Yahoo Sports ‘I sell houses to the super-rich... and I was shocked by what I learnt about their lives’
‘Shall we go for a quick coffee?’ she asks. The seven words I’ve been waiting for. We’ve finished viewing a flat and I’d mapped out a coffee venue in advance, hoping this could be my breakthrough with the Oscar Winner.
There’s an intimacy to finding a home for someone. You need to understand how they live, what’s important to them. Is it an east-facing kitchen to capture the morning sun? Perfect Palladian proportions? The Oscar Winner is always polite and always (my litmus test) greets the housekeeper, but we haven’t yet broken through to that level of chat. Now is my moment.
But just as we enter the café, my jacket pocket starts vibrating non-stop. I curse. I know with a sinking inevitably who is phoning.
It’s the Billionaire, my only client who deploys such aggressive communication. He has his PA call continually until I pick up. One night I missed 43 calls when I had the temerity to take a 40-minute bath. But today we’re in the midst of selling his £22 million apartment – a deal complicated by some legal sign-offs that he failed to get when he refurbished it.
He has the attitude, not uncommon to those at his level of wealth, that everyone is out to get him, and has given the other side an ultimatum: exchange by close of play or he’s withdrawing. We’ve done nine deals together and I know he doesn’t issue idle threats. I need to salvage the sale. If it goes through, it will solve the cash-flow problem that Covid created and guarantee the salaries of my team. But instead I’m musing over spirulina shots with the Oscar Winner.
‘I’m so sorry, I have to dash. Apologies,’ I say, knowing I’m about to blow it with her. ‘Oh,’ she says surprised, ‘we’ll chat again soon,’ but with only a hint of her megawatt smile.
Diving into an Uber, I call Billionaire. ‘I’m sorry, I was with’ – I drop the actress’s name – ‘but got away as soon as I could.’ ‘Tell them the deal is off,’ says Billionaire, unimpressed. ‘I don’t think they’re serious.’
‘Please. You’ve invested time and money. Let’s play it out. Humour me,’ I laugh, hoping it masks my desperation. I’m met with silence.
‘How about this?’ I try. ‘Why don’t we give them today and if they don’t exchange by the end of it, we walk. And I’ll take you for lunch at The Ritz and you can choose the wine. But if they do exchange, you take me for lunch.’
I’m gambling on the fact that he likes a gamble. At last, he says, ‘Why not?’
As an estate agent selling super-prime properties, usually off-market, it’s a typical day. My clients have included countless FTSE board members, entrepreneurs, a duke, a duchess, a marquis, barons, two supermodels, as well as a Booker Prize-winning novelist, a stadium-filling musician and an Oscar-winning film director, whose housewarming was a Who’s Who of celebrities. Oh, and an HRH.
Together with my team of two strikingly attractive 20-somethings, Natasha and Damien, and a former thespian, John, in his late 50s and always impeccably turned out, I also act on behalf of clients purchasing. Once I almost sold Michael Winner’s Victorian palace to a hedgie, before Robbie Williams blew our offer out of the water with his Angels royalties.
Obviously it can be stressful. I had a heart attack three years ago, aged 39, despite being fit and healthy. Periodically I see a therapist, Quentin; my head is so filled with information about clients’ lives that I hardly have space for my own.
Back in the office, Billionaire’s PA has been calling. Two hours later, I’ve hit a brick wall. The buyers’ lawyer is holding firm that the building regs need to be signed off. This could take months. We’re at an impasse.
Then, just as I can see my business crumbling, I think of the obvious: an indemnity policy. I race to the buyers’ hotel, as I’m going to need them to instruct their lawyer and – going into full charm mode – explain that Billionaire is wonderful but hot-headed. Could this be a solution? They say they’ll think about it.
Gloom descends as I cycle through Hyde Park back to our office. Then my phone vibrates. It’s the buyers: they’ll do it. At 6.42pm it’s done – we’ll close the year solvent.
