Clapham Lights (15 page)

‘Brilliant,’ Mark says, open-mouthed. ‘And if everything goes to plan, when will the takeovers happen?’

‘Sooner rather than later judging by what I’ve heard. By Christmas, you could have fifty staff under you.’

‘Are you being serious?’

‘Completely serious, Mark. So don’t go running off to the first
company
which offers you a pay rise because you’d be shooting yourself in the foot.’

‘No, I won’t, don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere now.’

‘In the short-term we’re going to take on five or six junior fund
managers
who we can train ahead of any prospective takeovers.’

‘Who are you looking for?’

‘Anyone really. All they’ll have to do is shake a few hands and learn the ropes on the smaller accounts. A child could do it. They won’t get paid all that much, probably start them off on twenty-two grand, see how they go. You don’t know anyone who’d be interested do you?’

‘No, I don’t think so. None of my mates would work for that,’ Mark scoffs. ‘Stick an advert in the
FT
. Hopefully we’ll get some fit girls applying.’

Justin laughs, jumps down from his chair and yanks up the blinds. He stands with his back to Mark, studying the portrait he’s
commissioned
of himself. He’s is sitting in an armchair in the middle of a vast library with an aloof, scholarly expression on his face and has been
flatteringly
depicted as taller, thinner and less tanned. He tells Mark it cost twelve thousand pounds. Mark says it’s a masterpiece.

Out on the floor, Amy is on the phone and Ian is staring at a spreadsheet and scratching his head.

‘What do you think of Amy, Mark?’ Justin asks.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Professionally.’

‘Umm…’ He considers his response. ‘I don’t want to say anything bad about her, because she’s a great girl, but I don’t think she’d be
difficult
to replace if she left.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Most of the time I look at her computer she’s shopping on the
internet
.’

‘The feedback from all of her clients was very good though.’

‘I’m not saying she’s doing a bad job, but I don’t really know what she’s doing a lot of the time. She’s always out of the office as well.’

‘She has a lot of clients. She’s always at meetings.’

‘It’s a similar situation with Ian.’

‘In what sense?’

‘He’s a nice bloke, but he’s never going to be able to run the
department
. He hasn’t got the charisma to bring in the big deals. You’ve got to take the clients out, impress them. Nobody’s going to be won over by Ian. He’s too… ordinary.’

Amy puts the phone down and catches Justin looking at her. She gets up and goes to talk to Ian.

There are dark clouds outside and the office is murky. Justin locks his desk drawer and plucks his MenDax golf umbrella from its stand. He plays an uncoordinated cover drive, thanks Mark for the meeting and hurries off to catch the 16.21 train home to Tunbridge Wells.

‘G
et out of my way you foreign retards,’ Mark mutters as he barges past a group of American tourists who are blocking the exit at Victoria underground station. He races up the stairs, leaving Craig
trailing
behind, weaves through the crowds and waits outside Marks and Spencer.

At street level, it is warm but drizzling. Craig bobs in and out of a cluster of Chinese students and apologises to Mark for being slow. He says he was stuck behind a man who was trying to get through the ticket barriers by thumping the Oyster reader with his fist.

Mark says he is going to get a sandwich and asks if Craig wants anything, but he doesn’t. Craig waits outside, watching the incessant stream of people, taxis and buses. A
Big Issue
seller wearing a frayed woolly hat lights a roll-up in the bus terminal as an eastern European teenager with rotting teeth tries to sell Craig a travelcard.

‘Are we getting a bus from here?’ Craig asks, as Mark reappears munching a chicken sandwich.

‘Craig, you don’t get the bus to Humphrey & Weston. It sets the wrong tone. We’ll get a cab. It’s much quicker.’

Twenty minutes later they are still in the taxi queue.

There are roadworks from Hyde Park Corner all the way down
Knights-bridge
and their taxi sits motionless outside the French embassy.

