Eyot

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Eyot

“OK sir, I’ll see you there at three then….yes, that’s fine, thank you – good bye.” Putting down the handset, Emily continued talking,
“He sounded really nice….really pleasant - he sounds American to me – American but nice, you know what I mean? CC?” Sighing at Emily’s witterings, Candace Clarke looked up from her appointments book.
“So what did he want then,” she said in her lilting Kairdiff accent. “What did the nice American want?”
“He wants a viewing at the house over in Chiswick – British Grove?”
“The rental”
“Yes – I’m nowhere near my target this month, you know - I’m going to have to do something soon or I’ll be out.”
“If you feeling generous I know they’ll take 4-8 – they’re even more desperate than you are to get someone in it.”
“But it’s up for 6?”
“ Yeah, desperate.” Candace nonchalantly looked back to her appointments book.
“Shit, I got to meet someone in ten – in Boileau Road. Shit, shit, shit – help me Emily, where’s my keys?”

Emily left the agency at two thirty. CC had returned in more of a Cardiff fluster than the one she’d left with for the Boileau road.
“They was just messin’ me around – they was just being nosey.”
The drive from Barnes High Street to Chiswick mall would have only taken five minutes but for the river. As it was she had a choice of Hammersmith or Chiswick bridges – this time of day? Hammersmith. Anyway, Emily liked to be early and already in the property before the prospective customer turned up - it just seemed more professional. Nine weeks of working with CC had taught her how not to do the job.

The river had started to dominate Emily’s life - although she hadn’t yet realised it. Living in a cheap flat just off Great Chertsey Road – a seven minute walk from Barnes High Street across Barnes Bridge – meant that she crossed the river at least twice a day. She left her car at work simply because she needed it every day and it took too long to drive there. Despite crossing the bridge on foot nearly ninety times since starting working for Clarksons, she’d never noticed the water. She’d never seen which way it was flowing or whether it was rough or calm. It was just the river with occasional bunch of schoolboys in rowing boats who just looked cold and miserable as their master bellowed at them through a megaphone from his own little boat – the one with the engine. It was just the river.

“Emily?” called in the ‘American’ from the open front door. “Are you here?” It was only 2.55 -Emily was in the master bedroom – just checking things.
“Mr Cassidy?” replied Emily making her quickly to balcony of the amply proportioned landing which itself was the size of her flat - it reached from the front to the back of the property with a huge west-facing window to the front affording an almost interrupted view of the River up to Barnes – you could almost see the Bridge itself.

Looking over the oak balustrade Emily saw Mr Cassidy. He was huge. He was so tall he was ducking to get through the front door. Emily stared down at him in silence, almost daring not to breathe. He was not only huge, he was handsome, he looked like a film star – tanned, dark, beautifully groomed hair, an expensive-looking suit. Was he real? – it was as if a bigger version of George Clooney had just walked in.

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