Friday 8th April, Corinthic Room, 9.30am: “Enough! Enough!” I bellow at Charlie Boy, who was spitting far more than feathers at Posh Girl. Charlie is ex-army, ex-Savills, all Force Nine charm with a laugh like an ack-ack gun. Ageing, but with his contacts, still a deadly deal-getter.
“Why did you show Carlos the Property Week story about the shed bubble bursting?” he repeats, omitting the F-word in slight deference to my plea. Posh Girl sits as stiff as an ice maiden. Family owns a sliver of Chelsea. Old-money clients to die for.
“We have a duty of care to make our clients aware of market conditions,” she says, loftily. Carlos made his pile importing fruit and veg from his native Guatemala. He wants to buy the sheds on Park Royal he has been leasing from a fund for 15 years. “My retirement fruit basket,” he calls it.
Posh Girl emailed Carlos the PW piece last Thursday. Carlos now wants to chip 10% from a deal that was due to exchange the next day. I settle Charlie with a couple of lunchtime pints in The Punchbowl on Farm Street. Then spend £45 on two cups of lapsang souchong at the Connaught de-icing Posh Girl, assuring her she did the right thing. Me? What do I know? Caught between two cultures.
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