The Americans were waiting by the front door as the young estate agent hurried up the path. “I'm sorry I'm late,” he mumbled nervously and added, “My last viewing overran.”
The woman smiled forgivingly. He fumbled with the keys and eventually, the lock yielded and he opened the door with a creak and bid them enter. “Rosewood Cottage,” he announced without formality. They ducked under the low doorway and stepped into the hall “Built in the late 1780s with various alterations and extensions at later dates,” he read from the print-out.
They proceeded through the hall and into the front room where the lady gasped audibly. “Oh my word, ain’t this just wonderful, oh honey, look at the rough hewn beams and the inglenook fireplace, oh I say, this is like something outa Jane Austin.” As she tailed off, the estate agent glanced at the expression of her dour faced partner and knew it was going to be another difficult sale.
“Large dining room with French windows leading to pretty paved courtyard and well stocked gardens, west facing to catch the evening sun,” he read from his information sheet.
They wandered through the rambling old cottage, ducking now and then to avoid the low beams and door lintels and Billie-Jo gasped and cooed at every new discovery. She asked the young agent a series of frivolous and impractical questions which implied she was not familiar with the British property market and that her interest was motivated by the cottage's quaintness rather than its practicalities. He contained his smirk and avoided the eye of her companion as they sauntered from room to room. “Ain't this just a dream honey, wouldn't you just love living here, having a rocking chair by that fireplace and strolling across the village square in the evening to that lovely ivy covered pub, what's it called?”
“The Jolly Sailor, madam.”
“Oh, ain't that just cute? The Jolly Sailor!”
“The cottage is kinda small, Billie-Joe,” her partner said with a grimace, ”there's only two small downstairs rooms, only one john, no shower, the garden is tiny and....”
“But it's so quaint and loveable and on the edge of the lovely square, like something from a bygone age. It has a wealth charm and character and is so, historic and.....”
“It's not at all practical B.J., there are all kinds of drawbacks and stuff that should be given serious consideration. Let's not rush into something that we might later regret, eh? Let's sleep in it for a coupla days, chew things over, look at it from all angles. Let's be practical and realistic, we don't wanna get out of our depth here,” Brad replied, with growing objection.
She cut him off with a look that might have sent shivers down the spine of lesser men and said through gritted teeth, “I like this cottage and I like England, Brad. We need to get away from Philly, a long way from Philly. And the British job offer will be good for your career.” She lowered her voice. “I'm prepared to overlook the Denver weekend stuff but I want a fresh start for us without any more - ” and she paused momentarily - “let's say, distractions or diversions. The Atlantic is big enough to keep any further temptations at arms length. Savvy?”
The agent peered over the top his folder and saw the fear in the man's eye. 'Jeez,' he thought, 'What happened in Denver?'
The agent edged towards the stair head and said without ceremony, “I have to make a call to the office, I'll be in the sitting room, feel free to wonder around.”
He descended the creaking stairs and stood silently at the bottom, turned, cocked an ear and eavesdropped. He caught only snatches of their conversation: “…it was only a bit of fun honey.........just one night after a lot of drink. I've said I'm sorry and it won't happen again,” he pleaded.
“It was more than a bit of fun, or a moment of weakness. I have a copy of your mobile phone and your credit card bills, they tell a very different story Bradley,” she hissed.
“But honey, please, it was something and nothing, it was meaningless and it will not happen again.”
The agent heard the pleading in his voice.
Then she raised her voice, “It will not happen again because we will be living here and I shall always be on hand and looking over your shoulder! We will move here and you will take up the job offer before the end of summer or I'll see Charles Collins, the lawyer about a separation. It's that simple Brad. I'm not prepared to budge on this. Make your mind up now!”
The estate agent grinned from ear to ear. She had him in a corner and the guy was running out of options. The agent could see a sale coming before the end of the day and he would dig his heels in for the asking price.
Then he heard Brad's voice, “I don't like this prissy Victorian England idea you have. You are not being at all practical, you haven't thought this through, you just want to punish me for Denver. I don't wanna live here, I wanna be stateside. I don't wanna go to some stuffy country pub and drink warm beer. I wanna.......”
