‘Get 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.
‘OK. I’ll take it,’ Craig says decisively.
At the till, he pushes his Norwich and Peterborough Building Society debit card into the machine. There is an air conditioning unit right above the counter and tears are streaming down his face as he enters his pin.
‘How many days do I have to return this?’ he asks as he takes the receipt.
‘You have twenty-eight days from the day of purchase to return the items.’
‘And what time do you open on Monday morning?’
‘Thanks.’
Mark is looking at women’s handbags by the front door.
‘Ready to go?’ Craig asks.
‘Yes, mate. You must be pleased,’ he says checking out the suit carrier in Craig’s hand. ‘I was tempted to get one myself.’
‘I don’t think they had your size,’ Craig says. ‘Look mate, I might head home. I need some sleep if we’re going out later.’
Knightsbridge is now damp and chilly. Most of the shoppers and tourists have disappeared down into the tube station or off on buses, and the traffic has eased. Two black Mercedes and a Lexus wait at the temporary traffic lights. The workmen digging up the road have gone, leaving piles of smashed tarmac cordoned off behind mesh fences.
Mark stops outside Vision Electrical and says he wants to have a look at a new television for the living room. Craig says he’ll meet him back at the flat and makes him promise that he won’t buy anything without running it by him first. Mark talks him into taking a couple of his bags home because they are digging into his hands.
A security guard informs Mark that the shop will be closing in ten minutes so he whizzes around the displays of stereos and laptops and gets to the televisions.
An entire wall of the store is covered from the floor to the ceiling by flat screen and plasma televisions ranging from twenty inches in size upwards, all HD ready. They simultaneously broadcast BBC News, Sky Sports News or a promotional video for Sky played on loop. Mark stands in awe. Behind him a row of smaller televisions are all playing Aladdin. He turns and watches it for a few seconds before spinning back to the larger screens.
He walks to the far end of the display, spellbound. In front of him is a colossal Humomi C-Max with a laminated sheet of A4 stuck on the top left corner advertising a ‘Managers Special. Was £1,599, Now £1,199. Free Blu-Ray disc player. 1080p true high definition. 32p Tru Cinema technology. Virtual Dolby® Surround and BDE ViV9 sound’. He takes two steps back and studies it intently.
*
The queue outside Fire Bombs stretches up Clapham High Street as far as NatWest bank. A group of drunk girls in high heels totter their way along the pavement behind three shaven-headed boys wearing FCUK t-shirts and drinking Stella. As they join the back of the line, one of the boys walks into a girl with glasses, knocking her against the window of Snappy Snaps. Another ten people are let in. At the front are a group of twenty or so rugby players dressed identically in embroidered club shirts, navy ties and jeans.
Two fake-tanned girls with obvious hair extensions get out of a taxi and go straight past the bouncers and in through the red and black doors.
‘I’m not waiting here,’ Mark says. He steps over the barrier and walks to the front with Craig in tow. Two bouncers - one with a gold tooth and the other with corn rows - stand between them and the doors. Mark tells the one with corn rows that he and Craig are VIPs and shakes his hand, sliding a £20 note into his palm. The bouncer takes the money and lets them pass.
The pair pay the £10 entrance fee to a woman sitting in a perspex booth and walk up to another set of bouncers who stab their tickets onto spikes and search them. Mark winces as gloved hands run over his white Armani shirt and up and down his new jeans.
The club smells of Red Bull and disinfectant and has a dull red glow emanating from the lights over the bars which line the main room. Shut Up by the Black Eyed Peas is pumping out and Mark leads Craig to a bar overlooking the mass of bobbing heads on the dance floor.
He orders two pints of lager, four bottles of Smirnoff Ice and two double Aftershocks from a moody barmaid who doesn’t speak much English. They down the Aftershocks, which make Craig shiver, and stand at a table facing the bar. Mark glugs his first Smirnoff Ice and points to a girl whose boobs are almost falling out of her top.
‘Come on, let’s get spastic,’ he says, throwing the empty plastic bottle on the floor. ‘Turbo shandy.’ He downs half his pint and refills it with his other Smirnoff Ice.
Craig does the same and forces the drink down, beating Mark by a couple of seconds.
Mark pushes his way past a hen party wearing matching bunny ears and dancing to Rehab and joins the queue outside the toilet. He leans against the wall and tries to keep his eyes open. It is almost one a.m. A bouncer forces his way out of the toilets dragging a semi-conscious teenager by the head. The skinny youth’s dragon motif shirt is covered in sick and he has blood streaming from his ear. Mark says ‘twat’ under his breath.
