Mark bursts into Craig’s room and pulls back the duvet. It’s ten o’clock on Sunday morning and Craig is asleep, face down. His Simpsons boxer shorts have slipped below his waist. Mark shakes him by the shoulders and he moans.
‘Craig, get up.’
‘Why?’ he asks, his voice muffled by his pillow.
‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’
‘Show me later. I’m tired.’
‘We’re going out.’
‘I’m not. I need to save money.’
Craig’s eyes are red and there is a patch of dribble on his pillowcase. He turns to look up at Mark, wipes his mouth and has a drink from the glass of water by his bed.
‘What are you dressed up for?’
‘I’m taking you on a cultural day out,’ Mark says. He’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved white Ralph Lauren polo with a blue silk scarf. ‘I’ve got us two tickets to the Critical Condition of England exhibition at the Tate Modern.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s an art gallery.’
‘I know it’s an art gallery. What’s the exhibition?’
‘It’s meant to be the coolest thing in London. The tickets were expensive so get up and get ready.’
‘If the tickets were so expensive, why did you buy me one?’
‘I told you, it’s a treat.’
Craig yawns and turns onto his back. Mark stands there with his arms outstretched:
‘Craig, come on, get up.’
‘Isn’t there anyone else you’d rather go with?’
‘No. I’m asking you, and besides nobody else can make it. Now get up and have a shower. I want to leave in half an hour.’
The sun is shining but it’s not warm so Craig pulls on his sweatshirt as they walk out of Mansion House underground station and along Queen Victoria Street. Mark has been wearing sunglasses since they left the flat. They reach Peter’s Walk and Craig makes Mark wait so he can take a photo of St Paul’s Cathedral. Mark complains that he’s making them look like tourists.
As they cross the Millennium Bridge, weaving their way through an Italian tour party and stepping over a busker playing a didgeridoo, Mark hands Craig his ticket. It has COMPLIMENTARY printed where the price should be and Craig frowns as he slips it into his wallet.
The South Bank is swarming with tourists. A young female guide with a rolled-up golf umbrella is anxiously checking a map as the group of teenagers she is in charge of jostle each other and get in the way of joggers. There is a BBC crew filming outside the Globe Theatre and, just out of shot, a stall selling £8 hot dogs.
Outside the Tate, every step, ledge and grassy area is covered with people having lunch, all of them shaded by the colossal rectangular building and its towering chimney.
Mark leads Craig into the turbine hall and up the escalators to the fourth floor.
‘It looks like a factory from the outside,’ Craig says, peering up to the glass ceiling.
‘It was a power station.’
‘Oh right, I thought it was a bit of an odd design for an art gallery. Can’t we have a look at some of the other stuff first?’ Craig asks as they pass the entrance to the Beauty of Disfigurement collection.
‘There’s not much to see really mate, that’s why the main bit’s free. They keep all the good shit back for the exhibitions. Last time I came here there was some big metal slide in the main hall made from bits of scrap. I tried to go on it but it started shaking. It wasn’t very good.’
A gangly man wearing an earpiece checks their tickets and hands Mark a slim visitors’ booklet, from which he reads:
‘Critical Condition of England is a ground-breaking new exhibition showcasing six of the country’s most gifted young artists. Each was commissioned to produce an original artwork, in any form, which is a lucid reflection of modern English society. The result is a unique and captivating collection of mind-altering exhibits which examine the fragile nature of civilization and question the futility of existence in a culture obsessed with the dehumanisation of the nuclear family and the deification of celebrity iconoclasts.’
‘What does that mean?’ Craig asks.
‘Hopefully we’ll find out.’
They enter a square room with bright white walls, a high ceiling and a narrow doorway at the far end. There are only two other people in there; a pair of bald men in their fifties studying a painting on the furthest wall. To Mark and Craig’s left there is a video installation, around six feet square, and facing it, a long white bench where they sit down. The piece, entitled No Help Service, is a short film about five nurses at Stockwell Hospital who set up a brothel in a disused ward. One of the nurses claims that working in the NHS is dangerous and degrading and that it’s only by selling her body that she has regained her self-respect:
‘I became a nurse because I wanted to ease pain and suffering but cleaning wounds and emptying bedpans was demoralising. Since I’ve been sleeping with men for money, I’m changing lives in a way that I never could in my job.’
As the film ends a disclaimer pops up on the screen stating that the nurses were played by actresses and that the story is based on interviews conducted with real medical professionals which have been discarded and re-written for the purposes of entertainment.
‘So that was all completely made up then?’ Craig says as they walk towards a series of black and white photographs.