“It's after 9am in Philly,” she interrupted. “I can call Charlie and have him draw up a separation order. He'll freeze your bank account and the money you inherited from Uncle Joe. Then you can go back to Denver and have all the fun you want but I have enough evidence against you to bring divorce proceedings which puts all the blame for the marital breakdown firmly on your shoulders. We will split everything, the apartment, the finances and your pension rights. It'll be fifty fifty, everything right down the middle and you can then go to Denver with Miss Lush and I'll move to Britain. You choose!” she told him with an air of determination.
The agent held his breath and strained an ear but a brittle silence hung in the upstairs air if as they were contemplating their respective positions. Would he cave in, or would he hold his corner? Did she mean all she had said or was it all a hollow threat? The prospect of a sale hung precariously in the balance. He glanced at his watch, flicked an imaginary hair from his jacket and stared absently through the French windows.
The clock on the sitting room mantle-shelf ticked away with a tedious monotony and sent tock-tock-tock echoes through the lower rooms and some fifteen minutes dragged slowly by. Suddenly, someone upstairs cleared their throat and then there were low voices and murmurings. Then, creaking floor boards, more subdued tones, then a door closing followed by creaking footsteps on the stairs.
He strolled out of the sitting room to meet them The woman wore a smug grin and her husband was downcast and drop-shouldered. She was buoyant and confident and she looked at the agent, smiled innocently and announced, “I think that we may be in a position to make an offer on the cottage. You'll have to guide us through the British real estate and legal process, we're not familiar with.....” then she stopped abruptly, “I say, what a lovely tie.”
“Oh,” he replied, rather taken aback, “it's silk, my mother bought it for me in Bermuda.”
“Oh, I love Bermuda,” she gushed, “We went there for a week last summer, we …!” She stopped mid sentence and the blood drained from her face as if she realised that she'd just made the most appalling mistake.
Bermuda?” Bradley exclaimed with a new interest. “I didn't know that you'd ever been to Bermuda!”
The woman smiled forgivingly. He fumbled with the keys and eventually, the lock yielded and he opened the door with a creak and bid them enter. “Rosewood Cottage,” he announced without formality. They ducked under the low doorway and stepped into the hall “Built in the late 1780s with various alterations and extensions at later dates,” he read from the print-out.
They proceeded through the hall and into the front room where the lady gasped audibly. “Oh my word, ain’t this just wonderful, oh honey, look at the rough hewn beams and the inglenook fireplace, oh I say, this is like something outa Jane Austin.” As she tailed off, the estate agent glanced at the expression of her dour faced partner and knew it was going to be another difficult sale.
“Large dining room with French windows leading to pretty paved courtyard and well stocked gardens, west facing to catch the evening sun,” he read from his information sheet.
They wandered through the rambling old cottage, ducking now and then to avoid the low beams and door lintels and Billie-Jo gasped and cooed at every new discovery. She asked the young agent a series of frivolous and impractical questions which implied she was not familiar with the British property market and that her interest was motivated by the cottage's quaintness rather than its practicalities. He contained his smirk and avoided the eye of her companion as they sauntered from room to room. “Ain't this just a dream honey, wouldn't you just love living here, having a rocking chair by that fireplace and strolling across the village square in the evening to that lovely ivy covered pub, what's it called?”
“The Jolly Sailor, madam.”
“Oh, ain't that just cute? The Jolly Sailor!”
“The cottage is kinda small, Billie-Joe,” her partner said with a grimace, ”there's only two small downstairs rooms, only one john, no shower, the garden is tiny and....”
“But it's so quaint and loveable and on the edge of the lovely square, like something from a bygone age. It has a wealth charm and character and is so, historic and.....”
“It's not at all practical B.J., there are all kinds of drawbacks and stuff that should be given serious consideration. Let's not rush into something that we might later regret, eh? Let's sleep in it for a coupla days, chew things over, look at it from all angles. Let's be practical and realistic, we don't wanna get out of our depth here,” Brad replied, with growing objection.
