Clapham Lights (17 page)

‘Where do you work?’

‘On Lavender Hill. What do you do?’

‘I work for BP. On Balham High Road.’

‘I didn’t know BP had an office in Balham.’

‘Oh, no, it’s not an office. It’s the petrol station. I work in the Wild Bean Café.’

‘I thought I recognised you from somewhere.’ Craig tucks his t-shirt into his jeans and ties up his trainers.

‘I’ll text you,’ Amanda says, as Craig looks longingly at the open door.

‘Yeah, sure. Sorry, but I’ve really got to go.’

The entry system is buzzing. Craig runs out of his bedroom soaking wet with a towel around his waist and picks up the receiver. He gives
instructions
about how to get in and goes back to his room to get dressed.

There’s a commotion in the hallway and when Craig opens the front door he sees two bulky men struggling to carry a giant rectangular box from the stairwell.

‘Mark Hunter?’ the nearest one asks, a vein bulging from his
forehead
.

‘No, I’m his flatmate,’ Craig says, standing in the doorway. ‘What’s this?’

‘His new TV. Give us a hand would you?’

Craig supports the huge box in the middle as the delivery men
carefully
manoeuvre into the flat, taking tiny stuttering steps. The box is laid down in the middle of the living room, taking up most of the floor.

‘Sorry, but are you sure you’ve brought the right TV?’

The man with the bulging vein wipes his hands on his yellow t-shirt and takes a delivery note from his cargo trousers. ‘Mark Hunter, yeah?’

‘Yes.’

‘One hundred and six-inch Humomi C-Max. Next day delivery and installation.’ He passes the sheet of paper. ‘We don’t normally do
Sundays
mate, but this was an emergency apparently. You’ll need to sign that for us once we’re done.’

Craig sighs. ‘OK.’

‘Good,’ the delivery man says. ‘I’m fucking glad it weren’t the wrong one because there’s no way I’m lugging this thing back down the stairs.’

The other man, who is wearing black boots and has a beard, slices open the box with a pocket knife. ‘Where’s it going?’

‘I suppose where the TV is at the moment,’ Craig says looking over to the corner of the room where the current screen sits.

‘It won’t fit in that corner, mate. It’ll come too far out into the room. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll set it up and leave it against the double doors and you can move it wherever you like.’

‘Err, yeah, sure,’ Craig says. ‘What’s happening to the old TV?’

‘That’s nothing to do with us, mate. You’ll need to move it though so we have space to work in. We’ll be done in about half an hour. You’ve got Sky haven’t you?’

‘Sky Plus.’

‘We’ll sort it all out for you. Any chance of a cup of tea?’

Craig signs the note and tells the men the exit code for the gate. He closes the door and stomps back into the living room. The new television is stationed in front of the French doors, blocking out most of the natural light and casting a shadow across the room. He turns it off and sweeps
up the fragments of cardboard and polystyrene that litter the floor. He brushes the mess into the bin and throws the dustpan and brush into the cleaning cupboard.

The front door slams and Mark bounces into the living room
carrying
three Selfridges bags. ‘It’s here. Quality.’ He picks up the remote controls and turns on MTV Base.

‘Ah, I’m glad you’re back,’ Craig calls sarcastically from the kitchen.

‘Hello, mate. I didn’t know you were here.’

‘It’s a good job I was.’ He stands next to Mark who is flicking through the Sky Sports channels. ‘I’m not happy.’

‘Not happy? Why? What’s wrong?’

‘What do you think?’

‘You don’t like the TV I take it. What’s wrong with it?’

‘Mate, look at it. It’s far too big for the room. It looks stupid.’

‘No it doesn’t. It looks great. You’re just grumpy because you’ve got a hangover.’

‘No I’m not. How are we meant to get onto the terrace?’

‘We’ll move it.’

‘Where? It can’t go in the corners because of the sloping ceiling and it can’t stay where it is because it blocks the doors.’

‘We’ll put it there,’ Mark says, pointing to the side wall. ‘Perfect.’

‘It’ll stand out miles, and it blocks a window. And we’ll have to move the sofas right back.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Because you can’t sit six feet away from a one hundred-inch screen!’

‘One hundred and six-inch actually,’ Mark corrects him.

‘You’ll have a headache in two minutes!’ Craig throws his hands out and huffs. ‘I don’t want it in here.’

‘It’s an investment, for us,’ Mark says, turning to Nickelodeon.

‘What do you mean “for us”? This is yours.’

‘I thought we could go halves?’

‘How much was it?’

‘It was a manager’s special.’

‘How much?’

‘It’s a Humomi C-Max. Comes with a free blu-ray disc player.’

‘I don’t care. How much was it?’

‘Twelve hundred.’

‘What? And you expect me to pay for half of it? No way. If you can’t pay for it you’ll have to take it back.’

