Clapham Lights (3 page)

‘So, what’s your name?’ Mark asks, lurching towards her.

‘Um, Jenny,’ she says, pushing her fringe away from her eyes.

‘That’s a good name. You’ve got a pretty face.’

‘Thanks,’ she says, dispassionately.

‘Have you got a boyfriend?’

‘No.’ She avoids eye contact and slides the sambuca bottle back into its holster.

Mark picks up his card. ‘Why don’t you take-’

‘That’s eighteen pounds,’ she cuts in, ‘and I don’t want your card.’

‘I wasn’t, I was just-’

‘And you can stop looking down my top as well,’ she snaps. ‘Who’s paying for these?’

Mark slips the card back into his wallet. ‘It’s your round, Ian. I’m going for a piss.’ He picks up his jacket and barges his way to the  toilets.

A loud west African man is perched on a stool beside the sinks
hawking
a collection of aftershaves and hair products.

‘Freshunup boss? No Armani, no poonani. Chewing gum boss?’ he says as Mark washes his hands.

‘Yeah, cheers.’ Mark helps himself to a stick of gum. ‘How much?’

‘Two quid boss.’

‘Sorry, I haven’t got any change.’ He drops a £5 note onto the silver dish.

There is pathetic whimpering coming from behind a cubicle door:

‘Someone call an ambulance. I think I’ve had a heart attack. Bog man, please, anyone.’

It’s Justin. Mark peeks under the door but leaves him there.

Back in the bar, Ian is passed out on the table, his head amongst the bottles. Mark swerves past two drunk women screaming at each other, takes a wad of notes from his pocket and heads for the exit. Outside, he hails a black cab and tells the driver to take him back to Clapham.

T
he electric gate’s sensor isn’t working so Craig has to get out of the car in the rain and type the entry code. When the gate slowly clunks into life, he edges forward into the car park of The Block, Wall Street, the converted Victorian orphanage where he and Mark share a flat. The building, advertised on a banner outside as ‘a development of luxury 2, 3 and 4 bedroom modern urban living experiences’, is
illuminated
by security lights and surrounded by tall railings.

Mark’s Audi TT is in the flat’s allocated space so Craig parks in a guest spot. He grabs his two Asda bags, locks the car and enters their block through a doorway which still has the original INFANTS stone pediment. He checks their post box in the communal hallway and takes the lift to the sixth floor.

Craig lets himself into the flat, kicks his shoes off on the polished wood floor and turns on the spotlights in the living room. A pile of unopened post has been left on the dining table and Mark has scrawled a note saying he’s gone to Manchester on urgent business and won’t be back until tomorrow.

A forty-inch flat screen television sits on a stand in the far right-hand corner facing two blue three-seater sofas arranged in an L-shape. French doors lead out onto a roof terrace which overlooks the gloomy streets of Battersea.

Craig switches on the television. Italy are beating France two-nil in the European Championships and the game is in injury time. He scans through the onscreen TV guide and deletes reminders for
Ross Kemp on Gangs
and
Getting Hard with Danny Dyer.

He drapes his tie over the back of a chair and goes into his bedroom, which is off the hallway. He hangs up his suit and changes into a pair of bright red football shorts and an ill-fitting polo shirt that has ‘University of Eastern England Cambridge, Tour of Ireland, 2005’ stitched on the
chest and ‘Tennant 11’ printed on the back. His bed is immaculately made.

Craig’s portable television, DVD player and midi hi-fi system sit on an Ikea desk to the right of his bed. On a shelf above the desk are CDs – Keane, Coldplay, The Killers, Snow Patrol – and DVDs –
The Godfather
box set,
American Pie
,
The Office
,
Van Wilder
,
Apocalypse Now
,
Anchorman
. All seven Harry Potter novels are lined up in chronological order on the bedside table, next to his radio alarm clock. He pulls the blind down over the wide rectangular window facing the bed, flicks off the light in his en suite shower room and goes into the kitchen, which adjoins the living room.

Craig wipes the marble work surfaces with a cloth from one of the two sinks and turns on the oven. The huge American fridge smells
rancid
. An uneaten bag of salad in Mark’s half has turned to slush and there is mould growing on a lump of cheddar on the top shelf of the door. Craig throws them both in the bin and empties his shopping bags.

He puts a discounted spaghetti carbonara ready meal to one side and packs away the two half-price loaves of granary bread, and the Asda own-brand baked beans, frosted flakes, peanut butter, tomato soup and instant noodles.

He then unloads the dishwasher and eats the only thing in the fruit bowl - a bruised apple.

