‘Oh I know,’ said James. ‘He thinks our profession is worthless because we don’t own things.’
‘That’s right. Ownership is everything. It’s the basis of all political economy.
‘That’s not how it’s done. It’s much more about regulation and use than ownership.’
‘Well, regulate this pub then. Turn it into a Moroccan restaurant or a vodka bar or something.’
‘Planners shouldn’t really be intervening in the market in that way,’ said Rachel. ‘We can’t go around telling people how pubs and shops should be run.’
‘Oh, that’s just an ideology, a spell cast by the ruling class to mask historical contingencies. The state can do as much as the people want it to.’
It was easy to forget, but Felix was actually a Marxist. It was one of the first things he’d told James. It was actually essential to his worldview – a deep understanding and unwavering position on the structural underpinnings of economic relations that enabled him to say and do all sorts of extremely right-wing things.
‘Well, it’s a Thursday night. I think we should make the most of it,’ said Felix.
‘What were you thinking?’
‘Let’s go to my club. Erica will be there and after her last outing I’m sure she’ll want to explain herself.’
‘That sounds exciting,’ said Rachel. ‘Do you know I’ve never actually been to a private club.’
‘Oh my God, Rachel – you’ll absolutely hate it!’ said James. ‘I can’t wait to see the faces you pull.’
‘Can you dance there? James – you’ve never taken me dancing before.’
‘Actually, this might be tricky,’ said Felix. ‘On busy evenings, I’m only able to take one guest along.’
‘Oh,’ said James. ‘Couldn’t we all go? I’m sure you can get us both in.’
‘Well, we could try. But I wouldn’t want to risk it. I’ve slightly blotted my copybook with the very pretty doorwoman, and I suspect she isn’t in the mood to grant me any favours.’
‘We don’t have to go there,’ said James. ‘We could always just have another drink here.’
Felix didn’t say anything, but as if by way of reply turned his head to look across the room. The barman was doing a newspaper crossword and drinking a pint of bitter. There was a burst of noise and clapping of hands, for the students had got excited about something that was happening on one of their computers.
‘No, don’t worry,’ said Rachel. ‘I’d hate to make you stay here on my account.’
‘I don’t think we can stay here much longer,’ said Felix. ‘It’s becoming intolerable.’
James would have to make an ethical decision. He could see that. And like most ethical decisions, it was actually quite easy. He had accepted someone else’s decision in this very pub all those years ago, but he didn’t have to do it now.
‘Felix, you go to the club. I’ll go with Rachel to the station.’
‘Really? Are you sure that’s what you want to do?’
‘You don’t have to,’ said Rachel.
‘I’d like to,’ said James. ‘We can walk together.’
They all stood up to go. James picked up Rachel’s coat and handed it to her.
‘I guarantee that the club will be highly entertaining tonight,’ said Felix.
‘Well, let me know what’s going on there and I can always come and join you.’
‘Very well. I’ll call you.’
Outside, Felix vanished immediately into a taxi. James and Rachel crossed the road and headed northwards. The original cast-iron streetlights glowed softly as they walked past the bookshops and tearooms that had closed for the day, past the tennis courts and private parks, and out of the conservation area, into the noise and dirt of London.
The two planners walked side by side, through the southern borders of Islington. Much of it was ruined and there was little that could be done, but still they tried to understand. The text was huge and unreadable, but they poured over it. They studied bus timetables, revolving advertising boards, late-night traffic flows, estate agents’ windows and franchised coffee shops. Like code breakers, they looked not for meaning but for structures: repetitions and synchronicities, patterns and frequencies. They noted the oversupply of B1 office space and under-provision of C3 residential, and they speculated about regeneration strategies, the size of retail units and affordable housing targets.
They came on to Euston Road, the city’s first bypass, the east-to-west carriageway built to run through the villages and fields on the edge of London, stretching from Marylebone to Essex. Like all bypasses, it had been controversial and ultimately unsuccessful, destroying farmlands and doomed by everything that came afterwards.