‘It can’t go back. I did a special deal. No returns. Don’t worry about the money. I’ll lend it to you.’

‘I don’t want you to lend it to me.’ Craig has his hands on his hips and looks at the floor in anger.

‘Can I have the cash then?’

‘
No, Mark
. You know I haven’t got any money as it is. I can’t afford it and I’m not paying.’

‘It was a bargain. A fifty-inch will cost fifteen hundred, at least. You think so small. What’s wrong with having a big television? There’s
nothing
wrong with wanting nice things, Craig.’

‘Even if you buy them and then expect someone else to foot the bill?’

‘Half the bill.’

‘Why didn’t you mention this last night?’

‘I did, you were drunk, you must have forgotten.’

‘That’s just a lie.’

‘It’s not.’

‘Did you ever think that it might be a special deal because nobody in their right mind would ever buy such a massive fucking TV unless they lived in a fucking castle? Look at it! It’s mental!’ Craig storms to his room and slams the door. Small fragments of plaster from the doorframe fall to the floor.

‘It’s not my fault if you don’t appreciate beauty, YOU NORFOLK FUCKTARD!’ Mark shouts. He switches back to MTV Base.
Nutters
by Dezzie Rapist is playing so he turns the volume up as loud as it goes and dances around the room firing imaginary gunshots with his fingers.

‘M
ate, why are you dressed in black?’ Mark asks as he fills the cafetiere. He keeps sneezing, causing his loosely-tied dressing gown to flap open, exposing his boxer shorts.

‘I’m helping out a friend.’ Craig is sitting at the table eating honey on toast and his hair is neatly styled.

‘What friend?’

‘It’s a friend of my parents’.’

‘What is he, an undertaker?’

‘No.’

‘Well what are you doing then?’

‘A friend of my parents’ runs a business providing staff for posh events and they needed some more people to work at something they’ve got on today and they asked if I wanted to help out and I said yes. Satisfied now?’ Craig wipes the crumbs from the table onto his plate and gets up.

‘Where’s that happening?’

‘Fulham.’

Mark grins. ‘What, the polo?’

‘Yes,’ Craig says, cautiously. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘Where do you think I’m going this afternoon?’ Mark’s grin has become a smirk. ‘You might be working in the MenDax marquee! You can be my personal waiter. I’ll ring a little bell and you can bring me glasses of Pimms, and strawberries and cream!’

Craig lets out a deep sigh. ‘I’m not working in your bit thankfully so you’ll have to get your own drinks.’

‘Where are you working then?’

‘I’m not telling you,’ Craig says as he loads his plate and glass into the dishwasher.

‘Why not? Don’t be a dick. What time do you finish? I’ll get you into the MenDax VIP area and we can have a few drinks.’

‘I start before the polo starts and finish after it ends.’

‘You must get some kind of break though?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well ring me then and I’ll come and find you.’

‘I will if I have time. Just as long as you don’t…’

‘Just as long as I don’t what?’

‘Just don’t get pissed and embarrass me and start asking for loads of free drinks or something.’

Mark tries to feign innocence but can’t. ‘As if I would do that.’ He ruffles Craig’s hair and tries to give him a hug.

‘Mark, piss off,’ Craig says, pushing him away, ‘I’m late anyway. I’ve got to be there for nine thirty. I’ll see you later.’

Craig is directed to the Grutlinger champagne bar, a small but pristine white open-fronted tent looking out over the polo field, sandwiched between the enormous Humphrey and Weston food court marquee and the Mankini cocktail garden. Each company’s area is marked out with a miniature white picket fence and has neat stacks of white metal tables and chairs and piles of branded table umbrellas waiting to be put out.

There is nobody at the Grutlinger bar, and apart from a man on a sit-down mower giving the polo field a last cut, Craig is alone. There are voices coming from inside the Humphrey and Weston marquee but he decides to sit in a Grutlinger deck chair which has been left propped up in front of the bar and enjoy the morning sun.

The polo field is bordered by advertising hoardings for De Beers, Mercedes, Veuve Clicquot, and Etihad Airways, and surrounded on three sides by tented bars and sponsors’ marquees. On the far side is the temporary grandstand, sixty rows high and running the entire length of the field. All of its green seats are empty and above it, through the trees, it is just possible to make out three blocks of council flats.

A van pulls up on the grass behind the Grutlinger tent. The driver walks through the flap at the back, stopping when he reaches the four tall glass fridges. Craig jumps up and the driver asks him where he wants the champagne. After some hesitation, Craig tells him to bring them through and offers to help.

He signs the delivery note for 120 cases of champagne and then stands there looking at them. There’s not much room to move so he loads
as many bottles as he can into the fridges and leaves the flattened boxes in a tidy pile.

A woman in an ivory-coloured suit enters the tent unannounced. She is at least ten years older than Craig and slim with shoulder-length blonde hair. Her wedding ring sparkles in the sunlight.

