Going, Going, Gone
He climbed out of the vintage Jag and rubbed his cashmere coat sleeve on the door handle to get rid of any fingermarks. He glanced at the old country house in front of him and then poked his head back in the car, waving his hand in his wife’s face.
Linda, are you listening?
Still sat in the car, she turned her head slowly to look him in the eye.
Thank you, he growled. Now, don’t forget I’m going to lead this. Don’t go saying anything while we’re looking round, okay? I simply want your view on whether we can add value quickly and sell it on at a decent profit.
Linda sighed. How had she coped before she met him? Oh yes, perfectly well, now she recalled; she had been a global PR Director, living in London, with a lovely house of her own. Until she’d met Gary, ten years ago. To be fair, she told herself, she had been at a very low ebb at the time. But she wished she’d known then what she knew now: in the property development company he owned, he was called Ghastly Gary.
She reached for her handbag and found herself fiddling again with the platinum ring on her left hand. It stuck at the knuckle, no matter how hard she tugged. She gritted her teeth and swung her elegant legs out of the car. Having picked up her husband’s scarf from the back seat, she wound it around his neck, just for a second imagining what it would feel like to wind it ever tighter. Catching herself, she tucked it nicely into his coat and patted it.
Gary strode ahead of Linda to the door and knocked loudly on the heavy, old cast iron knocker. The door opened and the smell of burnt baking seeped out.
Hello, you must be Mr. and Mrs. Noone, here to view the house? said a friendly voice with a southern Irish accent. I’m Dolores O’Neill.
She smiled and pushed her wayward hair from her face with the back of her hand.
I’m so sorry about the smell, she said. The kids were making scones earlier, you see. We were hoping to offer you some, but I’m afraid it went a little, um, awry. Anyway, come in, come in. She wiped her hand on her apron and shook Linda’s hand. When she offered her hand to Gary, he glanced and walked straight past her into the kitchen.
Would you like some tea, perhaps?
No, no, we won’t be long, he said. Tell me, how long have you lived here?
Well, let me see…
Dolores walked over to the old mahogany sideboard and picked up a photo of two happy boys playing on a beach.
Hmm, now, our Jack there, he was just two when we moved here. He’s our youngest, and now he’s ten, so that makes it eight years. We’ve loved it here, all of us.
Why are you moving, if you don’t mind my asking? asked Linda. Gary frowned at her.
I, um, I lost my husband last year, unexpectedly.
Oh, I’m so sorry, said Linda, looking her straight in the eye.
They exchanged a small smile.
Thank you, she said. Yes, it’s still… it’s just a bit difficult. All this, well, to be honest, it’s simply too much for me, what with running the kids around and doing the holiday rental.
She paused and took a deep breath.
Anyway, this is a beautiful place to live, for sure, but you have to have a car. We’re going to move into town, it’ll be easier and cheaper for us, frankly.
Gary had already started to stride into the next room.
Oh, please, Dolores said to Linda, if you’d prefer, you’re welcome to wander on your own. I’ve banished the boys next door for half an hour, so it’ll be nice and quiet for you.
Linda smiled and thanked her. Gary immediately walked round the lounge peering at everything, his shiny brogues clunking on the oak floor,. He looked down at the piles of old magazines, toys strewn across the rugs and various pairs of muddy football boots and trainers scattered by the French doors to the garden. He put his mouth close to Linda’s ear and hissed,
How on earth can people live like this? Good god, this mess will affect the price they’ll get significantly.
Well, I think it’s lovely, it has a warm feeling, you can tell it’s a happy house, said Linda..
She turned away to gaze through the window, the weak winter sun finding the strength to shed a late afternoon ray over the fields, full of winter barley.
People never fail to amaze me, he persisted in a louder voice. She should have taken advice on how to present a house to the market. Ha! Well, it’ll work in my favour, that’s for sure. Anyway, the combination of the income from the main house and the holiday rental should add nicely to the coffers, hmm?
