‘HERE!’ Mark shouts, shoving his way through the throng,
knocking
drinks out of several hands.
‘We have a winner,’ the MC declares in triumph.
Mark reaches the foot of the podium, glances up at Steffen Men and tentatively joins him. Steffen congratulates him with an aggressive
handshake
and whispers, ‘Enjoy it while you can.’ Mark is sweating profusely.
‘How do you feel?’ the MC asks him as he exchanges the winning ticket for the suitcase-sized wicker hamper.
‘Sorry,’ Mark says into the microphone. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats, looking at Steffen Men.
‘Um, right, OK, well done. I’m not sure how you can be sorry to win such a terrific prize, but there you go, it takes all sorts I suppose. Enjoy it,’ the MC says, as Mark struggles down the steps with his winnings.
The Grutlinger tent has finished serving and Antonia is counting up the takings as Craig and Pippa - doing her first work of the day - wipe over the tables and chairs. Almost all the spectators have left the park.
Antonia taps her pen on the bar and locks the four piles of banknotes in the cash box. ‘Can I talk to the two of you please?’ she calls out.
Craig collects up four more discarded glasses on the way and slots them into the box on the floor.
‘I’ve counted up the takings and I’ve counted how many bottles of champagne we have left,’ Antonia says. ‘Would one of you two like to explain to me what’s going on?’
‘What do you mean?’ Craig asks.
Pippa says nothing.
‘We’re around eight hundred pounds short.’
‘We can’t be,’ Craig says.
‘We are. I’ve checked and double checked… and I’ve allowed for a lot of spillage and only five glasses to a bottle. So either one or both of you has been giving away free drinks, or you’ve been helping yourself to the takings. Which is it?’
‘I’ve done exactly what you asked me to do,’ Craig says. His hands
are twitching and he’s talking quicker than usual. ‘I’ve charged eight pounds for every single glass and put the money in the box.’
‘I caught Craig giving away free drink,’ Pippa says.
Antonia stares at him. ‘Is this true?’
Craig shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says emphatically. ‘Yes, but it was one drink and I was tricked by a girl who said she wanted a taste. It only
happened
once. One drink doesn’t explain eight hundred pounds.’
‘I only caught you once,’ Pippa says. ‘You could have been doing that all afternoon. I was too busy collecting the glasses and loading the fridges. My shoulder really hurts,’ she says giving it a rub and grimacing.
‘That’s absolute rubbish,’ Craig says, irate. He turns to Pippa. ‘You did absolutely nothing all day apart from sit out here with your friends. In fact I don’t remember one of your mates ever paying for a drink, you were taking bottles from the fridges straight to their table.’
Pippa swings towards him with both hands on hips. ‘Why would I do that? They paid for all their drinks. I never let anyone have a free drink. My dad owns the company. You were giving free drinks to your friends.’
‘None of
my
friends were here!’
‘Yes they were, I saw them!’
As she says this, a freshly-drunk Mark bursts through the back of the tent carrying four bottles of Grutlinger.
‘Hey Craigos, I’ve finally found you mate. I’ve helped myself to few bottles like you said I could,’ he says, winking. ‘What’s going on here?’
Antonia glares at Mark and then back at Craig who has his hands over his face in despair. ‘I think you should go. And no, before you ask, you’re not getting paid.’
Craig refuses to sit next to Mark on the tube, but Mark follows him down the half-empty carriage lugging his hamper until there’s nowhere else to go.
‘Sorry mate,’ Mark says.
‘I’m not talking to you.’ Craig is slumped with his head against the window.
‘What can I do to make it up to you?’
Craig doesn’t answer.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘I spent all day working to earn some extra cash and, if you include
the tube fare, it’s ended up
costing
me money.’
‘Mate, you know I’ll always help you out if you need anything. Here,’ Mark says, handing him a bottle of vintage port and a 500g potted
Stilton
.
‘And what am I meant to do with these?’
‘You can sell them on the black market. They’re worth a lot more money than you would have earned today.’
Craig glowers at Mark scoffing chocolate-dipped orange slices. ‘Thanks mate,’ he says with angry sarcasm, ‘a bottle of port and some cheese, that’s all my problems solved. Why didn’t I think of this before? I should become a black market luxury goods salesman. Mark, do you pride yourself on being
completely fucking useless
?’