‘Hi, I’m Antonia,’ she says in a friendly and cheerful manner. ‘Sorry I’m late but the journey from Clapham is a nightmare. Well done for making a start.’

Craig introduces himself and she tells him that she’s the new head of Grutlinger’s outdoor promotions, but has only been in the job two weeks. She leaves him with three price lists to hang up by the bar and some laminated information about the company which he’s to leave on the picnic tables when he’s finished laying them out. She says she has a daughter of one of the company’s partners coming along to help, but that she won’t be here for about an hour so he’ll have to finish setting up on his own. She asks him not to serve anyone who’s had too many because having people pass out is bad for the brand, gives him a cash box full of change and tells him that she’ll be back at the end of the day to count the takings and pay him.

There are more people milling about now and almost all of the
marquees
and bars have people preparing them for when the gates open at midday. Once Craig has finished arranging the tables and chairs, and put up the mauve Grutlinger umbrellas, he slides a few more bottles into the fridges and counts the change in the box. There is £155.20. He locks the box and hides it under the bar. Glasses of Grutlinger are £8 each.

Some of the players are taking their horses for a gallop across the field and there are a team of people placing bins at regular intervals along the grassy thoroughfares.

Craig takes delivery of 2000 plastic champagne flutes which he piles around the back of the tent and then has a read of the company’s
promotional
material. Grutlinger is from the champagne region of Bulgaria rather than France.

A confident teenage girl in a black shirt, very short skirt and sunglasses saunters up to the bar at one minute to midday. She is tall and tanned with long brown hair.

‘I’m Pippa,’ she announces. ‘Who are you?’

‘Craig.’

She looks unimpressed and walks around the back. Craig starts to explain where everything is but she stops him and says, ‘I know how a champagne bar works, Craig. My dad owns the company.’

Their first customer is a man in a straw panama. Craig makes a
complete
mess of opening a bottle and half of it ends up over the bar. The customer laughs it off as a ‘lively one’ but Pippa looks at Craig with complete contempt.

‘Have you never opened a bottle of champagne before?’ she says as Craig mops up. ‘You turn the cork not the bottle. How
don’t
you know this?’ She demonstrates and opens one perfectly. ‘And make sure you tilt the glass more when you pour it.’

‘Sorry. I’ll get the hang of it.’

Pippa pours herself one but doesn’t offer Craig any. ‘Aren’t you a bit old to be working behind a bar?’

‘Why am I too old?’

She doesn’t offer a reason. ‘Why haven’t you got a proper job then?’

‘I’ve got a proper job as well.’

Pippa laughs. ‘You’ve got two jobs?’

‘Why’s that funny?’

‘It just is.’

‘I take it you don’t have a job.’

‘What, no way. It’s the holidays. I’m only working here because my dad is trying to punish me.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I slapped my step-mum and called her a bitch at her fiftieth
birthday
party.’

For the next five hours Pippa does nothing but hand out free drinks to her friends, leaving Craig to serve everyone else. There is a constant flow of customers, the vast majority of whom had been put off by the queue at the Veuve Clicquot tent. Judging by the initial facial expressions of the drinkers, Grutlinger is an acquired taste, but by the eighth or ninth glass, most people appear to be enjoying it.

The park is now packed and Craig is constantly distracted by the glamorous girls passing by, although the crowds make it impossible for him to see any of the polo. Mark sends him a text saying, ‘
Ths place is
unbelievable. Never seen so many things I’ve wanted to ride and I dnt mean the horses!! May be pissed. Where r u?
’

‘Excuse me. Sorry, excuse me.’ There is a girl holding a Louis
Vuitton
purse leaning over the bar. She has deep brown eyes, flawless skin and is wearing a low-cut floral chiffon dress.

Craig looks up from the cash box and stares. ‘Sorry. What would you like?’

‘Some champagne,’ she says pouting.

‘OK.’

‘I’m not sure if I’ll like it though. Can I try some and if I like it, I’ll buy some? I promise.’

Craig takes extra care pouring her a glass. She takes it, blows him a kiss and walks off.

‘Craig, could you be any more gullible?’ Pippa says. ‘She’s probably been getting free drinks at every bar here.’

There is a pool of water in the middle of the MenDax marquee which used to be an ice sculpture of a horse.

‘Three grand that cost,’ Justin says. ‘And it lasted less than an hour.’ He sips his mineral water. ‘Having said that a few years ago I paid three grand for something that lasted less than two minutes,’ he says with a hollow laugh.

Mark is drunk and finds his boss’s joke hilarious. He is very red-faced after several hours drinking free cocktails in the sun and is
sporting
an all-white outfit: white deck shoes, white shorts with white belt, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a white jumper tied around his waist. Justin is in pale chinos, a pink shirt and Ray Bans.

