The Planner(68)

There were eight of them, the racial variety was impressive and one of the good things was that they quickly came round again and again, although in no particular order, like an iPod Shuffle. They each had their favourites. Carl, typically, liked a big-breasted Jamaican girl and Felix, of course, preferred a little Korean with a bob of black hair and boyish hips. And James had fallen for one who looked, though he knew this was probably unlikely, like an Israeli who was doing this in order to pay for her tuition fees while studying for a Masters in Fine Art at Goldsmith’s College, and who, when she wasn’t onstage taking her clothes off, wore little round glasses and liked to read poems by E.E. Cummings.

All the girls were smiling beautifully. It might be stretching it to say they were enjoying themselves, but they seemed determined to make the best of the circumstances, and had a marvellous work ethic. They looked cheerful, in good health, and with no obvious signs of physical coercion or drug addiction. Crucially, they were exactly the right age. Not so young as to make him feel ashamed of himself and, even more important, not so old that he felt ashamed for them. They had been born at the end of the twentieth century, but they were twenty-first-century women, and it didn’t take too much imaginative effort for James to persuade himself that they were empowered, that they had come to this country through legitimate immigration channels, and were taking their clothes off in front of him purely as a consequence of informed career and lifestyle decisions.

Despite there being no entry fee, the crowd was much better here too: well mannered, unconventionally dressed and morally desensitised without being psychopathic. The market imperfections and barriers to entry were working to their advantage for people had come here not because they could afford it, but because they knew about it. There were no businessmen on a trade mission from Asia and no construction workers or investment bankers, both of whom had a tendency to ruin things like this. Rather, everyone looked as if they worked in the digital media industries: pop music directors, website designers and people who make video games for mobile phones. These were people who took their leisure seriously, and who had carefully researched and prepared before choosing to spend their Friday night here.

Even Carl was impressed. ‘Well, it’s good to see that we can still put on a decent tit-and-fanny show. Maybe the country isn’t completely ruined after all.’

Felix and James nodded approvingly. Yes, perhaps after all, it was still a hopeful time to be alive and to be living in London. The city was still young – the girls onstage were proof of that. The planners and regulators and developers had done their worst, but London’s entrepreneurial energy, its immigration lawyers, middlemen and criminal ingenuity had triumphed and, as a result, the sex industry was here, generating employment and prosperity for the people of East London.

‘They say that all art aspires to music, but surely what it really aspires to is pornography,’ said Felix. ‘It is not the transcendental, but the deeply elemental that truly brings us joy and wonder.’

‘Is that your way of telling us that you’ve got a lob-on?’ said Carl. ‘Well, it’s cost us about three hundred quid, but I’m glad we got there in the end. Let’s get some more drinks.’

The pricing structure was entirely different from the other places. There were no membership fees, and they weren’t obliged to order any bottles of wine. However, while the transparency was to be welcomed, James suspected that it was still costing them a fortune. It was difficult to know for sure as Carl was expertly handling the money, and every so often all they had to do was give him another ten pounds, some of which he then put in a jar on the table. As long as they did this, it seemed likely they could stay there for as long as they liked.

That was the main thing, because whatever the cost, James didn’t ever want to leave. Here surely was all that one ever needed for a successful evening. The room was under-furnished, but not like in the last place which made you suspect it was about to close down, but in an East London way, as if it had just started up. The exposed brick walls had been freshly whitewashed, without any misjudged ornamentation, and nothing was broken or malfunctioning. The lavatories were well managed, with bolt locks on the cubicles, and the bar at the back of the room was pleasingly rudimentary with no electronic till, serving a limited range of spirits and bottles of lager from countries with low levels of per capita GDP. It was true that James had counted at least a dozen breaches of environmental, buildings and health and safety regulations, and that as a responsible planning officer and citizen he would have to ring a colleague in Hackney Council and get the place closed down, but that was something to think about next week. For the moment, it was all about the moment.