Dolores sat quietly in the study, hearing him mutter and tut. As they went upstairs, she heard him say something about the brats probably running feral.
Less than ten minutes later, Gary and Linda reappeared. Gary coughed into his scarf.
Not that it’s particularly relevant for you, but I assume you know this will be a commercial venture for us?
Yes, Dolores replied, the agent did say something like that. It’s none of my business, of course, what you’d want to do with the house. Ideally, it would have been lovely if another family could make it home and – well, be as happy as we’ve been here. But I understand that’s not why you’re here.
Yep, he said, cutting in. Opening the front door himself, he stepped out onto the path.
So, we’ll let the agent know. Thank you for your time. Goodbye.
And that was that. After she’d got the boys to bed, she poured a large glass of red and sank with a sigh into her husband’s worn old leather armchair, pulling the throw over her, to see if she could still catch the scent of him – but nothing there.
The next morning, Dolores heard the phone buzzing but she couldn’t find it. It went to voicemail before she managed to retrieve it from behind the chair cushion. It was a number she recognized, but it wasn’t a contact. She rang the number.
Hello, my name is Dolores O’ Neill, I believe you just called me…
Aah yes, the male singsong voice chirped. Helloooo, it’s Damian here from Price & Moore, the estate agents. I’m delighted to say that Mr. Noone, who came to see your house yesterday, would like to make you an offer.
Dolores gripped her fist and put it to her mouth.
He wants to move swiftly, in fact he insists on exchanging within two weeks, no survey required. As I intimated, he’s a cash buyer. I’m sure you’ll understand his offer reflects that. He’d like to offer £550,000 and he wants the house cleared and vacated within a month.
But that’s £50,000 below the asking price and you advised me to price it low to sell fast. I can’t afford to accept that. You see, it’s all rather difficult at the moment, financially. No, no I’m sorry, I just can’t accept that offer.
What were you thinking of as a figure, Mrs. O’Neill?
Dolores shut her eyes and crossed her fingers.
I won’t accept anything below asking price.
Damian said he thought that was, unfortunately, highly unlikely, but he would call her back. Five minutes later the phone rang again.
Mrs. O’Neill? It’s Damian again. Mr. Noone will not pay you asking price, I’m afraid, given the, er, state of the house. His words, not mine, you understand. However, he has increased his offer to £555,000, exchange by close of business Friday 31st, two weeks from today. He’s clearly an entrepreneur and not averse to risk. If I were you, Mrs. O’Neill, given your … er… circumstances, I’d take his offer.
There was a very long pause. Then Dolores answered in a small, flat voice,
I knew this was how it was going to be.
There was a long silence.
I suppose I don’t have a choice, do I?
Damian stayed quiet.
Okay, she sighed, I’ll have to accept his offer then. Thank you for your help. I’m sorry, I have to go now, goodbye.
She looked around at the family room filled with memories, of him with her and the boys, happy and carefree. That was a different time, a different world. The last year had been hell and this one wasn’t going to be much easier.
Later that evening, Dolores sat tucked away in the corner seat in The Chequers for her Friday night supper with her friend Jill, telling her about the offer. Then she heard a familiar voice behind her, booming,
Oh, come on, Linda, you know how it works. She was obviously desperate. I’ll just wait until twenty-four hours before exchange, tell her I reckon there’s too much work needed on the house and that I need to reduce my offer to £500,000. She’ll still be good for it - she has to be. And if she isn’t, we’ll move onto the next one. Now come on, be a good girl, let’s get the drinks in.
Linda got up from her chair and stood straight. In her heels, she was a good two inches taller than him.
Gary, I’ve had enough of treating people like this, I’m not prepared to do it. I’m sorry, I don’t want to live like this.
She walked out, followed by Gary hissing,
Linda! Linda! Don’t be ridiculous! Linda!
Jill laid her hand on Dolores’s arm,
Don’t cry, D. He’s just full of hot air. It’ll be fine, I’m sure. The estate agents won’t let him do that, you’ll see. Come on, let’s get you home.
