111 West End

Chapter Seven: The Agent

Ben checked his diary. From ten-thirty he was out on valuations, which pleased him immensely. His eyes drifted to his first appointment, and he frowned.

9:00 Mrs Georgina Reynolds – Tenant at 111 West End.

He'd expected this meeting days ago. By normal standards, the Reynolds had lasted a good week longer than any other tenant.

Ben turned his chair to face the filing cabinet behind him and slid the bottom drawer open. He took out the thick grey file tucked toward the back and dropped it onto his desk. He flicked it open and studied the long list of previous tenants. At the top was the name Miss Natalie Wilson. He remembered her vividly. She had been an artist and a sculptor. A pretty brunette, twenty-three years old, with striking green eyes. Ben cringed at the memory. He'd struggled to concentrate when she arrived to view the house. He fumbled for the keys and tripped over his words. For the first time, his professional demeanour had slipped.

Ben ran his finger around his shirt collar. It suddenly felt too tight. He reached for his coffee and took a sip, closing his eyes as he swallowed. That meeting was a long time ago, and he'd changed since then. He never allowed himself to dwell on thoughts of her.

The next names on the file were those of Mr and Mrs Thwaite. Ben sighed. They were aggravation from the day they moved in until they moved out. One complaint after another. Ben counted up the complaints. Fifteen in three months. It began exactly one week after they moved in, and after Natalie Wilson, Ben kept a detailed log of every complaint. The first one he had written in capital letters:

11TH MARCH 2006, INTERMITTENT FAULT WITH THE HOT WATER TAP. THE PLUMBER COULD NOT FIND ANY ISSUE.

His eyes drifted to the next complaint.

15th March 2006: Fault with the watchman on the oil tank. Boiler repair was called out. No obvious fault was found. Watchman was replaced at the insistence of Mr Thwaite.

23rd March 2006: Strange smell in the hallway. Maintenance man sent to inspect. No odour was detected.

After three months, the tenants gave notice and moved out. It was the same with every tenant who followed. Some left after a couple of months. The longest tenancy had been six months. Now it seemed history would repeat itself.

He closed the file and leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes and took long breaths, slowly counting in his head... one... two... three.... the heat from his mug warmed his palms as his shoulders relaxed.

Ben jumped at the knock on his office door and almost spilled his coffee. He put down his mug.

"Come in." He straightened his tie.

The door opened and Anne stepped into his office, dropping a stack of property details onto his desk.

"These need your approval," she said with a smile. Ben smiled back. He liked Anne. She was efficient, and reliable, and never asked him probing questions about his life. Ben valued his privacy and kept his work and home life separate. However, he made it his business to know that Anne, a divorcee, had two grown-up children—two boys. She played tennis on a Tuesday and took a yoga class on a Thursday. She had expressed an interest in him romantically about seven years ago, but she wasn't his type. Too old. Women over thirty-five lost their spark.

"Thank you, Anne. I'll have them back to you by tomorrow."

"Your nine o'clock is here. Shall I send her in?" Anne waited by the door.

"Yes. Please." He cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on his desk. "Here we go again."

"I don't know why you don't sell that house. It's been nothing but trouble since you bought it."