David Szalay - London and the South-East

His small flat was somewhere in the sleepy labyrinthine limbo south of Talgarth Road, where the horizon, showing through holes in stretches of terraced housing, was often low. There were derelict open spaces, insomniac highways, acres of rusting track. Private tennis clubs and municipal cemeteries. From his balconette he could hear the metallic mutter of the tube trains, down in their damp cutting two streets away.

THE HEAVY BEATS of the music from upstairs are only faintly audible in the Gents — and not at all when the automated rinsing of the urinal starts. It is Friday night in the Penderel’s Oak, and alone at the tin trough, Paul is drunk and feeling dissatisfied with himself. He has done nothing today. It had been his intention to get in early — say, eight o’clock — when he would find Li alone on the sales floor. This had not happened though. When the stuttering alarm had started to peck the quick of his head at five forty-five, the whole idea had seemed like nonsense, and he had ignored it. (Though he spent the next hour in a fretful, unsatisfying half-sleep.) Elvezia and Dave he had intended to speak to in the smoking room, as he had spoken to Wolé. This had not happened either. He would, he had thought, quietly arrange to meet Claire for a coffee somewhere, perhaps offer to take her to lunch, or for a drink. After a drink, he could suggest dinner … No, he had not spoken to Claire, though they had been alone in the smoking room for several minutes. He could simply have explained the situation to her there, of course — but then there would have been no reason to have lunch or a drink with her next week, and he had no intention of forgoing that . Presumably, then, he had at least made the arrangements for this little tête-à-tête? No, he had not. He had mistakenly, naively, presumed that it would be a nerveless matter to suggest such a meeting to her. It was not. In his mind he was now more or less asking her out on a date. And might it not look that way to her too, this mysterious invitation? And what would she make of that ? He felt squeamish even to imagine such a misunderstanding on her side. Perhaps it would be better just to speak to her there, in the smoking room. That was what he was doing with the other smokers, wasn’t it? And he had been about to do this, to say something, when like a shoal of fish suddenly changing direction, and in doing so seeming to change colour (he has seen such things on TV), his thoughts reversed themselves — why pretend that she was not a special case? Why pass up this opportunity to spend some innocent time alone with her? That would be perverse. There was nothing wrong with it. He had done the same with Nayal. What he had not done in Nayal’s case was spend hours worrying over the precise form of words he would use to extend the invitation …

There is a sudden short surge in the volume of the music as the outer door of the Gents is opened. Paul zips himself up and turns to the sink. In the dull metal mirror, he sees Marlon enter the low room. ‘All right, Marlon?’ he says without turning.

‘All right, Paul?’

It is strange that Marlon should still be in the pub. Strange and, Paul feels, providential. Usually, if he comes to the Penderel’s after work on Friday at all, it is for a quick half, or even a soft drink of some sort, and yet here he is at nine, cheerfully whistling at the urinal. Casually, Paul checks the wet, graffitied stall. ‘I wanted to have a word with you actually, Marl,’ he says, looking in the metal mirror again.

‘Oh yeah?’ Marlon might even be drunk, which is unheard of. ‘What about?’

‘Don’t mention this to anyone, mate, but I’m leaving PLP.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘I’ve been offered a job at another place, a better place. I’m asking around a few people, seeing if they want to join me there.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Would you be interested at all?’

‘What’s the place?’

‘It’s a place —’

‘Excuse me.’ Marlon has finished, and wants access to the sink. Paul stands aside. ‘It’s a place called Delmar Morgan,’ he says.

‘I’ve not heard of it.’

‘It’s a top-quality place.’

Washing his hands, Marlon seems unenthused. ‘A lot better than PLP,’ Paul affirms throatily, looking at the pigeon grey of Marlon’s broad, suited back, and the dingy yellow ceiling light shining on his skin-coloured pate.

‘Who else have you asked?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Just curious.’

‘I’m not asking everyone.’

‘I’m sure you’re not.’

Arrogant sod, Marlon, Paul thinks. ‘Only the top people,’ he says. Without reacting to this, Marlon starts the hand dryer. Paul raises his voice. ‘PLP’s not in good shape, mate, that I can tell you.’

‘It’s not going to be in better shape when you take the top people, is it?’

‘No it’s not,’ Paul says, after a moment. ‘You should get out while you can.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘All right.’

For a few seconds the only sound is the shouting of the dryer. Paul is about to leave. Then Marlon says, ‘When would this happen?’

Paul smiles, very slightly, at the obvious buying signal — obvious not only in itself, but as an attempt to prolong a pitch that had seemed about to end. He had been worried by Marlon’s evasiveness. Now he sees that he simply considers himself too grand to say yes straight off, or even seem interested — the sort to savour, as if on principle, the power of the prospect. ‘Um, soon,’ Paul says. ‘In a few weeks.’

‘Oh. That soon.’

‘Yeah. We’ll start after Christmas basically.’

‘Okay.’ The hand dryer shuts up suddenly. ‘I’ll let you know in the next few days.’

‘Cheers, Marl,’ Paul says. ‘And keep it quiet, yeah?’

They leave together and go up the dim, carpeted stairs. The pub is full — ‘heaving’ as Andy would say. The music thuds and the bar is four-deep. Marlon has some friends in, outsiders, not salespeople, which is why he is still there. Pushing through the mob with Paul in his wake, he moves towards them, but as he passes Murray and Andy and some of the others, he shouts over the music, ‘Paul just tried to proposition me in the toilet.’ Emerging from the thick press of people, Paul — who did not hear him — sees everyone smiling. ‘What?’ he shouts. ‘What did you say?’

‘I’m just telling them,’ shouts Marlon, ‘that you just tried to proposition me in the toilet. See you later.’ And he moves off, shouldering his way towards his friends.

‘Rainey, you fucking bender,’ shouts Murray Dundee.

And furious, Paul smiles.

On Monday morning, Paul is in by eight. It is strange to see the sales floor so silent — the messy, misaligned desks unoccupied, semidarkness still outside. And the smell of cigarette smoke — that is strange too. Li has obviously been smoking at her desk — has in fact just put a cigarette out — there are still blue veils floating in the air around her, visible in the sharp light of her desk lamp. He sees a saucer, smeared with black ash and holding a number of butts, among her papers. She is surprised to see him, her mouth open, half smiling. Her narrow shoulders hunched. Instead of saying anything she nods — a miniature bow. ‘Morning,’ Paul says. ‘Have you been smoking here?’ It is simply undeniable, and she smiles, showing rotten yellow teeth. ‘You shouldn’t,’ he mutters — and then, taking out his own cigarettes, lights one, and says, ‘Don’t tell anybody.’

‘No, I won’t,’ she says, and laughs as if he were mad.

This is a strange situation, Paul thinks. ‘How’s it going?’ he asks, indicating the mess of papers on her desk.