The old pair are giving me four hundred Ks to buy myself a penthouse, but anything I can get knocked off goes straight in the old Sky Rocket
ROSA PARKS, if you believe the bumf, is a development of highly prestigious apartments, that are, like the Mother of the Modern-Day Civil Rights Movement, elegant, stylish, intelligent and creative – but, unlike her, no trouble at all as far as public transport is concerned.
I’m sitting in the cor, in the middle of Sandyford Industrial Estate, having a final flick through the brochure, reminiscing, I suppose, about my own glory days using the old gift of the gab to sell people into a lifetime of debt.
“The original Rosa, honoured by this stunning development of 1,736 cleverly crafted homes, became a leading champion of African-American rights after refusing to give up her seat to a white passenger on an interstate bus. And, in that same spirit, we’re not asking you to give up anything either – this resplendent collection of homes combines the pulse of the town with the sedate pace of the country . . . ” On any other day, I’d say that’s genius – but I’m not here to admire. The old pair are giving me four hundred Ks from the sale of the family gaff to buy myself a penthouse apartment. The asking price is four hundred Ks bang-on, but the deal is that anything I can get knocked off goes straight in the old Sky Rocket.
So I have to have, like, my game-face on? I tip up the steps and into the reception area. Originally – we're talking back when this was still, like, a field – the plan was to have a concierge sitting front of house, like you see on TV. That's obviously had to be scaled back a bit. Instead of Alfred out of Batman, they've ended up with some total Ken, who, when I arrive, is carrying out extensive excavation work to his nose.
"Pick any winners?" I go, which is pretty hilarious. He's there, "What?" and I'm like, "Don't worry about it – I'm here to see Rebecca Healy of HDYS," in other words, Healy, Daly, Yeats and Smith, or, as they're known to even otherestate agents, How Do You Sleep? The next thing, roysh, at just the mention of her name, this bird, who looks like Nicollette Sheridan, comes clip-clopping across the morble floor with, like, her hand outstretched. A shake turns into an air kiss, twice on either cheek, and I get a blast of the same scent that the girls used to wear back in my days with Hook, Lyon and Sinker – some pheromone that makes men do stupid things.
I tell myself to get my shit together.
The next thing I know, roysh, we’re in the – I don’t know – lift, elevator, whatever you want to call it, and Rebecca’s punching the button for the show apartment on the top floor? “So,” she goes, “do you know anything about the actual Rosa Parks?” which is pretty insulting to my intelligence, I have to say.
I’m there, “Yeah, I googled her,” and she nods, like she googled her too. She goes, “Quite a woman, huh? You know, when she refused to give up her seat on that bus in, I don’t know, wherever-the-hell-it-was, she became a hero not just to black people, but to women too. And to anyone who wants to see a better world. It’s like, Go Rosa – you tell ’em, girl!” I cop a sneaky look at her left hand. No wedding ring. Slick.
The lift pings and the doors open. As she slips the key in the door, she turns and looks at me, sadness in her eyes. “I wish she’d lived long enough to see it,” she goes, suddenly all distant. “Sadly, we lost her in October 2005 – the very week that An Bord Pleanála granted final permission with 133 conditions attached. I mean, can you actually believe the coincidence of that? Of course the real tragedy is that the developer was hoping to bring her to Sandyford to perform the official opening – and she never even knew.” I shake my head. “If only she could have hung on,” I go, managing to keep a straight face.
She nods sadly. "I think Brian and Pippa are going to do it now." She pushes the door and we go in. The place is honestly like something out of Cribs and straight away I'm sold, though I don't let her know that? "Now," she goes, suddenly all businesslike again, "as you can no doubt see, the anti-segregation theme is very much in evidence here in the combined kitchen-and-dining area . . . " She's good. She's verygood. And I might even fall for it if there wasn't so much moo riding on it. Andif I hadn't done my homework.
"Are you, like, married?" I go, giving her the big-time elevator eyes – this is totally out of the blue. She has the actual cheek to blush. "Excuse me?" she goes, but she says it in, like, a seriously flirty way? I'm there, "I can't help but notice that you're not wearing a wedding ring . . . " She goes, "I thought we were here to talk about the apartment," thinking I'm actually hitting on her, which, in normal circumstances, I probably wouldbe? But not now.
“You’re not wearing a wedding ring,” I go, “even though you’re married. You see, Rosa whatever-she’s-called isn’t the only person I googled. I know that you’re married to the man who built this place. And I know you’re in serious trouble – we’re talking financial trouble?”
This look crosses her face, roysh, that says there’s no point in trying to bullshit this dude – he’s just too good. She takes, like, a deep breath, then just collapses back into the Italian leather ormchair behind her, looking totally beaten. “Okay,” she goes, bracing herself the worst. “What are you prepared to pay?” “Whoa. Back, horsey,” I just go. “All in good time. Firstly – and I’m going to put this to you as delicately as I possibly can – I think you’re sitting in my seat.”
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