A distorted version of
Mr Brightside
starts playing in his room and he rushes to answer his mobile. It’s his mum. He puts her on speaker and rips the ready meal out of its packaging. Janet Tennant has a strong Norfolk accent and complains that Craig sounds distant.

He punctures the cellophane top of the pasta tray with a fork and explains that he has just got back from work. His mum bombards him with questions: Is he OK? Has he been eating properly? Why is he
working
so late?

Craig says that he’s fine, and that she knows why he has to work late because the only people with enough money to buy houses are at work during the day. He gets a blast of hot air in the face as he opens the oven door and slides in the pasta tray.

Craig asks if his dad is there, but he is out playing table tennis. He says he might have to borrow some more money until next month. There is silence on the other end of the line and Craig checks his mum is still there.

She asks how his job hunting is going. He says that he hasn’t had any time to look. Janet says that it might look better on his CV if he waits a few extra months until he has done two years at Cinq. Craig says he doesn’t want to work there for another week let alone three months. He pretends the oven’s timer is buzzing and says he has to go. Janet says she loves him and asks when he is coming home next. He says he isn’t sure.

After he finishes scraping the spaghetti carbonara’s melted container off the inside of the oven, Craig makes himself a corned beef sandwich and sits down at the table with Mark’s MacBook. After several failed attempts to get onto the internet, he goes to the
Guardian
Jobs website but gets stuck when he has to type something in the position wanted box. After five minutes of inactivity he clicks on the Norwich City FC
website
and then Facebook, where he searches for Hannah Fox. He pauses before requesting to become her friend and then looks at her pictures. In one photo she has her arms wrapped around a tall, handsome man on a beach. Craig scowls, goes back to her profile - where her relationship status isn’t given - and logs off.

He takes the laptop back into Mark’s room and pushes it under the pile of
GQ
and
Nuts
magazines on the desk. Next to the magazines are a red lever arch file marked ‘Business’, a copy of
Billionaire before Breakfast
and a scrunched KitKat wrapper.

Mark’s duvet is in a heap in the middle of his king size bed and the pillows are crushed against the headboard, below a poster of Mohammed Ali. There are crumpled t-shirts and jeans strewn all over the place and a wet towel has been dumped on top of a navy and pink dressing gown by the en suite bathroom. The sliding doors of Mark’s double wardrobes are open and the top drawer of the oak chest overflows with pairs of
Calvin
Klein boxer shorts and multi-coloured Paul Smith socks.

The right half of the wardrobe is chaotic. There are sloppily-hung stripy Jack Wills shirts, a mound of Diesel jeans - some still with their labels on - a mass of polo shirts, five dull v-neck All Saints
jumpers
, a mountain of hoodies - the top one of which has JW VARSITY REGATTA sewn on the front in oversized letters - and two
Abercrombie
and Fitch gilets. Craig slides the door open further and switches on the wardrobe’s light.

The floor is covered with footwear: Adidas ballet shoes, synthetic
split-toe Nikes, Paul Smith sneakers and Converse baseball shoes, as well as a pair of hi-top Nike Air Jordans. There are also three pairs of
Havaianas
flip-flops and some unworn Timberland boots.

Craig looks at the belts hanging inside the door. He tries on a blue plastic number, fixes it on the tightest setting and holds it around his waist like a hula hoop. There’s a new mustard-coloured Burberry on its own hook - the Humphrey and Weston label says £225.

Craig moves the doors across and peers into the other side. Mark’s collection of pinstripe suits takes up half the rail; the rest is stuffed with Windsor-collared work shirts. Craig pulls out a blue one with a bright white collar and cuffs, and laughs. There are four pairs of elongated dress shoes on the floor, one of which is snakeskin. Craig returns the doors to their starting positions.

The light on the television on the wall facing the bed is blinking so he presses the standby button on the control and it flickers into life. He takes two steps back and stands transfixed at the paused image on the screen: A pale, scrawny man with a ponytail is being ridden in a disabled toilet by a woman with one arm.

It’s eleven p.m. Craig yawns as he switches off the lights in the hall and double locks the front door. He brushes his teeth and changes into tartan pyjama bottoms, which are too short for his legs, before selecting a shirt and tie and hanging them on his wardrobe door. The radio alarm is set for six fifty-five. He flops down onto his bed and reaches for
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.
He opens the hardcover, runs his finger over the author’s signature and sniffs it.

Sunlight is pouring in through the blinds as the radio alarm clock starts buzzing and Craig’s stunned face pops up from under the duvet. He has his book in one hand and a pocket torch in the other. He marks page 117, throws the torch on the floor and rolls out of bed.

