work for him, to implement his self-development plan.
Felix ordered more drinks. The last time James had experienced gin and tonic was on a visit to his uncle’s in the late 1990s. But since then the drink had undergone a significant repositioning in the market place. As Felix explained, following a successful brand-planning strategy, it was now a drink that was associated with affluence and good judgement. James had to acknowledge, it tasted much better than he remembered. More than that, he could feel it making him better, warming and strengthening him for the task ahead.
They left the bar, and turned away from the high street into a handsome, well-managed town square. Although James had never been here before it was unmistakably North London: smug, expensive and at a loss to explain its economic good fortune. Much of it looked like Crystal Palace, built at the height of Victorian prosperity and urban despair, when town planning was just getting started and everyone wanted to be at a safe distance from the thieves and typhoid carriers. Of course, it had been pretty much downhill ever since then, until unexpectedly, towards the end of the twentieth century, it had been rescued – made better by economic deregulation, the financial services industry, housing privatisation and a number of other things that James disliked.
The venue, too, was familiar. Islington Arts Centre was an early nineteenth-century town house on the corner of the square, converted into a cultural space, funded by the local authority and used exclusively by some of the wealthiest people in the country. There had been something very similar near where James lived, but which had fallen into disrepair and lost its funding.
Once inside, Felix went to get some drinks, and James quickly undertook his survey. They were in a large pastel-yellow reception room with some fold-up chairs against the wall and a carpet that needed replacing, but would have to wait many years for a spending review that would sanction it. There were about eighty people there, more women than men, with a level of ethnic diversity slightly higher than one would expect. James was one of the few people in a suit, and was also probably the tallest person there – but he knew that neither of these would be an advantage.
‘Just as I feared,’ said Felix. ‘The wine is almost satirically bad. And look – it’s being served in little plastic cups, as if we were on an aeroplane. I suspect that’s a deliberate attempt to manage our expectations.’
James drank deeply, grateful that he had something to do with his hands. It probably was disgusting, but all those gin and tonics had deadened his palate and anyway James still wasn’t old enough to tell the difference between good and bad wine.
‘Are you okay?’ said Felix.
‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m just observing.’
‘If you want a little confidence boost, then remember this: people in publishing earn fuck all. Believe it or not, a lot of the people here probably earn less than you.’
James nodded. He knew that in Islington, with its complex class ecology, that didn’t necessarily count for much, but it was helpful to know this all the same. He went over to a table, refilled his beaker of wine and, not wanting Felix to have to introduce him to anyone, decided to take the initiative himself. Selecting the least attractive woman standing on her own, he strode over and began a conversation.
‘Hello,’ said James. ‘Are you a writer as well?’
‘Well, yes – that is how I earn my living, but I don’t think I’ve got the patience to ever write a book.’
That seemed a reasonable reply, and allowed James to follow up with a series of supplementary questions. She in turn asked him things, quickly establishing that he had no connection with the cultural sector. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Felix was thriving on the noise, drink and conversation of strangers. But James already needed assistance. It was clear
Felix ordered more drinks. The last time James had experienced gin and tonic was on a visit to his uncle’s in the late 1990s. But since then the drink had undergone a significant repositioning in the market place. As Felix explained, following a successful brand-planning strategy, it was now a drink that was associated with affluence and good judgement. James had to acknowledge, it tasted much better than he remembered. More than that, he could feel it making him better, warming and strengthening him for the task ahead.
They left the bar, and turned away from the high street into a handsome, well-managed town square. Although James had never been here before it was unmistakably North London: smug, expensive and at a loss to explain its economic good fortune. Much of it looked like Crystal Palace, built at the height of Victorian prosperity and urban despair, when town planning was just getting started and everyone wanted to be at a safe distance from the thieves and typhoid carriers. Of course, it had been pretty much downhill ever since then, until unexpectedly, towards the end of the twentieth century, it had been rescued – made better by economic deregulation, the financial services industry, housing privatisation and a number of other things that James disliked.
The venue, too, was familiar. Islington Arts Centre was an early nineteenth-century town house on the corner of the square, converted into a cultural space, funded by the local authority and used exclusively by some of the wealthiest people in the country. There had been something very similar near where James lived, but which had fallen into disrepair and lost its funding.
Once inside, Felix went to get some drinks, and James quickly undertook his survey. They were in a large pastel-yellow reception room with some fold-up chairs against the wall and a carpet that needed replacing, but would have to wait many years for a spending review that would sanction it. There were about eighty people there, more women than men, with a level of ethnic diversity slightly higher than one would expect. James was one of the few people in a suit, and was also probably the tallest person there – but he knew that neither of these would be an advantage.
‘Just as I feared,’ said Felix. ‘The wine is almost satirically bad. And look – it’s being served in little plastic cups, as if we were on an aeroplane. I suspect that’s a deliberate attempt to manage our expectations.’
James drank deeply, grateful that he had something to do with his hands. It probably was disgusting, but all those gin and tonics had deadened his palate and anyway James still wasn’t old enough to tell the difference between good and bad wine.
‘Are you okay?’ said Felix.
‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m just observing.’
‘If you want a little confidence boost, then remember this: people in publishing earn fuck all. Believe it or not, a lot of the people here probably earn less than you.’
James nodded. He knew that in Islington, with its complex class ecology, that didn’t necessarily count for much, but it was helpful to know this all the same. He went over to a table, refilled his beaker of wine and, not wanting Felix to have to introduce him to anyone, decided to take the initiative himself. Selecting the least attractive woman standing on her own, he strode over and began a conversation.
‘Hello,’ said James. ‘Are you a writer as well?’
‘Well, yes – that is how I earn my living, but I don’t think I’ve got the patience to ever write a book.’
That seemed a reasonable reply, and allowed James to follow up with a series of supplementary questions. She in turn asked him things, quickly establishing that he had no connection with the cultural sector. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Felix was thriving on the noise, drink and conversation of strangers. But James already needed assistance. It was clear
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