Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: doing a hard sell on Inchicore as an estate agent

Aidan and Stephanie Geaney have their horts set on a two-bedroom cottage in Inchicore – “an architectural blank canvas set in the middle of an up-and-coming area and close to all the vital conveniences of modern living”. But they’re having trouble getting their heads around the fact that it’s no longer 2011 and the asking price isn’t necessarily the cost of the house any more. It’s the opening line in a conversation.

Aidan gets quite sore with me on the phone. “But €350,000 was what we discussed,” he goes.

I’m there, “Well, unfortunately for you, another porty has entered the picture – and they’re prepared to go to €370,000.”

He goes, “Who is this other interested party that’s mysteriously entered the picture?”

I go, “Client confidentiality is a thing we value very highly at Hook, Lyon and Sinker,” which is something JP’s old man taught me to say whenever I can’t make up a name quickly enough.

JP's head pops up at the mention of Hook, Lyon and Sinker, because we're supposedly not called that any more? He's suddenly squinting at me across the floor with a look of, like, deep distrust on his face – like me the first time I saw the Obama Plaza.

“You hear about this all the time,” Aidan goes. “You people – using non-existent third parties to try to ratchet up the price of a property.”

“How dare you!” I go, making sure to sound deeply offended. “We operate by a very strict code of conduct.”

I've never read it. I'm saving it – along with Ulysses and my home insurance policy – in case I'm ever sent to prison for a crime I didn't commit.

“Look, my wife has her heart set on that place,” he goes, appealing to my sense of decency.

Good luck finding that, I think.

I go, “I’m giving you a chance to stay in the game here. You can either go to the cashier’s cage and get more chips or you can step away from the table. The choice is yours.”

“But €350,000 is all the money we can get our hands on.”

I’m there, “Could you not sell something?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you both have cors?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, we do. But we need them. I take mine to work every morning and my wife drives the children to school.”

“Could they not get the bus?”

“They’re five and six.”

“You’ve got to cut the apron strings at some point. So how is your wife free to drive them to school in the mornings? Does she not work?”

“No, she’s a full-time home-maker.”

“Well, it might not be my place to say this – and tell me if I’m overstepping the mork – but if you want to live in an area that was recently described as ‘vibrant’ and ‘doing much to change its negative media image’ – then an economically non-performing wife is a luxury you can’t afford.”

Suddenly, it’s his turn to go, “How dare you!”

And that’s when I suddenly hear JP’s voice on the line. He goes, “Hi, this is JP Conroy – I’m the acting managing director. What seems to be the problem?”

I look across the floor at him. He has the phone to his ear.

I’m like, “JP, what’s the story? We seem to have a crossed line here.”

He goes, “It’s not a crossed line, Ross. It’s an override facility that allows me to listen to what my staff are saying to clients. You sound upset about something, sir.”

The dude ends up telling him everything, of course. He goes, “This property has been on the market for nine years and suddenly, the second we make an offer that meets the asking price, there’s another interested party.”

JP’s there, “Okay, which property is it that you are interested in?”

“It’s a cottage in Inchicore.”

“Yes, I know it. Well, I can tell you – definitively – that no one else has even inquired about this property in more than a year.”

I'm like, "JP, this is actually my client?"

Except he’s not even listening to me. I watch him open his laptop, then he pulls up the ad for the gaff on the Hook, Lyon and Sinker – sorry, Bloodless, Human, Good – website, then he sort of, like, chuckles to himself. “A blank canvas,” he goes. “You do know that means all you’re really purchasing is four walls and a roof.”

“Yeah,” Aidan goes, “that’s what we love about it – the idea of starting from scratch and putting our own print on the place.”

“And ‘close to all the vital conveniences of modern living’ means there’s a chipper and a 24-hour Spar opposite. It gets very noisy at night.”

“We actually like that. We’ve always wanted to be part of a living community.”

“The other important feature that it doesn’t mention here is that someone died violently in the house.”

I’m like, “JP, like I said, I think I’m the man to close this sale.”

Aidan goes, “Are you saying they were . . . murdered?”

JP’s there, “That’s the reason it’s been on the market for nearly a decade. There’s actually talk of ghosts in the place. Are you saying my colleague didn’t mention it to you?”

“No,” Aidan goes, “he didn’t.”

I’m there, “I mentioned that the house was a building of local interest.”

Aidan’s like, “But you didn’t say local Garda interest.”

“Well, we only have so many words to play with in the ad.”

“Sorry, what did you say your name was – was it JP?”

“Yes,” JP goes. “JP Conroy. I’ve taken over the business from my father. We recently rebranded and we’re committed to becoming known as the straight-talking, ethical estate agency.”

“Well, I like your style. Thank you for your honesty.”

“We feel it’s what the industry needs. So are you still interested in the property.”

He goes, “Of course we’re not. But thank you for your frankness.”

Then he hangs up.

JP shouts across at me, “There you are, Ross – another satisfied customer!”

And another commission down the toilet. At this rate, I’ll be moving into the gaff we call Inchi-Gore myself.

JP has to be stopped. And in that moment, I know exactly how I’m going to do it. ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE