Clapham Lights (2 page)

‘Please, don’t go,’ Craig says.

They slam the door behind them and the sash windows rattle. Craig
watches them stomp off arguing in the sunshine and then slumps down in an armchair.

‘Tell me you made a sale,’ Christian says, emerging from his office
holding
a calculator.

Craig swivels round and Christian pulls up a chair next to him. The office is closed to the public and all the other staff have gone home.

‘Um, no, not quite, but they liked it,’ Craig says, giving a small thumbs-up.

‘What do you mean “no”? Craig, what’s wrong with you?’ Christian slams his calculator on the desk.

‘I’m really sorry but they-’

‘I’m not interested in excuses. What was the property like?’

‘The house is great. Three storeys, four bedrooms, study, big kitchen and dining room, tiled hallway.’

‘Big Victorian thing?’

‘I think so.’

‘How much did you say it was worth?’

‘It was in good condition so I took your advice and said it was on at seven hundred.’

Christian crosses his left leg over his right, showing off his tasselled loafers and
Spider-Man
socks.

‘But,’ Craig continues, ‘I told them the owner would take six
hundred
and seventy-five.’

‘What did they say?’

‘They thought it was too much.’

‘Did you explain to them about the market?’

‘I tried to but they still said it was too much so I said six hundred and twenty-five.’

‘OK, that’s better than nothing I suppose. You didn’t drive along Streatham High Road did you?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Well at least you did one thing right. I think it was closed anyway; a bloke was shot dead at a bus stop there this morning. You didn’t mention Streatham or Brixton did you?’

‘Err, no. I told them south Balham.’

‘Good. Phone that couple tomorrow and tell them you’ve spoken
to the owner and they’ve dropped the price again and want a quick sale, yeah.’

‘But tomorrow’s Sunday.’

‘Phone them and keep phoning until you get them to agree to buy the place. Threaten them if you need to.’

‘I’m not going to threaten a pregnant woman.’

‘Well find out where they live and go round there.’

‘They live in Primrose Hill.’

‘It’s rough around there. No wonder they’re moving.’ Christian runs his hands through his gleaming hair. ‘It’s about time you put a big sale on the board,’ he says, craning his neck to check the sales whiteboard
hidden
from public view in his office. Craig’s column is empty. ‘Think of all the lovely commission you’ll make from a six hundred grand plus sale, Craig. You’ll be rolling in cash.’

‘Yeah, sixty quid,’ he says flatly.

‘And the Next vouchers. Don’t tell anyone else about them by the way.’

Craig swivels back to his computer and brings an email up onto the screen. ‘Christian, as you’re here, could you have a quick look at this?’ It is the length of an essay, full of exclamation marks, underlining and capital letters.

Christian peers at the screen and then sits back. ‘I’m not reading all that, I haven’t got time. Give me a summary.’

‘I moved this man and his girlfriend into the gated flats near Brixton prison and they paid the deposit and the first month’s rent but on the second night the girl was mugged and now they want to move out and want their deposit back.’

‘What? Tell them to forget it. Not our problem. What does it say in the contract?’

‘I gave them the option to leave after a month if they didn’t like it.’

‘What the hell did you do that for?’

‘The place had been empty for over a year and I was trying anything to get them to move in.’

‘Find that contract and tear it up. Tell them it’s invalid because it isn’t counter-signed by a senior manager and tell them that if they leave they’re liable for six months’ rent, a contract termination fee of four hundred quid, a two hundred quid viewing fee for every new person we
show round the place… and a one hundred pound admin fee which will cover the cost of you having to read that email… and tell them they’re not under any circumstances getting their deposit back.’

‘OK, but he’s said at the bottom that he’s already been in touch with a solicitor and he’s willing to take us to court.’

‘He’s probably lying. Don’t under any circumstances give them
anything
back. Cheeky bastards.’

Craig starts to type out a reply.

‘Craig, leave it, it’s seven o’clock, do it Monday. Let’s go for a beer. Oh, and one other thing,’ Christian says as he walks away. ‘Can you try and smile a bit more when you’re with the customers? Look like you’re enjoying yourself.’

M
ark Hunter switches off his alarm and yawns. It’s twenty-five past five. He moves his head away from the wall, and his pillow – a thick wad of quilted toilet paper – drops to the floor. A hand dryer whirrs and the door to the bathroom thuds shut.

