10
6 March
It is worth remembering that change presents opportunities for London, as well as challenges.
– The London Plan, Section 1.50
‘Yes, of course. That would be really nice.’
‘Yes, it was a real shame I couldn’t come up. I’ve just been so busy with work.’
‘Don’t worry – of course, I have been thinking about it. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.’
James was speaking to his mother. Even in 2013, these kinds of mistakes still happened from time to time. His mobile phone had rung, the number hadn’t appeared, and he had thought it was someone else, maybe Harriet calling from Morocco, for instance. And now, here he was, outside a bar on the King’s Road in Chelsea, having a conversation he didn’t want to have for at least another week, while Felix was inside drinking a bottle of white wine.
‘I know it’s a very good opportunity, but I’m not sure if it’s the right time in my career.’
‘Yes, I know. It would only be an hour away. But you know, that’s not much further than where I am now.’
What was the news from Leicester? It was much the same as it had been two weeks ago. His father wasn’t well, but nobody really knew why, his sister was enjoying her teacher training, the weather was wet, the economy was contracting, the garden wall needed repairing, the hospital where she worked wasn’t, after all, going to get its neo-natal units.
‘I’ve got to get going. My friend is waiting for me.’
Not so long ago, James had been on the verge of going back. Not quite back to Leicester, but certainly back to the Midlands. It was still an option. There was, for a few weeks longer, a job waiting for him. Deputy Director of Planning at Nottingham City Council – the man he would be replacing was at least ten years older than him. From a certain perspective, by local government standards, James would be a success. But would anyone else ever know that? Would it feel like success?
‘Yes, don’t worry – I’m definitely coming for that weekend.’
‘I’ve got to get going. Speak soon. I love you lots.’
James put the phone back in his pocket. He had just told his mother that he loved her on the King’s Road in Chelsea. Because of her poor hearing, because of the phone reception and the noise from the street, he had said it quite loudly. Not with great pride, but certainly with volume. Enough for a good-looking young man with ruthless blond hair, expertly smoking a cigarette and drinking a bottle of beer, to look up at him with an amused smile.
Well, it was true. He did love his mother. Just as he felt sorry for his father and worried a bit about his sister. But that, surely, wasn’t enough to leave London. What about the life plan? He was, after all, only halfway through. Okay, he hadn’t enjoyed the nightclub or the drugs much but he was, he felt sure, developing. He was moving, jerkily and expensively, in the right direction and he was still committed to the process. It was why he was here on the King’s Road.
‘If you really want to understand London,’ Felix had told him earlier that week, ‘then you have to hang out with some rich people. It’s what this city is all about.’
‘Yes, I can see that. But does it have to be football?’
It seemed that it did. Just as in the salons of nineteenth-century Europe, a gentleman was expected to be able to speak knowledgeably about warfare, so in 2013 a young man of any standing had to be able to hold his own in a discussion about football. The problem, of course, was that James didn’t know anything about it: football was yet another of those things that he had never been educated in. No one had ever talked about it when he’d been a student and while it was true that his school had had a strong tradition of team sports, they were all the wrong ones. Like most grammar schools, James’s had made a point of competing with great seriousness at cricket and rugby, of beating comprehensives with ease and losing valiantly to schools that had much more money. But that was no use now when all that anyone was interested in was football and anyway – he had never even been any good at rugby or cricket. The only thing he had ever been good at was the long jump.
But here they were. It was a Wednesday night and James was now back inside the wine bar with Felix, round the corner from Stamford Bridge football stadium in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. James hardly ever came here, but he knew its statistical profile all too well. The figures were formidable, and everyone working in London government was meant to be trying to make their part of the city more like this one. It was the borough with the highest life expectancy, the highest average income and the lowest unemployment. More people participated in cultural activities than anywhere else and fewer people got run over or murdered.