M
ark is dining with Helen Nightingale, the
London Late
’s dating columnist, in the cosy members’ room at Stove, the exclusive Soho restaurant. There are just six round tables, each with a dedicated waiter. The view of Greek Street is obscured by multi-coloured stained glass windows and the wood-panelled walls are covered in bright abstract paintings. The diners avoid eye contact with everyone except their
companions
and waiting staff. On the table next to Mark and Helen, a couple are discussing how long it will be before Tristan’s divorce settlement is finalised.
‘I come here at least once a week,’ Mark says, tucking into his
scallops
. ‘I like the privacy. You don’t get people hassling you.’
‘Does that happen a lot?’ Helen asks. She is slim with large ears, straight blonde hair and glasses. Her pitted skin is covered in concealer and she’s dressed in a black blazer and white dress with a black chevron across the chest.
‘Sometimes,’ Mark says. ‘You get quite a few celebrities in here. I saw Gandalf from
Lord of the Rings
having dinner with the bald guy from
Star Trek
last week.’ He points over his shoulder with his knife at a table where four young men with diamond earrings are eating. ‘They’re footballers,’ he says quietly.
‘I don’t recognise them,’ Helen says. ‘Who do they play for?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mark glugs his wine. ‘You must get bored of seeing celebs don’t you?’
‘It depends who it is. When I’ve been at press conferences with Brad Pitt or Madonna it’s been exciting, but usually I’m writing about
Big Brother
or
Celebrity Ambulance Driving,
or who’s fallen over outside Mankini.’
‘Do you go to Mankini?’
‘Yeah, but I don’t like it. Full of posh kids showing off.’
‘No, I don’t like it either. My flatmate likes it though.’
‘Who, Craig? Are you still living with him?’
‘Yeah, he rents from me. But he’s not the one who goes to Mankini though. He can’t afford it. That’s my other flatmate, Justin.’
Helen adjusts her glasses. ‘I used to quite fancy Craig. We all thought he had something about him.’
‘He’s got a girlfriend now.’
Mark orders another bottle of Australian Chardonnay. ‘Do you get recognised sometimes from the column?’
‘No, never. The picture of me is hideous. I get a lot of emails from people saying I’m a slag, but a lot of blokes ask me out on dates as well,’ she says.
‘Who calls you a slag?’
‘Jealous women, mainly. They don’t seem to realise that most of it is completely made up.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes! Mark, I haven’t spent the last year sleeping with a different bloke every week.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s not always complete fiction though. We might take a story one of us has heard from a friend or something like that, change the names and add in a few spicy details to make it more interesting. I don’t think the readers would like it too much if I wrote about my nights in watching DVDs. You can’t believe anything you read in the newspapers.’
‘But you are single?’
‘Yes. Of course. If I had a boyfriend I’d have to give the column up.’ She runs her fingers down the stem of her wine glass. ‘How about you?’
Mark tops up Helen’s drink and shrugs. ‘I’m playing the field. I was seeing a girl from work for a while, but we broke up.’
‘What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Oh, it’s complicated. We were working in the same department and then I got promoted over her. She was angry I think. She’s left the
company
now.’
Helen eats her last watermelon ball and places her cutlery on the rim of the plate. ‘It’s a shame when that happens. It’s hard to maintain a relationship with someone at work, especially in London. What’s the name of the company you work for?’
‘MenDax. Europe’s biggest wealth managers.’
‘I can’t say I’ve heard of them. What do you do there?’
‘I’m the investment portfolio chief executive.’
‘Rich City boy then?’
Mark smiles. ‘Yeah, pretty much. I run a team looking after
investor
portfolios. It’s high-pressure and long hours but the money’s good.’
‘Did you go there straight from uni?’
‘Yeah. I was headhunted.’
‘At university? How?’
‘One of the tutors must have recommended me.’
A waiter collects their plates.
‘How did you start at
London Late
?’ Mark asks as he glances at his BlackBerry.
‘I went there on work experience and they took me on after that. I’d worked at the
Canvey Island Echo
in the holidays at uni and the editor there wrote a really persuasive letter on my behalf. And I had all the work I’d done on the university newspaper as well, which was really important.’