An ambulance with its siren blaring negotiates its way through the traffic behind them and the cabbie jolts up onto the kerb to let it past. He says that Humphrey & Weston is only down the road and suggests that the boys should walk. Mark insists that he wants to be dropped outside the main doors and says that he has a bad foot. The cabbie looks in the rear-view mirror and raps his fingers on the steering wheel.

Humphrey & Weston is London’s most exclusive department store,
situated in an immense Edwardian building on the corner of
Knights-bridge
and Ermine Street.

The traffic eases and the boys jump out. A concierge in a top hat opens the gold-plated doors and welcomes them in.

‘It’s a bit posh in here,’ Craig says as they enter the bright lights of the beauty department.

‘It’s Humphrey and Weston, you gimp. Of course it’s posh.’

They wander through the labyrinth of make-up and perfume
counters
and Craig grins at a graceful young sales assistant dressed in a
sparkling
white skirt and tunic. Her hair and make-up are immaculate.

Mark strolls down the stairs to menswear, following the neon signs. He tells a gawky French sales assistant that he wants a personal shopper. The young man, dressed in a cream shirt and tie, makes a phone call.

They are fully booked. Mark says he has a very important awards ceremony next week and needs assistance to choose an outfit, regardless of how much it costs. The assistant makes another phone call as Mark inspects a rail of velvet lounge jackets. He is asked to wait on the sofa near the changing rooms and assured that he will be seen shortly.

A muscular man with a diamond-encrusted cross swinging from his neck is being led around by his tiny girlfriend who is wearing a pink tracksuit and baseball cap. Two round-faced Indian men with shaved heads and pencil beards are holding Armani t-shirts to their chests.

‘What are you doing?’ Craig asks, spotting Mark stretched out on the sofa.

‘Waiting for my personal shopper,’ he replies nonchalantly.

‘Personal shopper? What do you need that for?’

‘Because I want to get some new clothes and the personal shoppers are always fit girls. If a fit girl picks out stuff that she thinks looks good on me, then other girls will think it looks good as well. Tactics, mate.’ Mark looks past Craig at a petite blonde girl in figure-hugging black trousers who is approaching. ‘This is probably her. I’ll be about an hour. Go and look at the clothes.’

Craig turns blind and crashes straight into the girl, catching her on the nose with his elbow. She cries out and Craig grabs her by the
shoulders
to stop her tumbling over.

‘I’m really sorry,’ he says. ‘Are you OK?’

She holds her nose in her hands. ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she says, her eyes
watering. ‘Are you Mark?’

‘No, I’m Mark,’ Mark says, ushering Craig out of the way. ‘Are you the personal shopper?’

Craig backs away and slips into the shoe department.

‘Hello, Mark. I’m Charlie.’ She checks her ringed fingers for blood from her nostrils. ‘Shall we sit down?’

Charlie sits and Mark flumps down next to her. She is in her mid-twenties, has a high-pitched voice and a tattoo of a rose on her wrist. She brushes her long streaked hair away from her face and tells Mark that she only has an hour as she has another appointment at three. Mark says that he doesn’t have much time either and pinches at his skin-tight Led Zeppelin t-shirt. He says he has an awards ceremony on Tuesday and is ‘just looking for a new suit, shirt, tie and shoes, a new pair of jeans, a few new t-shirts and a belt’.

‘Slim fit suits are in this season. It looks great.’

Mark turns sideways. He can’t do up the grey jacket and the trousers stick to his legs all the way to the ankle. ‘I’m not sure,’ he says.

‘You could of course opt for something a little more traditional, but this is very stylish,’ Charlie assures him.

They are in a windowless private changing suite, no bigger than twelve feet square with full-length mirrors along the walls. Mark’s clothes are slung over a cushioned chair behind a curtain which
protrudes
from the back wall. Charlie is sitting on a chaise longue next to a pile of clothes she has selected.

Mark’s face is turning red. He undoes the collar of the shirt and loosens the skinny tie. ‘Are these trousers definitely a thirty-eight?’ he says, tugging at the waist.

