My Cousin Gail

[neerathemall]

I guess so,' she says. 'According to Bryn, that's where the money is.'

'For some reason, I thought that people handling those sort of sales would tend to be older,' I say.

'They mainly are. But Bryn - my boss - thinks that some of the older buyers and sellers might go for a younger agent. I'm not sure why he thinks that.'

'Make them feel that they are in charge?' I suggest. I can also see that Bryn might be looking at Gail as ground bait. A good-looking young woman. Legs that go all the way up to the top floor. Just a thought.

'Yeah. Maybe.'

'Are you enjoying being an estate agent?' I ask. 'Because you studied law, didn't you?'

'I did. But I found it was too stressful.'

'And being an estate agent isn't stressful?' I say. 'You surprise me.'

Gail thinks for a moment or two, and then she say: 'Well ... it is. It can be. But in a different kind of way. The buyers are usually quite nice. The sellers can be a bit difficult. From time to time. But the real bitches are the other agents.'

Yes. I had known one or two. The ones I had known certainly weren't the type to take prisoners.

The traffic heading into London on the M4 is surprisingly light and, despite my earlier concerns, we are pulling up outside the workshop even before the boys and girls have had a chance to sneak off for the afternoon.

'What we got?' Franco asks. Franco is my chief technician. He has a soft spot for Ferraris. In his younger days, he worked at Maranello.

'I think it's OK,' I tell him. 'Tired. But OK. I shall be interested to hear what you think. Oh ... and this is Gail. Gail is my cousin.'

Franco smiles at Gail and nods. 'I give it the ...' And he mimes drawing a circle and then making a three-column list: What we must do; what we should do; what we could do.

'You're the expert, Franco,' I tell him. 'I leave it in your capable hands. But now, unless there is anything urgent, I should take my cousin home and let her get organised.'

Franco smiles again. I can almost hear his brain saying: 'Cousin? Yeah, yeah. Pull the other one.'

I think about taking the little X1/9 we have just finished restoring. But then I remember that I have an E-type in the garage and I don't really want to leave the X1/9 on the street overnight. 'We'll take the Tube,' I tell Gail. 'It's only three stops.' I take her bag, and we head off to the White City Tube station.

When we get to my place, I show Gail to the spare room and tell her to make herself at home. 'I shall return,' I tell her. And I head off in search of something simple for supper. What do I feel like? What does Gail eat? I should have asked.

I take a risk with a thick slice of bone-in ribeye steak. I also buy some green beans and some fresh thyme and rosemary. I know that I have polenta in the pantry and parmesan in the fridge. I will make my take on Bistecca alla Fiorentina with polenta sticks and Tuscan-style green beans.

'I hope that you're not a vegetarian,' I say when I get home again.

Gail smiles and shakes her head.

I pour us each a glass of Italian red and then Gail watches as I make my polenta and parmesan 'porridge' and then spread it on a tray to cool. 'Is that it?' she asks.

'Pretty much,' I tell her. 'When it's cool, we cut it into sticks and then lightly fry them.'

Supper works out pretty well. And I'm pleased to catch up with cousin Gail. In fact, I'm even more pleased to catch up with Gail than I was to get my hands on the Testarossa. Although I am just a little surprised that such a bright (and attractive) girl has chosen selling houses for a career. But then who am I to question such things? I trained to be an economist and now I'm a sort of car dealer.

Gail's course is being held at Lancaster Gate so, in the morning, I suggest that she gets a cab. 'Once you get your bearings,' I say, 'it's probably just as easy to take the Tube. But for today ... Don't want to be late.'

By mid-morning, Franco and I have agreed on a plan for the Testarossa. The mechanicals are all sound. The driver's door needs a bit of adjustment. The bodywork needs a couple of cosmetic touches. And we decide to get the seats reupholstered. After that, and a full tune, it should be ready to go to a new home.