The toilet is claustrophobic and reeks of sick. Mark spits into the urinal when he has finished and washes his hands. There are the usual range of aftershaves, chewing gums and mouthwashes next to the sink, but no attendant sitting on the stool. He has a quick glance behind him and takes two sticks of chewing gum and an orange lolly. He drops £1 onto the coin tray and takes £3 change.
The deep bass of the music makes the dance floor vibrate as Mark crosses it half-pretending to dance. He stumbles into one of the rugby team, who glares at him, and is then slapped on the bottom by a woman with a nose ring. He fends her off and shuffles back towards Craig, who is talking to a girl.
Mark takes a diversion to the bar and orders a bottle of champagne and four glasses. The barman uncorks a 2007 Ron Perpignan.
Mark puts the bottle in his mouth, picks up the glasses and charges over to the table. Craig takes the bottle and rolls his eyes at Hannah.
‘Mark, this is Hannah,’ he says. ‘From work.’
Mark dives in and kisses her on the cheek. Her thickly-mascaraed eyes are bright and piercing. She is wearing red patent shoes, skinny jeans and a tight black vest top.
‘Would you like some champagne? Me and Craig are celebrating,’ Mark says, overfilling the first glass so it spills over the table.
‘No, thanks,’ Hannah replies, backing away from him. ‘My friends are at the bar.’
She taps Craig on the chest with her clutch bag, gives him a lingering kiss on the cheek and tells him to come and find her later.
The boys watch her melt into the dark throng on the dance floor.
‘She’s fit,’ Mark says, drinking more champagne. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about her?’
‘I have told you about her. She’s just broken up with her boyfriend.’
‘What are you waiting for then?’
‘I don’t know.’
Craig is approached by a girl with a long narrow face, black curly hair and oversized gums:
‘I’ve been watching you all night. I think you’re hot.’
‘Are you joking?’ Craig mumbles, drowned out by music. His mouth is hanging open and he’s spilling his WKD on the floor. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Amanda,’ she says in his ear.
‘Mander. I like your make-up,’ he says, referring to the mauve smudges around her eyes.
‘Thanks.’ She reaches for his hand. ‘Do you live around here?’
‘Clapham Junction.’
‘Is that your housemate?’ she asks, pointing at Mark who is with her friend at the bar.
‘Yeah it is.’
‘Have you had a lot to drink?’
‘Loads. I don’t feel very well.’
‘How are you getting home?’
‘Dunno.’ He closes his eyes and breathes slowly.
Mark comes over and pats Craig on the back. ‘Your mate just slapped me in the face,’ he slurs at Amanda.
‘What did you do?’ Craig holds onto the table for balance.
‘I told her she had a beard.’ Mark bursts out laughing, trips over his own feet and cracks his head on a chair. He sits on the floor rubbing his bump and Craig helps him up.
He convulses and holds an empty pint glass to his mouth. He brings up a mouthful of watery bile and runs towards the exit, bursting through a group of girls dressed as policewomen.
‘Do you want to go after your mate?’ Amanda asks Craig, running her hand over his groin.
‘No.’
‘Shall we go back to mine?’
‘I think I need to go home.’
‘You can come back to mine, it’s close.’ Amanda brings her face to his and kisses him.
‘I really need some water,’ he says, wiping his mouth.
Craig sees Hannah approaching over Amanda’s shoulder and steps away from her, taking her hands from his chest.
‘Are you OK?’ Amanda asks.
She turns and gazes straight at Hannah who stops dead and looks dumbfounded. Craig lurches towards her, his feet dragging:
‘Han, please, don’t walk off,’ he pleads.
‘I just came to say I’m going. How much have you had to drink, Craig?’
‘Please don’t go, Han, I wanttatalktoyou-’
‘Craig, I can’t understand what you’re saying. Your friend’s staring at us. You can’t leave her on her own.’
‘She’s not my friend. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-’
‘What are you apologising for? See you on Monday.’
Craig leans in for a kiss, but Hannah sways back.
‘I don’t think so, Craig.’
‘Sorry, Han I-’
‘I’m going home.’
Mark clasps his McDonald’s bag to his chest and stumbles along the edge of Clapham Common. It is a mild night and after trying to hail a bus, he sits down on a bench next to a tree.
‘I’m not a gay,’ he shouts to nobody. ‘Don’t try and be gay with me or I’ll fight you.’
A black cab with its light on drives past and Mark shouts ‘OIIIIIIIAAAAHHHHHH’ at the top of his voice and then says ‘I hope you crash,’ when it doesn’t stop. He tears open the bag and spreads his haul over the bench.
He eats the two hamburgers first and then the nine nuggets and large fries, sucking on a large chocolate milkshake as he goes. Once he’s finished, he screws the bag up and throws it in the bin next to him. He sits with his head between his legs and then twists into the foetal position on the bench. Seconds later he lifts his head and vomits thick lumps of undigested burger, nugget and brown milkshake all over the footpath. He spits out thick strands of mucus and then coughs up more sick.