‘Yes. I don’t think we have any in a forty, but I could ask.’

‘No, don’t worry.’ He tries to lift his right hand to his mouth to mimic drinking but the tightness of the jacket makes it impossible. ‘Are you sure it’s not too tight?’

‘That’s just the cut. It’s not tight.’

‘What would you think if you saw me on a night out?’

‘I’d think you were wearing a very cool suit.’

‘How much is it?’

‘That one is nine hundred.’

Mark gives himself one last look in the mirrors and sucks his
stomach
and cheeks in. ‘I’ll take the suit, but not the shirt and tie.’

‘Excellent,’ Charlie says, checking the time on her Swatch. ‘When are your awards?’

‘Tuesday. I’ve been nominated for Young Entrepreneur of the Year.’

‘Do you own your own business?’

‘Yeah,’ he says, retreating behind the curtain. ‘Foreign investments.’ His arm thrusts out holding the suit which Charlie takes and places neatly on a hanger.

Craig pops his head around the door. ‘Hi, is Mark in here?

‘I’m trying stuff on,’ he calls out from behind the curtain. ‘Go and look at the clothes.’

‘I have been.’

‘You can wait here if you like,’ Charlie says, clearing a load of
discarded
t-shirts off a chair.

‘Thanks,’ Craig says. ‘Sorry about earlier. Is your nose all right?’

‘It’s fine thank you. No lasting damage.’ She starts folding the t-shirts into a neat stack. ‘Have you not seen anything you like?’

‘No, not really. I was looking at some jeans, but they’re all a bit-’

‘Expensive!’ Mark shouts.

‘No. Not really my style,’ Craig says, looking down at his scuffed trainers.

Mark pulls back the curtain. ‘What do you reckon?’ The right leg of the jeans he is trying on is so shredded it’s practically missing. A white belt with orange studs hangs around his waist because it is too big to fit through the loops. On his top half he is wearing a shapeless Oligarch’s Oil Club t-shirt. It’s too short - so exposes his fat stomach - and has a giant silver handgun sewn across the shoulders.

‘I like it. Very, very cool,’ Charlie says.

Craig suppresses a laugh. ‘Very nice, mate. I like the t-shirt.’

‘The jeans are quality. They’re Emperors,’ Mark says, sticking out a leg to admire them.

‘Have you tried the jacket on?’ Charlie asks.

‘Yeah, it’s quality. Check this out, Craig.’ Mark gets the jacket from behind the curtain, slips it on with his back turned and zips it up to the neck.

‘Look at this.’ He turns round with his arms outstretched. The
leather biker jacket is designed to look like a tuxedo with a shirt and silver bow tie beneath.

‘It’s different,’ Craig says. ‘Who’s it made by?’

‘It’s a new brand called Money and Sense,’ Charlie says. ‘It’s a really exclusive piece. They’ve only made ten thousand. Each one is
individually
numbered with gold thread on the label.’

‘I love it. I’m having it,’ Mark says.

‘It definitely completes the look,’ Craig says.

‘Mark, I’ve got to rush off,’ Charlie says. ‘I’ll put your purchases behind the counter. ‘Next time you come in, ask for me by name.’

Mark jumps back behind the curtain and quickly puts his own clothes back on. ‘Charlie,’ he says quietly, signalling at her to come over.

‘Yes?’

Mark glances over at Craig, who is playing on his phone. ‘I was
wondering
whether you might like to have a drink sometime, or dinner?’

‘Sorry,’ she says flatly. ‘Having relationships with customers is strictly forbidden I’m afraid.’

‘I completely understand.’

‘Is there anything else I can do before I go?’

‘I did want some shoes, actually. What would you recommend?’

‘Talk to Greg in shoes, tall guy with the goatee, and ask for the new Onslow Wongboppers in whale skin. They’re hot at the moment.’