Mark picks up his hardback notepad, unlocks his cubicle and checks he’s alone. A leather document wallet and a folded
Financial Times
have been left by the sinks.

Mark is six feet tall and has a wide, plump face. The trousers of his pinstripe suit cling to his thighs and his jacket is stretched tight across his shoulders. He drinks from a tap, straightens his tie in the mirror and pats his double chin. There’s a red mark on his temple from where he’s been sleeping which he unsuccessfully tries to cover by ruffling his receding hair.

He takes the lift down to the in-house coffee shop, downs a double espresso, and then travels back to the twelfth floor. He pushes through the glass doors and wanders to his seat with his notepad tucked under one arm and his eyes fixed on his BlackBerry.

MenDax Wealth Management’s Scandinavian markets department consists of just two banks of desks and Justin Fortesque’s office. Mark sits in the far corner, next to Amy Robertson. Behind them is a wall of locked cabinets and discarded filing boxes. Beyond that, the vast space is empty. The floor-to-ceiling windows provide a panoramic view of the City of London and outside it’s cloudy and spitting with rain. A new office block is under construction in the shadow of the Gherkin, opposite St Margaret’s Church.

Justin, the head of department, and Julia Hayter, the senior account manager, are at a meeting. Ian Butler, the other member of the team, is on the telephone and chewing a biro whilst gazing down at Liverpool Street station. He has a goatee beard and is wearing a sleeveless jumper over his shirt and tie.

Mark rocks back in his chair to spy on Amy’s computer screen. She is comparing the prices of flights to Dubai.

‘Do you need some work to do?’ he asks.

Amy ignores the question. She is the same age as Mark - twenty-six - and from Edinburgh. She has full cheeks and a freckly nose, her shoulder-length brown hair is pushed behind her ears and she isn’t
wearing
make-up.

‘Where have you been?’ she asks.

‘I had a conference call downstairs.’

‘For four hours?’

‘Yeah. It was boring. Justin’s not been back has he?’

‘No.’

Mark types some figures into a sprawling Excel spreadsheet, saves it, and deletes his only new email - a reminder that his subscription to
Men’s Wealth
magazine is about to expire.

‘I might go home,’ he says, yawning.

‘You should. You’ve had a busy day.’

Mark nods, seemingly oblivious to Amy’s sarcasm. His cursor is lingering over the ‘Turn Off’ symbol when Justin bursts in followed by Julia, who towers over him. She has a gaunt, expressionless face and
sunglasses
perched on her head.

Justin places his briefcase on his desk and stands outside his office. His scalp is visible through his blond hair and he is wearing black brogues with built-up heels and a long red tie which curls over his stomach.

‘Computers off,’ he orders. ‘We’re celebrating. We’ve got a titanic investor coming on board, so it’s drinky time, on me. No excuses.’

‘Quality,’ Mark says. He renames his spreadsheet
Growth and Prosperity Market Confidence Forecast: Winter ’08 - Autumn ’10
and re-saves it.

Ian starts to speak but Justin cuts him off:

‘I’m not interested, Ian. See you all at The Receiver in fifteen. I’ve got a couple of calls to make.’ He shuts his door and pulls down the blinds.

Mark calls his driving instructor to cancel his lesson and shuts down his computer.

‘Come on Amy, let’s go.’

The Receiver is a bar-restaurant-nightclub split over three floors in a former bank on Chamberlain Street. The rain has stopped and people are outside smoking in a cordoned off area on the pavement. Posters advertising pitchers of Pimms for £10 and 30% off champagne hang in the windows. Mark nods at one of the doormen and strolls in.

The spacious, neo-classical interior is full of suit-wearing office workers all drinking pints or white wine. There are only two staff behind the bar and a stocky man in a pink shirt thumps his wallet down when the woman next to him is served first.

Julia leads Mark, Amy and Ian downstairs. The lower ground level is dimly lit with a low ceiling and smells suffocatingly of air freshener. The floor is sticky and there’s no music but a lot of noise filters down from upstairs.

Most of the booths around the perimeter of the room are occupied but Julia spots a spare table behind a pillar near the bar. There’s a printed notice in the vacant area:
RESERVED FOR HARTMAN CLIFFORD LAMB FROM 6 PM
but she tears it to pieces and throws the bits on the floor. She takes a seat on one of the six faux leather chairs, and, after a brief look at the drinks menu, clicks her fingers at a waitress and orders four bottles of Pinot Grigio, six Asahis and two sharing platters. She starts a tab on her MenDax American Express card and tells the others that she’s going upstairs for a cigarette.