A waitress brings round another tray of oysters but Justin sends her away. The marquee is clammy and crowded, and very few of the people enjoying the free bar appear to have MenDax hospitality passes.

‘Hey, Marky, you know who that is there don’t you?’ Justin says subtly nodding towards a group to his left.

‘No. Which one are you talking about?’

‘Don’t you know how to whisper? The bloke in the red trousers, with the glasses and short hair.’

Mark looks across and catches the man’s eye. ‘No. Who is he?’

‘That’s Steffen Men.’

‘What, really? The main man? He doesn’t look quite as rich as I thought he would.’

‘What were you expecting, someone wearing a crown?’

‘No, but…’

‘You should go over and say hello.’

‘Really, are you sure?’

‘Why not? I had a word with him earlier and mentioned your name and he told me to tell you to say hello. You don’t have to stand there and chat to him for ages, just introduce yourself. He likes to put names to faces. Just don’t suck up to him too much and don’t say anything stupid.’

‘What should I say then? Can’t you come over there with me?’

‘Don’t be stupid. Why don’t you mention his daughter, he was going on to me about what a good horse rider she was. He’s always talking about his kids. Look, he’s on his own. Go over.’

‘OK. How do I look?’

‘Wipe your face so you don’t look quite as hot.’

Mark rubs his face with the sleeve of his jumper, takes a cosmopolitan from a passing waiter and heads straight for the MenDax founder.

‘Steffen,’ he says offering his hand.

‘Hello,’ Steffen replies, looking a bit confused as he shakes with Mark. ‘Sorry, have we met before?’ He has a strong German accent.

‘No, we haven’t. I’m Mark Hunter and I work in the London office.’

‘Oh. Pleasure to meet you Mark,’ he pauses as if he expects Mark to say something, but he doesn’t. ‘You have caught the sun today?’

‘Yes, I have… I should have put some sun cream on and, and the drinks…’ he blathers. ‘Do you like polo?’

‘Umm, I am not so keen, but it’s a good sponsorship opportunity. Are you a polo player?’

‘No, I’m more of a… I’ve never played polo.’

Steffen acknowledges someone over Mark’s shoulder. ‘Enjoy your afternoon, Mark,’ he says, starting to move away.

‘Your daughter is a really good rider, I’m told,’ Mark suddenly blurts.

In an instant, Steffen’s face turns from friendly to ferocious. ‘What did you say?’

Sweat forms on Mark’s forehead and he mumbles, ‘Your daughter’s a really good horse rider. I-’

‘You think you’re funny, you fat English clown?’ he snarls.

‘No,’ Mark says, a look of terror spreading across his burnt face. ‘I was just-’

‘You were just what?’

‘I was just saying…’

Steffen gets to within an inch of Mark and hisses, ‘Five years ago my daughter fell off her horse at a gymkhana and was paralysed from the head down. She breathes through a ventilator and requires twenty-four-hour care. You think this is funny do you?’

Mark makes a frightened whimpering noise and Steffen charges past him and out of the marquee.

The tournament is won by Team Buenos Aires who beat BAE Team Tripoli in the final with a goal late on in the fifth chukka. The captain of Team Buenos Aires, a shaggy-haired Argentinian called Hector Marcelo, appears surprised when he mounts the podium to receive the winners’ trophy and realises that apart from members of his own team, nobody is remotely interested.

The MC, a man in his fifties in a gold-buttoned double-breasted jacket who has provided an incessant, droning commentary throughout the day, manages to get everyone’s attention by announcing that it’s time to draw the raffle. Mark, who has bought five tickets at £10 each, reaches into his pocket for his strip. He watches on from the opposite side of the field to the MenDax area slurping lemonade as the prizes are distributed.

‘Now, we’re down to the final two prizes,’ the MC bleats. ‘Second prize is a luxury hamper from Humphrey and Weston which has been donated by MenDax Wealth Management, one of our principal sponsors. If I could invite,’ he checks his sheet, ‘Steffen Men, the founder and chairman of MenDax to draw the ticket and present the prize.’

Steffen Men climbs the three steps up to the podium, shakes the MC’s hand and draws a ticket from a drum. The MC sticks the microphone under his nose and Steffen declares that the winner is ‘Blue ticket… number one zero three nine.’

The ticket belongs to Mark. ‘Shit,’ he murmurs.

‘Blue ticket, one zero three nine. One thousand and thirty-nine if you will,’ the MC repeats. ‘Any takers? It’s a fantastic prize; I’m just looking inside it now if you can’t see me. We’ve got several bottles of vintage
champagne, port, cognac, some caviar, foie gras… and some
delicious
cheese. I don’t know exactly how much it would cost to buy in the shops, but suffice to say, a lot,’ he says, chuckling. ‘Last call or we’ll have to re-draw. Blue ticket number one zero three nine.’