The Planner (30 page)

There was a tap on his shoulder and James looked round to see Harriet beaming at him. She had brought someone with her: a sinister old man, as tall as James, and therefore eerily tall, with milk-white skin and slow-moving features. He wore dark glasses and a black leather hat with a wide brim.

‘This is Jacob. He says that he’s the most important person here,’ said Harriet. ‘And the way to tell that is because no one knows who he really is. You can’t even google him!’

‘Good to meet you,’ said James, reaching out his hand. ‘Are you an artist?’

Jacob smiled. A comic book, twisted smile, and extended a long hand with curved fingernails. He was almost certainly the oldest person there – his skin was pulled back tightly and his skull was starting to show through his face. It was possible that he had been in the Nazi Party.

‘Of course he isn’t an artist,’ said Harriet. ‘I told you – Jacob’s really
important
. He doesn’t make art – he buys it. He’s a collector.’

‘Jacob, Harriet – this is Felicity,’ said James.

‘Hello,’ said Felicity, who didn’t seem to have any idea who Jacob was either. ‘And where are you from?’

‘Switzerland,’ said Jacob. Or he might have said ‘Stockholm’ or ‘Stasiland’ or ‘Swindon’, for his accent was thick, and his voice was thin.

‘Are you thinking of buying something here?’ said James.

‘Oh James, don’t worry about all that boring stuff. Come with me – Jacob has given us a present.’

Taking his arm, Harriet pulled James away and towards the nearest bathroom. In her hand was an ominous little leather pouch. James couldn’t help but feel pleased at leaving Felicity stranded with Jacob – it was exactly the kind of thing that people used to do to him.

‘Jesus,’ said James. ‘Who is that freak?’

‘Oh, don’t be such a meanie. He may look like Lord Voldemort, but he has the heart of Dumbledore. He’s been looking after me while you’ve been flirting with that awful woman.’

They went into the disabled toilets, which were generously sized, marvellously clean and suitable for a wide range of purposes. There was a cumbersome but reassuringly secure bolt on the door, and a helpful little ledge to rest their drinks on. A couple could spend a comfortable evening here.

‘I’m so pleased you brought me here,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m having such a good time.’

‘I know, I thought you’d like it. But what’s up with Felix?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about him,’ said Harriet. ‘He’s probably just jealous of how handsome we look together.’

James nodded. Harriet might be on to something – he was, still, and despite all the evidence, convinced that she was wiser than she looked. She certainly had plenty of life skills – you could tell by the way she was skilfully preparing Jacob’s cocaine in the corner. Leaning against the door, he thoughtfully drank some more of his cocktail. This one was an unsettling orange, the same colour as the logo for Lambeth Council. It was carbonated, and fizzed like an unwholesome vitamin drink.

‘Here,’ said Harriet, standing up to face him. ‘Now why don’t you kiss me?’

Harriet’s wide, curving mouth was coated in cocaine. Like a naughty girl who had been licking cake mixture, a great deal of white powder had been captured unevenly but comprehensively around her wet lips. It was, James knew, going to be much more than a drugs experiment – it would be an important life experience, and he had to make the most of it. It was not a moment to be tentative or considerate. Firmly holding her face in his hands, he gave her exactly what he hadn’t given Rachel: a selfish and wholly successful kiss, his lips pressed against hers for a full minute. The kiss was like the very best modern art – complicated and discordant, a jarring combination of lurid and provocative tastes and striking for its brutal symbolism and subversive use of physical aggression.

He pushed down, and felt Harriet push forcefully back up. She was strong and he needed to make full use of his long arms and big hands to hold her in place, and to push further into her mouth. She writhed and gasped and then, just as he was starting to worry that he was hurting her, she pulled her head back with a jerk and smiled. Her lips were pink again, her face flushed. It was often a mistake to interpret someone through their eyes, but it was difficult when they were as close and powerful as this. Harriet’s were bigger and greener than ever, and glowed with excitement and promise. James couldn’t help but also notice that at least thirty pounds’ worth of cocaine powder was now all over the toilet floor.