The drinks arrive in four ice buckets. Mark smiles at the waitress, who ignores him, and pulls out two beers, dripping water all over the table.

‘Who was your conference call with, Mark?’ Amy asks. She sips her wine and grimaces.

‘Just a contact from one of my other clients. I think it’s a non-starter though. I was explaining the investment options to this bloke, but he didn’t understand. The more simple I made it, the less he seemed to get it.’

‘Perhaps it was you he didn’t understand,’ Amy says.

Mark doesn’t react. Ian sniggers and picks at the label on his beer bottle:

‘Any idea who Justin’s big deal is with?’

Mark shrugs.

‘I heard him say something to Julia about having to go to Beijing,’
Amy says, ‘but I don’t know any more than you two.’

At the foot of the stairs, two tall men are blocking Justin’s path but he’s so far below their eyeline they don’t notice him until he squeezes between them and scurries across to the group.

‘Hey, the main man!’ Mark says.

‘No need to panic, I’m here.’ Justin climbs up onto a chair and takes a beer. ‘Why are you down here? It’s much better upstairs.’

‘It was Julia’s choice,’ Amy says.

‘Oh, fine.’ Justin looks around the open floor. ‘Anyway, the news: Julia and I have pulled off another massive coup. I can’t say too much, but it’s going to be huge for us.’

Mark edges forward.

‘Who with?’ Amy asks, underwhelmed.

‘SomCop.’

‘Who?’

‘SomCop,’ Justin repeats. ‘The Somali Maritime Cooperative. They’re in shipping.’

They all look blank.

‘Shipping what exactly?’ Ian asks.

‘In their culture it’s disrespectful to ask too many questions but I’ve got all the info at the office. I think one of them mentioned sugar, or it might have been textiles-’

‘Or piracy,’ Amy suggests.

‘Possibly. That kind of industry anyway. All this is off the record of course until I make the announcement next week, so keep it to yourselves.’ Justin ogles the waitress as she slides two platters onto the table and rushes off. ‘I haven’t seen her before.’

‘She’s new,’ Mark says, popping three cocktail sausages into his mouth. ‘I think she’s foreign.’ He then gobbles a whole salmon skewer, pulls the stick out from between his teeth, swigs his beer and quietly burps. ‘Are we having a big one, Justo?’

‘Of course we are. Let’s get ON IT! No one’s going home before nine.’

By eleven thirty, the lower ground bar is packed. There’s a DJ in the corner and a bouncer stands at the stairs leading to the basement
nightclub
. It’s hot and the air is thick with perfume. Near the MenDax table,
three podgy City boys are all bellowing over the music trying to impress a woman in a low-cut top.

Mark and Ian are onto their ninth Asahis and Amy is trying to avoid the gaze of a drunk man on the next table. Julia is sitting with two men from MenDax’s tax advisory department.

Ian is trying to tell Amy about the house he’s buying with his
girlfriend
as Mark hums along to
Billie Jean
whilst watching a blonde girl at the bar. She catches Mark looking at her and turns her back.

‘Have I told you about my new place?’ Mark asks, interrupting.

‘Only about a hundred times,’ Amy says.

‘The old school, right?’ Ian says.

‘It’s a converted orphanage. It’s massive.’

‘How much are you paying?’

‘Just over two grand a month. So not that much for Clapham.’

‘That’s nearly three times my mortgage.’ Ian pushes his beer to one side and coughs.

‘We got a good deal through my flatmate’s property company. It’s a lot because of the location, and because it’s a penthouse… and it’s
massive
. I’m having a party soon. You should come over.’

Mark reaches for the wine bottles but they’re all empty. A waitress brings over two more warm Pinot Grigios. He tells her to put them on the tab and fills his glass to the brim.

A man carrying five bottles of Corona stumbles straight into the back of a young woman, knocking beer all over her top. She swears at him but he laughs in her face.

Ian starts tapping on his iPhone. ‘Kelly wants to know what time I’ll be home.’

‘Tell her you don’t know,’ Mark says. ‘Doesn’t she realise it’s 
important
for your career to be here?’