2 Jan 2022
The year ended better than expected, thanks to Billionaire’s flat. In addition, we exchanged on a £17 million house in Holland Park. The negotiation was all done over FaceTime. I showed up with my iPhone, did one virtual tour, then it was agreed. No quibbling over the price, just: ‘We’ll take it,’ as casually as picking out a sweater from Marks & Spencer.
14 Jan 2022
The moment I see Zara phoning me, I know something is wrong. She is supposedly in Mustique with her husband Spencer. ‘It’s happened,’ she says with a tone of inevitability. ‘He wants to buy me out so I can find another house for me and the children. She’s 28, his Pilates instructor.’
I’m not sure what to say but speaking isn’t always required, which TV’s Anne Robinson set me straight on. (While showing her a house in Kensington, I twittered on about the joys of an en-suite and she cut me short with: ‘You’ve got a non-speaking role here.’ Lesson learned.)
This is different. Since finding Zara and Spencer a terrific house in Notting Hill, we’d stayed in touch. ‘What can I do, Zar?’ I say. ‘Just help with houses if I have to move. Spencer’s got Slick advising him…’ Ugh. Slick. Our ruthless nemesis. He’s torpedoed two of my most lucrative deals.
‘And I need a s—t-hot lawyer,’ Zara adds. ‘We never did a prenup.’
I go through my list – I’m not just a property agent, but an unofficial referral service too, usually for things you’d expect but I’ve also recommended reflexologists, masseurs, private-jet charters. One client asked me for details of a ‘high-class’ escort agency. And just like that I knew where to draw the line on referrals.
19 Jan 2022
Natasha’s Uncle Fortescue lives in a magnificent house in a fashionable part of Kensington. He’s nearly 90 and apparently ready to sell. ‘He can be a cantankerous old fart,’ Natasha warns, Fortescue bustles us. ‘In, in. Can’t abide a draught,’ he barks, even though the hall feels colder than the street.
It’s a large house though its rooms have been cut in half or quartered, for reasons unknown. The resulting maze is littered with books and yellowed newsprint. ‘Natasha mentioned that you may be interested in selling?’ I begin.
‘Steady on, steady on,’ he interrupts. ‘If I am to… sell… I want it to go to someone British. And decent. You can’t imagine some of the people who have moved into the street. Complete showers.’
Trying to conjure a diplomatic reply, I point out that this is what made his house price rocket. ‘I don’t give a fig about that. I’ve nothing against Johnny Foreigner, but they should be as happy being French, Dutch or Turkish as we are being British. And stay on their own turf.’
25 Jan 2022
I’m showing another flat to the Oscar Winner. It has possibilities, despite its institutional air. ‘Do you mind if I FaceTime
my boyfriend?’ she asks. The phone comes out and I witness a masterclass. Her language, the cadences, the delivery. Even her movement through the flat is ballerina-like as she floats from detail to detail, the cornicing in the drawing room, the geometries of light.
Later, she returns to set and I’m off to film too. We have a bite on a £10 million Chelsea house and the potential buyers, in Antigua, want a video. I emulate the moves of the Oscar Winner, and sing-song my way through: ‘Look, the architrave – the ceiling heights. You could create a first-floor orangery.’
Quietly pleased, I send it to their agent. He texts back: ‘Quite the breathless performance.’
1 Feb 2022
I go out with Zara looking at houses, fearing anything will be a let down compared to her stucco-fronted Notting Hill pad but she wants to shake things up. ‘Actually, I don’t want a place next to Soho Farmhouse, or on Mustique and I don’t want to be worrying about being part of some Notting Hill cabal.’
I show her places in Hampstead and one in Queen’s Park, an area that doesn’t yet have a clear identity but it’s leafy and green. She loves it. ‘Leave it with me,’ I say. ‘I’ll get it sorted.’
9 Feb 2022
I meet with Slick to discuss the valuation of Zara and Spencer’s house and I’ve chosen a high-street coffee shop to disorient him. He’s wearing a tailored grey lambswool suit and a fawn cashmere scarf. I’m in a Charles Tyrwhitt non-iron shirt.
