David Szalay: London and the South-East

Smirking, walking slowly, it took Andy ten seconds to traverse the sales floor. Paul watched absently as he walked towards him, knowing that he should say something along the lines of ‘Where the fuck have you been? Why aren’t you on the fucking phone?’ He was unable to summon the energy. The office was hot and soporific, the hubbub of voices dull. He felt the warmth of the tea touch his fingers through the cardboard cup. Still smiling, Andy sat down. He seemed to be waiting for something. His face expressionless, Paul stared out over the sales floor. ‘Where’s Murray?’ Andy said.

Paul shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘He was in the smoking room. He said he was coming back here.’

‘He hasn’t been here. Why aren’t you on the fucking phone?’

Suddenly serious-faced, Andy dug through the snafu of papers on his desk, trying to look purposeful. Then he saw something that made him smile again. In a boxy pale grey suit and large-knotted lilac tie, Marlon was strolling, strutting, towards them. His head, in its colour and texture, reminded Andy of Silly Putty — something from his prep-school days. There was a time when every boy in the school, it seemed, had to have a little red plastic egg containing a blob of flesh-coloured putty, and Marlon’s broad nose and prominent chin, as well the semi-glossy surface of his pink scalp, all recalled it. He spends so much time in a Covent Garden gym that many of his fellow members are under the impression that he works there — which in an informal, voluntary way he more or less does. Not mopping the changing rooms, of course, or manning the till in the shop, but helping people with the machines, and dispensing detailed advice on warm-downs and stretching. ‘Where’ve you been?’ said Paul. Marlon held up a long cup of soya milk latte.

‘Marlon!’ Andy called respectfully, in a sort of stage whisper, across the desks. ‘Marlon!’ When Marlon finally looked up, Andy’s smile widened. ‘Have you seen Murray?’ he said. Unfitting the lid of his coffee, Marlon shook his flesh-toned head.

‘I think he’s hiding from you. He thinks you’re going to punch his lights out.’

‘Will you get on the fucking phone?’ Paul said to Andy. He looked at his watch. Three thirty-eight. Twelve minutes.

The smoking room was cold and, despite the wide-open window, smoky; grey, and loud with the perpetual groan of the traffic where Kingsway and Holborn meet. The cleaners seem to have permission not to clean it, though they all smoke themselves, and big, abandoned newspaper pages stirred in the chilly draught when the door croaked open. Unusually, Paul had the narrow space to himself, and taking advantage of this, he dragged a slick of phlegm up from his mid-throat and spat it into the metal bin. On his way there, he had almost met Lawrence, the director of sales. For the sake of his health, he was going to walk down the two flights of stairs, but he had heard Lawrence’s nasal whine speaking to someone in the stairwell, and had tiptoed back up and taken the lift. This had made him feel quite small. ‘Fucking Lawrence,’ he said, quietly, to the empty room — an act of defiance so minor that it only increased his sense of oppression.

Lawrence, it seems, has become obsessed with the underperformance of Paul’s team. And his team is underperforming. There are only three more weeks of selling left on European Procurement Management , and the sales target looks more implausible every day. Paul knows, in fact, that it will be missed, but he still tells Lawrence not to worry, that there’s ‘a lot out there’. Which there isn’t — so when Lawrence presses him for details of what, exactly, is ‘out there’ the evasive sketchiness of his answers tends to lead to unpleasantness. The publications, in any case, never meet their sales targets — not European Procurement Management , not the in-flight magazines, not Asian Procurement Management , or International Finance and Financial Policy Review , or any of the others. The targets are not so much targets as notional figures — aspirations at best, ambitions that everyone, even Lawrence, has tacitly accepted will never be achieved (though they are raised a little every year), unattainable standards condemning the salespeople — all of them, ultimately — to the misery and stress of perpetual, soul-wearying failure. This is the same for Tony’s team, and Simon Beaumont’s, and Neil’s, and the Pig’s — so why, Paul wondered self-pityingly, sitting on the low chair, its brown wool torn to reveal yellow foam (which has itself been picked away by nervous fingers), does Lawrence single him out?

Lawrence’s obsession with Paul’s team and its failings has, over the past few weeks, focused more and more intensely on Andy. On the phone Andy does not even sound desperate any more; he just sounds dead. Paul had had high hopes for Andy. He had nurtured him, bought him little presents (a bong, a Zippo with a marijuana leaf on it), bought him pints in the Penderel’s Oak — all of which was, of course, substantially self-interested, Paul being on an override and getting a few per cent whenever a member of his team makes a sale. Andy was posh, plummy — unintimidated by talking to other posh people, or foreigners. On the phone he could sound much older than he was. As the weeks passed, however, it became obvious that, in some subtle way, he had the wrong vibe, the wrong something, the wrong je ne sais quoi . And perhaps most importantly, not enough need. Paul thinks that he must be getting money from his parents — or someone — because not having made any sales since then, he has not been paid since June.

Andy starts to stutter as soon as he sees Lawrence walk onto the sales floor. Looming over him, Lawrence presses the earpiece of Andy’s phone to his head (he has an odd way of holding the earpiece — in the palm of his long, hairy hand), and stopping his other ear with his index finger, he listens, with his eyes shut, to Andy’s pitch. ‘Good morning,’ Andy says, his voice shaking in a way that it only does when Lawrence is listening in. ‘Could I speak to Dr Rüthke, please.’

‘Who is it, please?’ A German secretary’s voice.

‘It’s David Lloyd.’

‘And where are you calling from, please?’

‘I’m calling in association with the International Federation of Procurement Management.’

‘What is it concerning?’

‘Is Dr Rüthke there?’

‘What is it concerning, please?’

‘I’m calling in association with the International Federation of Procurement Management.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’m calling in association with —’

‘Could you send a fax?’

‘There wouldn’t be any point sending a fax.’

‘Please — could you send a fax?’

‘I don’t have a fax. I’m calling in association with the International Federation of Procurement Management. I need to speak to Dr Rüthke. Is he there?’

‘Are you selling something?’

Andy laughs in the way that salesmen usually do when they’re about to deny that they’re selling something. ‘No,’ he says, laughing, ‘I’m not selling anything. I need to speak to Dr Rüthke. Is he there?’

A towering blue-suited presence at his shoulder, well inside his personal space — Andy can smell him, his BO, his halitosis, his aftershave — Lawrence’s eyes squeeze more tightly shut.

‘Rüthke.’

‘Oh. Good morning, Dr Rüthke,’ Andy says, moving uneasily in his chair. ‘My name is David Lloyd, and I’m calling in association with the International Federation of Procurement Management. From London. How are you?’

There is a short silence. ‘Yes?’ Dr Rüthke says, impatiently.

‘Um, I’m calling … I’m calling from the … I’m calling from Park Lane Publications,’ says Andy. ‘We publish European Procurement Management , in association with the International Federation of Procurement Management.’