‘Important how?’

‘Well this is where you can network and do deals, isn’t it.’

‘You think people come here to
network
?’ Amy says, looking across to a table where a man is asleep.

‘You should always be on the lookout for new business
opportunities
,’ Mark says.

Amy rolls her eyes.

Justin is at the bar on tiptoes rubbing himself against a spotty girl
wearing a short skirt. He tries to kiss her but she dodges him, fills her glass with his champagne and disappears down to the basement. He drinks from the bottle and staggers over to the group with his shirt half hanging out.

‘Hey gang,’ he says, putting an arm around Amy. ‘We need more drinks. MORE DRINKS!’ he shouts as
Yeah
by Usher reverberates around the room.

‘Who’s your new friend?’ Amy asks, removing Justin’s hand from her shoulder.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. His head rolls from side to side. ‘I’ll get drinks. I’ll get some shots. Shots. Wait here.’

Amy tells Ian and Mark that she’s going. Mark tries to convince her to stay but she takes her bag and coat and slips out.

Justin re-emerges from the crowd with a busty girl in a tight white vest and tiny skirt. She’s wearing a leather belt fitted with shot glasses and has holsters on each hip containing bottles of spirits. Justin pushes her towards the table and sits down opposite Mark and Ian, almost
falling
off his chair.

‘Shots, shots, shots,’ he says, grinning inanely.

The girl asks what they want. Justin wants to know how old she is and where she lives. She says that’s none of his business, so he orders three sambucas and three tequilas. Ian looks apprehensive.

‘Come on gay boys, down the hatch, one after the other,’ Justin says, flashing his tab number. ‘Cheers!’

He knocks back his drinks and collapses in his seat. Ian has his eyes screwed shut. Mark makes sure nobody is looking and pours his tequila on the floor. Suddenly, Justin jumps up and runs towards the toilets.

Half an hour later, Justin still hasn’t reappeared. Mark nudges Ian:

‘Come on, let’s go downstairs,’ he shouts over
American Boy.

‘No.’ Ian is struggling to speak.

‘I’ve seen some fit girls going down there.’

‘I’ve got a girlfriend.’

‘And? She’s not here, is she? Let’s go downstairs and see if we can whack it on some girls.’

‘What?’

‘Whack it on some girls. It means
pull
, Ian,’ Mark says, making jerky
head movements to the music.

‘I can’t. I’ll miss the last train.’ Ian is barely audible.

‘Ian, you might be a bit of a social retard, but anyone can whack it on girls. It’s all about tactics. Come on. I need a wingman.’ Mark shoulder barges him.

‘No. I can’t move, I’ll be sick. You go.’ He points a limp arm towards the stairs.

‘No, I’m not going on my own. It won’t work.’

‘Stay here then.’

Mark scowls and drinks clumsily from his bottle. ‘I might get the shot girl over and give her some banter.’

‘Go on then,’ Ian says, cupping his hands over his mouth.

‘Have you got a pen? I’ve got a foolproof whacking tactic.’

Ian produces a biro and Mark plucks a business card from his wallet.

‘What are you going to do?’ Ian asks. ‘Flick ink in her eyes so she can’t see your face?’

‘No. I’m going to give her a few lines and then, as she’s going, I’ll slip her the card.’

‘Why do you need a pen then?’

‘That’s the clever bit. On the back of the card I’ll write a message. The dirtier the better.’

Ian looks sceptical and hiccups.

‘I give her the card face up so she can’t see it and then wait,’ Mark  says.

‘Wait for what?’

‘Wait for her to flip it over, obviously. It might take a minute but it always works. She’ll either give me the nod at the end of the night or text me. I guarantee you.’

Mark stands up and scans the dark mass of bodies. The shot girl is talking to a barman. He sits back down, scribbles on the card and shows it to Ian, who struggles to focus.

‘Why, why don’t you write the f-word instead of suck?’

Mark shakes his head. ‘You never use the f-word with a woman, Ian. I want her to think I’m a gentleman.’ He wipes his oily nose with the sleeve of his shirt and flicks at his hair with his fingers. ‘Watch this,’ he says, jumping up from his seat and waving. The shot girl saunters over.

She asks if they’re sure they need another drink. Mark says he’s only
just started and orders two double sambucas. She puts two glasses on the table and pours.