David Szalay - London and the South-East

‘Very good actually. I think it was Henry Kissinger said power is the greatest aphrodisiac.’

‘Did he?’

‘He did.’

‘You still with Kim?’ Paul asks.

Eddy laughs. ‘No.’ He holds open the plate-glass door. ‘After you.’

‘Cheers,’ Paul mumbles, and steps into the torrent of warmth under the heater inside.

‘This place hasn’t changed,’ Eddy says.

Paul nods and lights a cigarette.

ON THE WAY to Blackfriars tube, Paul stops for a pint in the King Lud. Eddy had waved down a black cab outside the restaurant, and asked him if he could drop him somewhere, but Paul, to some extent out of pride, more from a wish to be alone, had declined, and walked slowly on up to Ludgate Circus, where — impressed by the floodlit slice of St Paul’s that can be seen from there — he had looked at his watch, held his nose for a moment, and entered the Old King Lud. They occasionally went there in the Northwood days; it is not, however, a pub he knows well. A perfect place, then, for sorting his head out, and settled at a small table with a pint of lager he turns over his talk with Eddy Jaw. He wishes he were able to think more lucidly. Everything seems jumbled up. He is experiencing a kind of flaming excitement, and at the same time — as if it disturbed him — trying to damp it down. It does disturb him. He is not used to anything interesting or unexpected happening; he is not used to opportunities, and he finds himself instinctively shrinking from these things. Tomorrow, he feels — the next few days — will be the time to think about them .

There is one thing, however, which he is unable to stop himself from thinking about, which troubles his smoky torpor. ‘No passengers.’ Those were Eddy’s words. ‘No fucking passengers.’ Paul had half-heartedly tried to persuade him that Murray would not be a ‘passenger’, but Eddy had shaken his head and said, again, ‘No fucking passengers. Murray is just not good enough for this game.’ And of course, Paul had found the implicit flattery too pleasing to want to jeopardise the mood by making an issue of Murray (of all things) and he did not mention him again. Indeed, the vague, embarrassed sense of loyalty that had led to this short-lived quibble on Murray’s part immediately seemed quaint and foolish under the Nietzschean stare of Eddy’s small blue eyes. Despite which, it continued to trouble him. Eddy’s proposal was that Paul join him at Delmar Morgan, as a manager, with those members of his team ‘who can actually fucking cut it’. It was when Paul had asked what ‘actually fucking cut it’ meant in practical terms, that Eddy had cited Murray as an example of someone who could not. Seeing Paul’s surprise at this, he said, ‘And I’ve always thought that. I have always thought that.’ It was essential, Eddy said, that the whole thing be kept secret. He wanted it to happen in the new year.

Paul’s initial response, motivated mostly by pride, was a show — and it was only a show — of scepticism. Unfortunately, it set the tone for the rest of the evening. ‘And why would I want to do that?’ he had asked, lighting a B&H. A moment later the pizzas arrived and he had to put it out. ‘Because,’ said Eddy, when the waiter had withdrawn with his pepper grinder, ‘Park Lane’s contracts are shit, they’re tired, they’re fucked. You know they are.’ Looking with undisguised disgust at the Margherita in front of him, Paul had said, ‘It’s a problem with the whole industry.’

‘That’s loser talk.’ And Eddy, who had ordered a Capricciosa with extra olives and anchovies, started to cut it up. Paul silently refilled his wine glass. It was loser talk. That was undeniable. ‘It’s not even true,’ Eddy had said, with his mouth full. ‘I told you — things are going fucking well at Delmar. We need new people, at every level. Experienced people. For fuck’s sake, Paul,’ he laughed, ‘I’m trying to help you. It wasn’t by chance I was round last Friday. I heard on the grapevine where you were — I was looking for you.’ Modestly, Paul drank some wine and toyed with his unlit cigarette. ‘What do you mean the grapevine?’ he asked.

‘The grapevine. Someone from the old days who’d spoken to someone. I was looking for you. When I heard where you were, I thought, Paul Rainey, there’s a man you want on your side.’ Perhaps feeling that this was flattery overplayed, Eddy had said, quickly, indicating Paul’s untouched pizza, ‘Are you going to eat that or what?’ Paul shook his head. ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘So?’ Eddy said.

‘So …?’

‘Will you do it?’

They had only been talking about it for a few minutes, and it seemed premature to press him. Eddy, though, was always a loud, upfront salesman, succeeding through an unquestioning faith in the old tenets — the simple, time-tested precepts enshrined in Glengarry Glen Ross — of which there is no more perfect example than ABC. ‘A, always. B, be. C, closing. Always. Be. Closing. Always be closing.’ Which was what he was doing. ‘I’ll think about it,’ Paul said flirtatiously, fully expecting Eddy to high-pressure him, but Eddy just nodded, and said, ‘Okay,’ and kept eating. It was disappointing — Paul wanted to talk about it more, and, after pouring himself another glass of wine, he said vaguely, ‘So what have you got then? What contracts?’

Eddy’s pizza was almost gone. ‘You mean what contracts would you be working on?’ he said.

‘For instance.’

For a few moments he said nothing, then: ‘I can’t really say, mate. Not until you’re on board. You understand.’ He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, which he then tossed onto the table. Feeling rebuffed, Paul relit his B&H, and was relieved when Eddy, without further prompting, went on to say, ‘They’re fucking good contracts. People have seen what we can do.’ He smiled. ‘Nothing succeeds like success, Paul. We’ve got a whole lot of new contracts starting soon, and we’re staffing up for them. That’s why I’m talking to you. I’m talking to other people as well, obviously. We’ve got adverts in the national press.’ Eddy was looking around, perhaps for the waiter. He seemed in a hurry to leave suddenly. It was as if Paul had disappointed him — that, at least, was Paul’s impression — as if he had seen that Paul would be of no use to him. ‘Got the first interviews this week,’ he said. ‘It’s a fucking bore. What you working on these days?’ Paul told him, but he did not seem to be listening. He just said ‘Oh yeah?’ several times, nodding mechanically. When he had the waiter’s eye, he made a self-conscious scribbling motion in the air. ‘I’ll get this,’ he said, taking out his wallet.

In the tiny toilet, washing his hands in the one-litre sink, Paul inspected his mottled face in the mirror. He was starting to feel like he had fucked something up.

There was a ridiculous amount of money in Eddy’s wallet, and something about the way he rummaged through it defeated, without him having to say anything, Paul’s half-hearted attempt to stop him paying the whole bill. He simply ignored Paul’s mumbled words, put a big salmon fifty on the saucer and stood up, only then saying, ‘Shall we go?’ Outside on the pavement, he started to look for a taxi, and left it to Paul to mention the offer he had made him. ‘I’ll let you know about that then, Eddy,’ he said, as the cab pulled round in the road.

‘Yeah, do,’ Eddy said. ‘But soon, eh?’

‘By the end of the week?’

Eddy smiled, as if amused by something. ‘If that’s what you call soon,’ he said. ‘See you, Paul.’ He was already halfway into the cab when he turned and said, ‘Oh, do you want a lift somewhere?’