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Naomi

"I'm gonna be fucking late Cook...where did you put that fucking Disto?"

"Chill out babes...its in the cupboard over the vendor files...where it always is"

"No it fucking ISN'T James" I shout, before remembering that the Financial Consultant is upstairs with a young couple signing up for their first mortgage.

I reduce my volume by several dozen decibels and hiss at him as he sits there with that smug, innocent victim face he does so well.

"Where...James?" I bark again, this time leaning over him and then regretting it immediately. Being Cook, his mind has just gone from worrying about me losing my temper, straight into instant lust mode, because my blue business suit jacket has just opened up enough to give him a good look at my bra encased tits.

"Err...give me a minute...and I'll remember?" he says, totally unconvincingly "Your tits are a bit distracting babes?"

"I'm not a fucking babe Cook... Could you keep it in your pants for a millisecond and find the fucking Disto...I can hardly measure the place I'm going to with a poxy tape, can I?"

"They always used to hun" he smirked, not taking his eyes off my tits, even though I had removed them at least another foot from his gaze.

"Back in the dark ages of Estate Agency maybe James..." I say again, knowing he hates being called by his first name "But hello...21st Century and all that. Laser measuring devices have been out for fucking decades"

"Ahhh" he says suddenly, leaping up from his desk and bounding round to my side "I left it in..." and then pulled it out of the spare desk drawer, like a conjurer with a fucking rabbit. "Here!"

I grabbed it from his outstretched hand and stuffed it into my already bulging briefcase. Luckily I'd got one of the expensive leather Gladstone type, and it just fitted inside.

"Right" I breathed, tucking a stray hair behind my ear and looking briefly at my reflection in the office mirror. "I'm off to...what's their name again?"

"Err... its here somewhere", he said, looking under the pile of files on his desk. Finally, he fished out a yellow sheet of A4 and read from it triumphantly "Here you go...Mrs Jenna Fitch... ahh, 27 Coleridge Avenue. Sounds like a sale just before the repo guys get there. Her husband booked it... I don't think he is in residence at the moment...said something about bankruptcy and bailiffs...?"

"OK, OK..." I say impatiently "I can get the facts from her. I just couldn't be bothered to dig it out of my briefcase again. Tell me why again I bother having you around?"

He chuckled darkly..and I knew I was in for another of those 'Cookisms' he loves so much.

"Because I've got a huge swollen dick...and when you get home after a hard day fleecing the public, you need some Cookie therapy to make you relax?"

I stared at him...there really is a condition called arrested development, isn't there? Cook had remained a 14 year old boy for the last 9 years.

"First...your dick isn't that impressive Cook...covering it in blue and purple ink is not overly attractive...and apart from the...very brief times...its erect...it looks like a bald man with a roll neck on...deeply unappealing. And being your 'girlfriend' is becoming more of a chore than a pleasure...so remember that when you're dreaming up new ways to insult me. You ain't that special honey?"

He grinned back at me, totally unfazed.

With that, I grabbed my case and coat and swept out of the glass door at the front of the office. As I buttoned up my coat against the chilly wind that had sprung up since I came in at 8 this morning, I looked up for a second at the sign over the shop front.

'Campbell Cook Estate Agents' it said in bright blue 'More for less'

I was sort of proud of that. I had worked in Agency since I left college. My University education had been put on hold, after I thought I was pregnant, just after my A levels. Not Cook's I hasten to add. I ended up not being pregnant after all, but the scare had made me re-evaluate my options. I started off wanting to be a hot shot politico, but after the fucking Tories and Libs had joined in unholy matrimony, and we were subjected to the nightly horrors of Campbell, Osborne and Gove...I decided a career living cheek by jowl with those chinless braying monsters was out of the question. I thought I'd take a step up...and become an Estate Agent. Don't laugh...its an honourable profession...its just that its inhabited by the least self aware, most self indulgent people in the world...except for politicians. Oh, and if you get it right...you can earn a shed-load of money. If you work for yourself, that is. I did a couple of years with a national chain...kissing arse, getting my diplomas and a whole load of contacts, then set up with my mate Cook. I say he's my mate. More a fuck buddy really. We met in 6th form, where I thought he was the biggest dick in the school. and I don't mean the size of his appendage. He was a fucking nightmare. But he wore me down. After the student president elections, which he won, amazingly, I let him shag me in an empty classroom. My previous fucks had been so poor and unsatisfying, it was actually quite a buzz to find a guy who knew how to use his dick to satisfy anyone else but himself.

