His 'n' Hers (20 page)

Alison and I take a seat in the waiting area. Ahead of us there are three glass-topped desks with no more than a cordless phone and a laptop on them. A bespectacled, black-suited, intriguingly haircutted agent, dealing with a couple, is sitting at each. The couple to the rear of the office look like barristers; the couple in the middle look like hairdressers: and the couple nearest to us look like they work in advertising. They have one thing in common: they all look like they earn an awful lot of money.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ whispers Alison. ‘We don’t fit in at all.’

‘Yeah, we do,’ I say confidently. ‘Just leave the talking to me.’

After about five minutes the couple who look like they work in advertising stand up and say goodbye to the estate agent. The dark-haired woman who has been assisting them looks up from her paperwork and catches my eye. For a split second I think I recognise her, then she goes completely wide-eyed and I know I do.

‘I don’t believe it!’ she says, her hand clutching at her chest. ‘Jim. Jim Owen.’

I can barely believe my eyes. ‘It’s not you, Anne, is it?’ She nods. ‘Anne Clarke.’

She still looks as great as she did at university. In fact, even more so. Everything about her is really cool and sophisticated.

‘How are you?’ she asks, coming from behind her desk to kiss my cheek.

‘Great, thanks. How about you?’

‘Fine. Really good. How long has it been?’

‘Six years.’

‘Never.’

‘Give or take a few months.’

Anne laughs.

‘You look great,’ I say. ‘Fantastic.’

‘Really? Thanks.’

‘Anne,’ I say, turning to Alison, ‘this is my wife, Alison. Alison, this is Anne Clarke . . . We were sort of friends at university.’

Everyone smiles and there’s an awkward lull in the conversation.

‘So, what brings you guys in here?’ asks Anne.

‘We’re looking for a place to buy,’ I say firmly.

‘No, we’re not,’ says Alison.

‘Yes, we are,’ I reply.

Anne looks at us both, confused.

‘We’re really interested in the apartment in your window that’s in Belsize Park.’

Anne taps on her laptop briefly. ‘You mean this one?’ she says, turning the screen to face us. ‘It’s a lovely property. It’s only been on our books a few weeks. It’s in immaculate condition.’

‘Great,’ I tell her. ‘Immaculate condition’s what we’re looking for, you see.’ I pause for a microsecond, then add, ‘What with me being away on tour a lot. I’m in a band, you see. We’ve just signed to a record label in the States.’

‘How exciting,’ says Anne. ‘This isn’t the same band you were in at university, is it?’

‘No,’ I reply. ‘We’re called . . .’ I pause and attempt to come up with the most ‘band-like’ name I can think of, ‘. . . Sidewalking.’

‘And you’re their singer?’

I nod.

‘I can’t believe you’re famous.’

‘I wouldn’t say I’m famous exactly—’

‘I’m so impressed,’ says Anne. ‘And to think I knew you at university. You must be so excited about everything that’s happened.’

‘We are,’ says Alison tersely. ‘We’re over the moon.’

‘Well,’ says Anne, ‘I’ve got some good news for you. We’ve got the keys here in the office so if you like we can go and view it now.’

‘We’re not doing anything special,’ says Jim. ‘That’ll be great.’

‘Excellent. Do you have transport?’

‘Not with us.’

‘That’s okay, we’ll take my car. Well, let me take down your details and put them into the computer. Then, if you can give me a moment or two to fetch my coat, we can get off. I’m parked round the back so I’ll meet you outside in a few moments.’

Anne takes down our completely fabricated details, then disappears through an exit marked ‘Office’, leaving Alison to stare at me in total disbelief.

‘What are you doing?’ she says. ‘Are you mad? You are, aren’t you? What was all that stuff about being in a band?’

‘Do you know who she is?’

‘I’m guessing she’s more than just “a friend from university”.’

‘She was several months of torture and heartache.’

‘Even so, you’re not a millionaire rock star, you’re an accountant. All she has to do is look up the band on the Internet and she’ll know you’re lying.’