‘There now, wasn’t that fun?’ said Harriet. ‘Now, why don’t you go back out and look after Jacob? A girl in a cubicle does need a certain amount of privacy.’

James unbolted the door. He suspected that she was now going to take more cocaine. But what could he do? Even when she was telling the truth, she behaved as if she was lying. Besides, he’d had more than enough and was ready to go back out there. He could pick up with Harriet later – for the moment there was an adventure to be had in the gallery. He felt energised, liberated,
deregulated
.

‘Oh, and you better give Jacob this back,’ said Harriet, handing him the pouch. ‘I don’t think there’s much left, but I’m sure he won’t be cross.’

As James walked across the gallery, he realised that he’d found his art form. It was visual art, with a strong emphasis on the contemporary. It was obvious. Literature was, thankfully, being killed off by the Internet. Science merely gathered further evidence of the universe’s indifference and mankind’s degradation. Cinema was just sensory stimulation, and could now only aspire to pornography. Theatre, music, dance – these were crude and primitive art forms, of interest primarily to anthropologists. But visual art had transcended all this – disembodied truths that had avoided the traps laid by realism, capitalism and technology. It didn’t even need to worry about ideology – it
was
an ideology.

Yet when he got back to the first room it didn’t seem quite the same as before. The lights were brighter than he remembered and it was surprising how crowded it had become. Maybe the event hadn’t been as exclusive as he’d thought. More men had arrived, tall ones in black trousers, not all of whom looked as if they were artists. Also, with his new, enhanced powers of cognition, the paintings were so much easier to understand. The problem, though, was that now they didn’t seem anything like as good.

‘Ah – I’ve been looking for you,’ said Felix. ‘It’s time I introduced you to some arts public relations people. You’ll find they’re very much like those charming women you met at the book launch, but paid even worse. James – are you all right?’

‘Yes, hold on. Give me a moment. I’m just feeling a little bit light-headed.’

Felix looked at James with his sceptical eyes, concern and doubt shimmering across his face. ‘What on earth have you done to yourself?’

‘Harriet gave me some of this,’ said James, holding up the black pouch, ‘and now I feel a bit odd.’

‘Let me have a look at that.’

Felix dabbed a finger on some specks of white powder and made his diagnosis immediately.

‘Uh oh,’ said Felix. ‘This isn’t normal cocaine. It isn’t drug dealer’s cocaine. This is
art dealer’s
cocaine. How much did you take?’

‘I don’t think I had all that much.’

‘A line? Two lines? Any more than that and you’re going to be in serious trouble.’

‘I don’t know. It was difficult to tell.’

‘And where’s Harriet? Did she have some? I’ve seen her on this kind of stuff before. It’s not pretty.’

James felt giddy. The sensation wasn’t especially difficult to understand – it was simply a superabundance of biochemical activity. Across his body, chain reactions were breaking out as every complex molecule simultaneously did something reckless and stupid. His nerves were twitching, his blood vessels shrinking, his synapses spiking and neurons firing. He was burning up great quantities of energy. Metabolically, it was hard to imagine that anyone could be more alive than he was just now and yet his great fear was that it would result in sudden death.

‘Yes, Harriet had quite a lot I think. I don’t know where she is.’

‘Okay, you wait here. I better go and find her. Try not to get into any trouble.’

But waiting in one place wasn’t going to be possible. His legs were trembling and his eyes straining. His teeth were gripped tightly together and he was clenching his cocktail glass so firmly that it was in danger of breaking. He could feel muscles tensing and contracting, his long bones shuddering. Looking at works of art wouldn’t do. He badly needed to interact with another human being, to get into a fight with a man perhaps, or sexually assault a woman. Maybe he should go back and find Felicity. And then, suddenly, he saw someone he knew.

