Clapham Lights

‘T
ennant, that couple over there want a four-bed,’ says Christian D’Souza, manager of the Lavender Hill branch of Cinq Estates. He points at a pregnant woman and her husband waiting on a maroon sofa in reception. There is a continuous stream of house-hunters
passing
through the open-plan office and the phones are ringing incessantly. ‘Take them to the gaff in Streatham I mentioned on Monday. You know the one, yeah?’

‘Err, which one was that?’ Craig Tennant is softly spoken with a Norfolk twang, and his suit hangs off his tall, lean frame. His brown hair is short and neat, and he has pale, stubble-free skin.

‘Akabusi Street, off Tooting Bec Common. It’s number sixty-three or sixty-five. Hannah’s got the keys.’

‘Right. How much is it on the market for?’

‘It’s not been valued yet.’ Christian tweaks his oversized tie knot. He’s wearing a sovereign ring and the office lights reflect off his gelled hair. ‘If it’s in good condition, say around five fifty. Tell
them
seven hundred. If it’s top notch, push for eight hundred. Use your initiative. See what you can get away with.’

‘OK.’

‘Don’t come back here until you’ve got them to make an offer. I want to shift it as quick as possible. They’ve obviously got a bit of wedge, so if they look interested knock a couple of grand off so they think they’re getting a deal. Got it?’

‘No problem.’

‘Piece of advice: avoid saying Streatham and definitely don’t mention Brixton. Drive there through Balham. In fact, tell them it’s in Balham.’

‘Right. What are their names?’

‘No idea. You ask them. Oh and Craig, there’s a thirty quid Next voucher in it for you if you can get rid of it.’

Craig retrieves his car keys and leather folder from his desk and introduces himself to the couple, who are flicking through a copy of
Maison d’Etre
, Cinq Estates’ corporate magazine.

Paul and Jane are both in their early thirties. Jane’s baby bump
protrudes
from beneath a white long-sleeved t-shirt and she has puffy eyes and blotchy skin. Paul has broad shoulders, a small scar below his right eye and is wearing a Hackett rugby shirt and jeans.

‘Would you like a drink before we start?’ Craig asks. ‘We’ve got still or sparkling water, smoothies, beer, wine?’

‘No, thanks,’ Jane says, placing the magazine on the coffee table.

‘So you’re looking for a four-bedroom house, is that right?’

‘Preferably three bedrooms,’ Paul says, ‘but we want a study, so
possibly
a four-bedroom house we could convert.’

Craig makes a note. ‘We’ve got some great three and four-bedroom places at the moment. Are there any areas in particular you like?’

‘Clapham Common or Old Town, and perhaps Balham,’ Jane says.

‘And we want to be close to transport, for work.’

‘And we’d like a garden.’

Craig makes another note. ‘OK. What kind of budget have you got?’

‘Around six hundred and fifty thousand,’ Paul says.

‘Is that the upper limit? Or is there any room for-’

‘That’s the upper limit.’

Craig looks down at his pad and pinches his bottom lip. ‘That’s a good budget, definitely a good budget, but to get three bedrooms, a study and a garden you may have to widen your search slightly because there are a very limited number of properties like that on the market. Would you consider Tooting or Streatham?’

Paul and Jane glance at each other.

‘I don’t think so, no,’ Jane says. ‘Definitely not Streatham. We’ve been following the market around here for several months and we think our budget’s generous considering how the market has plateaued.’

Craig looks puzzled by the word ‘plateaued’. ‘I know prices
nationally
haven’t been rising, but the market always tends to slow between March and May. Some one-bedroom flats in Clapham have been selling for as much as five hundred thousand and a lot depends on the condition of the house. Would you consider somewhere that needed some work doing to it?’

‘Only cosmetic work,’ Paul says. ‘We’re not taking on any building projects.’ He looks Craig in the eye. ‘So do you think you can help us or not?’

‘Yes, yes, of course I can.’ Craig taps his pen on his leg. ‘Actually, there is a four-bedroom house that’s literally just become available in the last couple of days.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Balham. In the Balham-Clapham area. Do you know the area well?’

‘Fairly well,’ Paul says.

‘Where do you live at the moment?’

‘We’re renting in Primrose Hill.’

‘So you’re not in a chain?’

‘No.’

‘That’s good.’ Craig writes that down. ‘The house I want to show you is fantastic. I think it could be what you’re looking for. One of my colleagues took a couple there earlier and they loved it. Are you pushed for time because I could drive you round there now?’