I leave Franco and his team to get on with their work, and I go and get the keys to a 1961 Jaguar XK150 Drophead Coupé that I think we may have sold to a collector in Chalfont St Giles. As I head north, I can't help but reflect on the fact that the day is precisely the kind of day for which the ragtop was designed. Yes, it would be nice if the roads weren't quite so clogged with lorries and the like, but it is still a very pleasant drive.

Gilbert, the collector, came to see the XK150 when we were still in the process of restoring it, and he is delighted with the finished product. 'Yes,' he tells me (not for the first time), 'I've been looking for one of these for a few years now.' He already owns a 1972 E-type Series 3 roadster and a 1981 XJ-S H E. 'I don't suppose you'd consider a '74 911 - in need of some TLC - in part exchange,' he says.

'I might do,' I tell him. 'Does it come with all four wheels?'

He laughs. 'And a couple to spare,' he says. 'I think I'm going to go all British. If I clear some space in the garage, perhaps I can get myself a McLaren next.'

When I get back to the flat that evening, Gail is already there. 'Ah. How was it?' I ask. 'How was the course?'

Gail frowns slightly. 'Umm ... I'm not sure,' she says. 'Not sure.'

'Oh? Perhaps a glass of wine might help you to decide,' I say. 'Red or white?'

But even that seems to be a difficult decision, so I grab a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge and pour a glass for each of us. 'Here's to wealthy car collectors,' I say.

'Oh? Have you sold that Ferrari already?'

'No, no. But I sold a fully-restored Jaguar. An XK150. And I acquired a '74 Porsche at a knockdown price. Well ... it was in part exchange for the Jag. But it will turn a good profit. There always seems to be a market for pre-loved Porsches.'

Gail nodded. But she still seemed to be worried about something.

As we neared the lower reaches of our wine glasses, I suggested that we might stroll along to Chutney Charlie's. 'Street food,' I tell Gail. 'South Asian. A bit of this and a bit or that. Tasty. What do you think?'

'Sounds good,' she says.

It's still relatively early and we have no trouble in getting a table. We order some food, and I suggest that we switch to one of Chutney Charlie's Asian-inspired craft beers. 'A chilled white wine is OK,' I tell Gail. 'A Viognier. Dry Riesling. But a light beer just seems to work better.'

'OK,' she says.

I can't remember how we get back to the subject of cars. But, as we nibble and sip, I find myself trying to explain to Gail the differences between the various Porsche 911s (which Gail thinks all look the same) from their introduction in the mid-60s, through to the switch from air-cooled to water-cooled in 1999, and on to the present day 911s, designated the 992 series.

'They're not nice,' Gail suddenly blurts out.

'Oh? You don't like Porches?'

'The people on the course,' she says. 'They're horrible. They're all bullies.'

I wait for her to say something else. But she doesn't. 'Horrible to you?' I ask.

'Horrible to me. Horrible to each other. Just horrible. And Justin, the guy who's running the course, just keeps winding them up. Getting them to be even more aggressive. Even meaner. "Screw the buyers, screw the sellers," he says. "Nice guys come last. Smile if you must, but keep your eyes on the prize. Focus on the commission."'

'Sounds a real charmer,' I say.

'And then he asked me why I think Bryn has spent money sending me on the course. I told him that perhaps Bryn thinks that I have potential. He says: "No. Silly girl. It's because you are sex on a stick. You're ground bait. Just remember that."'

I try not to laugh. It was one of the thoughts that briefly crossed my mind as we were driving up from Cardiff. 'So ... what's your plan?' I ask.

'I don't know.'

And it seems that Gail really doesn't know. And, having got it out onto the table, she doesn't even seem to want to talk about it.

When we leave the restaurant, I suggest that we stroll home 'the long way'. When I have things on my mind, I find a walk can sometimes be very helpful. Perhaps a walk will work for Gail too.

The following morning, Gail still seems worried.

'How did we sleep?' I ask.