mr. nice guy

Yesterday, I had an appointment to view a property I’m interested in renovating and selling afterwards for a profit. The broker told me on the phone that if I don’t have a hundred grand minimum I better don’t waste my time (meaning his) I told him that it is his job to show me the building and it’s none of his business if I want to spend my money on it or not. And as for wasting my time, I will be the judge of that thank you.

He showed up fashionably late which in my book is bad for the image of the company he is representing (I already managed to let a rookie get almost fired last week. Not so much as the fact that she did not know a thing about the property she was selling, or that she wasn’t helpful and not even willing; what annoyed me was her whole attitude towards me. She was clearly prejudiced. I saw it written all over her face the moment she stepped out of the car – which by the way taken her a long time doing – then she ignored each and every question I asked and why it is that she refused to meet my eyes?

Anyway, I phoned her superior there and then and got myself an appointment the next day with the boss herself. I know she wanted to see for herself what sort of person I am. We’ve met,  got along just fine and we will meet each other again next Saturday to seal the deal if everything goes according to plan. I still have to do some final technical inspection of the property and I am bringing two experts with me. The superior asked my opinion about the rookie, if she deserves another chance. Apparently I am not the only one who is not satisfied with her. I don’t want anyone’s misfortune in my conscience so naturally I told her to give the girl another chance) so, I made a mental note to call their main office when I get home.

Okay, where am I?

Oh, yes, the man I met yesterday. He showed up in his Porsche wearing white silk shirt, black crumpled silk sport coat, raw designer jeans, and black leather shoes with pointed toes; reeking of a whole bottle of something very strong. Tall, blond and very, very arrogant, he presented me a picture of a person who is pretending to be somebody which he is not. Underneath that cocky attitude, I sensed someone who is vulnerable and has lots of personal worries. I know that he knows that I’m on to him fast. We dislike each other on sight.

He tried to act  professional; I could give that to him. He doesn’t speak Dutch and my French is not what it used to be and we are both stubborn enough to give in. So, I spoke to him in my language and he mumbled in his, but once in a while we caught one another understanding perfectly what each other was saying. He seems amused with my technical questions and asked if I’m an architect, I said: no, are you?

He then suggested leaving me to explore the place in my convenience since he got some phone calls to make anyway, but if I EVER need him, he will be in the garden admiring the flowers. I told him what a good idea since it was so stuffy in here. I was relieved to see him go.

The house has plenty of potentials, lots of characters and original features. I saw that some portions of the traditional leaded windows are missing (irreplaceable) and some parts of the original parquet floor had gone up (no problem) probably because of the damp, the place had never been opened or heated for two years.

It was a majestic property throughout,especially inside; huge marble fireplaces in every room, proper inglenook, high ceilings, beautiful moldings and cornices, and the views it offers from all sides are magnificent. Plenty of space, tons of possibilities but also too much work is needed to restore the place to its former glory. Not to mention the capital. And I don’t know if I’m willing to gamble both. If it happened that I am rich,I would take my time to nurse it back to health patiently and lovingly. I had always been attracted to this sort of properties. It might sound weird, but it is some sort of recognition. More I can’t explain.

I walked out from the place without saying goodbye. I know it’s not the done thing but I’m sure he’ll get over it. That sort of people always do.


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