The Planner(55)

‘God, yes – what’s the name of your director there? Leo whatsit?’

‘You mean Lionel Rogers?’

‘Yes, that’s the chap – Lionel. He’s a bit of an old sod, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ said James. ‘He is a bit.’

‘Been there for years, won’t let anything happen. Typical old-school planner – still believes in zones, thinks he owns the place. No wonder you’re struggling to get enough investment.’

‘I know, I know. He’s holding Southwark back.’

This was, James knew, largely untrue and unfair. Lionel was, after all, his mentor and friend, the person who hired him, who taught him how planning in London works. But how else do you grow up in this world? The generations don’t replace one another; they displace one another. If they have to, if they’re able to, they murder one another. It wasn’t progress exactly, but it was how things happened. He swallowed a large mouthful of lager. It was fresh and strong and hurt his lips.

‘Come on,’ said Adam. ‘It’s starting.’

They filed out of the back of the corporate box and on to a narrow balcony. James had only been to one football match in his life before, and that had been in Leicester in the 1990s – a misconceived day out with his father and sister, neither of whom knew anything more about football than he did. It definitely looked a lot better this time. That surely was because of the light and perspective and money. They were very high up. The Chelsea players’ blue shirts and white shorts shimmered under the powerful beams of the floodlights, while the other team’s red shirts and black shorts glowed menacingly. And the pitch itself was lovely: a rich, luminous green, so bright and flawless that it looked as if it had been made on a computer. It shone, and not just from the floodlights beaming down, but as if there was a light pulsing up through it. James thought it would have been quite enjoyable just to drink beer and stare down at that all evening.

It was a European Cup match, and the red team had a name that was difficult to pronounce and was from an East European country with a poor human rights record. That made it slightly easier to support Chelsea, which wasn’t something that came naturally to James who, despite being a believer in the merits of collective endeavour, distrusted all tribes and teams.

‘There you go,’ said Felix. ‘This is one of London’s great spectacles and industrial sectors. People travel from across the world to see our football. It is also, by the way, the only hope left for European integration, the only thing that dock workers in Hamburg and computer programmers in Reading can successfully hold a conversation about.’

James nodded. He didn’t quite know what Felix was talking about, but there was no doubt that the footballers themselves were beautiful. You could tell that even at a distance. No wonder young women were always wanting to have sex with them in nightclubs. Unlike other athletes, they were gracefully proportioned, their bodies adapted for a range of different tasks. They had marvellous strong legs, counter-balanced by high shoulders, and topped with thick long hair. Many of them had glorious tattoos. And, after all, maybe there was something heroic about them. Anyone paid that much money had to be admirable in some ways, just as contemporary novelists surely warranted at least some contempt for being paid so little.

‘We better win this,’ said Adam.

‘Oh I’m sure we will,’ said Felix.

‘We ought to beat them,’ said Robert. ‘Their entire team cost less than our goalie.’

But now the match had actually got going, things were more problematic. All the things that James disliked, which he was paid to eradicate, were happening on the pitch in front of him. There were too many players and they weren’t evenly distributed. There was congestion and along with this there were collisions and conflict. Perhaps, he wondered, if the teams were playing better it would be different, but he suspected not – there were simply too many people moving quickly in a limited space, and they were playing with just a single ball.

James looked at the clock. To his surprise, no more than nine minutes had passed. Despite his best efforts, his interest was in danger of waning. It wasn’t just him – already some of the others were talking about property prices again. Was this really what all the fuss was about? Yes, the players all looked great, but he didn’t know any of them or care what they were doing. Plus, he now recalled that many of them tended to avoid paying tax. He started to feel sorry for the referee, the official who had regulatory authority over them, but hardly any money or respect, and who was getting shouted at by the crowd.