Charlie thanks Mark and wiggles out of the dressing room. She leaves the door open and Craig watches as she makes a comment to the man behind the till who starts laughing.

‘Pretty fit, don’t you think?’ Mark says.

‘Not bad. You kept staring at her. Your eyes were burning a hole in her top.’

‘I wish they had done,’ he says, tying up his plimsolls. ‘I just want to get some new shoes and I’m done.’

Mark and Craig browse the Wongbopper range. Mark picks up a grey whale skin winklepicker and asked for them in a six. The sales assistant tells him that the range starts at size seven and suggests he should check the children’s department. Craig sniggers and Mark shoves the shoe into the sales assistant’s chest:

‘Put it back. I don’t like them anyway.’

He paces over to the cash desk, picking up a Dunhill man bag on the
way, and pays the
£1,982 bill whilst Craig fingers pairs of Paul Smith socks.

Craig yawns as they sit in the window of Bean, a coffee shop on
Knights-bridge
. ‘I might have a look in Exit. I need to get a new suit. Mine’s falling apart.’

Mark puts down his mocha and picks chocolate muffin crumbs off his plate. ‘You are
not
under any circumstances buying a suit from Exit. If you buy a new suit from Exit, I’ll take it out of your wardrobe and burn it the first opportunity I get.’

‘Why are you being an idiot?’

‘It’s a shop designed for fat middle-aged men with no dress sense. An Exit suit is fine if you’re a forty-year-old door-to-door salesman from somewhere up north. No wonder you don’t sell many houses.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘People can tell if you’re wearing an Exit suit.’

‘What? No they can’t. There’s nothing wrong with Exit suits.’

‘It sends the wrong message.’

‘It doesn’t send any message.’

‘It does. Do you think successful businessmen wear Exit suits?’

‘Yes.’

‘Give me one example.’

Craig shrugs. ‘I bet the bloke who started Exit wears an Exit suit.’

‘I bet he doesn’t for that exact reason. An Exit suit says “I can’t afford a more expensive suit because I don’t earn very much money, because I’m not very good at my job”. If you looked a bit more
successful
, people would buy more houses.’

‘Why?’

‘Craig, isn’t it obvious? What’s that saying about the clothes maketh the man?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘People like associating themselves with successful people. If you have the choice between buying a house from someone who looks like they sell lots of houses or buying a house from somebody who looks like they sell no houses, you’ll choose the successful guy every time.’

‘You could wear a suit made from pure gold and you still wouldn’t have a chance of selling some of the dives I have to.’

‘You’d have more of a chance.’ Mark slurps his mocha. ‘The key to having lots of money is looking and acting like you have lots of money. Once you do that, the money will follow. How much money you actually have is irrelevant.’

‘That’s rubbish.’

‘Mate, it’s not. The more money people think you have, the more they want to give you
their
money. It’s like when a footballer or a celebrity goes to a nightclub. How many drinks do you think they buy? I’ll tell you how many - none. People are bending over backwards to buy them drinks because they’re hoping that success will somehow… rub off on them. If you turn up to a viewing wearing a top-of-the-range suit, people will be biting your hands off to buy the place. Why do people shop at Harrods? It’s not because they think they’re getting a bargain.’

‘Why do
you
shop at Humphrey and Weston?’

‘For the fit personal shoppers. Stop changing the subject. Buying a good suit is a business investment. I guarantee that if you buy a better suit you’ll sell more properties. It’s business sense.’

Mark pays for the coffees and his muffin and takes Craig over the road to Jacob Perville.

They are up on the mezzanine level overlooking the rest of the stark, minimalist shop. The air conditioning is making Craig’s eyes water. He dries them and takes a long, considered look at the dark grey suit in the mirror. It fits well and has been reduced to £290.

Mark is sitting on a pouffe with his bags at his feet. He tells Craig he should buy it. Craig doesn’t respond so he tells him it’s an absolute bargain and an investment. The Swedish sales assistant keeps quiet.