‘So,’ Slick says. ‘Spencer is inclined to be generous, though your valuation is ludicrously high.’ I don’t want to overplay my hand, so I sip my coffee and tell him it’s realistic, adding, ‘But as my client has a generous nature, why don’t we settle on 10 – and Spencer can get away with giving Zara five.’
‘Get away with… ’ His voice rises. He looks at his Patek Philippe watch as if the meeting has already overrun.
In the end we settle on £9.5 million. He’d have probably gone to £10 million, but I suspect Zara would have settled
at £7 million. As we’re leaving Slick turns to me. ‘Next time, I’ll choose the venue.’
18 Feb 2022
The letter comes in from Fortescue formally accepting our contract. Now the hard part starts: selling it. Before the first viewing, I’m anxious. Damien too. ‘How can people live like this?’ he remarks. ‘The guy isn’t poor. He can afford a cleaner.’
‘Never underestimate the eccentricities of the British upper classes,’ John says. ‘They think it’s terribly bourgeois to care about cleanliness.’
24 Feb 2022
Natasha has a new potential client for me, an influencer with a rich daddy. At his serviced apartment I’m left in the hall.
I wait. And wait. Behind a door there’s bickering. ‘That bitch, I’m going to block her… she’s bought her followers in China.’
After 40 minutes, Insta-kid emerges in a red tracksuit while two flunkies wave their iPhones in my face. ‘We’ll be filming a show, following his life,’ one says.
The conversation is awkward, we’re still in the hall, and my bulls—t detector is soon in hyper-sensitive mode as they discuss filming, no mention of what sort of property he wants. When I ask this, Insta-kid remains mute. His flunkie says, ‘I think a penthouse, with concierge and parking. We’re building a car collection.’
‘OK. And budget?’
‘Whatever,’ says Insta-kid. I explain that I have one client looking to spend £700,000 and another £100 million. ‘Yeah, well,’ he says. ‘Somewhere in between those two.’
2 March 2022
A name flashes on my phone that fills me with panic and a pulse of opportunity. Billionaire.
‘My house in Regent’s Park… I may sell it. For the right price.’ ‘Oh no, I love that house. Surely you should keep it?’ Reverse psychology at its most basic.
‘I hate London. Dubai is a much better place to live…’
Truthfully, his reason for being anti-London is he doesn’t like paying British taxes, and his non-dom status can no longer be claimed. But I’ve made some of my biggest transactions on Billionaire’s behalf – and, as Quentin reminds me, I can’t change his behaviour.
22 March 2022
Zara is having a wobble about her move to Queen’s Park. I reassure her that all will be well. Sometimes I feel like I’m part therapist. I remember being put out when a client brought her actual therapist to a viewing. (Fortunately, both the therapist and I agreed it was the right place for her.)
5 April 2022
Good news. An offer of £9 million for Fortescue’s house. I deliver the news in person. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he ushers me in with a shove and as I tell him about the offer, he peers over his glasses. ‘Who are they?’
‘A terribly nice family from Yorkshire. He’s made his money in retirement homes.’
‘Made his money?!’ Fortescue spouts.
I push on but Fortescue says he can’t promise he’ll accept.
20 June 2022
An open house in Chelsea, the penthouse of a new development. Open houses here are not like the ones you see on Selling Sunset, offering burgers and Botox – the best you can hope for is prosecco. The price tag is £35 million, the service charge is £80,000 per annum. An outrage, of course.
As we’re heading out, the lift opens and out comes Slick. ‘Max,’ he offers. ‘How’s Zara? Where is she again? Kensal Rise? Willesden?’
‘Queen’s Park.’
‘Oh really? I’m so unfamiliar with that part of town. Aren’t you clever to have found her something so off-beat?’
As if on cue, John puts his hand on my back and reminds me we have to go and see one of our new celebrity clients, a judge on a popular TV cooking show. Slick blinks, recognising the name.
12 August 2022
We’ve exchanged on a flat for Oscar Winner. Everything ran remarkably smoothly and I message to thank her for choosing us. I get one back immediately: ‘No, thank YOU.’
I shall cherish it.
