The Planner(29)
‘And what about the environment? You must worry about that? What happens when people do whatever selfish thing they like, and end up destroying the planet?’
‘Oh God, yes – the environment. Don’t worry – I’m not one of those mad old men who hasn’t had sex for thirty years and is convinced that climate change is a plot invented by communists. It’s just that, somehow, I can’t bring myself to worry all that much about it. And, of course, I can’t stand woolly headed environmentalists, who do seem to be the only type there are.’
James stared across the room. He couldn’t be sure if it was Laura’s worldview or the pub that was making him so dispirited. There were two young men in duffel coats drinking lemonade and pushing buttons on a quiz machine, a red-faced man at the bar reading a tabloid newspaper and four middle-aged North American tourists sipping half pints of bitter and consulting their guidebooks, wondering if they had the right to feel let down or not. The barwoman, a young Ukrainian with poor skin, was playing a game on her mobile phone. He decided to go to the bathroom.
‘It’s not true,’ he said, as he got up. ‘About everyone we work with being so awful and so useless.’
Although actually it was. He might not be prepared to admit it, but he would accept that it was at least partly true. For even now, he was still dismayed by his colleagues. Okay, Graham in Nottingham hadn’t been so bad and Rachel was good at her job, but where were all the highly competent taciturn professionals with specialist technical skills and for whom service was its own reward? Why weren’t they more like him or, failing that, why weren’t they more like nobody at all? Why were they so much like themselves? Why were they so much like Lionel?
They were unmistakably inner-London pub toilets: small and ancient with inadequate ventilation, the damp walls had been coated comprehensively but unreassuringly with a dark red paint, and a urinous tang was still perceptible beneath the carbolic acid. But at least they were empty, and there was no danger of anyone else trying to wash his hands for him. James checked his phone. There were three text messages from Rachel: The first one said: ‘Are u still with L or have you bored her already?’ The second, sent two hours later said: ‘I thought you’d get on. U owe me for this’ and the third, sent an hour after that said: ‘OMG! Your most probably having sex right now’. Although probably impossible, maybe he should have gone on a date with Rachel instead. He would, in as much as this counted for anything, have enjoyed it more.
He tried to order two small white wines, but it seemed that such a concept no longer really existed, and he returned to the table with two unhelpfully large glasses, which he knew could determine the trajectory of the evening if he didn’t keep his wits about him. By now they had had so much to drink and so little to eat that it didn’t really matter what they talked about. They discussed Rachel for a while – James was sure she wouldn’t have minded – and speculated as to why she didn’t have a boyfriend. And then Laura embarked on a long account of how the Treasury worked and all the things she did there, which seemed to centre around the fact that they had better mathematical models and more robust data than the economists at the Department of Work and Pensions whom, as far as James could tell, were sort of her rivals. In turn James told her what it was like working in local government, and she gamely asked lots of questions about his job and shook her head solemnly whenever James admitted to inefficiencies or organisational failings.
‘You know, I’ve never really got local government,’ she said. ‘I know it’s fashionable these days for everyone in central government to say how important it is. But it just seems to be full of busybodies who don’t know anything about economics.’
‘Yes,’ said James. ‘It largely is. That’s probably why I like it.’
Anyway, the good news was that Laura wanted very much to kiss him. She’d probably had too much to drink, but that didn’t account for the manner in which she was leaning across the table and reaching out to hold his hand. No longer combative, she was now attempting to be amorous. But of course she was far less good at this. Laura’s talents were of a higher level than James’s: she was accomplished at scrutinising spreadsheets, identifying flaws in public policy arguments and being disagreeable in meetings whenever someone wanted to spend money. But she had no talent at all for being friendly, let alone for seduction. She was, thought James and it rather impressed him that this had occurred to him, bound to be terrible in bed.