The Westbury is rammers. Men in tuxes and women in ball gowns. The sign on the board says it’s the Annual Ethics in Business Awards, sponsored by It’s Accrual World Accounting Solutions.
I’m suddenly wondering why JP’s old man wanted to meet me here of all places.
“Drink?” he goes.
I’m there, “Yeah, no – pint of the obvious.”
He's drinking just, like, water? At least I hope it's water. The dude's supposedly recovering from a hort attack, bear in mind.
I’m like, “You’re looking well.”
“You’re a liar,” he goes. “But that’s what made you the best estate agent I ever had.”
I’m there, “Look, I’m sorry. I had a plan to get rid of JP, except he found out about it and sacked me.”
“What, so you’re just going to give up?”
“Dude, I don’t even work for Hook, Lyon and Sinker any more.”
“You mean Bloodless, Human, Good?”
“I refuse point-blank to call it that. It’ll always be Hook, Lyon and Sinker to me.”
He smiles to himself. Then he goes, “You know he hasn’t sold a single house since the start of March?”
I’m like, “Morch? Are you serious?”
“Serious as a – well, you know what I was going to say. It’s a seller’s market out there. After years of recession, there’s suddenly a fortune to be made for people like us. And my son has decided to become an honest estate agent. I mean, isn’t that what they call an oxymoron?”
“Don’t ask me. There’s very little going on in my head. A monkey dressed as a butler. Holding a tray. Waiting for instructions. Blinking.”
“Well, now we know where telling the truth gets you. The place will be closed by the end of August. Still, at least he’ll have his award to console him in his retirement.”
“What award?”
He laughs. “You don’t know?” he goes. “Right now, my son is in the Grafton Suite, receiving an Ethics in Business Award.”
I’m like, “Jesus.”
“An Ethics in Business Award. My own flesh and blood. I won’t be able to show my face in Doheny & Nesbitt’s again.”
“No one wants that for their children.”
He suddenly stands up. “Come on,” he goes.
I’m like, “Where?”
“Let’s go see this for ourselves. If I have another heart attack, make sure and tell my son what a disappointment he was to me in the end.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
We head down to the Grafton Suite. I push the door open a crack and we look in. JP is standing at the podium, a humongous crystal vase in his hands – happy as a dog with a bone. Or a boner.
He’s going, “For years, estate agents have been the punch line to a joke that a great many of us found offensive. I hope if this award proves anything it’s that it is possible to operate in the property business without making exaggerated claims, without artificially inflating prices, without pulling any of the strokes for which estate agents have become notorious.”
I look at JP’s old man. His eyes are full of tears.
“Dude,” I go, “you don’t need to listen to this.”
He’s there, “Do you know how long it took me to build that business up?”
"It says 'Since 1976' over the door, so I'm presuming it's, I don't know, however many years it is since then?"
"Prime Time Investigates did three programmes on us!"
“I know.”
“Three!”
“And no one can take that away from you, Mr Conroy. That will always stand.”
"He's taking it away from me. Everything I worked for – 40 years."
Forty. I was guessing 50.
JP’s still up at the podium, banging on. He’s going, “There is nothing wrong with telling customers the truth. It should be a first principle of business, whether it’s selling tins of beans or selling houses. At Bloodless, Human, Good, we believe there is nothing wrong with telling a client: ‘This is a poorly maintained house in an area with a high incidence of crime. That’s reflected in the low price of the property.’ Or, ‘This is an apartment that is so small as to be almost uninhabitable and is isolated by the poor public transport service in the area.’”
That gets an actual round of applause.
“Our mission,” he goes, “if I may call it that, is to take back the property business from the fast-talking spivs in the tight suits and the pointy shoes. I want to dedicate this award to all estate agents who are committed to doing business with empathy and with humanity. Thank you.”
The dude ends up getting a standing ovation. I let the door close. JP’s old man falls back against the wall, his breathing all heavy. For about 30 seconds, I’m convinced it’s his ticker again. I’m, like, loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt.
“Breathe,” I go. “Just try to, like, breathe.”
All of a sudden, the door of the Grafton Suite opens and out JP steps, clutching his phone to his ear and the crystal vase to his chest. He’s obviously doing an interview with one of the papers, because we hear him go, “Lies will earn you quick money, sure. But they hurt the property business in the long term – and, yes, you can quote me on that.”
He’s standing at the top of the stairs, chatting to this journalist, and, at the same time, he storts admiring his vase, looking at it like you or I might look at, say, a Leinster Schools Senior Cup medal.
“Do something?” JP’s old man goes.
I’m there, “Like I said, it’s hord. I don’t even work for him any more.”
“Okay,” he goes, “if you won’t, then I will.”
I can’t actually believe what happens next.
He walks towards him. JP has his back to him. He’s on the phone, going, “I’m glad you asked me that question. Yes, it’s a challenge being an estate agent who tells the truth, but I think the benefits will come as our reputation as honest brokers grows.”
JP’s old man puts his hand on his son’s back and he shoves him – I’m not exaggerating – head first, down the Westbury stairs.
ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE
