The Estate Agent's Viewing

I've been looking for a flat for three months.

Three months of viewings, three months of disappointment, three months of the same estate agent showing me properties that are always just outside my budget.

Her name is Ifrah. And I'm starting to suspect she's doing it on purpose.

"This one is a converted Victorian," she says, unlocking the door to a place in Walthamstow Village. "Original features, modern kitchen, garden access."

"My budget is £1,200."

"This is £1,450." She leads me inside anyway. "But I thought you should see it."

"Because?"

"Because I know you." She turns to face me in the empty hallway. "You say £1,200, but you want more. You want somewhere that feels like home, not just somewhere to sleep."

"You've known me three months."

"I've shown you eighteen properties." She starts up the stairs. "I know what you want better than you do."

I follow her.

I've been following her for three months.

The flat is beautiful.

And way out of my budget. But I walk through the rooms anyway, imagining a life I can't afford, watching Ifrah point out features like she's already picturing me living here.

"The bedroom has southern exposure." She opens a door. "Morning light. You said you're a morning person."

"I am."

"And the kitchen has a gas stove." She walks toward it. "You said you cook for your mother every Sunday."

"I do."

"And the garden—" She opens the back door, leads me into a small but perfect outdoor space. "Room for a chair. Somewhere to drink your coffee."

I look at her. Really look.

"Ifrah. Why do you keep showing me places I can't afford?"

She doesn't answer immediately. Her cheeks darken with something that might be embarrassment.

"Because they give me more time with you."

The confession hangs between us.

"I'm sorry," she says quickly. "That's unprofessional. I shouldn't have—"

"You've been showing me expensive flats so we could spend more time together?"

"Yes." She can't meet my eyes. "I know it's ridiculous. I'm supposed to be helping you find a home, not—"

"Not what?"

"Not falling for the client."

I should be upset.

Three months of wasted time. Eighteen viewings of places I couldn't buy. An estate agent using her position to—what? Court me?

Instead, I'm smiling.

"Why didn't you just ask me to coffee?"

She finally looks at me. "What?"

"Coffee. Dinner. A walk. The normal things people do when they're interested."

"Because I didn't know if you were interested. You were so focused on the properties, so serious about finding the right place. I thought—"

"You thought I didn't notice the way you touched my arm when showing me light fixtures? The way you always stood too close in small kitchens?" I step toward her. "I noticed."

"You did?"

"I've been looking for a flat for three months, Ifrah. I could have switched agencies after the first month. I didn't."

"Why not?"

"Same reason you kept showing me expensive properties."

We kiss in the garden of a flat I can't afford.

Her mouth is warm, hesitant at first, then hungry. Her hands grab my jacket, pull me closer. The afternoon sun beats down on us, witnesses to something neither of us planned.

"This is so unprofessional—" she gasps.

"I don't care—"

"My manager would kill me—"

"Still don't care." I lift her onto the garden wall. "Three months of viewing kitchens while thinking about you. I'm done viewing."

"What do you want instead?"

"You."

We christen the empty flat.

In the bedroom with the southern exposure. On the floor because there's no furniture. Her pencil skirt hiked up, my shirt half-unbuttoned, both of us making sounds that would definitely violate her professional code.

"Jamal—"

"I've imagined this—" I thrust deeper. "Every viewing. Imagined clearing out the sellers and having you right there."

"That's inappropriate—"

"You're the one who kept scheduling them." I speed up. "Every Thursday. Every Saturday. Did you think I didn't notice the pattern?"

"I hoped you did."

She comes with the afternoon light streaming through the windows.

I follow, and we collapse on hardwood floors that aren't mine, in a flat I'll never buy, with a woman I've already claimed.

After, we lie on the floor, laughing at ourselves.

"I need to actually find you a flat," she says. "A real one. In your budget."

"Or you could just date me."

"Date you?"

"Move things forward. Forget the flats. Let me take you to dinner."

"And my professional obligations?"

"Transfer my file to a colleague." I roll to face her. "I don't need the best estate agent in Walthamstow. I need you."

She considers this.

"There's a place in Leyton. £1,150. Nothing special, but it's functional." She props herself on her elbow. "I was going to show it to you next week. After I'd exhausted all the expensive options."

"Show me tomorrow." I kiss her nose. "Then let me take you to dinner."

"And then?"

"And then we see where this goes." I pull her closer. "Somewhere with more furniture than a wooden floor."

The Leyton flat is perfect.

Small, practical, boring—exactly what I asked for from the start. I sign the lease a week later.

"I found this months ago," Ifrah admits, helping me move boxes. "I just... didn't want to show it to you."

"Because then you'd have no excuse to see me?"

"Exactly."

I pull her into the unfurnished living room. The boxes can wait.

"Now you don't need an excuse." I kiss her. "Now you just need a key."

"A key?"

"To your client's flat." I grin. "So you can come over whenever you want."

She laughs. Takes the key. Comes over that night.

And every night after.

Some properties sell themselves.

Some need a little more showing.

But the best ones?

The best ones make you forget you were ever looking.