Finding Home Read Online Free Page A

skimming the surface of a placid lake. And unfortunately, the man standing at the door of a tiny beige-walled office is
not
smiling. His eyes follow the progress of the button until it lands petulantly under the niece’s desk.
    His gaze moves to the tiny wrinkle of black lace at the top of my bra that I’m aware is now peeking out of the V of my blouse. All I can do is wait – for his eyes to reach my face just as my cheeks flush bright red.
    â€˜Come into my office. I’m Alistair Bowen-Knowles.’
    He ushers me inside. The large desk that takes up most of the office is unnaturally tidy. On the walls are architects’ drawings of modern houses and six framed ‘Salesman of the Year’ certificates, all arranged to the millimetre. Mr Bowen-Knowles is wearing a starched pink shirt with cufflinks, pin-striped trousers and a purple and silver tie. His eyes are set too closely together, his nose long and wolf-like.
    Mr Bowen-Knowles steeples his fingers. ‘So, Miss Wood. What can I do for you?’
    Smiling, I launch into my prepared answer. ‘I understand you might have a job opening in your office. I’m looking for work and I thought I’d make a good… uhh… fit.’ I hand him my one-page CV (highlighting my education, and downplaying the fact that I have absolutely no relevant experience). He takes it from me and scans it, his eyes narrowing.
    â€˜Are you sure you’re in the right place?’ His lip twists in disdain. ‘The bookstore’s down the street.’
    I shift in my chair, ready to make a dignified exit. Things have been hard enough without adding Mr Salesman-of-the-Year to my woes. My eyes settle on the white business cards neatly displayed in a Links of London holder. Beneath the script words
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
is a line of small print that I hadn’t noticed before: ‘
Specialists in unique and historic properties
.’ I take one of the cards from the holder.
    Unique
.
Historic
. Two little words...
    And just like that, the noxious mist clears from my mind.
    â€˜You may look at my CV and think that I’m overqualified.’ I sit up a little straighter. His right eyebrow twitches upwards like he’d had no such notion.
    â€˜But the truth is, academia was a bit stodgy. I’ve read a lot of classic English books that feature “unique and historic properties”. And I think I’d be the perfect person to sell them. Your agency’s speciality is right “up my street” – so to speak.’ I smile, really warming up now.
    The niece waddles in, her smile now looking more like a grimace, and puts a cup of coffee on the desk in front of me. I ignore it.
    â€˜In fact, I’ve loved old properties ever since I was a girl and my dad did up our cottage. It was full of character and quirks – just like a person. I adored it – and was gutted when they moved.’ I lean forward. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to sell lots of unique and historic properties and find lots of people their perfect home. Maybe be… uhh… Salesman of the Year – like you.’ I laugh nervously. ‘Saleswoman, I mean.’
    Satisfied with my ‘pitch’, I sit back. Instead of looking duly impressed, Mr Bowen-Knowles is fiddling with his right cufflink.
    â€˜Are you finished?’ he says curtly.
    â€˜Yes.’ I shrink in the chair.
    â€˜Good.’
    He picks up his BlackBerry and frowns at the screen. The silence is painful as he begins tapping a message on the tiny keys.
    â€˜How old are you?’ he says, without looking up.
    â€˜I just turned thirty… one.’
    â€˜And where did you go to school?’
    â€˜I did my D.Phil in history and literature at UCL.’
    â€˜Before that?’
    â€˜Willowdale Comprehensive. In Wookey Hole.’
    â€˜It shows.’
    â€˜Sorry?’
    Mr Bowen-Knowles sets down his BlackBerry with an irritated sigh.