other half lives’? Well, this is how the other 0.000000001 per cent live.
We get only the briefest glimpse of each room before Mrs Franklin sweeps on. I would absolutely love to have a proper poke around – to check out her walk-in closet and have a nose through the beauty products in the master bathroom – and then I remember that I get to come back and photograph this place. It suddenly feels like an enormous treat.
The real revelation, though, is Rudy. Gone is the monosyllabic Mr Spock, and I finally understand why he’s so good at selling houses. He is charming and engaging, flattering Mrs Franklin without being obsequious, and complimenting the antique furniture and art with what seems, to my ignorant ears at least, to be expert knowledge. Whether it’s all bullshit, however, doesn’t really matter, as Mrs Franklin laps it up; by the time we have finished the tour, she’s putty in his hands, giggling coquettishly and touching his arm at every opportunity.
‘I’ll be in touch later today with the valuation,’ says Rudy as she shows us out. ‘You have a truly exceptional home, Mrs Franklin, and I’m confident that we can exceed your expectations in handling its sale.’
‘Thank you, Rudy.’ She smiles, her dental work outshining the diamonds. ‘Obviously I’ll have to discuss this with my husband, but if we’re happy with the valuation, then I think we’ll be able to work with you and Curtis Kinderbey as the sole agent.’
Bingo.
Back in the car, Rudy reverts to his inscrutable self, jotting down a few notes in a file, setting Google Maps for our next appointment and then reversing out of the driveway, all without saying a word.
When it becomes apparent that he doesn’t intend on making any sort of comment on what, I assume, was a very successful appointment, I realise I’ll have to get the ball rolling.
‘That seemed to go well?’
Rudy’s expression doesn’t change. ‘We’ll see.’
I try again. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Rudy, but I wasn’t expecting you to be quite so good at this. That really was quite a performance.’
‘Performance,’ he repeats, seeming amused. ‘Yes, good choice of word. Because it’s all an act, isn’t it? I’m acting the part of an estate agent.’
‘Well then, you’re a really good actor.’
‘I should hope so, I studied for three years at RADA.’
I turn to look at him, unsure whether he’s joking. ‘What, the world-famous and prestigious drama school RADA?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Of course.’
I gawp at him, astonished. ‘Then why the hell are you working as an estate agent?’
‘Benedict Cumberbatch is stealing my roles,’ he says.
I laugh, and Rudy smiles too. I realise how much more relaxed I feel around him than I did just an hour ago. He may not be particularly forthcoming, but he’s refreshingly forthright – which means I don’t feel shy about digging a little further.
‘Seriously, what happened?’ I ask. ‘Why are you doing this if you trained as an actor?’
‘I came to work at Curtis Kinderbey because I couldn’t get an acting job. I still haven’t got an acting job, so I’m still here. It’s as simple as that.’
I nod slowly, pondering the correct response. ‘I’m sorry,’ I manage eventua
lly.
‘Don’t be. It’s actually proving useful experience for the acting – first-hand observation of human nature and all that. Besides, it was a choice between being an estate agent or a waiter, and this pays far more – and I get to hang out with interesting people.’
Was that last comment directed at me? I glance at him again, but his attention is focused on the road.
‘Anyway,’ Rudy goes on, ‘from what I understand, this is a bit of a career departure for you too.’
‘Well, I used to be an assistant to a fashion photographer, which I loved, and I was hoping to set up on my own, but then . . .’ I shrug, deciding it’s probably advisable to leave it at that. ‘I’ve not worked for years actually, so this is all quite nerve-wracking.’
‘Why did you give up the photography?’
I look out of the window, struggling to find a short answer. ‘I screwed up, I suppose.’ Then, not wanting to sound self-pitying, I add: ‘It’s complicated.’
Rudy pulls up outside a parade of shops and nods towards a café. ‘We’ve got half an hour before our next appointment, so I can either follow Karl’s instructions and tell you why you’re so lucky to be working for Curtis Kinderbey or you can fill me in on your complicated life.’ He unclicks his seatbelt. ‘Up to you, but either way I want a coffee.’
The correct choice, of course, would be to shut up and listen to the Curtis Kinderbey pep talk. Rudy certainly doesn’t need to hear about my parents dying and my subsequent breakdown and how I met Luke and how we had Dot and how he cheated on me so I moved out to live with my cougar friend Jessica. This is most definitely not need-to-know information for a new work colleague. And yet over the next twenty minutes or so I tell him all this and much, much more, the words tumbling out #nofilter.