1
25 January
At its best, London can provide what is amongst the highest quality of life to be found anywhere. Unfortunately, this is not the universal experience of Londoners.
– The London Plan, Section 1.44
‘Fuck you,’ said Adam. ‘Verb.’
‘Fuck you, you fuck – noun,’ said Carl.
‘Fuck you, you fucking – adjective – fuck.’
‘Well, fucking – adverb – fuck you, you fucking fuck.’
Adam laughed. ‘You bastard,’ he said.
‘So what, swearing is funny now?’ said Alice.
‘No,’ said Adam. ‘Swearing isn’t funny. We’re funny.’
But James wasn’t sure how funny they were. He may not have been much of a comic himself, but at least he usually knew when to laugh. Tonight, though, it seemed he couldn’t even manage that: there was a dullness to him that made even smiling an effort. There was a woman there with them he’d never met before, Olivia, and she wasn’t being particularly funny or laughing much either. But that was no consolation because she had other, unspecified talents. She wasn’t what one would ordinarily call pretty – she had one of those flat, old-fashioned faces – but she was really posh, posher even than Adam, and James knew that meant she had to be assessed differently. In fact, for all he knew, it might mean that she was actually very beautiful.
It didn’t help that the restaurant was just about the most expensive he had ever been to in his life. The address in Farringdon could have meant anything, but the inconspicuous entrance, tucked away on a terraced side street, its dark front door and small square windows should have raised alarm bells. The booby traps and unamusing quirks scattered across the English class system were not something James had ever navigated with ease, but he did know this much: anything this understated had to be classy, which meant that it had to be costly. He had no idea how much his meal was, but certainly enough to ruin every mouthful, and the drink was just as problematic for Carl, like James, was only capable of judging wine on the basis of price and so had ordered the most expensive bottles he could find.
But the real problem tonight was Alice. Even more than Adam and Carl, he was worried about Alice. She was on especially good form, which was likely to mean one of two things – either she was notching up another of her triumphs at the newspaper, or else she’d met someone. Another glamorous and improbably well-known boyfriend. It was getting out of hand: the last one, an incredible sod, had kept cropping up on the radio, and Alice herself was starting to become someone who wasn’t famous, but who famous people knew and liked – something, James had learnt, which was actually much better, more desirable and harder to achieve.
In truth, ever since Alice had stopped being a teacher, James had found their friendship difficult to sustain. He was reasonably confident that he still earned more than her, but that was no comfort. She was in the kind of profession where success was measured in ways other than money and anyway, crucially, she owned her flat. Eight years ago, with help from her parents, Alice had shrewdly bought a two-bedroom flat in Highgate that had immediately and relentlessly risen in value every month since.
James stared down at his plate. It was a Silk Road fusion restaurant, with dishes originating from Turkey, Lebanon, Iran, Armenia and a number of other countries he was unlikely ever to visit. In the face of such a range, it was almost inevitable that he would choose poorly, and he was now facing a pretentious, unpalatable mess. James’s semiotic analysis bordered on the dysfunctionally superstitious. Was his dinner a symbol of globalisation? Or did it represent more personal failings? He looked across the table – Adam had chosen some crisp and attractive spinach pancakes and Carl was oafishly enjoying his skewed kebab and chips. Christ, he thought, it never used to be like this. When did enjoying oneself become such terribly hard work?
‘Mine isn’t any good either,’ said Felix, with a friendly smile. ‘I think this place is overrated. Just like everything else.’
James smiled back. As seemed to happen more and more often, the person he was getting on with the best was the one he knew the least: Felix Selwood, whom he knew nothing about other than he was clever and worked in advertising. It was another of Adam’s achievements that he had managed to acquire a varied and high-quality collection of close friends since leaving university.
‘And, sorry – what is it you do? Adam did tell me, but I’m not sure if I quite understood him. Something to do with local government?’
‘Sort of. I work in town planning,’ said James with immense cautiousness.