A fox skips up to the bench and starts nosing around the bin. It sniffs Mark’s vomit, gives it a lick and scampers off across the road in the direction of Clapham Old Town. Mark gets to his feet and apologises for the mess.
The clock on Mark’s iPhone says 3.57 a.m. and the sky is getting lighter. It has been a few minutes since a car last passed along Lavender Hill.
Mark tries to break into Planet Pizza by kicking the door but ends up in a heap on the pavement holding his foot.
He limps along to the phone box at the top of his road and picks off a collection of prostitutes’ calling cards. He discards a couple immediately and calls ‘Roxy’ who is dressed as a schoolgirl. There’s no answer. Next he rings ‘Angel’ who is dressed in leather and practices ‘BDSM 4 U’. Again, no answer. The last card he tries is ‘Black Beauty’ who is a massive brown backside in a G-string.
‘Hello, can I have sex with you, please?’ he says in a slow, infantile voice.
‘I can. How much does it cost?’ he waits for the answer.
‘That’s good value. Cheaper than Asda. You’ve got good business sense.
‘Sorry,’ Mark says, spitting on the floor, again, ‘I had the taste of sick in my mouth.
‘Sorry, did you say you’re in Battersea?
‘Do I have to come to yours? Can’t you come over?
‘I’ve got a really cool flat.
‘Don’t get angry… Yes I am serious. If I come over will you cook me something to eat afterwards? Have you got pizza?
‘Can I order a pizza and get it delivered?
‘I can. What’s your address?’ Mark pats his pockets.
‘Sorry I haven’t got a pen. I’m in the street. Can you text it to me? My number is,’ he slumps forward with his head pressed against the box’s glass side, ‘I think it’s… I can’t remember, sorry. I’ve been drinking. I’ve got an iPhone. Are you on Facebook? My name’s Mark Hunter. Facebook me the address and I’ll… hello… hello…’
*
The curtains open and Craig tugs the duvet towards his head.
‘Would you like some water?’
He groans and takes a fleeting look at Amanda, who’s sitting topless on the edge of the bed. She has small breasts with puffy nipples and pale, bony shoulders. Her straggly hair is tied back and her eye make-up is even more smeared.
‘Yes, can I have some water please? My mouth’s so dry,’ he says, shielding his eyes from the sun.
She strokes his face. ‘Have you got a headache?’
‘Yes, terrible.’
Amanda covers herself with a dressing gown and leaves Craig in the tiny bedroom. There’s an ashtray full of cigarette butts on the bedside table and Slipknot posters everywhere. He sprawls out of bed and pulls the curtains shut. He then fishes his boxer shorts off the floor and slips them on.
Amanda comes back holding a glass of water and a box of paracetamol. Craig thanks her and they sit there in silence whilst he swallows two tablets and finishes off his drink.
She then removes her dressing gown and gets back into bed. ‘Do you feel too ill to stay for a little while longer?’
Craig sneezes. ‘Err… I need to go home, quickly,’ he says, gathering up his jeans and t-shirt. ‘My parents are coming over.’
Amanda looks disappointed and takes her hands out of her pyjama bottoms. ‘Are you doing anything later? I’m going to the pub with my friends.’
‘I’m with my parents, I’m afraid.’
‘Are you doing anything later this week?’
‘I’m pretty busy with work this week, sorry,’ he says, not looking at her.
‘Where do you work?’
‘On Lavender Hill. What do you do?’
‘I work for BP. On Balham High Road.’
‘I didn’t know BP had an office in Balham.’
‘Oh, no, it’s not an office. It’s the petrol station. I work in the Wild Bean Café.’
‘I thought I recognised you from somewhere.’ Craig tucks his t-shirt into his jeans and ties up his trainers.
‘I’ll text you,’ Amanda says, as Craig looks longingly at the open door.
‘Yeah, sure. Sorry, but I’ve really got to go.’
The entry system is buzzing. Craig runs out of his bedroom soaking wet with a towel around his waist and picks up the receiver. He gives instructions about how to get in and goes back to his room to get dressed.
There’s a commotion in the hallway and when Craig opens the front door he sees two bulky men struggling to carry a giant rectangular box from the stairwell.
‘Mark Hunter?’ the nearest one asks, a vein bulging from his forehead.
‘No, I’m his flatmate,’ Craig says, standing in the doorway. ‘What’s this?’
‘His new TV. Give us a hand would you?’
Craig supports the huge box in the middle as the delivery men carefully manoeuvre into the flat, taking tiny stuttering steps. The box is laid down in the middle of the living room, taking up most of the floor.
‘Sorry, but are you sure you’ve brought the right TV?’
