Turning Point by John Francis Kinsella
The prospects were not looking so good for Sarah Kavanagh; the days when Russians bought London properties without asking the price were counted. The myth that quality property would not be affected by the crisis had exploded in the faces of her smug employers. Prices began to tumble and the scramble to get out of Cool Britannia looked like it could turn into a stampede if things got as bad as certain predicted they would.
Sarah’s year end bonus, in spite of the pessimistic news building up on almost all fronts, had been over one hundred thousand pounds. The firm’s partners pocketed very much more. They had had a good year and wisely built up a reserve to tide them over hard times.
The prospect of a property downturn was not all bad news since Russian oligarchs and the like had to sell, whatever the price, which meant that the partners would continue to earn solid commissions. Moreover, once prices became attractively low for those having strong financial positions a killing could be made, it was just a matter of time.
Sarah had taken out a stiff mortgage to buy her Notting Hill Gate flat. She had paid a top of the market price for the small flat in not the smartest spot of an otherwise fashionable district of London. Her mother had paid the deposit, assuring Sarah a foot on the property ladder, the rest was covered by a sixty percent plus mortgage with West Mercian.
Her job at Guthrie Plimtons, an upmarket real estate agent, had been good, and working in their very stylish Mayfair offices had been something to swank about. Sarah was the first to admit she had given little thought to the future, she had grown used to her annual bonuses that more than covered the overdraft at her bank, money burnt a hole in her pocket. She had had been taken in by the story prime properties would be unaffected by the fall in prices, her bosses had told her so, and was sure cash would continue to flow in as it always had for her.
It was true for some the roll would go on for ever, the truly rich would always be rich, they lived in a world so far removed from ordinary mortals it was not even worth the trouble to try to understand. It was inevitable that Sarah would become dazzled by the rich and ultra-rich clients she encountered in her job, for whom ten million pounds for a home in London was a mere bagatelle, she even deluded herself by identifying with them and quickly glossed over her own modest middle class background.
Her bonuses seemed to evaporate in a self induced illusion of wealth, disappearing as fast as they came. Sarah, a self-confessed fashionista, she shopped until she dropped: dresses, handbags, shoes, perfumes and fashion jewellery. Cash became like Monopoly money, there was nothing in the shops she could not afford, anything she wanted she bought. She vacationed in the Caribbean, Spain, Dubai and even Australia, staying, naturally, at the best hotels.
The shock came when Lionel Guthrie announced an opening for her in the Caribbean. The trouble was she wasn’t looking for an opening. Of course the Caribbean sounded good, good for a holiday, but why quit London, that was where it was all happening. She had gotten used to living a Champagne lifestyle.
It took a little time to decipher Guthrie’s smooth words. Business was not looking so bright, and as for the opening it was that or nothing.
More depressing was the news concerning the value of her Notting Hill Gate flat, it had unexpectedly fallen. Pied-à-terre style flats represented a significant proportion of all properties in residential central London and with the encroaching crisis there was suddenly a glut of similar properties on sale. Second home owners were downsizing. To make matters worse the idea of renting out the flat was not good — rents had started to fall, in any case Sarah wondered whether the job she was being offered would last long. As for Dominica she vaguely confused it with the Dominican Republic, a package tour destination for the less discerning to her mind.
Bangkok
Sarah’s year end bonus, in spite of the pessimistic news building up on almost all fronts, had been over one hundred thousand pounds. The firm’s partners pocketed very much more. They had had a good year and wisely built up a reserve to tide them over hard times.
The prospect of a property downturn was not all bad news since Russian oligarchs and the like had to sell, whatever the price, which meant that the partners would continue to earn solid commissions. Moreover, once prices became attractively low for those having strong financial positions a killing could be made, it was just a matter of time.
Sarah had taken out a stiff mortgage to buy her Notting Hill Gate flat. She had paid a top of the market price for the small flat in not the smartest spot of an otherwise fashionable district of London. Her mother had paid the deposit, assuring Sarah a foot on the property ladder, the rest was covered by a sixty percent plus mortgage with West Mercian.
Her job at Guthrie Plimtons, an upmarket real estate agent, had been good, and working in their very stylish Mayfair offices had been something to swank about. Sarah was the first to admit she had given little thought to the future, she had grown used to her annual bonuses that more than covered the overdraft at her bank, money burnt a hole in her pocket. She had had been taken in by the story prime properties would be unaffected by the fall in prices, her bosses had told her so, and was sure cash would continue to flow in as it always had for her.
It was true for some the roll would go on for ever, the truly rich would always be rich, they lived in a world so far removed from ordinary mortals it was not even worth the trouble to try to understand. It was inevitable that Sarah would become dazzled by the rich and ultra-rich clients she encountered in her job, for whom ten million pounds for a home in London was a mere bagatelle, she even deluded herself by identifying with them and quickly glossed over her own modest middle class background.
Her bonuses seemed to evaporate in a self induced illusion of wealth, disappearing as fast as they came. Sarah, a self-confessed fashionista, she shopped until she dropped: dresses, handbags, shoes, perfumes and fashion jewellery. Cash became like Monopoly money, there was nothing in the shops she could not afford, anything she wanted she bought. She vacationed in the Caribbean, Spain, Dubai and even Australia, staying, naturally, at the best hotels.
The shock came when Lionel Guthrie announced an opening for her in the Caribbean. The trouble was she wasn’t looking for an opening. Of course the Caribbean sounded good, good for a holiday, but why quit London, that was where it was all happening. She had gotten used to living a Champagne lifestyle.
It took a little time to decipher Guthrie’s smooth words. Business was not looking so bright, and as for the opening it was that or nothing.
More depressing was the news concerning the value of her Notting Hill Gate flat, it had unexpectedly fallen. Pied-à-terre style flats represented a significant proportion of all properties in residential central London and with the encroaching crisis there was suddenly a glut of similar properties on sale. Second home owners were downsizing. To make matters worse the idea of renting out the flat was not good — rents had started to fall, in any case Sarah wondered whether the job she was being offered would last long. As for Dominica she vaguely confused it with the Dominican Republic, a package tour destination for the less discerning to her mind.
Bangkok