‘Oh my god, oh my god,’ he keeps repeating as he shuffles around. He slips off his pyjama bottoms and stands under the power shower, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed and his chin resting on his chest. He pours Lynx Africa shower gel over his head, letting it slide down his face and body and when there are no more suds in his hair, he steps onto the bath mat and checks himself in the mirror. There are bags
under his eyes and he has a glowing red spot below his bottom lip.

He covers his face in foam and shaves off his non-existent beard. He then dries his hair and face, pulls on a pair of boxer shorts and replaces the cream tie he had picked out with a sober navy one.

After brushing his teeth, he applies a small amount of wax to his hair and gives his work shoes a wipe with yesterday’s socks.

In the kitchen he can barely keep his eyes open as he scoffs a bowl of Mark’s Coco Pops and gulps down two cans of Red Bull. He checks his watch and traipses down to the car.

‘Sorry I’m late, sorry I’m late,’ Craig says as he charges into the Cinq team meeting. The rest of the twenty-two-strong sales team are sitting in a scattered semi-circle facing Christian D’Souza, who is standing at the back of the office holding a clipboard. He has his hair slicked back and is wearing a purple shirt and tie combination. Everyone stares at Craig.

‘Craig, how the bollock can you be late? You only live five minutes away. Sit down.’

As Craig pulls up a chair at the back, Christian continues:

‘As I was saying, I expect you to be booking in at least twenty-five viewings a day this week, minimum,
absolute minimum.
A new member of staff who shall remain nameless,
Danny
,’ he says, looking at Danny, ‘asked me what to do if you’re asked a question you don’t know the answer to. It’s simple: make something up. Be creative. Selling houses isn’t about what you know; it’s about knowing what you don’t know. If you don’t know something, but can say something you don’t know in a way that makes it sound like you know, the mug you’re saying it to won’t know whether you know or not. Always give the customer the answer you think they want to hear.

‘Remember the golden rules of sales. One: never take no for an answer. And two: never, ever, stop talking. The more you talk, the better. It makes you sound intelligent and reassures the customers you’re on the ball. It really doesn’t matter what you say because most of the time they aren’t listening anyway. As I say every week; everyone that walks in here has money to burn. It’s your job to make them burn it.

‘Moving on, team, I’ve got last week’s sales figures. Some of you have done very well. Others have been piss poor.’

Christian makes each one of the sales team stand up in turn. If
they’ve hit their target they get a round of applause and a Krispy Kreme doughnut. If they have fallen short, as Craig has, they’re made to stand at the front whilst Christian makes the rest of the staff shout abuse and shower them with balls of paper. A new girl, Vicky, gets hit in the eye and runs to the toilets crying. Craig takes his punishment passively.

‘I’ve emailed you all this week’s Shit List,’ Christian continues. ‘For those new members of staff, these are the twenty worst properties on our books. Frankly they aren’t fit for,’ he pauses, ‘they aren’t fit for
paedophiles
, that’s how rank they are. If by some magic you can let or sell one of them you’ll get a twenty pound JD Sports voucher. That should focus your minds.’ Christian checks his clipboard.

‘Next item on the agenda; this week’s starters and leavers. You’ve probably noticed a few new faces in the office already. I’d like you all to welcome Fraser, Ian, Kate, Jermaine, Anthony, Mishbah, Kirsten and sorry I’ve forgotten your name.’ He points at a shy-looking girl with a straight fringe.

‘Isabel,’ she murmurs.

‘And Isabel of course.’ There is a muted round of applause. ‘If anyone phones up and asks for Tim Spoons, Katherine Ward-Hart, Fu Chang, Sam Carmichael, Mo Akmal, Kirsty Levanthal or LeBron McTavish, they no longer work here, so tell whoever wants them to get lost, unless they want to buy a house. Right I think that’s just about it.’ Christian flips over the page. ‘Oh sorry I forgot to say, the prize for this week’s top sales person is an all-expenses paid trip for one to Legoland Windsor. A knockout prize. I can tell you’ll all be competing hard for that.

‘One last thing; as Craig was late this morning he has to buy a
Star-bucks
for everyone, so leave your orders with him and he’ll run off like a good boy and get them. Actually Craig, do you want to tell us what you were up to last night as you so rudely interrupted the meeting? You look like shit. Out on the lash were you?’

They’re all looking at him again.

‘No. I didn’t get much sleep and it took me a while to get ready. Sorry.’

‘Don’t lie to us, Craig. I can smell the booze from here.’

‘That must be coming from someone else.’

‘Well what
were
you doing then?’

‘I was… I was reading and lost track of time.’

There are sniggers and confused looks amongst the staff.

‘
Reading
? Are you ill?’

Craig pays the £88.36 coffee bill on his credit card and trudges back to the office carrying the drinks in a cardboard box.