‘Shall we have a look?’ Paul asks his wife.

‘I don’t want to push you,’ Craig says, ‘but I think there may have already been one offer at the asking price.’

‘OK,’ Jane says, nodding.

‘Great,’ Craig says. ‘I’ll get the keys. I won’t be two seconds.’

He hurries over to reception but has to wait for Hannah Fox, the new receptionist, to finish her phone conversation. She has a chestnut-brown bob, hazel eyes and perfect teeth. Beneath her desk are four glass fridges full of bottled drinks and a succession of luxury houses pass by  on a plasma screen above her head. She looks slightly shaken as she takes off her headset.

‘Hannah, are you OK? Is something wrong?’

‘The man on the phone was shouting about being owed money and said that he had my name and was going to the police.’

‘Oh, right. One of those. In future when you get a call like that, transfer it straight to Christian.’

‘I tried to but he told me to deal with it.’

‘Send it through to me next time then, and don’t take it personally, it’s not you they’re angry with. If they start getting nasty just put the phone down. You’ll be surprised how quickly you get used to it.’

‘Thanks Craig,’ she says with a smile.

Lavender Hill is bustling with shoppers as Craig leads Jane and Paul to a maroon and gold Mini Cooper parked in the side street adjacent to the office.

‘We’re not going in this are we?’ Paul says. ‘It looks like it’s been vandalised.’

‘Yes, sorry, we have to.’ Craig releases the central locking. ‘It’s
company
policy to drive clients to viewings. The paintwork was done by a graffiti artist.’

‘And what’s this thing?’ Paul asks, tapping on the Cinq-branded wooden box bolted to the roof.

‘It’s meant to be a house. I know it looks stupid, please just try to ignore it.’

Paul mutters something inaudible and helps his wife in.

 ‘It is around here, I just need to find the road,’ Craig says, as they pass Balham station for the third time. ‘Do you mind if I stop and call the office? I was given the wrong directions.’

He pulls up in the entrance to Sainsbury’s and gets out.

‘Shall we just get out and go?’ Paul asks his wife. ‘He hasn’t got a clue.’

‘I don’t want to walk anywhere, and the house can’t be far away. You never know, it could be nice. I don’t mind this area.’

‘Your choice.’

‘Could you move your seat forward a bit more, please?’ Jane asks, fanning herself with an old copy of the
Metro
that was on the back seat.  ‘It’s a bit claustrophobic.’

‘I would if I could, darling,’ Paul says, looking in the rear-view mirror, ‘but if I moved forward any further I’d be sitting on the dashboard.’

Craig jumps back into the driver’s seat and the car shakes, making Jane wince.

‘Right, sorry about that. I know exactly where we’re going.’

He speeds out of the car park and up Bedford Hill, almost running over a cyclist as he tries to overtake a bus.

‘What’s this called?’ Jane asks, gazing at the parkland on either side of the road.

‘Um, this is Balham Common.’

‘It said Tooting Bec Common on the sign back there,’ Paul says.

‘Yes, it’s um, both. Balham Common and Tooting Bec Common are the same place, on either side of the road. Clapham Common is just at the other end of the road. Really close.’

Craig turns off at the top of the common, takes a sharp right the wrong way down a one-way street and parks.

Akabusi Street is lined by terraced Victorian town houses. Some are in pristine condition, others have fallen into disrepair. It’s steep and Jane struggles to keep up as Craig paces along the pavement.

‘Couldn’t you have parked outside?’ Paul asks him.

‘Sorry, I didn’t think it was this far up. And down the road is a bit… safer.’

Jane has to lean on a wall for a moment to get her breath back.

Number 63 is a large three-storey property with a loft conversion, sash windows and a stained glass doorway. There are two wheelie bins hidden behind its overgrown hedge, one with a used nappy poking out of it.

‘Not bad is it?’ Craig says, taking off his flimsy aviators as he holds open the front door.

The hallway is bright with a black and white tiled floor and high
ceiling
. The first door on the left leads to the minimalist living room with a dark wood floor and cast iron fireplace. Paul and Jane appear impressed.

Craig leaves the couple and wanders up the hallway into the dining room, which looks out onto decking and a manicured lawn. He glances at himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece and then heads into the kitchen where Jane is opening and closing the glossy white cupboards.

‘It’s a new kitchen,’ she says.