I never lived it down, of course. After years of trying to get into my knickers, once he had...he never let me forget it. I let him do me again one night after a party...and we sort of drifted into this fucked up, off and on relationship. We aren't a 'couple' in the true sense of the word...but he lives with me...we set up this business together when his mum left him £100,000 after taking an extra large dose of super strength coke and shuffling off this mortal. She left him and Paddy, his little brother her huge fucking house too, full of totally unsuitable erotic art work. But the first thing we did was to sell it and move into a smaller, less porn show sort of place. I put my own money into it, and its half mine.

He gets an occasional shag, when I'm feeling generous...or pissed, or both, and the rest of the time he's like an older brother. Well, an older brother who's a full time dickhead. It means I have a ready made excuse when someone wants to get into my pants...either at a work function or on the rare occasion we go clubbing, and he gets his dick damp now and then as he charmingly puts it. It works, don't knock it...

But lately, I've started to feel we're just drifting along. Works going fine. Since we set up on our own, we've more than covered the bills. I have a nice Golf Gti and Cook drives a E class Merc. The Financial Consultant we roped in to do our money business brings a couple of clients a week in, and we've been outdoing most of the corporates in our High Street comfortably. When I drive about, I see a whole lot of Campbell Cook For Sale and Sold boards and it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside to know we've got a good reputation for being reliable and professional.

So...today I was off to what we call a pre repo in the business. The bank hadn't actually grabbed it back from them yet...but it was in the fucking post. With the current fuck up in finance going on, those nice banks who were again on a charm offensive about how warm and cuddly they are, were simultaneously repossessing a record number of houses. People who had taken out mortgages when they thought their jobs were safe, and their household bills were manageable, were now being evicted en mass. Nice...

So this one sounded typical. Good sized 4 bed detached...nice road, big garden. Husband had owned a gym apparently. Wife ran a small wedding planner outfit. Three kids...twin girls, about 19...and a younger boy. Just your average English family, about to be hoofed out into Tory wonderland.

But it wasn't my job to be judgemental. I had to get it on the market before the banks took it off them. Hopefully sell it for a good price, pay off the vampires,, and then guide them through the whole downsizing process. Just another day in paradise then.

I pulled up outside and read through my notes once more before getting out. Always best to be over prepared. I locked the Golf then had a sly look up and down the street. No other Agents boards...good. That usually meant when people moved here, they stayed put for a while. That made any sale easier, because it indicated the area was popular. I added another £5,000 to my previous guess. You can check as many websites and property price guides as you like, but kerb appeal is kerb appeal. The house looked neat, well looked after and nicely presented. I made a small face at the cat flap in the front door. It was an expensive UPVC door, and the pet factor wasn't always a plus. If the prospective buyers had any allergies...

Anyway, apart from the cat flap, nothing else stood out as a negative. Should be a nice easy sale. A month on the market, half a dozen viewers, two offers and bingo... sale at just below asking price. We bank the odd £4000 and they go on their way to the no doubt less than ideal 3 bed semi in a slightly less salubrious part of Bristol.

I knocked on the door and heard raised voices from inside. I steeled myself for whatever was the other side. Occasionally, in divorce or forced sale circumstances, I had to be a mediator as well as an agent. Husband and wife, snarling at each other...trying to score points even as the potential buyers were ushered through the front door. In those cases, I normally did the viewings myself, with the clients safely shipped off to Ikea or something. Domestic battles don't make for happy buyers.

