The Planner(33)

At that moment, Lionel emerged from his office. It was something he liked to do once every afternoon – a proprietary walk around the part of the fourth floor that was still under his command. Walking with great purpose and a full bladder, he came to the kitchenette and ate a flapjack. He looked up at a flickering light, made a remark about the weather and talked to Neil about the fortunes of the England football team.

Slowly, he made his way over to James. He gave an egalitarian smile and perched at the edge of the desk, his short soft legs dangling down.

‘Ah James. How’s things? Everything all right with everything?’

‘Yes,’ said James. ‘How was the members’ meeting?’

‘Yes, fine, thanks. No real need for me to be there. But you know how they like to see my face at these things.’

Lionel was at least half a foot shorter than him. It was a challenge that James had worked hard to overcome and now he was barely even aware that, as he spoke to his manager, he crouched forward, lowered his neck and looked upwards. Although he did sometimes wonder if it might be having a detrimental impact on his spine and his personality.

‘So all good here? Lots going on, I know. Have you managed to do that briefing for me yet?’

‘Yes, sorry – just starting it now.’

‘Hmm, I really wanted it earlier today. I think I did say that.’

‘I know – sorry. I didn’t think the meeting was until the end of the week.’

‘No, it isn’t. But I’d like to have it today. I’m seeing Duncan Banister tomorrow for a one-to-one, and I’d like to share some thoughts with him ahead of the meeting.’

As James well knew, the one essential quality that every town planner must have is industriousness. Analytical reasoning was a plus, imagination was neither here nor there, and you didn’t need to be particularly charming. But you absolutely couldn’t be lazy. There was too much information to absorb and too many reports to write and meetings to sit through. Lionel knew that too – partly because he was lazy.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll crack on with it. I’ll definitely have it for you by the end of the day.’

‘Great stuff, appreciate it.’

‘No problem.’

‘We should catch up for a drink sometime. Maybe in the Red Lion this Friday? I haven’t seen you there for a while.’

‘Yes, that sounds good.’

James had just experienced that rarest of things: a managerial moment, an interaction in which Lionel had asserted his authority, set a task with a specific deadline and attempted to incentivise him. He hopped off the desk, clearly energised by what he had achieved, and continued his walk around the office. James watched him go: the very essence of dynamic public administration, artificial sweetener, instant coffee and anti-depressants coursing through his veins. Lionel inspected a pot plant, walked over to Rupinder and initiated a conversation about asthma. James turned back to his computer. But he wasn’t going to start doing any work yet, certainly not now that Lionel had tried to make him. Instead, he opened up his personal email again. There was a reply from Felix.



Can’t understand why you didn’t try to fuck her. She was pretty. She liked you. You were drunk. You didn’t like her. Four reasons: one of those ought to have been enough.



Perhaps this was what he was really like – it wasn’t just Felix on email, it was Felix distilled. Stripped of the good manners and social generosity, the expensive drinks, nice smell and ironic thin lips, he wasn’t just a clever wanker who worked in advertising, but something more dangerous. Undaunted by obscenity-checking firewalls, economic downturns or the English class system, he lived without fear and was therefore capable of doing great harm.

There was also an email from Carl. It was, and James could have really done without this, good news. He hadn’t got promoted – his career didn’t have those kinds of progression routes, but he had just made a large amount of money. It was what he did: he did deals and made trades, fucked people over, went short on social-democratic economies and long on despotic governments with oil reserves. It seemed he had done something particularly lucrative this time – he had paid far too little for some bonds from a Russian bank, and then sold them for far too much to the Mexican government, and now he wanted to celebrate. In fact, he already was celebrating – he had sent the email from a champagne bar near Bond Street requesting that everyone drop everything and come to join him.

It hadn’t always been like this. Carl had been a most underwhelming teenager and an immediate confidence boost when James had met him, his next-door neighbour at the halls of residence, on their very first day at university. His fluttering hands and mumbling speech, which was now put down to high intelligence and drug use, had back then signified only nervousness and a provincial childhood. No one would have guessed that ten years later he would be bullying small nations and making idiotic spending decisions with a corporate credit card.