Authors: Tom Campbell
‘Adam,’ said James. ‘I didn’t know you were going to be here.’
‘Well, I think the bigger surprise is that you’re here. I didn’t think football was your thing at all.’
‘Oh, well – you know. Like a lot of people, I’m sort of interested.’
Adam nodded. ‘What do you think of our chances then?’
James paused uncertainly. It wasn’t enough to have come to the match, he should really have done some preparation. After all, he would have done for a meeting at work, and this was going to be far more challenging.
‘Well, it could go either way,’ he said.
Adam smiled. He was looking at him in a way that wasn’t quite unkind, but was certainly unwelcome. James hurried along to a table where there was a tray of pale yellow lagers. There didn’t seem any choice but to take one and start drinking.
‘Here,’ said Felix. ‘Come and meet our hosts and fellow guests.’
Every single person in the room was white and male. James had expected that, but on being introduced he realised something else, something Felix hadn’t warned him about – almost all of them were property developers. They were his greatest professional enemy. These were the landowners, speculators and spivs, the people determined to shape the way London would look for the next ten years, but had no interest in what happened after that, and who had completely different kinds of ambition and money from James. It was the developers who paid for all the architects and lawyers and construction companies, and who fucked cities up. And it was his job to stop them from doing all the things they wanted to do – wrecking skylines, spoiling conservation areas, building on green spaces and breaking affordable housing commitments. And the peculiar thing was, now that he was actually meeting them in person, he couldn’t help but like them. They were well mannered and friendly, they were generous hosts and hard-working conversationalists. They were, in fact, much nicer than any of the town planners.
‘Everyone here basically works in property,’ said James.
‘What did you expect?’ said Adam. ‘That’s how anyone makes money in this city. It’s how I make my money. It’s not as if we have any manufacturers I can sue or write contracts for.’
‘Listen,’ said Felix, ‘the very best brand consultancy is also management consultancy, or in your case, career guidance. So here goes: you work in property as well. Stop thinking of yourself as a town planner, and start thinking of yourself as a professional who works in the property sector with specific, highly sought after expertise in public policy.’
Adam nodded. ‘That’s actually quite good advice. And also try not to say anything completely stupid about football.’
A man called Robert came over to talk to James. To use one of those football idioms that James had always disliked, his was a face of two halves. He had wide-spaced, boyish teeth and soft vertical grooves beneath his nostrils. But his eyes were small, fast-moving and treacherous, while his narrow, worn brow suggested that he had hosted many evenings like this one – he had given many things away in exchange for others.
‘So it must be tough down in Southwark at the moment, what with the new social-housing targets,’ said Robert.
‘Yes, it is difficult. We’ve got some sites going through assessment at the moment, but not enough and everyone’s worried that to make them work they’re going to be too tall.’
And they then proceeded to have an interesting and productive conversation about housing densities, building specifications and the property market in South London. Robert clearly knew what he was talking about, and thought that the development framework for Southwark was too restrictive and risked inhibiting private investment. And James, who had actually helped draft the development framework, warmly agreed with him. For one thing, it was so much easier than disagreeing.
‘You know,’ said Robert, ‘it’s really good to meet someone from Southwark. We’ve got a lot of interests there, but have always struggled with the council. It’s good to have a friendly face on the planning side for a change.’
‘Well, it’s true, planners can be rather hard work.’
‘God, yes – what’s the name of your director there? Leo whatsit?’
‘You mean Lionel Rogers?’
‘Yes, that’s the chap – Lionel. He’s a bit of an old sod, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said James. ‘He is a bit.’
‘Been there for years, won’t let anything happen. Typical old-school planner – still believes in zones, thinks he owns the place. No wonder you’re struggling to get enough investment.’
‘I know, I know. He’s holding Southwark back.’
This was, James knew, largely untrue and unfair. Lionel was, after all, his mentor and friend, the person who hired him, who taught him how planning in London works. But how else do you grow up in this world? The generations don’t replace one another; they displace one another. If they have to, if they’re able to, they murder one another. It wasn’t progress exactly, but it was how things happened. He swallowed a large mouthful of lager. It was fresh and strong and hurt his lips.
‘Come on,’ said Adam. ‘It’s starting.’
They filed out of the back of the corporate box and on to a narrow balcony. James had only been to one football match in his life before, and that had been in Leicester in the 1990s – a misconceived day out with his father and sister, neither of whom knew anything more about football than he did. It definitely looked a lot better this time. That surely was because of the light and perspective and money. They were very high up. The Chelsea players’ blue shirts and white shorts shimmered under the powerful beams of the floodlights, while the other team’s red shirts and black shorts glowed menacingly. And the pitch itself was lovely: a rich, luminous green, so bright and flawless that it looked as if it had been made on a computer. It shone, and not just from the floodlights beaming down, but as if there was a light pulsing up through it. James thought it would have been quite enjoyable just to drink beer and stare down at that all evening.
It was a European Cup match, and the red team had a name that was difficult to pronounce and was from an East European country with a poor human rights record. That made it slightly easier to support Chelsea, which wasn’t something that came naturally to James who, despite being a believer in the merits of collective endeavour, distrusted all tribes and teams.
‘There you go,’ said Felix. ‘This is one of London’s great spectacles and industrial sectors. People travel from across the world to see our football. It is also, by the way, the only hope left for European integration, the only thing that dock workers in Hamburg and computer programmers in Reading can successfully hold a conversation about.’