‘I don’t know. Some bits of it might be true. But there can’t be a brothel in the hospital surely? Can there?’
‘Why don’t you go to the A&E and find out?’
‘But what will I say’s wrong with me?’
‘I don’t know; say you’ve been having sexual problems and see if they take the hint.’
‘But then they might think I’m being serious and start poking around.’
‘Why don’t I break your arm like they do to the goalkeeper in Escape to Victory?’
‘Thanks for the offer mate, but I think I’ll pass.’
The ten photographs they are now standing in front of are entitled Husband v Wife. Hull. 2007. They depict a boxing match in an underground car park between an overweight man wearing a vest and boxing gloves, and his equally overweight wife who is armed with a broken bottle. In the first shot, the wife jabs at her husband’s face; in the second he is shown on his knees, bleeding. In the next four photographs he’s on the floor covering his head as she attacks him with an iron bar. In the final three shots, she stamps on his head; stands over him victorious cheered on by the sparse crowd; and loads his unconscious body into a shopping trolley.
‘This is just weird,’ Mark says. ‘In real life there’s no way she’d beat him up. He’d punch her before she could get the bottle near him.’
‘What part of this is art?’ Craig asks.
‘Let’s have a look at that painting down the end.’
The third piece in the room shows a classroom of infants being taught to read using pornographic magazines.
‘The brochure reckons this is an attack on the levels of literacy in schools,’ Mark says in a loud, bored tone.
‘It’s not even a good painting,’ Craig adds. ‘The kids’ faces are blurred and the perspective’s not quite right. The whole thing looks a bit wonky.’
‘Apparently their faces are blurred to protect their identities.’
‘Why didn’t the painter just change them?’
‘No idea.’
Mark steps away and starts tapping on his iPhone. Craig turns to him and gestures that they should go through to the next room.
‘What’s that?’ Craig says as they enter the second gallery.
In the centre of the room is a large blank canvas on an easel. Next to it, on a plinth, is a magnifying glass attached by a cord to the floor.
‘Apparently there’s a message on the canvas but it’s invisible to the naked eye,’ Mark says, reading the guide as they get closer. ‘You’ve got to use the magnifying glass to find it.’
Neither Craig nor Mark are that interested in trying to find the hidden message and give up after a few seconds.
‘What’s that mark in the bottom corner?’ Craig asks, taking the magnifying glass. ‘Ha. I’ve found it.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Imagine what?’
‘That’s all it says.’
Mark looks for himself. ‘So instead of the artist actually painting, we’re meant to imagine what he might have painted if he could have been bothered to do so.’
‘I suppose so,’ Craig says, sounding sleepy.
Mark checks the guide as they move on. ‘Bloody hell, apparently someone’s already bought it for ten grand.’
‘Ten thousand for that? That must have taken about two minutes. Why can’t anyone just do a nice painting any more?’
‘A nice painting of what?’
‘I don’t know. Some fields with a river and some trees in the background.’
‘What, a landscape?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But that’s what they did in the old days, people like Constable and Turner and Keats. I suppose it’s all been done.’
‘Do you know who I think is a good artist?’ Craig says, getting a side view of the exhibit.
‘Umm… Rolf Harris?’ Mark laughs at his own joke, and the two older men in the room glare at him.
‘I knew you were going to say that. No, the bloke who did the Angel of the North and those statues on that beach.’
‘And his name is?’
‘I can’t remember his name but I like the way he, oh, hang on-’
One of the two bald men is walking directly towards them looking stern, his tweed jacket flapping:
‘My friend and I are trying to enjoy this exhibition and would rather do so without being subjected to your childish guffawing and asinine comments, so please keep quiet.’
Mark looks at Craig who is trying not to laugh and the complainer turns to walk away.
‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’ Mark says, stopping him in his tracks.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I said, who do you think you’re talking to?’
‘I was just asking-’ he starts to counter.
‘I don’t care what you were just asking. Do you know who I am?’
‘Um, no, I don’t.’
‘My name is Mark Hunter and I’m the managing director of MenDax.’
‘MenDax?’ the man says, puzzled.
‘MenDax Wealth Management; the company paying for this exhibition. So we’ll behave however we like and if you say another word, I’ll get you banned from every art gallery in London.’
Mark glares at him and the man’s double chin wobbles as he stands too shocked to speak.
‘Come on Craig,’ says Mark, ‘I’m bored anyway. Let’s go.’
On the way out they pass a display board thanking the principal sponsors: The UK Young Artists’ Fund, MenDax Wealth Management and Spudson’s Potato Waffles.