26 August 2022
My first viewing of Billionaire’s £18 million Regent’s Park house. He dismissed the potential buyers as ‘losers’, ‘cheap’, and more suited to Camden. They hadn’t done anything wrong other than changing the time of the viewing but he’s bored and spoiling for a fight.
I’ve begged him to relent. The couple are Eastern European, young, dressed in Versace (a good sign, given the style of the house) and have a driver waiting. They ask the right questions.
Within two minutes of their departure Billionaire calls. ‘Why do you let time-wasters into my house?’ (Clearly Svetlana the housekeeper had given him a report.)
‘They really liked it,’ I plead. I’m not sure they did but I need to bluff.
‘I don’t think I want to sell. This is too much trouble. Screw them.’
1 September 2022
Another viewing at Billionaire’s. It’s through an agent I don’t know so I’m suspicious, and at the appointed time a collection of cars pulls up: seven!
I explain we can only have two people in the property and the group look mystified. There’s chattering in Arabic and a man with an Hermès belt cinched too tightly steps forward. ‘I’m Ravi. We’re here for today only and need to buy something.’
I’m loath to lose a deal, but I’m even more loath to suffer Billionaire’s ire if I let in con artists. I know of a case where
a convoy turned up and distracted the agent with questions, while others in the party swiped jewellery and Rolexes.
I tell them it’s a hard and fast rule. ‘Very well.’ After a quick tour, they speed away.
3 September 2022
A call from Ravi. ‘They’re interested,’ he says and I feel a certain sense of surprise. ‘What are you offering, fee-wise?’
I tell him I’m on a reduced fee of 1% but I’m happy to split it. That won’t work, he says – he wants £250,000. I just laugh. ‘That’s more than my fee.’
5 September 2022
I brace myself as I call Billionaire and tell him that the Middle Eastern buyer is interested. ‘So, rather awkwardly – and you know this isn’t how I do business, but… they want a baksheesh.’
‘A what?’ he says sharply.
I wonder how to ask for an additional quarter of a million in fees. ‘A backhander, something for the middlemen.’
‘So give them one.’ Billionaire is disarmingly logical at times.
‘The problem is, they want £250,000.’
‘It’s simple. Tell them the price is £18.5 million, and then we all win.’ Again, this seems indisputably sensical; the problem being that I’ve already told them the price.
‘Tell them you got it wrong,’ Billionaire responds.
It works.
25 November 2022
Ravi needs an answer. After months of negotiating, he has made a final offer: £17.5 million. But Billionaire hasn’t returned my calls. I know that if I push him, he’ll simply walk away. I really don’t care any more. He can eff and blind as much as he likes; he can give the house to Slick if he wants, as he recently threatened to do. In fact, part of me would like to see Slick having to deal with Billionaire.
30 November 2022
Natasha and I go and have lunch with Fortescue. House sold, he’s moved into a serviced flat for over 65s that’s more like a five-star hotel. We ask how he’s getting on with the other residents. ‘I’ve done my best to avoid them. They’re all worryingly friendly. I can’t think what’s wrong with them.’ There’s a glint in his eye.
‘Do you eat here a lot?’
‘Certainly not, far too expensive. I buy a sandwich at Pret a Manger.’
But Fortescue relents after a sherry and admits that he’s rather enjoying the movie nights at the in-house cinema. He even lets slip that he’s letting a dowager viscountess give him bridge lessons.
3 December 2022
Billionaire calls. I knew he would eventually.
‘I might sell.’
‘Great,’ I say quickly.
‘But this price they’re offering. I don’t like it.’
‘I really think that’s it.’
‘They should give me £100,000 more. That would make me feel better.’
‘I don’t think they will.’
‘There’s no deal then.’
‘You’re right. Keep it,’ I say.
Billionaire stays silent.
‘I hate London,’ he says eventually. ‘I will sell.’
Two weeks later the deal goes through. I feel invincible; I’ve out-pokered Billionaire.
The author is anonymous. Abridged extract from Highly Desirable, out 22 June (Headline, £22); books.telegraph.co.uk
