Seb wakes early on Tuesday morning, so I have plenty of time to get organised and do a few housekeeping chores before I meet Carl Barron in Dunsborough just after 10am.
True to my promise to Carl, Seb falls asleep on the drive to the first property, and plays in the sandpit at the second.
The drive back gives me opportunity to talk, and when I ask Carl about copywriting he tells me Blain & Barrow have a PR firm who put most of their marketing together.
‘But I don’t like how they write. I mean, I know I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but I need a dictionary to know what they’re talking about sometimes. Too many big words for me.’
I quiz him a bit more about how many listings he gets a week, and does he think other agents would use me. He thinks they would, if my price is reasonable. He says the market is picking up.
‘Who’s the principal in Dunsborough?’ I ask.
‘Kennett Pickering. He’s the big boss.’
In the shopping mall carpark outside Carl’s office, I swap the car seat and Seb into the Corolla, tell Carl I’ll be in touch when I’ve finished the proof, and head for Busselton.
When we get back to the shack, I call Kennett Pickering. He is in a meeting, but his PA takes my mobile phone number and says she’ll get him to return my call. This he does later that afternoon.
I’ve been writing the Yallingup property for Carl, so I’m out on the front porch with my laptop. Seb has been clingy most of the afternoon, but right now he’s playing with a soft toy dog. The dog’s bark is broken, so when Seb squeezes his tummy, he makes a kind of wheeze.
‘Carl said you might be in touch, Jenn,’ Kennett says, after we’ve made our introductions. My name isn’t a new one to him. He says Nathan Blain has mentioned my work previously, in the Company Directors’ meetings.
Kennett has a classic real estate voice, smooth with a serve of oil.
He says he’s open to using me for copywriting and marketing and tells me of an idea he’s been tossing around about starting a blog. That’s positive. On the downside, he lets me know that the individual sales agents are the ones who’d pay my bills for articles, not the agency, which means it’s each salesperson’s decision about who they use.
‘Some of them are good at that sort of thing and find it no big deal to write up properties. Others, like Carl, hate the writing. It depends on their skillset.’
Fair enough.
When I hang up the phone, I tackle the next item on my list. Nathan Blain’s is a number I know by heart.
‘You’re still on holiday aren’t you?’ I say as he answers. People chat in the background, and I can hear something that sounds like a Pink CD. Nathan is on his third wife and he’s had daughters with all three.
‘The girls have a jazz dance concert about to start and I have to be a judge,’ he says, sounding hen-pecked in a way he never does at the office.
‘Should I call back?’
‘Just let me go inside, I think I’ve got time before curtain call. Hang on.’
I imagine him looking at his wife, pointing at his phone. I bet her eyes roll when he mouths, ‘it’s work’.
The music fades, as does the background noise.
‘Okay, Jennifer. You there?’
‘Yes, I’m here. I won’t take long. Carl Barron asked me to write another two properties today, at Dunsborough. And it started me thinking whether there’s an opportunity to stay in Busselton, and work for them. I just got off the phone to Kennett Pickering.’
‘Pickers is a good guy. They’ve had a good couple of months. Sales are picking up.’
I wince at the thought of working for a guy called Pickers. ‘Kennett thinks they could use me, permanently like.’
‘Yeah, I bet they could.’ He doesn’t sound concerned.
‘It wouldn’t worry you?’
‘We’re all Blain & Barrow, Jennifer, just in different locations. I’d rather you were writing for us than our competitors. You do a great job.’
He’s said this before, but it’s always nice to hear.
‘Anyway, it won’t change what you do for me, will it?’
A door opens, I know, because dance music blares again. ‘I’d do my best to make it work so I can keep writing for you, yes.’
‘Good. Got to go, Jennifer, they’re ready for me on the dance floor.’
As I hang up the phone a frown creases my forehead. Nathan asked if this will change what I do for him. Surely it must. Perth is close to a 500km round trip from Busselton, too far to travel every time Nathan has a new listing.
It’s something I have to think about, but it’s not insurmountable.
Another item crossed off my list. Baby steps, but I’m kicking goals.
I’m a bird. I’m a plane. I’m Super Jenn.
***
By Friday afternoon, I could leap tall buildings in a single bound. Heck, maybe I can fly. I’m sitting on the beach house steps next to Sebby, waiting for Emmy and Brayden, my legs stretched warm and lazy to the front. It’s faint, but if I kick off my sandals, I swear there are white lines of an upside-down V over my big toe.
Tan lines. I haven’t seen those in a long time.
‘See?’ I say to Sebby proudly, rolling my foot.
We’ve had the best week.
I’ve written up the two properties for Carl, plus two blog posts for Kennett. I have more work lined up next week, and that’s not all. Today, Seb and I made banana muffins. Good ones. They didn’t taste like hockey-pucks.
A car engine draws my eyes to the street and starts a butterfly parade in my stomach. For a few seconds, I think it’s the Pajero and my pulse bumps into overdrive, but this car has more of a navy sheen than black and there’s no bull-bar across the front.
It slows on the verge. Any second now I bet the passenger window opens, and someone asks me for directions.
Then it stops with its tyres proprietarily parked on the Culhane’s lawn. Tinted windows make it too dark to see inside, but I don’t have long to wait. The passenger door swings open and out steps Amber Bannerman.