The man with the bulging vein wipes his hands on his yellow t-shirt and takes a delivery note from his cargo trousers. ‘Mark Hunter, yeah?’
‘Yes.’
‘One hundred and six-inch Humomi C-Max. Next day delivery and installation.’ He passes the sheet of paper. ‘We don’t normally do Sundays mate, but this was an emergency apparently. You’ll need to sign that for us once we’re done.’
Craig sighs. ‘OK.’
‘Good,’ the delivery man says. ‘I’m fucking glad it weren’t the wrong one because there’s no way I’m lugging this thing back down the stairs.’
The other man, who is wearing black boots and has a beard, slices open the box with a pocket knife. ‘Where’s it going?’
‘I suppose where the TV is at the moment,’ Craig says looking over to the corner of the room where the current screen sits.
‘It won’t fit in that corner, mate. It’ll come too far out into the room. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll set it up and leave it against the double doors and you can move it wherever you like.’
‘Err, yeah, sure,’ Craig says. ‘What’s happening to the old TV?’
‘That’s nothing to do with us, mate. You’ll need to move it though so we have space to work in. We’ll be done in about half an hour. You’ve got Sky haven’t you?’
‘Sky Plus.’
‘We’ll sort it all out for you. Any chance of a cup of tea?’
Craig signs the note and tells the men the exit code for the gate. He closes the door and stomps back into the living room. The new television is stationed in front of the French doors, blocking out most of the natural light and casting a shadow across the room. He turns it off and sweeps up the fragments of cardboard and polystyrene that litter the floor. He brushes the mess into the bin and throws the dustpan and brush into the cleaning cupboard.
The front door slams and Mark bounces into the living room carrying three Selfridges bags. ‘It’s here. Quality.’ He picks up the remote controls and turns on MTV Base.
‘Ah, I’m glad you’re back,’ Craig calls sarcastically from the kitchen.
‘Hello, mate. I didn’t know you were here.’
‘It’s a good job I was.’ He stands next to Mark who is flicking through the Sky Sports channels. ‘I’m not happy.’
‘Not happy? Why? What’s wrong?’
‘What do you think?’
‘You don’t like the TV I take it. What’s wrong with it?’
‘Mate, look at it. It’s far too big for the room. It looks stupid.’
‘No it doesn’t. It looks great. You’re just grumpy because you’ve got a hangover.’
‘No I’m not. How are we meant to get onto the terrace?’
‘We’ll move it.’
‘Where? It can’t go in the corners because of the sloping ceiling and it can’t stay where it is because it blocks the doors.’
‘We’ll put it there,’ Mark says, pointing to the side wall. ‘Perfect.’
‘It’ll stand out miles, and it blocks a window. And we’ll have to move the sofas right back.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because you can’t sit six feet away from a one hundred-inch screen!’
‘One hundred and six-inch actually,’ Mark corrects him.
‘You’ll have a headache in two minutes!’ Craig throws his hands out and huffs. ‘I don’t want it in here.’
‘It’s an investment, for us,’ Mark says, turning to Nickelodeon.
‘What do you mean “for us”? This is yours.’
‘I thought we could go halves?’
‘How much was it?’
‘It was a manager’s special.’
‘How much?’
‘It’s a Humomi C-Max. Comes with a free blu-ray disc player.’
‘I don’t care. How much was it?’
‘What? And you expect me to pay for half of it? No way. If you can’t pay for it you’ll have to take it back.’
‘It can’t go back. I did a special deal. No returns. Don’t worry about the money. I’ll lend it to you.’
‘I don’t want you to lend it to me.’ Craig has his hands on his hips and looks at the floor in anger.
‘Can I have the cash then?’
‘No, Mark. You know I haven’t got any money as it is. I can’t afford it and I’m not paying.’
‘It was a bargain. A fifty-inch will cost fifteen hundred, at least. You think so small. What’s wrong with having a big television? There’s nothing wrong with wanting nice things, Craig.’
‘Even if you buy them and then expect someone else to foot the bill?’
‘Half the bill.’
‘Why didn’t you mention this last night?’
‘I did, you were drunk, you must have forgotten.’
‘That’s just a lie.’
‘It’s not.’
‘Did you ever think that it might be a special deal because nobody in their right mind would ever buy such a massive fucking TV unless they lived in a fucking castle? Look at it! It’s mental!’ Craig storms to his room and slams the door. Small fragments of plaster from the doorframe fall to the floor.
‘It’s not my fault if you don’t appreciate beauty, YOU NORFOLK FUCKTARD!’ Mark shouts. He switches back to MTV Base. Nutters by Dezzie Rapist is playing so he turns the volume up as loud as it goes and dances around the room firing imaginary gunshots with his fingers.