‘She won’t do that. Trust me. She wants to believe it.’

‘Believe what?’

‘That some guy from her university days who used to worship her is now in a famous band. She’ll dine out on this story for years.’

And with that we get up and make a swift exit.

Alison and I are at our kitchen table taking a long, hard look at our financial situation to work out whether we’ll be able to get a mortgage. Which is why I’m currently surrounded by credit-card receipts, store-card statements, bank statements and a million other bits of paper. Things on my side are fine. Things on Alison’s side, however, aren’t quite so good. Job-wise it is going well for her: she’s had two pay rises since she’s been at Cooper and Lawton but her money-management skills have let her down. Her financial situation is dire.

‘I can’t believe it,’ I say, reaching for the remains of a packet of mini-doughnuts we’d bought on a supermarket expedition yesterday.

‘What?’ asks Alison.

‘How much debt you’re in,’ I say, taking one of the five sugar-coated doughnuts that are left. I drop it into my mouth and in three chews it has disappeared, leaving me free to moan at Alison. ‘I mean, I always knew you were awful with money but not to this extent.’

‘It’s not lots of debt,’ says Alison defensively. ‘It’s just a regular amount.’

‘Alison, you’re thousands of pounds in debt.’

‘I know.’

I eye the doughnuts again, take another one and almost inhale it. ‘According to your statements, you consistently go several hundred pounds overdrawn five days before pay day.’

‘It’s when my half of the rent goes out.’

‘You’re up to your limit on three of your four credit cards and paying a huge amount of interest every month. When was the last time you tried to pay off any of what you owe?’

There’s a long silence, which I use to have another two doughnuts one after the other.

‘Oh, Alison,’ I say despairingly, once I’ve finished chewing, ‘tell me the answer isn’t never.’

‘I thought that was why you had credit cards – to put credit on them.’

‘But you’re also up to your limit on two store cards.’

‘They offer it to you in the shop while you’re standing at the till. How unfair is that? It makes you feel like you’re getting it for free.’

‘But that’s not the end of the story. You’ve still got your student loan to pay off . . . and as if that’s not enough, you’ve got a four thousand pound bank loan.’

‘But that was for a car. A car’s essential.’

‘Alison, you haven’t even got a car!’

‘I know, I had the money sitting in my account for weeks and gradually it just sort of disappeared.’

‘The fact is, Alison, whichever way we look at this, you’re skint.’

‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’ she says wincing. ‘I’ve been meaning to sort it out for ages. Has it ruined everything? Is it bad?’

‘Well, it’s not looking very good.’

‘But we can still get a mortgage, can’t we?’

‘They’ll take all of this debt into consideration when we ask for the money, which will mean they might offer us less.’

Alison puts her head into her hands and I take the opportunity to sneak one last doughnut. ‘They’ll give us next to nothing and we’ll end up living in some really rough part of London where the police don’t go without guns and armoured trucks, and the flat we buy will have a crack den on one side and a brothel on the other and it will all be because I bought a couple of pairs of shoes in Selfridges.’ She sighs heavily. ‘Don’t let me near a shop again, will you? If you see me get my cheque book out for anything other than a bill, shoot me.’

I can’t help feeling sorry for her. ‘We’ll be fine,’ I tell her. ‘All it means is that we’re going to have to tighten our belts a little and I’m going to use my savings for the deposit.’

‘But that’s the money you got after your dad died—’

‘No buts,’ I interrupt. ‘I’m doing it and that’s final. One way or another we’re going to get a home of our own.’

Alison smiles weakly at me and then I smile weakly at her and then we both look at the empty packet of doughnuts. I suddenly feel guilty. Alison didn’t get to eat a single one of them even though it had been she who had put them in our shopping basket. By all rights she should be having a go at me for this. But she doesn’t of course because you can’t really have a go at someone for eating a whole pack of mini-doughnuts when they’ve just done what I’ve just done. It wouldn’t seem right. But it wouldn’t have been all that wrong either.