It’s that time of year when discretionary buyers come to town. We’re halfway through Wimbledon, Glastonbury is over, the election is behind us and London is at its most delightful and vibrant. The heavy rainfall we’ve had in the past few months means everything is looking green and lush, the parks are full of smiling people and there’s a feeling of cautious optimism.
This is also when visitors with a net worth in the hundreds of millions tend to think how charming our capital is and wouldn’t it be “fun” to have a pied-à-terre here rather than stay in the usual suite at Claridge’s.
At a certain level of wealth, the act of buying becomes almost whimsical. Pragmatism is for others. A zillionaire simply has to ask: this week would I rather have a Blue Period Picasso or a flat with a drawing room that has south-facing views over a garden square? Or both?
There’s a touch of old-world sophistication in snapping up a best-in-show work of art or a property in a big world capital where you don’t even really live. Consider those famed tastemakers of the past century, Gianni and Marella Agnelli. They had fabulous artwork and houses around the globe.
Apartments in New York, Paris and Rome; a residence in their hometown of Turin; another in the Piedmont countryside; a chalet in St Moritz to ski; a villa in the south of France to berth the yacht. They certainly didn’t live by the “ninety nights rule” of the merely moneyed, meaning if you’re not going to sleep in a house for at least ninety nights a year, don’t buy it.
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Happily for those of us in the realty game, this is peak season to be in London. I don’t want to prophesy but it feels like we could be in for an upswing. Still, there are genuine buyers and there are time-wasters. Damien in our office, ever the optimist, has been on the hunt for years on behalf of two of the latter, who are really just filling their days with pleasant viewings but have no intention to make an offer. Just like in Greta Gerwig’s autobiographical pre-Barbie movie, Lady Bird, in which the mother (played by Laurie Metcalf) and the daughter (Saoirse Ronan) liked to visit open houses as a bonding recreation and imagine their lives there.
Over the years I’ve developed something of a nose for sniffing out the “tyre kickers” among prospective clients … though I’ve also learnt never to judge a book by its cover. The way someone dresses doesn’t tell the tale of financial credibility any more. Take Mark Zuckerberg: he’s hardly swathed in stealth-wealth Loro Piana, he’s more a Gap jeans and T-shirt man. It’s more the content of what a prospective client tells me that reveals the truth about their intentions and capability.
I once showed a Belgravia penthouse to a couple who promptly invited me to their “island” with the offer of a lift on their “plane”. I’m not selling myself short, but I’m simply not charming or charismatic enough for such an invitation after knowing me for 20 minutes. It didn’t ring true.
They turned out to be Walter Mitty types. Harmless but unmitigated time-wasters. Which reminds me of the Neil Diamond classic, Love on the Rocks. “Just pour me a drink and I’ll tell you some lies” go the lyrics. There are times when a lie can seem so much easier than a truth. Though, deep down, doesn’t everyone know that the bigger the deception, the worse it will burn someone in the end?
So why do the Walter Mittys concoct these parallel lives? Who knows? I have certainly been known to massage the facts to clients. If someone comes to their house and slates it, I don’t report that in visceral detail. A home is personal, so hearing negative feedback can feel like an assault. So by all means obfuscate and protect people, but don’t tell an outright lie — even if you’re pouring a glass of the finest wine available to humanity.
secretagent@thetimes.co.uk
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The Secret Agent is the author of Highly Desirable: Tales of London’s Super-Prime Property (Headline £12.99). Buy from timesbookshop.co.uk or call 020 3176 2935. Discount for Times+ members
