The Planner (12 page)

James turned back to his screen. There was a long email from his sister, a letter really, with observations on her teacher-training course, news from home, which wasn’t significant enough to be considered good or bad, and enthusiasm about the job offer in Nottingham. James hadn’t even finished it before he turned to read another email, from Felix.

In person, Felix liked to speak at length, making eloquent pronouncements in complete sentences. But when it came to electronic communications he was curt and brutally to the point. His emails were businesslike, forcefully punctuated and demanded action. To James, who had only ever worked in the public sector with colleagues who were well mannered and socially unconfident, this inevitably meant that they came across as menacing.

Subject: The Date

What happened? Need a full report.

Without delay, James started to write a detailed reply, describing his evening with Laura and what had and hadn’t happened. He was meant to be drafting a briefing for Lionel, which should have taken him three hours, but so far had taken two days. This wasn’t for any of the usual reasons: he hadn’t been interrupted by a crisis generated by the communications team, he hadn’t had to deal with an aggrieved planning applicant, and it wasn’t because his computer had broken down. He just couldn’t be bothered. It was barely two o’clock and he felt fatigued, uninterested, mildly unhappy and unappreciated. He felt like someone who worked in the public sector.

Rachel came over to his desk. ‘Have you done that baseline briefing on Sunbury?’

‘The meeting isn’t until Friday.’

‘I think Lionel wants it before then. I wouldn’t mind seeing it either. I’ve got a meeting with the community housing lot tomorrow. Would be good to be able to tell them about a project that isn’t fucking up.’

‘Well, I haven’t done it yet.’

They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. Rachel was wearing a long dark coat with a red scarf over her shoulders. Her black hair was flat and she looked unusually professional and unfriendly.

‘Come outside and sit with me while I have a cigarette,’ she said. ‘I want to give you some grief.’

Without saying a word, he got up and followed Rachel out of the office and into the lift, in which they stood in careful silence alongside the Deputy Chief Executive while it bumped its way down to reception. It was only after they had got outside and Rachel had lit a cigarette that she spoke.

‘So. The date with Laura. Given the lovely text you sent me, I gather you didn’t think very much of her.’

‘Oh God, yes – sorry about that. I’d had too much to drink. Have you spoken to her?’

‘She rang me last night. She says you’re a weirdo.’

‘Well, I don’t think that’s fair. And I did like her.’

‘Really? Tell me the truth. I know what a useless liar you are.’

‘I did like her. She’s very clever. We just weren’t very compatible. You know what these Whitehall types are like. I felt as if she didn’t have any time for what I do.’

‘Really? That doesn’t sound like her. She’s never been like that to me. What did you talk about?’

‘Planning policy and market failure, mainly.’

‘Christ, you really know how to give a girl a good time.’

‘Well, believe it or not, she did most of the talking. I’m surprised she’s a friend of yours actually – she’s pretty right wing.’

‘She isn’t really. She’s just an economist, that’s all. She’s smart and she likes to challenge people. She’s always been like that – it’s one of the reasons I like her.’

Rachel blew a thick cloud of smoke into the cold air. James felt the need to defend himself further.

‘Okay, but you must admit – she is a bit snobbish and superior.’

‘She’s really not, you know. She’s from Stoke, for starters. There aren’t many snobs up there.’

‘She didn’t sound like she was from Stoke. She just sounded like someone from the Treasury.’

‘Did you even ask where she was from?’

James looked away and across the road. It had gone lunchtime, but the traffic was still heavy.

Rachel lit another cigarette. ‘Anyway, I don’t know why I’m even talking to you, given some of the things you said to Laura about me.’

Christ
– what on earth had he said to Laura? Pretty much anything she’d wanted to hear, given that they were in the early stages of a date.

‘I didn’t say anything about you.’

‘That’s not what she said.’

‘That’s rubbish,’ said James.

Rachel shrugged. ‘Maybe. Laura can’t be completely trusted, I will grant you that.’

‘Well, she’s talking rubbish. I didn’t say anything.’

‘Fuck it,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m not bothered.’

‘Well, I didn’t.’

‘Like I said, I’m not bothered,’ said Rachel.

But she was bothered. They both were. Rachel stubbed out her cigarette after just two drags and wrapped her scarf around her neck, and James tried to think of something that would end the conversation on a better note.

‘Are you going back upstairs?’

‘No,’ said Rachel. ‘I haven’t eaten yet. I’m going to get a sandwich. See you up there.’

James nodded and looked over the street that he knew so well. One of the problems was that it was too narrow for them all. The cyclists and drivers and bus passengers and pedestrians and pet dogs, all with their pointless preoccupations and over-heating minds. Every interaction required negotiation and tolerance, eye contact and a mature approach to shared space. It wasn’t like this in Nottingham. Yes, there were people, of course, and they were probably just as bad, but there were far fewer of them. They weren’t always banging into each other. He shivered in the cold and hostility. He had to get back inside. If nothing else, the public sector could still be good for shelter.

Back at his desk, James stared at the screen, but he still didn’t feel like doing any work. Now would probably be a good time to start writing a novel or maybe get into social media, but all the websites were blocked. Nor did he have the strength to reply to his sister. He thought about offering to make a round of tea for everyone, having a conversation with Rupinder about her holiday or perhaps going over to chat with Neil Tuffnel about traffic forecasts.

At that moment, Lionel emerged from his office. It was something he liked to do once every afternoon – a proprietary walk around the part of the fourth floor that was still under his command. Walking with great purpose and a full bladder, he came to the kitchenette and ate a flapjack. He looked up at a flickering light, made a remark about the weather and talked to Neil about the fortunes of the England football team.