‘Alice?’ said James. ‘I didn’t know you were coming tonight.’

Alice looked startled – not actively displeased, but certainly more bothered than she had any right to be. James could see her clever, complicated face try to absorb what it meant. Well, she’d better get used to it – bumping into James at things like this was something that would happen more often from now on.

‘Well, this is a surprise. How very nice to see you. Are you here with Adam and Carl?’ she said.

‘No,’ said James. ‘I’m here with some other people.’

Alice nodded, as if that was exactly what she expected him to say. There was no doubt she looked great, different but even better than the last time. Her hair had changed again – the fringe had gone and it was darker, so that her black, disbelieving eyes were more conspicuous. She looked alert and ever-so-slightly hostile, as if she was on the cusp of losing her temper or, more likely, saying something witty and remarkable.

‘What have you been up to then? Do tell – it’s been ages. It’s been such a manic year.’

‘Yes, me too. Work has gone crazy – we’re basically rebuilding half of London.’

‘Really? That sounds very grand.’

Before Alice could say any more, James embarked on a short, dazzling summary of the Sunbury Square Masterplan. It was what Felix would have called an
elevator pitch
. He was vague about its location and precise about its ambitions. He gave a measured overestimate of its budget, size and significance, and lightly passed over operational issues. No one could have heard him without coming away with the impression that James was in complete control of his brief.

‘Gosh, that sounds very impressive. I should get someone at the paper to do something about it.’

‘I actually have a press officer working for me – a young man called Alex. But yes, of course, I’d be very happy to talk to someone about it.’

James took a long and deep drink. He was sure he was saying brilliant things, but it was possible that he was saying them too quickly. A waitress walked past, and he swapped his cocktail for another – a blue one this time, which looked as if it might be more soothing.

‘Are you okay?’ said Alice. ‘You look a bit rattled.’

‘No, I’m fine,’ said James. ‘Just a lot going on at the moment, you know how it is.’

One of the very few people who had actually been looking at the art walked over to join them.

‘Now, James,’ said Alice. ‘I’d like you to meet the significant other in my life. This is Sam. I’ve got to go and talk to someone for work, but I think you’ll get on well together – both of you are dedicated public servants.’

James looked at him with wild interest. He wasn’t just shorter than James, that was to be expected, he
was
short, with a neat, compact body. And while he would acknowledge that Sam looked healthy, he could see there was no great strength there – it was more a case of not eating red meat and playing badminton once a week. He was wearing a charcoal-grey suit that was no more expensive than James’s, and he had a round face and round glasses.

‘Oh, right, and what do you do?’ said James. ‘Are you in Whitehall?’

‘No, at the moment I’m working at Camden Council, in social services.’

‘Oh, so you don’t work in the media?’

‘God – no fear,’ said Sam. ‘The media? No, that’s Alice’s thing. I wouldn’t go near it.’

James, the listener, wasn’t really listening. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. He raised the blue cocktail to his mouth and fished out an ice cube. He was overheating, and he needed something to help cool down. Alice was right – he felt fucking rattled.

‘So, you’re not a lawyer, or a doctor?’

‘No, but I do work with a lot of them.’

‘Are you a psychotherapist?’

‘No, though I often work with them as well. Like I said, I work in social services.’

‘So you’re a social worker?’

‘Well, not technically. I’m actually training to be one. I’m studying part-time, but yes – that’s the plan. At the moment, I’m more involved on the management and policy side of things, but I’d like to be more frontline.’

James looked at him in wonder. A perfectly objective judgement of Sam, accounting for all possible traces of rivalry and envy, was that he wasn’t good-looking. He was probably clever and good at his job, driven by strong moral purpose and a humane worldview. But he wasn’t good-looking.

‘Alice said that you worked in town planning?’ said Sam. ‘That’s really interesting. I’ve just started working with some planners myself on a new integrated health scheme. It’s fascinating to see the approach they bring.’