Craig is sitting at a table outside The Hamlet Tavern on the South Bank. Mark, who has indigestion after finishing off his fish and chips in less than two minutes, is at the bar getting a second jug of lager. The wind has dropped and it’s warmer than it was earlier.
A half-full Thames Clipper cruises past and Craig leans against the railings and gazes down at the tea-coloured river as tiny waves break against the wall. In the distance, the dome of St Paul’s dominates the skyline.
Mark shuffles back through the crowd with the refilled jug and drops back down at the table.
‘Feeling any better?’ Craig asks.
‘Yeah a bit. Just trapped wind I think.’ Mark fills their glasses and takes a huge glug. ‘I like doing stuff on a Sunday. It gets a bit boring sitting around the house.’
‘Normally you’ve got a hangover.’
‘True. I was looking up reviews of the exhibition when I was sitting in the toilet.’
‘What did it say?’
‘The papers absolutely slated it. They basically said that a bunch of complete unknowns had been given a lot of money they didn’t deserve and had produced a lot of rubbish. No wonder they had so many free tickets to give away at work. The whole thing’s been a complete disaster apparently, apart from for the guy who sold the magnifying glass thing. You never know, that might turn out to be a bargain if he gets famous, although I doubt it. Did I tell you I’d invested in a couple of paintings?’
‘No,’ Craig says, surprised. ‘What are they?’
‘Abstracts, by a girl I met in a club back home. She was a student at the local art college and invited me along to her graduate show. They were five hundred quid, together, but they’re pretty good. Here, I’ll show you, I’ve got pictures on my phone.’
They are paintings of geometric circles. The first is one large overlapping pattern within a square, predominantly blue and yellow, on a white background. The second is of twelve smaller circles, four rows of three, which are a variety of green, orange and pink.
‘I quite like them actually,’ Craig says. ‘They look like those drawings you used to do with a Spirograph.’
‘That’s what she uses.’
‘Really? You paid all that for two paintings done with a Spirograph?’
‘Yeah, but she’s a proper artist, that’s the difference. And she was fit.’
‘So that was the reason.’
‘Yeah, but she said she had a boyfriend. I saw her in town last time I went home funnily enough.’
‘What was she doing, selling her Spirograph prints to gullible people in a shopping centre?’
‘No, she was in Café Nero. Working.’
Craig laughs. ‘Her art career’s really taken off then?’
‘Mate, in twenty years those paintings could be worth millions.’
‘Why don’t you put them up in the flat? We could use a bit of colour on the walls.’
‘I’d worry about them getting damaged. Anyway I can’t remember where I’ve hidden them.’
A train crosses Blackfriars Railway Bridge and pulls into the station as Craig stares out across the river at City of London School.
‘I’ll be in Café Nero soon if work doesn’t get any better,’ he says.
‘Still bad then?’
‘It varies. Sometimes it’s all right, but you never know how it’s going to be from one day to the next. It’s just hard to plan to do anything because you never know how much money you’re going to be earning each month. It all depends on who walks through the door.’
‘The market’s taken a hit recently, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose it has thinking about it.’ Craig sips his beer and looks at Mark. ‘There aren’t any jobs going at your place are there?’ he asks timidly.
‘Jobs?’ Mark puffs out his cheeks, tilts his head back and exhales.
‘Yeah.’
‘For you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not sure really, mate. I could have a word in the post room.’
‘Mark, I’m not working in the post room.’
‘Why not? They get pretty well paid.’
‘Isn’t there anything else I could do?’
‘The problem is, mate, you’re not really qualified any more.’
‘What do you mean I’m not qualified? I’ve got a better degree than you.’
‘We’ve got the same degree.’
‘I got a 2.1, remember?’
‘Yeah, but I’ve got finance qualifications now.’
‘Since when?’
‘I’ve got two.’
‘What are they then?’
‘Just things I’ve been doing through work. Online mainly… and a couple of exams.’
‘How comes I’ve not seen you studying?’
‘I either do it at work or when I get home. You’re always back from work so late it’s no surprise you’ve never seen me. I’ll show you the certificates if you don’t believe me,’ Mark says.
‘No, no, I believe you, it’s OK.’
‘Anyway you haven’t got any relevant experience either.’
‘Nor had you when you started.’
‘Well, yes, but…’ Mark tops up Craig’s glass. ‘Look I’ll tell you what, I’ll have a word with my boss and if anything comes up I’ll recommend you, OK? I can’t do any more than that.’
‘Thanks. That’s all I’m asking for.’
‘No problem.’
Mark guzzles down the rest of his pint and burps quietly into his fist. ‘I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be at the London office for anyway,’ he says.
‘How come?’
‘I’m thinking of going abroad.’