‘What, all those stories about student loans and stuff?’
‘Yes, I know it wasn’t very glamorous, but it shows you can write and you’re committed, which is the important thing.’
‘Not as cool as what you’re doing now though.’
‘It’s not that different in some ways. It’s all writing.’
‘Do you get loads of free stuff and go to VIP parties?’
‘Not as much as you’d think. We get a few bits sent to us from PR companies but nothing that great. We get invited to product launches and events, but all these companies want their products, or bar, or whatever it is, mentioned in the newspaper. The novelty soon wears off. It’s a job like any other in many ways.’
The waiter arrives back at the table with a shoulder of lamb for Mark and Helen’s salmon fillet.
‘This looks lovely,’ Helen says.
Mark fills both of their glasses. ‘Don’t forget to drink your wine.’
‘I won’t.’ She raises her glass to her lips but doesn’t drink. ‘I’m
looking
for something new at the moment. Working at the
Late
is fun, but I want more of a challenge.’
Mark shovels a bowl of carrots and green beans onto his plate. ‘Are you going to quit journalism? You don’t get paid very much do you?’
‘No, I’m not quitting journalism, obviously. I’ve got a friend
working
at
The Guardian
and I’m trying to get in there. Ideally I’d like to write features for one of the broadsheets, but it’s hard to get in.’
‘Why’s it hard?’
‘Because it’s very competitive. There are so many journalists.’
‘But why do so many people want to do it?’
‘If you work for one of the big broadsheets you get to meet
interesting
people and go to interesting places. Not everyone can wear a suit and sit in front of a computer screen staring at numbers for ten hours a day.’
‘No, you’re right. Most people couldn’t.’
Helen picks at a small piece of salmon with her fork. ‘Where’s Craig working?’
Mark snorts. ‘Cinq Estates. He has to drive one of those stupid cars. Do you know the ones I mean?’
‘Yes. Oh dear. Poor Craig. I always thought he’d do really well.’
‘The car is an embarrassment. I refuse to go in it. I offered to buy him a new one so we wouldn’t have that thing parked outside of the flat, but he has to drive it.’
Mark’s forehead is shiny and he loosens his collar.
‘Do you remember Clara who lived with me in the third year? The small one,’ Helen asks.
‘Did she have a bit of a funny lip?’
‘No, that was Ruth. Clara played Hockey.’
Mark looks blank. ‘Umm, no, I don’t.’
‘Well, she rented a flat through Cinq Estates in Stockwell and when she moved out they refused to give her deposit back and tried to charge her a thousand pounds for not giving them more notice.’
‘What did she do?’
‘She took them to a small claims court. She eventually got the money back but she warned me
never
to rent through them.’
‘It was probably Craig. He’s a bit of a money-grabber nowadays.’ Mark drains the rest of his wine. ‘Come on, drink more,’ he urges.
She has a large sip and fans her face with her hand. The two spots on her cheek have reddened.
‘A drink will cool you down.’
‘Are you trying to get me drunk, Mark?’
‘No, it’s just that they’ve put a couple of new wines on the menu and
I want to try them.’ Mark waves his arm at a waiter. He orders a bottle of Riesling and then stabs at his lamb.
‘I was surprised you emailed me,’ Helen says, digging into her crème brulee.
‘Why?’ Mark forces a huge spoonful of chocolate pudding into his mouth.
‘Well, we never really spoke to each other in the last year at uni.’
He makes Helen wait for a reply as he eats. ‘I just thought it’d be good to get back in contact, have a nice meal. A lot has changed since uni. We’re grown up now, successful.’
‘Would you have emailed me if I didn’t have a newspaper column?’
‘Yes,’ Mark says unconvincingly. ‘I think about you a lot. I always thought there could have been more between us, but it never really
happened
for one reason or another, did it?’
‘Perhaps because the one night you came back to mine you were ill in my bed and left me to clear it up?’
‘That didn’t help, no.’ Mark smiles and licks chocolate sauce off his lips. ‘I’d read your column a few times and I thought it’d be good to have a meal. To network. It must be better than having some loser taking you to a
Lord of the Rings
convention.’