But the sound of arguing was coming from upstairs, not down. I could see through the frosted glass a female figure coming to answer my knock, but the raised voices were younger...probably the twins, I guessed.

Again, I had dealt with a lot of embarrassing situations in this job, even in the short time I had been doing it. Several times I had interrupted some nookie going on. Usually when we had the keys and the owners had forgotten we were coming. It was awkward...but you get used to being selective about where you look. But arguing twins wasn't something I had come up against before. Oh well, I thought, another experience to get through. I was going to have to measure and take a description of every room, so I'd just have to brace myself.

"Good morning Mrs Fitch" I said brightly as the well made up, dark haired woman answered the door.

"Good morning...?" she said uncertainly

"Err..Naomi...Naomi Campbell...from Campbell Cook?"

"Yes of course" she said, "silly me, I've mislaid your business card. Please come in"

Her tone was polite but brittle and I was guessing a lot of bottled up emotions were bubbling away under the surface. She looked as wound up as a spring, and as we passed the staircase on the way to the lounge, she broke

"Will you two SHUT UP!" she yelled, which made the sleeping cat on the bottom step leap up like he'd been plugged into the National Grid and make a bolt for that ugly cat flap. It clattered closed as his ginger tail exited.

The ensuing silence from upstairs was emphasised by the echo of her shout ringing around the house. I blinked once, but otherwise covered my shock quite nicely, I thought.

"Sorry" she smiled "My girls...Emily and Katie...twins, you know"

Well I did and I didn't if you understand. Only child me.

"Shall we go through" she smiled again, and I quickly realised that this was her default expression, polite but rigid. Like a mannequin.

Once we were sitting down, I began my spiel. I got out the sales information and the comparable properties on the market that I had prepared. It was surprisingly easy. She needed to sell, I wanted to sell it for her, and I found out I was the only agent they were seeing. A slam dunk really.

I stood up after we had agreed to proceed, and I asked if it was OK for me to measure up and take a proper description. Photographs and floor plans were for later. The clients usually went into sale fatigue after an hour, so I always kept the first appointment short. Once we'd got the agreement signed, it was ours anyway, so I could afford to soft pedal a bit.

I measured the lounge, dining room, kitchen, study and garage, while she sat in the conservatory, gazing out over her garden. Its often the most difficult time for an owner, watching their house be assessed by a stranger. I suppose it makes it all too real. Having to move, but I'm like the State Executioner...quiet, businesslike and respectful. Except his clients fall through an actual trapdoor, not a financial one.

After that, I asked if it was OK for me to measure upstairs. It was just a formality, but it was her house, and I always ask first. She nodded without turning round, and I'm guessing there may have been tears.

I did the main bedroom, en suite and family bathrooms first. Then I moved on to the two smaller bedrooms at the back. Both doors were closed, so I chose one at random and knocked.

"Fuck off" isn't my normal greeting, but I guessed that whoever was inside thought it was the other twin after round two, so I tried again. Silence.

Then the door opened with a bang...and I looked into two of the biggest, brownest...and certainly angriest eyes I had seen for a while.

"What part of f...Oh" was the surprised response from the occupant to my amused smirk. "Who the fuck are you?"

Well, I'd had better welcomes, but I kept the smile on my face determinedly.

"Hello...I'm Naomi...and I've been asked by your mother to have a look round, before we put the house on the market?"

She regarded me with a mixture of contempt and...something else I wasn't sure about yet.

"Oh..." she said..."Nice...I suppose you'd better come in then"

She stood to one side and let me squeeze past her. She was wearing a tiny cut off white singlet...obviously without a bra, judging by the bumps on the front, and the equally tiny pair of cotton girl shorts. Now, I've been propositioned many many times by leery home-owners ...usually male, in my job, and I've learned to sashay with the best of them. My artistic body swerve is almost balletic in its grace. But she left me very little room for manoeuvre, and apart from lifting her bodily away from the doorway, I had no choice but to 'bump bits' with her as I did. Very attractive bits, did I mention...but then I also probably didn't mention that despite Cook's continuous attempts to fully convert me...I've had a few.. and I mean very few experiments with the female of the species. Nothing heavy...nothing committed. But 6th form college is all about experiments, yes? Its just that not all of them are in the Chemistry lab.

