‘Shall we have another drink?’ said James.
‘Yes, there’s a pub just here.’
Rachel led them along the road, taking his hand as she did so, until they came to a pub just across the road from King’s Cross Station.
‘This place is awful,’ said James.
‘You’ve been hanging out with Felix too much. It’s fine. I sometimes come here if I’m waiting for a train.’
But the pub wasn’t fine at all – you didn’t need to have studied much economic geography to know that. It was a railway pub, with transient and uninformed customers who didn’t return often enough to be valued. During the week it was used by salesmen and at weekends by football fans from the north of England. Its only competitive advantage was its proximity to three major railway stations and, other than television screens, the owner had never made a significant investment in anything likely to improve the consumer experience. The lighting was primitive, the female toilets unadvisable and the chairs made from aluminium. The barman had a red nose and looked a bit like Lionel and in the corner were two alcoholic Scotsmen who had got off the train from Edinburgh ten years before but never managed to get any further. Above their heads was a large sign reminding patrons of the unlawfulness of drug use and violent behaviour.
‘So you didn’t really believe that about the doorwoman? That was so obviously just a ruse to stop me from coming.’
‘Why would he do that? I thought you were getting on well.’
‘Because he wanted you to himself. Because he’s gay and doesn’t like women.’
‘Well, I guess everyone is a bit gay. There are degrees, aren’t there, like everything else. He’s never said anything.’
‘Fuck knows. He probably doesn’t even know himself. I’m increasingly coming to the conclusion that all men under the age of forty aren’t worth the bother. You’re all so useless and self-absorbed.’
They sat looking at each other across the small, unsteady tabletop. Rachel was looking prettier than James had ever seen her, but she was no Harriet – her legs weren’t rubbing against his, and her hands remained around her drink. So if anything was going to happen then it would need James to take the lead. But the problem, of course, was that he was a planner. He could give advice, take a view and have opinions, but he couldn’t make decisions.
‘You’re not going to Nottingham, are you?’ said Rachel.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘But it is a really great opportunity. You should feel pleased that they want you.’
‘I know, I am. It’s just not the right time.’
‘Well, I’m glad,’ said Rachel.
‘Are you really?’
‘Yes, of course I am. The office wouldn’t be the same without you.’
James drank some of his gin and tonic. It didn’t seem to work the way it had before. Instead of warming and strengthening him, he could feel it softening and curdling, making him feel older and weaker. Perhaps it was a drink for grandmothers after all. Or perhaps it only worked if you drank it in wine bars and private clubs.
James’s phone beeped. There was a message from Felix: ‘I think you should come now.’
Felix was different from James and Rachel, and always willing to take command. In certain industries, it had always been understood that a bad decision was preferable to no decision at all – particularly advertising, where there was little verifiable distinction between the two. Felix made calls – whether it was on the value of a brand of toothpaste or the quality of the girls at a strip show. And because he made his calls with authority, in an upper-class voice or curt text message, people tended to follow.
‘Are you being summoned?’ said Rachel.
‘Well, not summoned, but yes – I think I might head down there. That is, if you haven’t got any other plans.’
But of course she didn’t. The problem, of course, was that Rachel was a town planner too.
‘Well, I guess you ought to get going then.’
‘I don’t have to go. I don’t have to do anything.’
‘No, you should go. I should go. It’s late.’
Rachel was standing up and buttoning her coat. She was doing it very quickly, but it was hard for James to tell if she was upset with him or not. Maybe she just wanted to go home.
‘Aren’t you going to finish your drink?’
‘No, I’m fine. This wine is horrible anyway. I think I’ll just head off now.’
‘You would have definitely hated the club,’ said James.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
They walked out together, the barman nodding sadly at the only remotely attractive and economically viable couple in his pub, and now they were back out on the Euston Road. They turned to face one another and to say goodbye.