Pickings for the very rich

Perversely, the clients most anxious for me to find them a “deal” are the richest of the rich. They relish haggling, securing a property for lower than the asking price and, even more alarmingly, shaving half a per cent off my commission fee.

I was recently with one such client, a Texan lady of certain years, who married into one of those vast oil fortunes almost half a century ago. Even before her husband died, she had manoeuvred herself away from Dallas to New York, Aspen, London and other favoured spots of the international jet set. She had also acquired a reputation for impeccable taste, great philanthropy and membership on the board of a prestigious museum.

We met because she had recently sold her Belgravia townhouse and was looking for a flat in Eaton Square – something smaller (or rather somewhere that could not accommodate her step-children’s families) but still with a drawing room and dining room that could cater for 20. The setting was lunch at Fortnum and Mason’s, at her request. But when the bill came there was one of those awkward pauses as the silver tray hovered between us. The grand dame finally, glacially, opened her bag, and, with long diamond-encrusted fingers, pulled out a compact so she could powder her nose. I could bear it no longer and quickly placed my “civilian” blue Visa card on the table.

“Let’s have a quick look at Burlington Arcade,” she suggested. “I hear there’s a great cashmere sale on.”

I was conscious of time as we were scheduled to meet her decorator at the new flat in half an hour but, as always with clients, it was difficult to say no. We quickly located the store since there was a queue and a sign indicating 50 per cent off everything. Ignoring the other customers, my Texan walked in and commanded the attention of all the staff.

I was impressed with both her speed and eye as she decisively checked ply, colour and style, and, with the aid of her Palm Pilot, worked her way through a list of cashmere recipients, consisting of friends, family and senior support staff. Thirty items were assembled in less than 10 minutes and, adopting a Southern drawl, she asked for each of them to be gift wrapped.

“That will be £1,800,” said the shop assistant.

“That price doesn’t work for me,” she responded without flinching. “Can you give me a price that will make me happy?”

“Madame, that is with a 50 per cent reduction.”

“I’m not happy though. Can you get the manager and see if he can make me happy?”

“I am the manager.”

There was a peculiarly British silence in the tiny boutique. But eventually, after a series of negotiations that would make a souk vendor blush, £1,400 cash was handed over and we left and hailed a taxi for Eaton Square. Guess who paid?

Amazingly, we were only five minutes late arriving at Eaton Square, where the estate agent and the decorator, a distinguished looking man, were waiting.

“We’ve worked together for an eternity,” my delighted client reported, still on a high from her cashmere fix.

As we walked around the tired but elegant apartment, she started hissing in my ear. “How much can we get it for?” I told her we had a good negotiating point in that there were only 20 years remaining on the lease. She quickly realised that this would also diminish her step-children’s inheritance, adding to the buzz. She turned to her decorator with a glint in her eye and said: “I’m going to have it. When can you start work?”

“I can’t,” he responded.

I sensed he was about to say something he had been holding back for the past 40 years.

“But why not? You’ve done all my houses?”

“My dear,” he said, “I’m too old and too rich to put up with you any more.”

In that sentence I saw my future before me and decided to recommend the Texan to one of my disliked, slippery, unscrupulous rivals. They’ll be a good match for one another.