The Planner(20)

James turned to Felix. ‘I can see that there is a literary scene,’ he said, ‘and that it works with its own structure and hierarchies. And I can also see that people might get into it. But I don’t think it’s really for me. And another thing: how does anyone make a living from it?’

‘I agree, that is something of a mystery,’ said Felix. ‘People used to write books in order to make money. But now I think it is almost completely the other way round.’

Sensing that those with the highest status and net worth were coalescing into a single group, Felicity and the Managing Director came over. James, making the same observation, crossed to the other side of the room. But by now the public relations team had scattered for good. Their work was done, their objectives secured and the event would have to be considered a success, even James could see that. But without them, with nothing other than writers and journalists to speak to, it seemed a bit forlorn. Two South Asian women appeared and started to clear away the tables.

‘Well,’ said Felix, who also seemed to have given up. ‘Mission accomplished. You have now spent an evening in the company of the metropolitan liberal elite. And what’s interesting is how little you took to them.’

‘Or them to me,’ said James.

‘Oh I wouldn’t say that – the PR girls adored you,’ said Felix. ‘But at times like this, we should always remember the Dalai Lama: when you lose, don’t lose the lesson.’

‘The lesson. What’s the lesson?’

‘That you’re not actually a liberal,’ said Felix. ‘I suspect your worldview is something quite different.’

‘Well, I don’t think I’m a conservative,’ said James. ‘Or a socialist for that matter.’

‘Oh, I’m not so bothered about that. The crucial thing is not how good or bad the idea, but the extent to which you’re prepared to live it. That’s the fundamental problem with these people. Of course, it’s a problem that liberals tend to have in general.’

‘Well, I did really like the PR girls,’ said James. ‘They were great.’

The book launch was over, but Lucian was determined for the night to continue. He invited Felix and James on a North London safari: a group of them were going to play snooker and drink pints of bitter at a working man’s club round the corner. The club had a formidable reputation, and was known for its violation of licensing regulations and historical association with criminal gangs, wholesale drug dealers and corrupt chiefs of police. The neighbourhood was full of highly regarded bars and restaurants, but James could see that for these people there were quite different requirements. They were assiduous social diggers, and actively sought out the company of the lower classes, the desperate and the dangerous. It wasn’t really acceptable for Lucian to hang out with lawyers and hedge fund managers – he needed to develop friendships with retired bank robbers, former IRA commandos and trade union   leaders from defunct economic sectors.

James didn’t want to go with them, but he didn’t want to go home either – or at least, not immediately – and he wasn’t ready yet to enter London’s public transport system. He may not have enjoyed being there very much, but he did, at least, feel intoxicated and over-energised – by the gin, the red wine, by Miranda, Kate and Isabelle, by Amelia Zhang-Montel and the glamour of post-structuralist fiction. And so, rashly, he decided to walk it off. After all, the bus station at London Bridge was directly due south and no more than two miles away.

He set off. It was a cold February evening, and on both practical and psychological grounds he needed to go very fast. He walked down the high street, past the bars and restaurants spurned by Lucian, the two hardback books in a plastic bag knocking awkwardly against his legs – even James was sure that was a metaphor. For no good reason, his mind working hard but not thinking, he took his phone from his pocket and sent a text message to Alice: ‘Hey! Was at a book launch and met a friend of yours called Felicity’.

Outside Angel underground station, he saw Miranda, sitting on a bench in a coat that didn’t look warm enough and crying into her mobile phone. He walked quickly past, and turned down the hill, away at last from Islington. But the problem, the problem he should have foreseen, was that he was now in the City.

The City of London. During his long and uneventful adolescence, James had sometimes liked to pretend that the whole world was his private joke. As jokes go, it had been a poor one, but it wasn’t even that any more – he knew that now. For a truly private joke is a philosophical impossibility, meaningless and self-defeating unless there is someone to share it with. No, the world had ceased being a joke and was now something much worse: it was reality. It had to be reality, because no single solipsist could be so deranged. A fuck-up on this kind of scale needed a lot of manpower. Not even the most violently insane planner could have dreamt up the City in such detail, with such cruelty and indifference. No, nobody was responsible – that was the fundamental problem. This wasn’t the work of planners, this wasn’t 1970s Sweden. It was the work of humanity. Only humanity, in all of its raw, unprocessed energy and enthusiasm, could have produced this disaster.