James nodded, determined to protect her – if nothing else, it would be his mission for the night. They squeezed each other’s hands again and went back inside, where the others were making more noise than ever. The conversation had become worryingly unstructured and was in danger of breaking down completely. People were still saying things, sometimes even good things, but the narrative had been lost, and the only person listening to what was being said was probably now James.
‘Drugs are not sufficient for a successful night out,’ said Felix, ‘but they are becoming increasingly necessary. I think it’s because we’re all getting older.’
‘We’re going to need them for where we’re going,’ said Carl.
‘I’m sick of this place. I need to be dancing,’ said Olivia.
‘I need to take a fuck-load more,’ said Rick.
‘I agree,’ said Rafael.
‘My mouth is completely numb,’ said Olivia. ‘It’s like being at the dentist’s.’
‘The problem,’ said Carl, ‘is that you always need so much of it.’
‘Come on, let’s go,’ said Olivia.
‘None of it’s any good any more, that’s the problem,’ said Rick. ‘It’s all just shit.’
‘The lesson, as ever, is to be happy with what you have, rather than to have what makes you happy,’ said Felix.
It was now 11 p.m. and the pub was closing, but James had only got through about 40 per cent of the evening, for next they had to go to a nightclub. Again, he understood that this was something that would have to be done. There was even, now that he had held hands with Erica, a chance he might enjoy it.
Displaying a wide range of professional skills, Carl singlehandedly organised the transport. He telephoned a local firm and agreed a fee for a seven-seat taxi, reopening negotiations with the driver as soon as it arrived and reducing the price by a quarter. He marshalled the group in a good-humoured but firm manner out of the pub, and oversaw operations closely as they all incompetently and theatrically climbed in, for by now they were bringing out hysterical tendencies in each other. The journey itself, however, was uneventful and largely unnecessary, lasting slightly less than four minutes. It seemed that Olivia had refused to walk.
And now here they were – outside a nightclub in approximately the same part of Clerkenwell. The entrance, of course, gave little away. There were no illuminated signs, just a long, well-behaved queue trailing back from some large, unpainted wooden doors. What James hadn’t expected was that it would cost thirty-two pounds to get in but, as Felix explained, that was essential and actually to be welcomed. Ideally, you only wanted to take Class-A drugs with Class-A people. Just like a private members’ bar or boarding school, what you were paying for was the other customers, and if you didn’t pay enough then you ended up in a room full of fuckheads from north Kent. Although, of course, if it was too expensive then you risked finding yourself exclusively with tall girls from Chelsea and corporate lawyers who lived in Clapham – Felix did acknowledge that.
The demographic mix was important too. Ideally, you didn’t want that many black men there, but you did want enough to be able to buy drugs, and you certainly wanted plenty of black women. You also wanted Japanese, of either sex, but it had to be the kooky architecture students rather than the dippy tourists. Scandinavians were hugely welcome, though southern Europeans less so. Australians weren’t always as bad as everyone said, but South Africans and Israelis were, and it was a given that everything was significantly better if at least 20 per cent of the dance floor was homosexual. Above all, though, what you really wanted to avoid was a club full of white British people.
But the main thing was that, whoever was going tonight, James and his companions weren’t actually in the queue with them. Or at least, they were in another, smaller and better one. They were on a guest list. Not the list of famous people, but they were definitely on a list, which was, James recognised, an important achievement. It was one of the perks of buying your drugs from Marcus, who had a long-standing commercial association with a doorman. Felix described it as an ingenious piece of cross-selling that helped to differentiate him in the marketplace but, having now met Marcus, James wondered if it was really as thought through as that. But whatever the reason, it was to be welcomed – even James knew that the better the quality of the queue, the more quickly it moved and, in no more than ten minutes, they were inside the nightclub. Things were just as speedy in here as well: they paid with debit cards, they were briskly searched for concealed weapons, the women and Rafael went to the cloakroom, and then they were gently pushed through some heavy black doors.