Relationships & Real Estate (Part Two)

I sat in the car wondering what was going on inside the ivy-covered house. My parents had been house-hunting. I was their unofficial realtor, scouring the internet and the weekend property supplements for suitable residences.

The Laurels was just the house: detached, red-brick façade, on a tree-lined road of a settled suburb. I had made an appointment to view and informed my parents that it would take place the following evening. Later that day, I got a call from the auctioneer. “I’m afraid the property has been taken off the market and the viewing will not be going ahead”, said the precise female voice on the other end of the line.

I had never trusted auctioneers, and immediately suspected one of the agents wanted the reasonably priced gem for themselves. “We’re going to speak with the owners”, I announced. My mother walked down the long driveway that led to the car where I sat impatiently. “It’s on the market”, she told, matter-of-factly. Less than an hour later, we returned to make an official bid on the house. A tall, sharp-featured man opened the door. “The house is not for sale”, he announced. “Oh for goodness sake”, I raged.

“Look, I don’t know what is going on here, internal conflict I suppose, but I am giving you my name”, my mother announced (she could have been her own realtor, I thought), reaching inside of her brown tweed suit jacket and extracting a ballpoint pen, “and my number”, she continued, optimistic as ever. “When you decide to put the house on the market, call me. We are willing to pay above the odds”. “Mother!”, I exclaimed, “I’m really liking this side to you”.

That night, across town, a 30-something diarist was filled with a similar desire. “You ought to come with a government warning, I’m fairly sure you’re the best looking guy I’ve seen on front of me”, said the diarist, had recently landed a job with a newspaper that treated high-society parties as priority above the general elections.

“You know I’m not even going to justify that comment with an answer”, I said, taking another sip of my gin and tonic. The restaurant was full to the brim. To our left, a politician and her middle-aged friends from the countryside attempted to unwind over a bottle of vintage port, whilst on our right came our floppy haired waiter armed with champagne and a beaming smile. “Complimentary sir”, he advised, cheerfully.

It was one of those perfect Dublin nights, filled with great food, wine, conversation. What were the motives of the diarist? What would it require to keep both parties satisfied? Was it a case of one person’s business being another person’s pleasure? It was a night of questions, followed by a morning of answers.

“The diarist is a purpose build”, said Lora, who at 19, had reached a new level of mania about finding a suitable man to let into her heart, mentioning nothing of her sheets. “You slept together”, interrupted Sarah, who‘s soul hadn’t existed since puberty kicked off, “you have that Rob look on your face”, she confirmed. “No, no I did not”, I fought back, “It’s just not there”, I tailed off. “I’m actually in love. I think I already have what I want and maybe that’s it for me, no more encounters, no more dates, no more experimenting”. Lora and Sarah glared in my direction.

“So tell me about your date”, I changed the subject to Lora’s night-before encounter. “Did he pass all of the tests? Will you be allowing him to come inside?”, I sniggered. As the topic was about to shift, my BlackBerry beeped. We stared at the handheld device in horror, though no-one really understood why. “Can these friends and/or judges be at all bribed?”, I read the text message. It was the diarist. “Christian Louboutin size six”, screamed Lora, quickly adding “Black”.

What was it about the diarist, I had to wonder. What was it about me for that matter? What could I bring to the table? Why was the diarist interested in someone who was trying to grasp what they themselves had already achieved. Why were the grand gestures so easily made and what would their final bid be?

It took me back to the day before, outside the house in the suburbs. We never heard from the owners despite our offer. Did it mean that they were settled, and content, enough so to remain despite knowing that they could gain by surrendering their property? Was I the same? How high did the offers need to be in order for me to surrender my fast-approaching three-year relationship, which was sort of like pine wood, easily damaged but at the same time full of fine character.

What did it represent that we were allowed to view the property yet go no further? I got to thinking, I too, had been allowing viewings to take place, and there was bound to be disappointment ahead when potential buyers found themselves sold on me.