Jonathan Coe - Number 11

‘Is it not?’

‘It goes back,’ said Laura, ‘to the 1980s, when Henry Winshaw was chairing a Review Board on the NHS. The idea was to privatize it, essentially, although of course nobody was going to admit that straight out. But he had this one big idea, which was that quality of human life could be valued. Priced, to use the more accurate word. So that some medical interventions are more cost-effective than others. Lord Lucrum — or David Lucrum as he was called in those days — was a relatively lowly management consultant who was part of that review. He worshipped Henry Winshaw — idolized him — and nowadays people see him as some sort of spiritual heir. He’s still an adviser to the government on NHS reforms. As for this new institute, it’s part of the same move to express everything in monetary terms. They want people like me — arts and humanities people — to come on board and be part of the process.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought,’ Rachel said, choosing her words carefully, ‘you’d feel all that comfortable sitting around a table with that lot.’

‘I know what you mean, but I’m trying to see it from a different point of view. We’re dealing with people who have no notion at all that something is important unless you can put a price on it. So, rather than have them dismiss … well, human emotion, altogether, as something completely worthless, I think it’s better if someone like me comes along and tries to help them out. Makes some sort of case for the defence. So we’ve coined a new term — “hedonic value”. That might refer to, say, the feeling you get when you look at a beautiful stretch of coastline. And we try to prove that this feeling is actually worth a few thousand pounds; or, on the other hand, that a widow’s grief might come at a cost of £10,000 a year to the economy. This way, you see, at least they’ll recognize these feelings. At least they’ll acknowledge their existence.’

Rachel thought about this, and said: ‘You know what I’m starting to think? I’m starting to realize that there are people around us who look normal from the outside, but when you start to understand what makes them tick, you see that they’re not like the rest of us at all. They’re like androids, or zombies or something …’

‘Ah, yes. They walk among us …’ Laura looked up to say hello to a young man who was walking past them on his way to fetch a coffee. ‘Jamie! Are you coming to join us?’

‘Erm … sure. Would that be OK? I don’t want to interrupt.’

‘Not at all. Come on over.’

While Jamie was getting his coffee, she explained: ‘One of my PhD students. Very bright guy. And an absolute sweetheart to boot. The two of you should definitely meet.’

Rachel started to tell Laura about her new job: the sudden phone call, the bewildering transition from Leeds to a South African safari park, the absurd opulence of her new home, the Sisyphean task of ridding Lucas of his arrogance, her own difficult, developing relationship with Grace and Sophia, the Gunns’ glacially composed twin daughters. Jamie came to join them in the middle of her description and, like Laura, appeared intrigued by this insight into the otherwise unglimpsable milieu of the super-rich.

‘So, how do they treat you?’ he wanted to know. ‘Like an equal, or like a member of staff?’

Rachel hesitated. Not only was this a difficult question to answer, but she had just noticed something about Jamie: he was distractingly good-looking. ‘A bit of both, I suppose,’ she said, bringing her thoughts into focus with an effort. ‘Obviously I’m not a person they’d ever have spoken to, normally, but somehow, I don’t know, there seems to be some sort of weird … respect going on.’

‘But you probably represent something very precious to them,’ said Laura. ‘You went to Oxford. You say this woman grew up in Kazakhstan and used to be a model. So, now she finds herself trying to make her way in British society, right at the top. She’s got most of the stuff that money can buy, but you represent all sorts of other things, intangible, desirable things: tradition, culture, privilege, history. I mean, I doubt if that’s how you feel about yourself, but that’s probably how you seem to her . It’s like Lord Lucrum and his committee: she sees something that exists outside the marketplace, and the only way she knows how to react is by putting a price on it. A British education — a certain sort of British education — is one of our few remaining national assets, and like everything else we’re ready to flog it off to the richest buyer. I’ve seen plenty of that happening in my line of work over the last few years, believe me.’

‘I feel,’ Rachel said, ‘that there’s my world, and there’s their world, and the two co-exist, and are very close to each other, but you can’t really pass from one to the other.’ She smiled. ‘Unless you use the magic door, of course.’

‘What magic door?’ asked Jamie.

‘Well, that’s what I call it. It’s the only way I can get from my side of the house to theirs. It looks like a big mirror. A mirror you can pass through.’

‘Like Orphée,’ said Laura, ‘in Cocteau’s film.’

Neither Rachel nor Jamie understood the reference. Laura had to explain that in Cocteau’s reimagining of the Orpheus legend, the poet was able to make his way into the underworld by passing through a mirror which turned to liquid when he stepped into it. It struck her as typical that neither of them had seen a film made in 1950 which, until recently, had been considered famous.

‘I know what Roger would have thought about that ,’ she said. ‘You don’t bother to watch these great old films because you have too much choice . In the old days you would have watched them because there was nothing else on the television and nothing else to do.’

‘How’s Harry?’ Rachel asked, reminded of Laura’s family life by this mention of her husband.

‘He’s fine,’ said Laura. ‘Doing well at his new school.’ The reply was curt: as before, she didn’t seem to want to talk or even think much about her son. She dismissed the subject quickly. ‘Anyway, if you want to hear about different worlds colliding, you should really ask Jamie where he was last weekend.’

‘Really?’ he said, giving her a pleading look. ‘Does Rachel have to hear about that? We’ve only just met.’

‘But you have to tell her what happened. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘It’s embarrassing.’

‘You shouldn’t be embarrassed. You come out of it very well. And if you’re lucky, she might put it in one of her stories. When I taught her at Oxford, she wrote quite a few short stories. Very good they were too.’

Rachel blushed with pleasure at the compliment. And she was full of curiosity by now, so Jamie realized that he was going to have to enlighten her, whether he liked it or not.

‘OK. So, last weekend,’ he began, still with palpable reluctance, ‘a friend of mine was getting married, and the night before we all went out on a stag night. To a lap-dancing club. Not my choice. I’d never been to one of these places before — never had to, never wanted to — so I wasn’t really prepared for the whole experience. So before I know what’s happening, this incredible woman, with a gorgeous figure, the kind of woman who’d never normally look at me, is sitting on my lap, more or less naked, with her arms around me, gyrating her hips, looking straight into my eyes. So I feel that something is … well, called for. Some sort of response. I feel that I have to say something.’

‘And what did you say?’ Rachel asked. ‘“You’re really beautiful”? “Thank you very much — here’s fifty pounds”?’