James nodded. He didn’t quite know what Felix was talking about, but there was no doubt that the footballers themselves were beautiful. You could tell that even at a distance. No wonder young women were always wanting to have sex with them in nightclubs. Unlike other athletes, they were gracefully proportioned, their bodies adapted for a range of different tasks. They had marvellous strong legs, counter-balanced by high shoulders, and topped with thick long hair. Many of them had glorious tattoos. And, after all, maybe there was something heroic about them. Anyone paid that much money had to be admirable in some ways, just as contemporary novelists surely warranted at least some contempt for being paid so little.
‘We better win this,’ said Adam.
‘Oh I’m sure we will,’ said Felix.
‘We ought to beat them,’ said Robert. ‘Their entire team cost less than our goalie.’
But now the match had actually got going, things were more problematic. All the things that James disliked, which he was paid to eradicate, were happening on the pitch in front of him. There were too many players and they weren’t evenly distributed. There was congestion and along with this there were collisions and conflict. Perhaps, he wondered, if the teams were playing better it would be different, but he suspected not – there were simply too many people moving quickly in a limited space, and they were playing with just a single ball.
James looked at the clock. To his surprise, no more than nine minutes had passed. Despite his best efforts, his interest was in danger of waning. It wasn’t just him – already some of the others were talking about property prices again. Was this really what all the fuss was about? Yes, the players all looked great, but he didn’t know any of them or care what they were doing. Plus, he now recalled that many of them tended to avoid paying tax. He started to feel sorry for the referee, the official who had regulatory authority over them, but hardly any money or respect, and who was getting shouted at by the crowd.
He went back into the executive box and drank some more beer. Inside, a couple of people were watching the game on a large television screen. James sat and watched with them for a while – it actually looked a bit more exciting and comprehensible. After a few minutes, some others came inside to join them.
‘I really don’t like the way we’re playing,’ said Robert. ‘It’s far too crowded in the middle and far too deep at the back.’
‘It’s appalling,’ agreed Adam. ‘There’s no width there at all, and the strikers are totally disconnected. It’s like they’re playing for a different team.’
James stared at his friend in admiration and, therefore, anxiety. So it seemed that Adam knew about football too! How on earth had he ever managed that? Along with becoming a successful commercial lawyer and buying a house in West London and getting engaged and running half-marathons and everything else, he had somehow found the time to learn about football – to make perfectly intelligible, albeit unverifiable, statements which other people would agree with.
‘You’re right. This is total fucking dogshit,’ said someone else, shaking his head menacingly.
‘We’re playing like bastards,’ said a man called Angus. ‘We’re playing like fucking gay bastards.’
Angus was a retail developer, and had a number of features which would normally be considered defects in a modern male, but in fact only added to his overall impressiveness. He was in his mid-fifties, overweight, unambiguously bald and had an alarming West Country accent. His big white shirt flapped in the evening breeze, and was difficult to distinguish from his skin.
James turned to Felix. ‘Is this standard? Everyone seemed so pleasant until the football started.’
‘Yes, this is generally what tends to happen. As they say, those who waste their youth attaining wealth are doomed to waste their wealth trying to attain youth. Football is one of the main ways in which men do that now.’
James watched some more of the match, alternating every few minutes from going outside, where it was authentic, chilly and confusing, and looking at the television screen inside, where things were warmer and more atmospheric. Either way, it seemed to James that Chelsea were doing badly. The red team had control of the ball more often, and the Chelsea players looked cross and were committing more fouls. The really interesting thing was that he actually minded – he was, he realised, worried about the outcome. He wasn’t necessarily enjoying the match, but he was at least absorbed, which was very nearly the same thing. To be concerned about something you have no control over was, he knew, psychologically ruinous, but it was starting to happen.
‘Do you think we’re going to win this?’ said James. ‘It seems very close. I thought we’d have scored by now.’
‘Well, I think it’s good that you’re taking an interest,’ said Felix.
It was half-time and, without anyone asking, a Korean girl brought in another tray of lagers. Some plates of food had also appeared, and people were eating high-quality proletariat food: mini hamburgers, short beef sausages, large potato chips and pork pies. Everyone was having a brilliant time and James could see why – they were all being intelligently looked after and cared for, they were being given the things they wanted, things that gave them pleasure, were perfectly legal and wouldn’t do them all that much harm.
‘Here, James,’ said Felix, calling him over. ‘This is Simon Galbraith. I think you two especially need to meet. You’re respected figures in the same field, and you both have a shared interest in growing the economy of South London.’
James shook hands with Simon. He was approximately the best-looking man that James had ever met – a graceful, youthful-at-fifty executive with tightly curled, lightly greying hair, a boyish but by no means flimsy nose, and science-fiction blue eyes that dazzled and disorientated. He wore a calm black linen suit, which didn’t reflect any light at all, and his top shirt button was undone, revealing a pale and slender neck above a dark tie.
‘I should also say,’ said Felix, ‘that it’s Simon’s hospitality we have all been enjoying tonight.’
‘Oh, of course – thanks ever so much,’ said James. ‘It’s really been a fantastic evening.’
‘So you’re the planning wizard that I’ve been hearing about,’ said Simon.
‘Well I don’t know about that. But yes – I am a planner.’
‘Well, I think you’re behaving very well given that you’re stuck in a roomful of property developers. I hope my colleagues haven’t been bothering you too much.’
James was being flattered, and not just by anyone. He was being flattered by the host, the richest and most important person there. He wanted very badly to please him, to do something to make his handsome face smile.
‘Not at all! It’s actually really good to meet them. Planners can be rather an insular bunch – it’s good to get out with the people we should be working with.’