By 11am Monday morning, the solicitor had called to say she had a list of initial enquiries for Dolores to complete. The list was intimidating. Dolores sighed and spent the rest of the week digging around in the archives for anything from restrictive covenants to insurance against breaking covenants from 1925 onwards. She submitted the list late that Friday and heard nothing further until the following Tuesday, when another list of questions arrived, even more obscure than the last lot.
Well, she thought, at least he’s taking it seriously and being thorough – and he hasn’t asked for a reduction.
She did her best and thought she could not possibly tell him anything else if he asked. She delivered her final response by hand to the solicitor on Wednesday afternoon.
On Thursday afternoon, she called Damian from Price & Moore, who assured her in his special soothing voice, honed for just these occasions, that the silence was nothing to worry about, and that Mr. Noone would be reviewing her final responses, with a view to moving to exchange of contracts the next day. She then rang her solicitor, who also assured Dolores, but in her professional brisk voice, that everything was set for exchange within twenty-four hours.
After a night of very little sleep, Dolores got up at 6am Friday 31st, in the dark, and wandered around the house alone, before the boys woke, hugging her coffee mug in her hand. She looked at the leather armchair and wondered where on earth she could fit it in the new house. She walked over to the kitchen window, and stood in her dressing gown, watching the sun come up. She ran her hand over the photos on the sideboard.
The morning passed with no phone calls.
Well, she thought, they say no news is good news. I’ll give it till midday.
Damian had gone for an early lunch and the solicitor was in a client meeting.
At 1.30 she called Damian again, who suggested she call her solicitor, as Mr. Noone was not returning his calls. The solicitor’s secretary said she would ask the solicitor to call her just as soon as she returned from her late lunch. Dolores’s stomach was cramped. She put the kettle on and waited, her phone beside her.
At 3.10 p.m. the phone made Dolores jump.
Hello there Mrs. O’Neill, this is Damian here, from Price & Moore. I’ve actually just had a call direct from Mr. Noone. I have to tell you, I am somewhat surprised.
His chirpy voice had disappeared and, in its place, a stumbling hesitancy. Dolores held her breath.
I’m, er, afraid to tell you, that Mr. Noone has decided that, due to the amount of renovation work he perceives needs to be done to the house, that he….
Dolores gripped the phone.
He’s reduced his offer to £500,000, am I right?
Good heavens, how did you know that? Yes, I’m afraid that is indeed the case. It is, of course, up to you to consider, but he says he will need an answer today. Perhaps you’d like an hour to consider this?
I don’t need an hour, said Dolores, in a low voice that sounded to her like someone else altogether. The answer is no, I will not sell for that price. And I will not sell to a man who breaks his word, under any circumstances. Please tell him that. Goodbye.
She sat at the kitchen table and leant forward, her face in her hands.
At 5.25pm, her phone rang again.
Mrs. O’Neill, it’s Damian again. Well, this is a day of extraordinary events, I must say. I have just had a call from Linda Noone. Apparently, her circumstances have now changed and she wants to make you an offer on your house, independently of her husband.
Damian cleared his throat.
I’m, er, guessing you may be able to read between the lines here. She loves your home and she is prepared to offer you the full asking price, subject, of course, to a full survey. She emphasises that her offer has nothing whatsoever to do with her husband.
Damian paused, but Dolores said nothing.
Mrs. O’Neill? I don’t know how you feel about all this? She says she’s happy for you to take your time to consider.
Dolores stood up.
Please tell her there’s no need for me to consider it any further. I accept her offer. And please thank her. I’m sure we can work out the timing together.
One week later a letter dropped through Gary Noone’s letterbox. It was embossed with the logo of a firm of London solicitors.
‘Dear Mr. No-one,
I am instructed by your present wife, Mrs. Linda Noone, to file for divorce immediately. Formal documentation will follow. I am specifically instructed to tell you that you have, unfortunately, significantly underestimated her value.’