Slowly, he made his way over to James. He gave an egalitarian smile and perched at the edge of the desk, his short soft legs dangling down.

‘Ah James. How’s things? Everything all right with everything?’

‘Yes,’ said James. ‘How was the members’ meeting?’

‘Yes, fine, thanks. No real need for me to be there. But you know how they like to see my face at these things.’

Lionel was at least half a foot shorter than him. It was a challenge that James had worked hard to overcome and now he was barely even aware that, as he spoke to his manager, he crouched forward, lowered his neck and looked upwards. Although he did sometimes wonder if it might be having a detrimental impact on his spine and his personality.

‘So all good here? Lots going on, I know. Have you managed to do that briefing for me yet?’

‘Yes, sorry – just starting it now.’

‘Hmm, I really wanted it earlier today. I think I did say that.’

‘I know – sorry. I didn’t think the meeting was until the end of the week.’

‘No, it isn’t. But I’d like to have it today. I’m seeing Duncan Banister tomorrow for a one-to-one, and I’d like to share some thoughts with him ahead of the meeting.’

As James well knew, the one essential quality that every town planner must have is industriousness. Analytical reasoning was a plus, imagination was neither here nor there, and you didn’t need to be particularly charming. But you absolutely couldn’t be lazy. There was too much information to absorb and too many reports to write and meetings to sit through. Lionel knew that too – partly because he
was
lazy.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll crack on with it. I’ll definitely have it for you by the end of the day.’

‘Great stuff, appreciate it.’

‘No problem.’

‘We should catch up for a drink sometime. Maybe in the Red Lion this Friday? I haven’t seen you there for a while.’

‘Yes, that sounds good.’

James had just experienced that rarest of things: a managerial moment, an interaction in which Lionel had asserted his authority, set a task with a specific deadline and attempted to incentivise him. He hopped off the desk, clearly energised by what he had achieved, and continued his walk around the office. James watched him go: the very essence of dynamic public administration, artificial sweetener, instant coffee and anti-depressants coursing through his veins. Lionel inspected a pot plant, walked over to Rupinder and initiated a conversation about asthma. James turned back to his computer. But he wasn’t going to start doing any work yet, certainly not now that Lionel had tried to make him. Instead, he opened up his personal email again. There was a reply from Felix.

Can’t understand why you didn’t try to fuck her. She was pretty. She liked you. You were drunk. You didn’t like her. Four reasons: one of those ought to have been enough.

Perhaps this was what he was really like – it wasn’t just Felix on email, it was Felix distilled. Stripped of the good manners and social generosity, the expensive drinks, nice smell and ironic thin lips, he wasn’t just a clever wanker who worked in advertising, but something more dangerous. Undaunted by obscenity-checking firewalls, economic downturns or the English class system, he lived without fear and was therefore capable of doing great harm.

There was also an email from Carl. It was, and James could have really done without this, good news. He hadn’t got promoted – his career didn’t have those kinds of progression routes, but he had just made a large amount of money. It was what he did: he did deals and made trades, fucked people over, went short on social-democratic economies and long on despotic governments with oil reserves. It seemed he had done something particularly lucrative this time – he had paid far too little for some bonds from a Russian bank, and then sold them for far too much to the Mexican government, and now he wanted to celebrate. In fact, he already was celebrating – he had sent the email from a champagne bar near Bond Street requesting that everyone drop everything and come to join him.

It hadn’t always been like this. Carl had been a most underwhelming teenager and an immediate confidence boost when James had met him, his next-door neighbour at the halls of residence, on their very first day at university. His fluttering hands and mumbling speech, which was now put down to high intelligence and drug use, had back then signified only nervousness and a provincial childhood. No one would have guessed that ten years later he would be bullying small nations and making idiotic spending decisions with a corporate credit card.

Adam, who had the room across the corridor, had been very different. His upbringing in Chiswick and year off in Vietnam had given him a head start and he had arrived at the London School of Economics not to make friends and smoke cannabis, he’d already done all of that, but to study and improve his prospects. Alice, of course, had been much the same, albeit she had been brought up in North London, had spent her year off in Tanzania, and had come to study so that she could improve Sub-Saharan Africa. And James? Had he really studied and worked so hard, harder than any of them, that he could be sitting here, on the fourth floor of Southwark Council?

The responses came quickly. Adam was up for it, and so it seemed was everyone else: that unfriendly woman called Olivia who inexplicably got invited to things these days; Adam’s fiancée Justine, who was bound to ask James why he didn’t have a girlfriend; Helen, who had studied geography with him but now worked in the pharmaceutical industry; and a little fucker called Stuart, who had done maths with Carl and was partly responsible for his damaged worldview. Yes, everyone was coming – everyone except for Alice:

Darlings – of course I would have loved to join you, drunk champagne at the expense of a bank and helped celebrate another of young Carl’s triumphs on behalf of international capital. But .
.
. I’ve got to be at a film gala and so alas will be in Shoreditch rather than Mayfair tonight and suspect will be drinking white wine (if I’m lucky) rather than Bollinger. Have fun and try not to behave yourselves xx

So Alice wasn’t coming. And in refusing the invitation, she was maintaining the moral high ground while also making it clear that she had something much better to do that evening. Well, in that case, James wouldn’t go either. He’d find something better to do himself. He’d go for a drink with Rachel. She was, after all, better company than any of them. He could make amends for the fuck up with Laura, and talk about planning and Lionel.

He waited thirty minutes and then spent another ten writing a suitably carefree and rushed email, with carefully re-engineered spelling mistakes and grammatical errors.