The Planner(2)

‘That sounds interesting.’

Yes, his job was interesting – at least James had thought so once, and there were, in theory, still interesting things to do: masterplans to produce, jobs to create, leisure centres to build, homes to knock down, communities to displace. These were all real and substantial things – more real, surely, than what the others did for a living.

‘So what does a town planner actually do every day?’

By way of a response, James decided to go to the toilet, though it was hardly a sustainable solution. At least with the washrooms he was getting some value for money for, in contrast to the restaurant itself, they were idiotically overwhelming. Here, everything was superfluous, far too large and symptomatic of a civilisation on the brink of collapse. Limestone basins with gushing brass taps, dramatic mirrors with elaborate gold-gilded frames, a mosaic of cool cream and blue glass tiles, all pointlessly serviced by silent black men with soft hands. He removed his glasses, held his wrists and then temples under very cold water and breathed slowly. The basin was so wide and deep that he could comfortably fit his entire head in it while he wondered what on earth he was doing here.

In theory they were all there to congratulate Adam on a significant promotion. But that was hardly a cause for celebration. James tried to think back to the last time he had actually enjoyed his friends’ success. He could recall being drunk and happy at Alice’s twenty-eighth birthday party, and had been genuinely pleased when Carl had got engaged to Jane. But that was all a long time ago. Since then there had been many successful parties, many promotions and Carl was now going out with Zoe. How bad had things got? Had it got to the point where he actually disliked his closest friends? When had that started? Of course, that was one of the principal problems in doing your degree at the London School of Economics, the thing that they never mentioned in the prospectus: all the friends you made would go on to become insufferable wankers. Or was it just capitalism that had fucked everything up for them? Surely things wouldn’t be so bad if Adam and Carl worked in the public sector? Wouldn’t it be better if everyone worked in the public sector? All James knew for sure was that he couldn’t stay with his head in the basin forever, and that he very much wanted to be home.

‘Are you okay?’

James jerked his head up and put his glasses back on. It was Felix. Time passed differently under water and he couldn’t be sure how long he’d been there.

‘No,’ said James. ‘No, I don’t think I am.’

Felix nodded. He didn’t look like Adam, he didn’t have vigorous dark hair and a big upper-middle class forehead, and he didn’t look like Carl with pale proletariat skin and a brutish square face. For the moment, that would just have to do, and James had the sense that he was safe, that Felix wouldn’t make things any worse.

‘Have you had too much to drink?’

James probably had, but that was hardly the problem. It wasn’t him that was ill, it was everything else. The whole migraine world.

‘I hate my friends,’ said James. ‘They’re all awful.’

‘Yes,’ said Felix. ‘I think they probably are.’

A black man handed James a white towel and he held it to his face and hair. It smelt of apples and lemons.

‘We don’t have to go back,’ said Felix. ‘It’s fine to stay here if you’re not feeling up to it.’

James nodded. It would be nice to put his head back into the sink and stay there indefinitely, for his heart to slow down and his blood to cool, perhaps to let water erosion take its course and shape him into someone else.

‘No, it’s fine,’ said James. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be along in a minute.’

James waited until Felix left, and then felt inside his trouser pocket for where he knew there was a ten-pound note. He didn’t really know what he was doing, he didn’t really like what he was doing, but he wanted to give some money to the only person in the building who had less than him. He put the note on a little silver dish. The attendant was at least fifty years old. He looked at it with eyes full of sorrow, but didn’t say anything.

When he got back to the table, things were only marginally better. People weren’t making jokes any more and so he didn’t have to laugh or try to say something funny. Instead, they were having an argument. But the difficulty was that they weren’t arguing about music or sport or even politics – they were arguing about the economy. And it wasn’t something easy like what a bunch of fuckers the bankers were, but rather what seemed to be a reasonably technical discussion around the merits of fiscal investment versus monetary expansion, and their associated inflationary risks. Again, James could only look at his friends in dismay. Okay, Carl worked in finance and Alice wrote for newspapers, but how on earth did Adam get to know about this kind of shit? He was a lawyer, with a degree in English Literature, and yet here he was sounding perfectly knowledgeable about macroeconomics. God, he even seemed to know something about microeconomics.