‘Nobody really took me on a date to a
Lord of the Rings
convention, Mark. That was made up.’
‘Well, anyway. I thought it’d be good to see you again, to catch up. Do you want some more wine?’
*
Mark has the doors to the terrace open and there’s a warm breeze. He’s on the sofa in tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt in the shadow of the new television playing
Terror Cell: Bradford
on the Xbox. He picks dry skin from behind his ear and wipes his fingers on the armrest.
The front door opens and Craig walks in holding a copy of
London Late
. ‘I’m glad we’re getting value for money from the TV,’ he says, throwing the free newspaper on the sofa. ‘No need to buy curtains to keep the sun out.’
‘There’s hardly any sun.’
‘How was work?’ Craig asks, as he searches in the fridge.
‘I came home at three.’
Craig undoes his tie and kicks off his shoes. According to his socks it is Sunday and Thursday. ‘Why did you come home at three?’
‘I was meant to be at a meeting but it got cancelled.’
‘Don’t they expect you to go back to the office?’
‘I don’t have to tell someone where I am every minute of the day. We’re trusted to get on with our work.’
‘But you don’t do any work.’
‘They don’t know that.’ Mark puts his hand up his t-shirt and scratches his stomach. ‘How come you’re back so early anyway?’
‘I’m still meant to be at work, but I haven’t got any viewings so I’m not waiting around in the office.’
‘Sell any houses today?’
‘No. I thought I had a buyer for a four-bedroom place near Wandsworth Common but they pulled out.’
‘Why?’
‘There was a programme about us on TV last night apparently, exposing a few of the agents’ tricks. They saw it and didn’t want to deal with us any more. It’s all anyone’s been talking about.’
‘Didn’t you see it?’
‘No. It was on at the same time as
The Bourne Identity
.’
‘Best of seven?’ Mark suggests, as his Barcelona side slump to a third successive defeat to Norwich City on
Pro Evolution Soccer
.
‘No, mate. I’m hungry. Perhaps later. I might make some dinner.’
‘What are you having?’
‘Tuna sandwich, I think. I’m too tired to cook.’
Mark flicks down through the television channels until he gets to BBC One. He watches footage from a police helicopter of a man in a stolen car crashing into a chip shop, and switches to
Channel 4 News.
The European Central Bank has pumped a further €108.7 billion into the banking market to try to improve liquidity. He turns over to
Dog the Bounty Hunter
on Bravo.
The flat is really hot. Craig pours himself a glass of water from the cooler in the fridge, downs it, and pours himself another to take into the living room with his sandwich. He checks the radiators - which are all on. He tuts, looks at Mark, and goes to the boiler to turn the heating off.
Mark is stretched out with his feet up watching Dog arrest ‘a small-time drug dealing punk’ who has skipped bail.
Craig puts his plate down and opens the
London Late.
He skim reads an article about a fourteen-year-old who has been given an ASBO for stabbing a shopkeeper to death, and carries on eating. He flips through pages of celebrity photographs and a story about profligacy at City Hall but stops at the
Getting Laid in London
column. Next to the text is a full-length picture of Helen Nightingale wearing a long red dress and pouting. Her complexion has been airbrushed and she isn’t wearing glasses.
‘What are you laughing at?’ Mark asks.
‘This bloke’s taking a pasting,’ Craig replies, reading on.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s the column by that Helen girl we were at uni with. The one about her sleeping around.’ Craig has another bite of sandwich. ‘Didn’t you sleep with her in the second year?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Yeah, right you can’t remember. I’m sure you did.’
‘I think I might have done one night after Liquid.’
‘Of course you slept with so many girls it must have been hard to keep track. How many was it, three?’
‘Three? It was twelve. At least.’
‘That’s a lie. One of them might have been twelve, but there weren’t twelve in total.’
‘Most of them were in the first year before we really knew each other.’
Craig turns back to the newspaper. ‘You should read this mate, it’s funny. She’s gone on a date with some bloke from uni. He sounds like a complete twat.’ He laughs again. ‘What an idiot.’
‘Chuck it over,’ Mark says, sitting up. There is a white stain on the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms which he assures Craig is yogurt.