‘It is. It’s a lovely house. Perfect for starting a family. Have a look around. I’ll leave you to it.’

Craig is sitting in the living room playing on his phone when he hears Paul and Jane coming back downstairs. He jumps up and straightens the cushions on the suede sofa.

‘It’s a great place isn’t it?’ he says as the couple walk in.

‘It is nice,’ Jane says, ‘I can’t deny that.’

Paul looks less happy. ‘How much is it on for?’

‘My manager said it’s on at seven hundred thousand pounds but I’m sure the owners would take six hundred and seventy-five for a quick sale.’

Paul shakes his head. ‘Seven hundred thousand?’

‘That’s a good price for this area.’

‘It doesn’t sound like one. And that’s over our budget. Who owns it?’

‘A couple with children. Grown-up children, they’ve moved out. That’s why they’re selling. They’re moving to… somewhere else.’

‘In London?’ Jane asks.

Craig hesitates. ‘They didn’t say.’

Paul inspects the fireplace. ‘What council tax bracket is this place in?’

‘D, I think.’

Paul and Jane exchange doubtful looks and sit together on the edge of the sofa.

‘What are the transport links like here?’ Jane asks.

‘Well, Balham station is just down the road. We drove past it earlier.’

‘Yes, several times,’ Paul says. ‘That’s the closest station is it?’

‘Yes, but there are lots of buses. Every five minutes, from the top of the road.’

‘What road is that?’

‘That’s Balham High Road.’ Craig coughs and adjusts his belt.

Jane rubs her bump as Paul gets to his feet and gazes out of the window to the street. A group of young boys are kicking a football at a snarling pit bull terrier tethered to a gatepost. He takes his phone out of his pocket.

‘They don’t live around here.’ Craig says, looking over Paul’s
shoulder
.

‘How do you know?’ Paul says, concentrating on his phone. ‘I’ve just put this address into Google maps and it comes up as Streatham
not
Balham.’ He glares at Craig.

‘Err… well… the address is Streatham, but the house is in Balham.’ Craig backs towards the corner of the room.

‘So it’s in Balham
and
Streatham?’ Jane says. ‘How does that work? It can’t be in two places at once.’

‘It’s on the border. It’s south Balham. Maps are very… you can’t always trust the computer maps as they’ve redrawn the borders recently. It gets a bit confusing.’

‘It clearly does for you,’ Paul says. ‘Look Craig, I deal with bullshitters
every day at work and you’re not a very good one. You haven’t got a clue, have you?’

‘Yes,’ he says, unconvincingly.

‘Do you even know where we are?’

‘Yes. South… Balham.’

‘No, we’re not, Craig. We’re in Streatham.’ Paul huffs and shows Jane the map.

‘Craig, we’re in the middle of nowhere,’ she says. ‘It’s Streatham High Road, not Balham High Road, at the top of the street. We’re nowhere near Clapham Common. We’re nearer Brixton!’

‘Yes, sorry, that’s what I meant, Streatham High Road,’ Craig says, smiling nervously. ‘Clapham Common is just down the road. And so is Brixton. You just have to make sure you get on the right bus.’

‘Everywhere is just down the road according to you,’ Jane replies, raising her voice. ‘I don’t want to take a bus to Clapham Common, I want to live there. I specifically said we don’t want to live in Streatham, so why did you bring us here?’ Her cheeks are flushed.

‘There’s no way this place is worth seven hundred thousand either,’ Paul says. ‘Who valued it? That’s about two hundred thousand too much. Do we look stupid to you?’

‘No, you don’t,’ Craig mumbles. ‘It’s an up and coming area. We call it south Balham, but the name’s not really caught on yet. I could try to get you a good deal. The owners might take six hundred and twenty-five thousand. That’s under budget.’

‘Have you actually ever spoken to the owners?’

‘Not personally but I’m sure they’d take six hundred and twenty-five. Do you want to make an offer?’

‘Are you joking?’ Paul says. ‘Do you really think we’d buy anything from you? You’re a fucking idiot. How old are you anyway? Twelve?’

‘I’m twenty-five,’ Craig says, looking hurt.

‘Paul, calm down,’ Jane says, struggling to her feet, ‘I would say take us back to Clapham, but judging by your sense of direction, Craig, it’d be quicker to walk.’

‘Come on, we’ll get a taxi.’ Paul storms out into the hall. ‘You look like you should be at school, not selling houses,’ he calls back.