The Planner(42)

It was here that, once again, Felix came in, for it seemed he was on very good terms with a professional drug dealer. It was much easier for Felix, who didn’t reside in the English class system, who wasn’t bound up in the conventions and fears that ruled other people’s lives. He was class-blind, as comfortable hanging out with thieves and criminals as he was with advertising executives and aspiring politicians. It was almost certainly, of course, because he was so upper class.

So it was only to be expected that Felix had access to a supply of cocaine. The real surprise was where they had to go to get it. Lacking both personal knowledge and a sound economic model of spatial distribution for the sector, James had assumed that you either bought drugs on the streets of Hackney or the salons of Mayfair. But no – instead they would have to head out west, out to the very ends of the suburbs. For it was here, it seemed, that all the serious drug dealers lived and worked.

‘There are many advantages to suburban living if you’re a drug dealer of any significance,’ explained Felix. ‘A low crime rate, easy parking, good access to national road networks, neighbours who mind their own business. It’s only the small-time crooks, the ones who peddle to students and get caught all the time, who actually live near their customer base.’

They were in a cafe in Notting Hill, round the corner from where Felix lived. James knew its heritage, had studied it, for the entire area had once been a battleground in the class war. But that was a long time ago, and it was now principally a site of historic and cultural interest, a successful node in London’s leisure economy popular with the sons and daughters of internationally famous businessmen.

And where was James meant to be? Well, it was Friday morning and right about now the surface transport meeting was about to start, but courageously James had pulled a sickie. It was his first one ever, another small but significant milestone. And, after all, why the fucking hell not? He worked in the public sector. The average British employee took 7.5 days’ sick leave each year, and he didn’t have to check the figures to know that it was bound to be higher in government where everyone was always so weak and ill. But in six years he had never taken a single one. He had even come into work when he was sick. He had sat feverish and unhappy, watching PowerPoint presentations that made extensive use of Clipart and saying nothing in meetings where nothing happened. That meant he was owed at least forty backdated days. And the really instructive thing was that no one seemed to be interested in the slightest. He’d spoken briefly on the phone to an unquestioning colleague and he didn’t have to put on a croaky voice or pretend that he had a chest infection or that his knob had turned blue. And, anyway, if it came to it, he was sick. He was, almost certainly, mentally ill. Of course, he should really have rung Rachel, but they still hadn’t gone for their drink together and, besides, she was different – she would have suspected something.

Felix, who hadn’t even bothered to ring his advertising agency, was eating a cooked breakfast.

‘We have a long and challenging day ahead of us,’ he said. ‘It is important to stock up on all the food groups now. You’re unlikely to eat much later.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ said James, who had undertaken some desk research. ‘I know it suppresses the appetite. Is that breakfast any good?’

‘It’s magnificent. I try to come here at least once a week. This is the best cafe in Notting Hill, and it’s our duty as citizens to protect it when consumers won’t. I’m worried that it’s going to get destroyed by capitalism – all the rents are going up. You know about this stuff. Maybe the council could save it?’

James shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. It’s not a listed building, or a school or anything.’

‘That’s the problem with planners – you’re always protecting the wrong things, the things that no one actually likes.’

‘Legally, we can’t protect this as a cafe. I expect it’s got A3 usage, so you don’t need permission to turn it into any other restaurant or coffee bar.’

‘So you can’t stop the landlord from shutting it down and doing something else with it?’

‘Well, it wouldn’t be straightforward to turn it into a chemicals factory or a bank or make it residential. I’d have to check the borough’s local development framework. That’s the crucial thing.’

Felix shook his head. ‘No, that’s not the crucial thing at all. The crucial thing is that it stays exactly like it is and continues to be run by the same inbred Armenian family, who know how to make decent all-day breakfasts.’