David Szalay - London and the South-East

Pausing for emphasis, Eddy swigs green alcopop, and Paul lights a B&H. ‘We were selling on a book called International Pulp and Paper Yearbook ,’ he goes on. ‘Not a great book. A rubbish book, in fact. A basket case. Everyone knew it was rubbish, and no one expected it to make much money. So no one really bothered. We’re all fucking good salesmen — John and Tony and me — we just weren’t trying. And then one day, we just said, Fuck this — there’s just no point doing this like this . And we really had a go. It’s a shame you weren’t there, Paul. I’d have liked you to have been there. Tony and John felt the same way I did — there’s no point muddling through any more, faffing about. We wanted money, everything we needed was there, to hand, we just had to stop making excuses, and fucking get on with it. You seen Taxi Driver ?’ he asks, surprisingly.

Paul nods. ‘Yeah, of course.’

‘I love that film. There’s a great line in it. I can’t remember it exactly. It’s that older taxi driver — remember him? — and he’s talking to De Niro, and he says he sometimes wonders how he’s ended up, at his age, still driving a company cab. You know, not having his own cab. And he says in the end it must be because he didn’t really want his own cab. Because he didn’t really want his own cab. I think that’s brilliant.’

Paul nods slowly, meditatively.

‘Isn’t that brilliant? It’s the only explanation he can think of, because if he really wanted his own cab, there was nothing to stop him having it. Nothing.’ He watches Paul — who has gone quiet — to see what effect his words are having on him. Then, with a smile, he says, ‘Just going to point Percy at the porcelain. Back in a sec.’

When Eddy gets back, he continues his story. ‘Once we started trying, once we started working , once we started only being satisfied with the max — it went through the fucking roof. Nobody else could believe it. And they weren’t too happy about it either because it showed them up. Kirkbride was fucking happy, though.’ Eddy does a crude, comedy Chinese accent — ‘“You boys de best! You de best! Me so horny!” Of course he was fucking horny — he got ten per cent of everything. When we finished Pulp and Paper , he put us on International Project Finance , which is a much better book, and we made much more money. More than at Northwood, Paul.’

‘Yeah?’ Paul says sceptically.

‘Much more. And the books were rubbish, rubbish compared to what we were working on at Northwood. When I think about what we could have made if we’d actually worked those books properly …’ He shakes his head. ‘Anyway. We were making a fuck of a lot of money, and everything was hunky-dory. Then we said we wanted better terms, more commission — because if you’re working that hard, you don’t like to see eighty-five per cent of it go into other people’s pockets — but Kirkbride wasn’t so keen on that. “I see wha’ I can do, boys. Ma-com see wha’ he can do.” And he did fuck all — so we asked again, said we weren’t happy, said we were going to leave . That got his fucking attention. He got us into his office, very serious, very fucking sincere, and said he understood our concerns, and had an idea. He said he’d make us all managers, with a team each, and we’d get a special override, plus what we’d get anyway, if we improved the whole company’s sales like we’d improved our own — which basically meant doubling them. The override was five per cent. Five fucking per cent!’ Eddy drinks indignantly. ‘So we got rid of Kirkbride. His sales director was a ponce called Pascal Olivier — we got rid of him too. We went to the chairman, behind Kirkbride’s back — a bloke called Sir Trevor Cawthorne. A Geordie. I get on well with him. He knew us even then, because the three of us were making half the company’s sales. We said to him, why don’t you let us run the company? Get rid of Kirkbride, and we’ll make you a lot more money than you’re making now. It took him about two hours to think it over, before he called me and said, “All right.” And I was in Kirkbride’s office at the time, talking to him about some shit, and my mobile rang, and it was Trevor and he’s saying, “I’m going to sack Kirkbride — you lot can take over.” And I’m pretending it’s someone else, and looking at Kirkbride, and thinking, “You don’t know what’s about to happen to you, mate. You don’t realise that your life is in my hands.” And I say, “Yeah, that’s fine.” And then a few minutes later, Kirkbride’s phone rings and he answers it, and puts on his best arse-licking voice — “Ah hewow, Sah Trawah! How ah you, Sah Trawah?” And he waves at me to get out of his office, and whispers, “ Is Sah Trawah .” And I’m thinking, “Yeah, I fucking know it is.” So he went for a meeting with Trevor that afternoon, and Trevor sacked him, and then we had a meeting with Trevor — John and Tony and me — and he basically gave us the keys to the company, and said we had six months to show him what we could do. And we showed him. We turned things round. We changed the image of the company. I came up with the elephant logo,’ Eddy says proudly. ‘It’s a new image. Honesty, integrity, long-term relationships.’

‘Memory,’ murmurs Paul.

‘Yeah, of course. Our MD’s an accountant. We nicked him from KPMG. He knows what he’s good at and doesn’t get involved on the sales side. Not at all. I deal with all that. And John and Tony run two super-teams. We wanted to cut out as many managers as possible — pare it down. We each get ten per cent of gross sales. The sales force gets ten to fifteen per cent. The rest goes to the company. I made over a million quid last year, Paul. I’m not joking. That’s more than anybody makes off the geegees. Even fucking Henry Rix.’

‘Who’s Henry Rix?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Now we’re starting to think about an MBO.’

‘What’s that again?’

‘Management buyout. The company’s owned by a subsidiary of a subsidiary of a subsidiary of a shell company that’s part of some fucking offshore investment vehicle. Fuck knows what else they’re involved with. I don’t really know much about it — Trevor’s my only point of contact with all that. But whoever does own it isn’t really interested in it, or they wouldn’t have let Kirkbride fuck it up for so long, and they wouldn’t leave an old codger like Trevor in charge. The point is, they’ll probably sell if the price is right.’

‘Sell to who? To you?’

‘Yeah,’ Eddy says, with a hint of impatience. ‘A management buyout. We’d buy the company — me, Littleton and Pascoe.’

‘With what money?’

‘We’re looking into that. A mixture of debt finance and venture capital probably. Mezzanine, maybe. We’re looking to end up with about half the equity. Anyway … But that’s not really relevant.’

‘Relevant to what?’

‘To what I want to talk to you about.’

‘What do you want to talk to me about?’

‘Should we get something to eat?’ Eddy says. ‘I’m starving. What about going to the Wine Press? For old times’ sake.’

After two Ayingerbraus and a Prinz, Paul has no appetite. He feels settled in the warm low-vaulted space. ‘All right,’ he says unenthusiastically. ‘If you want.’

‘Excellent.’

Outside, fine light rain is falling in the alley. The Wine Press, a venerable pizzeria where they sometimes went in the Northwood days, is a little way along Fleet Street, near Fetter Lane. Paul is about to ask Eddy what he wants to talk to him about, but Eddy speaks first. ‘How’s your sex life, Paul?’ he asks as they walk. Paul is evasive. ‘It’s all right.’ He is aware of having described many aspects of his life as ‘all right’. ‘How’s yours?’