8.30am, air con knackered in GBH House. Cowering under tree in Portman Square: I begin jauntily. Can’t let Team P smell my fear. Just as well only three of the six are sprawled on the withered grass. Posh Girl is in Tuscany, Posh Boy in Bolivia and Sporty Girl sweating up some foreign hill on her £5k bike.
Anyway, some two-bit tenant rep shop has copped £200k from one of the oh-so-cool versions of Regus. They’ve snatched a tenant we put into 40,000 sq ft of serviced offices set up by Maga Prop’s new UniWork division. Loopy name. But anything to get in on the act.
I’d reassured Maga’s leasing director that the tenant was unlikely to flit. Six months on, it’s happened! Them Upstairs are raging. Big client upset. Incoming ordure alert!
One expensive and unclaimable bottle of Puligny-Montrachet later, I discover the cause. My oenophile mate went to Reading with tenant rep in question. Said mate dined out with newly enriched tenant rep, who splashed out on a bottom-of-the-list bottle. The cocky bugger boasted of how the oh-so-cool outfit was desperate to fill space to reach targets set by backers. Therefore, it was paying humongous commissions to anyone who could drag bums on to their seats.
“Well, what can we [meaning I] do?” Geek Boy fails to look up from his iPhone X.
Young Thruster grins inanely. Old Tom creaks upright and sighs. “Obvious. Go see how much they will pay us to do a bit of surreptitious winkling.”