8.00am, Homeric Room: Posh Girl shifts uneasily in her seat as Young Thruster explains the move he’s made to muscle out a one-man-and-his-dog tenant rep team from a deal.
The ex-CBRE occupier guy was disgorged by the Green Machine two years ago after vomiting on a landlord’s shoes at a Christmas party. Since then poor fella’s scratched a living off the backs of old contacts.
“Good man,” nods Old Tom. “I remember one night in the Chopper Lump…” Sporty Girl stiffens, tells Tom to button it. Air temporarily freezes. We move on.
Last month, our mark landed an instruction from a US online unicorn so glutted with VC cash that money was no object in the hunt for 35,000 sq ft in EC1. “The lucky bugger was going to make a year’s wages on the one deal,” grins Young Thruster. “You cannot believe the fee deal he’d snagged. Respect.”
God, what’s the insufferable jerk done, I wonder. “I said we’d represent them for nothing.” Even Geek Boy holds his head in his hands, though he still manages to clutch his iPhone XJS or whatever it’s bloody called.
“Don’t panic,” says Thruster in a tone of insubordination I’ve not heard before. “I’ve done a side deal with the landlord’s agent. Mate of mine from college. Their fee is equivalent of 14 months’ rent. They are happy to give two months to GBH. Gotta keep it among the Big Boys, eh?”
“What!” I scream. “Don’t worry,” says the young Judas. “I cleared it with your boss. He liked the idea.”
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