She cut him off with a look that might have sent shivers down the spine of lesser men and said through gritted teeth, “I like this cottage and I like England, Brad. We need to get away from Philly, a long way from Philly. And the British job offer will be good for your career.” She lowered her voice. “I'm prepared to overlook the Denver weekend stuff but I want a fresh start for us without any more - ” and she paused momentarily - “let's say, distractions or diversions. The Atlantic is big enough to keep any further temptations at arms length. Savvy?”
The agent peered over the top his folder and saw the fear in the man's eye. 'Jeez,' he thought, 'What happened in Denver?'
The agent edged towards the stair head and said without ceremony, “I have to make a call to the office, I'll be in the sitting room, feel free to wonder around.”
He descended the creaking stairs and stood silently at the bottom, turned, cocked an ear and eavesdropped. He caught only snatches of their conversation: “…it was only a bit of fun honey.........just one night after a lot of drink. I've said I'm sorry and it won't happen again,” he pleaded.
“It was more than a bit of fun, or a moment of weakness. I have a copy of your mobile phone and your credit card bills, they tell a very different story Bradley,” she hissed.
“But honey, please, it was something and nothing, it was meaningless and it will not happen again.”
The agent heard the pleading in his voice.
Then she raised her voice, “It will not happen again because we will be living here and I shall always be on hand and looking over your shoulder! We will move here and you will take up the job offer before the end of summer or I'll see Charles Collins, the lawyer about a separation. It's that simple Brad. I'm not prepared to budge on this. Make your mind up now!”
The estate agent grinned from ear to ear. She had him in a corner and the guy was running out of options. The agent could see a sale coming before the end of the day and he would dig his heels in for the asking price.
Then he heard Brad's voice, “I don't like this prissy Victorian England idea you have. You are not being at all practical, you haven't thought this through, you just want to punish me for Denver. I don't wanna live here, I wanna be stateside. I don't wanna go to some stuffy country pub and drink warm beer. I wanna.......”
“It's after 9am in Philly,” she interrupted. “I can call Charlie and have him draw up a separation order. He'll freeze your bank account and the money you inherited from Uncle Joe. Then you can go back to Denver and have all the fun you want but I have enough evidence against you to bring divorce proceedings which puts all the blame for the marital breakdown firmly on your shoulders. We will split everything, the apartment, the finances and your pension rights. It'll be fifty fifty, everything right down the middle and you can then go to Denver with Miss Lush and I'll move to Britain. You choose!” she told him with an air of determination.
The agent held his breath and strained an ear but a brittle silence hung in the upstairs air if as they were contemplating their respective positions. Would he cave in, or would he hold his corner? Did she mean all she had said or was it all a hollow threat? The prospect of a sale hung precariously in the balance. He glanced at his watch, flicked an imaginary hair from his jacket and stared absently through the French windows.
The clock on the sitting room mantle-shelf ticked away with a tedious monotony and sent tock-tock-tock echoes through the lower rooms and some fifteen minutes dragged slowly by. Suddenly, someone upstairs cleared their throat and then there were low voices and murmurings. Then, creaking floor boards, more subdued tones, then a door closing followed by creaking footsteps on the stairs.
He strolled out of the sitting room to meet them The woman wore a smug grin and her husband was downcast and drop-shouldered. She was buoyant and confident and she looked at the agent, smiled innocently and announced, “I think that we may be in a position to make an offer on the cottage. You'll have to guide us through the British real estate and legal process, we're not familiar with.....” then she stopped abruptly, “I say, what a lovely tie.”
“Oh,” he replied, rather taken aback, “it's silk, my mother bought it for me in Bermuda.”
“Oh, I love Bermuda,” she gushed, “We went there for a week last summer, we …!” She stopped mid sentence and the blood drained from her face as if she realised that she'd just made the most appalling mistake.
Bermuda?” Bradley exclaimed with a new interest. “I didn't know that you'd ever been to Bermuda!”