‘One of the good things about getting older is that young women become more attractive,’ said Carl reflectively. ‘I’m sure that they weren’t all as good-looking as this when I was in my early twenties, but now I would fuck any girl under the age of twenty-five, unless she was disabled or something.’
‘That’s a lovely sentiment,’ said Felix. ‘You’re quite right: all young people are beautiful. But fortunately, hardly any of them ever realise. It stops them from being insufferable.’
As James looked, the girls onstage were becoming prettier and prettier. Their teeth were getting brighter, their lips larger and their smiles less ambiguous. More and more often, they seemed to be catching his eye, and throwing him generous smiles. They must have been doing it to the others too, of course he knew that, but there was no doubt that their eyes were resting on his the longest. Was it because he looked more handsome? Better still, was it because he looked more affluent?
It was some time before James noticed that Felix’s hand was on his leg. He must have placed it there very gently, but now he was warmly squeezing his knee. Thinking about it, it wasn’t really such a surprise. Something like this was bound to happen. Because I am human, nothing human is alien to me – isn’t that what Felix had once said? And Felix was, undeniably, a fellow human. There should be nothing alien about humans, male humans, touching one another. He needed to just sit back and be cool with it. At the same time, though, it was very important that he didn’t encourage him to do anything else.
‘Of course,’ said Felix. ‘There is another place we can go where we can do more than just look at girls. Somewhere a bit more innovative.’
‘You mean gay?’ said Carl.
‘Is it further east?’ said James.
Felix nodded. ‘Yes, quite a bit further. I’m afraid we’d need to go beyond Hackney.’
‘Fuck that,’ said Carl.
‘Well, I’m up for it,’ said James, safe in the knowledge that it wasn’t going to happen.
‘Fuck that,’ said Carl. ‘I’ve got a girlfriend at home, remember. Why the fuck would I start chasing around Essex with you benders. Let’s just stay here.’
‘Well, let’s have another drink and think about it,’ said Felix. ‘We’re in no particular hurry.’
‘I’ll get some more beers,’ said James.
As he said this, he got quickly to his feet and Felix’s hand fell away before coming to lie on the table. That was, James felt, a better place for it to be.
‘Good one,’ said Carl. ‘And why don’t you get a round of vodka shots while you’re at it.’
‘Good idea,’ said James, and headed towards the bar.
Being happy, leading a rich and rewarding life: it’s difficult. It requires organisation, hard work, deferred gratification and a talent for cultivating small pleasures. It takes a huge amount of planning. You need to nurture friendships with nice and interesting people, read popular science books, prepare wholesome meals for yourself, get to know your neighbours and go for walks in the countryside. To really make it work, you should ideally also go swimming twice a week, volunteer to do things for the benefit of the local community, become informed about the world and develop reasonable opinions that can be defended at supper parties. And yet, the problem was, at the end of all this, you will never, ever feel as mightily good as James was feeling right now. Maybe that’s why the dipsomaniacs drinking tins of cider outside the public library in Crystal Palace were always smiling. They had discovered the secret of happiness on planet Earth. It was just a matter of getting the internal biochemistry right, of being drunk and feeling loved. That wasn’t necessarily the same thing as being loved, of course, but provided you felt like this and were in a place like this, then did it really matter all that much?
13
21 March
Every opportunity to bring the story of London to people and ensure the accessibility and good maintenance of London’s heritage should be exploited.
– The London Plan, Section 7.32
‘So James tells me that you’re his favourite and most brilliant colleague,’ said Felix.
‘Oh God, really? Is that the best he can manage?’ said Rachel.
They were in the John Stuart Mill, a pub in Bloomsbury that looked much like the Red Lion in Southwark. James had chosen the venue – not on the grounds of convenience or cost, but rather on the basis of history, memories and emotional attachment. In short, he had chosen poorly.
Of course, it wasn’t as simple as just being in Bloomsbury. As any town planner could have told you, they were in the Bloomsbury Conservation Area: fifty hectares of streets and squares with protected planning status. It would, James knew, have its own preservation strategy and detailed rules and instructions governing window frames, the height of lampposts and the dimensions of shop signs. The local planning officers would have to spend their time arguing about satellite dishes and loft extensions, and dealing with the Area Management Committee, which would be composed of highly educated, bad-tempered residents who spent their lives protecting the local heritage, opposing social-housing developments and increasing the value of their properties.