‘When?’
‘In a year or so, perhaps.’
‘Oh, OK. I thought you were going to tell me you were moving out.’
‘No, not for a while. Don’t worry; I’ll give you plenty of notice.’ Mark pours himself another full pint. ‘My plan is to stay in London for the next year or two and then get a transfer to one of the other MenDax offices abroad.’
‘Where were you thinking?’
‘Well, preferably New York or my second choice would be Sydney, to help set up the new office there. I don’t want to go to Europe or the Middle East.’
‘Why not?’
‘I want to go somewhere they can speak my language and where there’ll be loads of fit women I can marry.’
‘If you want to marry more than one woman you’ll have to go to the Middle East.’
‘You know what I mean. Australian girls are all fit because they go to the beach every day so they have to keep in shape, and everyone says women in New York will sleep with anyone with an English accent.’
‘I’m sure they’d make an exception for you.’
‘Yes, ha ha.’ Mark yawns and scratches his chin. ‘It might all change but that’s the plan anyway. I’ll see where I am at the end of this year, but as long I’m earning more than a hundred grand, I’m content to stay with MenDax. If not, I’ll have to assess my options.’
‘A hundred grand?’ Craig says, his mouth hanging open.
‘That’s not that much mate, it’s actually less than I’m worth. For someone like me, at this stage in my career, I’ve got to be earning over a certain salary, it’s as simple as that. In fact, let me have a little bet with you. If I’m not earning over a hundred thousand by the end of the year, I’ll pay your rent in January.’
‘I’m not interested in betting, Mark.’
‘You haven’t got to give me anything. And I will pay it you know.’
‘Mark, I don’t care.’
‘Fair enough. But I’m still going to do it. It’ll give me a bit of extra motivation. What’s wrong with you anyway? You’ve been very boring recently.’
‘I’ve just been tired, mate. I’ve not exactly had a lot of time to have fun.’
The boys look on as a tall young man in an Imperial College Rowing Club hoody walks past.
‘Do you ever wish we were back at university?’ Craig asks.
‘No, definitely not. Do you?’
‘Umm, well, yes. When I’m at work I do.’
‘I don’t miss it at all.’
‘Not even being able to go and get smashed and get up whenever you want?’
‘I probably go out and get smashed more now. In fact I enjoy it more now because only the hardened drinkers stay out late.’
‘But don’t you miss being able to do pretty much whatever you wanted?’
‘I still do whatever I want.’
‘No you don’t. You’re contracted to turn up to work five days a week.’
‘Yeah, but I’d rather do that and have plenty of money than sit around all day doing nothing, worrying about how to pay for stuff.’
‘I thought your parents paid for everything?’
‘They weren’t paying for my drinks. At least they thought they weren’t. I’ve honestly never been more bored in my entire life than I was at uni. Nothing happened. Ever. I know it was a bit different for you because you had the football team and all your other mates but I didn’t have any of that. I think they make the drinks cheap in uni bars because alcohol’s the only thing stopping most students from topping themselves.’
‘That kid in halls in the first year did, didn’t he?’
‘He’d probably run out of money to get drunk and couldn’t see the point any more. I don’t blame him.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Mark says, shrugging. ‘I think people that miss being students are either lazy or scared of the real world, or a mixture of the two.’
‘Yeah, but I’m not lazy or scared of the real world; I just don’t like my job.’
‘That’s three reasons then. Anyone who spends their lives on a university campus is just trying to avoid life, and that’s impossible.’
‘But you can try different things and meet interesting people. You don’t have a boss breathing down your neck the whole time.’
‘Do you know how many interesting people I met at uni? None.’
‘I’m sorry I’m not more interesting,’ Craig says half-offended.
‘I don’t mean you, obviously. I mean other people. Everyone goes on about university this or university that, but I don’t understand it. If my only ambition was to do nothing apart from drink and sit watching DVDs all day then I’d probably miss it loads, but since we left I’ve never once thought “Oh I’d love to be a student again”. The only time I think about it is when I have a day off sick and I sit around the house on my own watching TV, and all that reminds me of is how fucking dull it was.’
‘You didn’t seem to dislike it that much at the time.’
‘True, but I never knew what it was like to have a good job.’
‘I still don’t.’ Craig looks up at the sky. ‘But at least we had some freedom, and the feeling we could do literally anything or go anywhere.’
‘Yes, but we never had enough money to do anything good. It’s not like we could have just hopped on a plane to Rio. You can have as much freedom as you like but without money it’s meaningless. You might as well be locked up. Anyway mate, enough of this depressing chat, have I told you I’m going on a date with a model this week?’