I first met Miles at a charity brunch in Jávea. The word charity is doing a lot of heavy lifting here — it was really just fifty British people drinking too much cava at 11am while vaguely pretending to care about orphaned donkeys somewhere inland. You know the vibe.
Miles stood out immediately. Mostly because his tan was so unnatural it was almost violent. The man was orange. Not even sunburnt-orange — more like an overripe satsuma that had been lacquered for durability.
“You’re Aerielle, right? Carlotta’s friend?”
Friend is an interesting word for someone who pays you under the table to babysit florists and drunks. But sure.
“That’s me.”
Miles did this thing where he shook your hand but with both hands, as if trying to trap you into a business deal you hadn’t agreed to yet. “Miles Fairweather. Estate agent. Property consultant. Relocation specialist. Lifestyle facilitator.”
The longer his title got, the less legal it sounded.
We chatted. Well — he chatted, I nodded. He’d been in Spain for 12 years, previously in Marbella, which he described as “cutthroat” with the same gleam people have when they mean scammy.
“I tell my clients the truth, though,” he said, sipping his third mimosa. “Unlike the cowboys. You want honesty in property? You come to me.”
I didn’t have the energy to point out that no one who says you want honesty? is ever being honest.
He leaned in. “Actually, I’m looking for someone like you, Aerielle. You speak languages, you understand the clientele.”
I absolutely do not.
“You have an eye for interiors.”
Only because I watch too much Netflix.
“And you’re, well, you’re British. The clients love that. They trust us.”
Us. Oh God.
Within a week, I found myself sitting in Miles’s office-slash-converted-garage in Moraira. It smelled faintly of old printer ink and desperation.
“All you need to do,” he explained, “is meet the clients at the villa viewings. Smile. Charm. Point out the best bits. We do the paperwork.”
“What if they ask me anything legal?”
“Just say that’s something Miles can help you with later. Works every time.”
Simple enough.
My first clients were a couple from Surrey looking for “an authentic Spanish experience but with modern comforts” — the eternal contradiction.
The villa was lovely. Five bedrooms, infinity pool, some highly questionable marble statues scattered across the garden.
“Does it get noisy here in the summer?” the wife asked.
I smiled. “Not really, no.”
(It overlooks the main road to Benidorm. You can practically hear the hen parties from here.)
“Are there any issues with the paperwork?” the husband asked.
I smiled again. “That’s something Miles can help you with later.”
By the time they made an offer, I felt like a criminal. Miles, of course, called it excellent synergy.
A few days later, over drinks, I asked Miles if the villa actually had all its licenses.
He laughed. “Aerielle, listen. Spain’s not like back home. Here, it’s a little… flexible.”
Flexible.
If I ever get arrested, my gravestone will read: She was flexible.