But I never considered going gay completely. It had just never come up. I had the occasional (OK 3) hook ups with willing girls and enjoyed the hell out of it. But it all seemed a bit pointless really. I was usually between boyfriends, and so were they. A bottle or three of vino, a sad DVD and a comfy sofa...and bingo...instant girl fun. Wet fingers, breathless moans and embarrassed finding of bra's afterwards. Then it was usually back to the student union bar and getting dry humped by beery pre grads next night.

But this girl knew what she was doing, and it was frankly unsettling. Like Cook, her eyes had made a bee line for my suit neck line and were mentally stroking my tits as she licked her lips. The fact that her tits were momentarily pressed against my own just made it harder to concentrate on my next sentence.

"Err...OK..." I said, a trifle breathlessly...that was...interesting...now if I could?"

"Sure" she said, still following my arse with her eyes. Jesus, she wasn't exactly back pedalling on the eye fucking was she?

"My name's Katie...Katie Fitch..." she breathed...like she was James Bond or something "and you are definitely the fittest estate agent I have ever met"

She looked up into my eyes and almost purred the next line.

"So...Naomi...what do you do for fun when you're not wearing that sexy suit?"

I actually laughed...I mean, I've heard some pick up lines in my time, but she was shameless.

"Thanks for the compliment" I said, cursing the fact that I could feel a blush burning my cheeks already. Jesus, I was supposed to be the professional here. "and although I'm flattered...I'm supposed to be working...and anyway...I'm not..."

"Gay?" she finished for me "Are you sure about that?...Because my fucking gaydar is alerting all Fire stations within a 20 mile radius...tell me that I'm mistaken and I'll give up and marry Justin Beiber"

She chuckled for emphasis

I was actually stuck for words...me Naomi Campbell...Double First in Smartarse with Honours, speechless.

"Uh..." I stuttered..."I mean no...I'm not..."

"Though not" she smirked and stepped closer, raising her hand to the top of my jacket. I fucking jumped, thinking she was about to start to undress me in the middle of the day, but she grinned a little lopsided grin at my shocked expression and reached into my jacket top pocket. I always kept two or three business cards in there, and she expertly took one out with her first and middle fingers, making sure to brush my boob as she retrieved it. My treacherous nipples sprang to life, and I thanked God I was wearing a jacket instead of my usual sheer white top.

"Oh" I said stupidly, as she peered at the card. My fucking personal mobile number was on there, I realised and now she had it.

"Oh well" she said, smirking again..."wouldn't want to keep you from work...thats serious business"

The tiny lisp as she said that just made it even more unsettling.

And with that she walked past me to the door and with one last cheeky look back over her shoulder, disappeared into the family bathroom.

I stood there for a moment, Disto in hand, and processed what had just happened. Fuck me, I'd never been propositioned quite so blatantly by a total stranger before, not even in clubs. My mind held the image of those frankly spectacular tits and curvy arse. Maybe Cook would get lucky tonight after all...I needed to relieve some internal pressure...

After I measured up Katies room quickly, in case she came back for a second go at me, I knocked on the other door.

This time it opened immediately and I stood there like a fucking loon for the second time this morning.

Jesus H Christ on a bike, I thought. Its deja vu in spades.

"Hi" came the husky voice of the second occupant "I'm Emily" No shit Sherlock, I thought.

The same brown eyes as her sisters looked at me. Not aggressively, not openly challenging...but even more alluring. Her mouth twisted slightly at my stunned expression. She was even more fucking gorgeous than Katie. Suddenly the air seemed harder to breathe...

"Did you want to measure me up?" she said, dipping her eyelashes adorably.

"Oh sweet mother..." I thought "I'm totally and completely fucked..."