When We Were Rich

by Tim Lott

  China, her back to the wall, through scrunched up and blurred eyes stares, stares at the empty fireplace and thinks only, desperately, of the uneaten carrots, the intact cookies, the full glass of milk. The empty, yawning red stocking.

  2007: The Grail

  Frankie sits up in bed, staring hard into the darkness as if it might reveal something through its thick night vacuum.

  It is at this time that the shadow thoughts always come. He dismisses them as Night Demons – frightening premonitions that disappear with the morning light. But somehow, tonight, they seem more substantial than ever.

  He is doing well. FLB Estates has been growing. But the growth is stalling lately. He himself is always stretched, the piece of elastic growing thinner and thinner. What if someone lets go of one of the ends? Or something snaps?

  He has ten properties in the buy-to-let market now, all leveraged to the limit. Yet instability seems to threaten. Property prices are looking shaky for the first time in years. Earlier in August, a huge French bank Frankie has never heard of – BNP Paribas – has stopped trading in some fund or other that they had created, which apparently is important and dangerous in some distant way, although Frankie has never really understood economics, he only understands money.

  Meanwhile, Bank of England interest rates have been creeping up – a point and a quarter since this time last year, mortgage rates always a few points ahead, so he’s coughing up more than seven points on most of his properties now, two more than a year or so back. They show no sign of dropping again.

  The elastic is stretching and stretching. Frankie can barely make the monthly repayments any longer. Two of his properties are already on the market to help ease the repayment pressure on him, but they won’t sell even at the price he bought them for. He’s been drifting into negative equity with more properties than he likes to think about, but if he can just hold on, he can see out the storm, he’s sure of it. It will all blow over. It always does.

  Night thoughts, he thinks. Only night thoughts. After all, there is capital in most of the properties, so long as the prices remain stable. They have been rising pretty much for as long as he can remember. This stalling is just a blip.

  He turns to looks at Veronica asleep behind him, snoring softly. Her therapy business is working well now. She is tired much of the time. Making good money. Loves the work. Offices near Harley Street, a stone’s throw from Oxford Circus. But she seems more and more distanced, somehow. They are pulling in two different directions. Sometimes it seems like only the cord of China keeps them together. But the cord is also a wall.

  The great wall of China, Frankie thinks to himself and laughs out loud, then just as suddenly, stops, hearing himself laughing into the night.

  Sometimes he thinks nothing in his head has been right since Colin died. He’s been working so hard. He can’t stop, he can’t pause.

  Otherwise the night thoughts start to come in the day.

  He makes a promise to himself to pay more attention to China and Veronica, ignoring, for the moment, that he is a liar, most particularly to himself. This he often forgets. Or denies. The line between the two is confused.

  His mind turns firmly back to business, back to money, away from the night. He will speak to Victor in the morning, see if he can pull down some more credit to help with the repayments. Victor has always been helpful.

  He still can’t sleep. He gets up, goes downstairs and fetches himself a glass of water, being careful not to wake Veronica – she is a light sleeper. He walks around in the shadows of the big North Kensington house. Bigger than ever, soon. They are having a kitchen extension, another two hundred K to rustle up out of the air. But the air is always generous and reliably conjures more and more credit. There are two BMWs outside – his and hers. Everything is spotless thanks to the Filipino cleaner they have visiting every day.

  Returning upstairs, he looks in at China’s bedroom. She is asleep, her uniform from Francis Holland School laid up neatly on her chair. It’s one of the best – or at least the most expensive – in West London. She has been down on the list since birth and Veronica wangled her in somehow. She didn’t allow Frankie to come to any of the interview sessions. Frankie thought she was embarrassed by him. Veronica said she was just being practical. Which amounted, in his mind, to the same thing.

  He looks at the Farrow & Ball paint on the walls, the original art, chosen by Veronica. The blurry orange blob next to the bathroom is worth about twenty K. He begins to calculate how much he might be able to sell it for if things go tits up, which they won’t.

  They can’t.

  He goes back upstairs to the bedroom.

  Veronica has not moved, but has stopped snoring. Everything is normal.

  Everything is normal, he tells himself.

  Night thoughts.

  * * *

  In the morning Veronica wakes him with a cup of cappuccino, made with their home Gaggia. He also has a slice of Hovis with Marmite. He still prefers Hovis to the fancy sourdoughs and ryes that Veronica insists on buying. Perhaps there’s more of Colin in him than he likes to admit.

  He looks at Veronica. As usual nowadays her eyes are stuck on her Sony Vaio laptop, with the fiddly Windows Vista software. Frankie hates PCs, swears by his MacBook Pro.

  You’re obsessed with The Facebook. You spend more time on that computer than you do with me.

  It’s not ‘The Facebook’. It’s ‘Facebook’. And I’m on Twitter, not Facebook.

  What’s Twitter?

  She sighs.

  Get with the programme, Frankie.

  You got any clients today?

  Finally she looks up, gazes fuzzily at him, the bright screen of the computer still reflected onto her eyes.

  One or two. Will you be able to make China’s assembly today?

  No. Yes. I think so. Probably.

  Can you pick up some cereal for her on your way home?

  What brand?

  The same brand she always has.

  I . . . I can’t . . . what?

  Jordans. The reduced sugar one.

  Sorry.

  And she’s got a play date tonight. Pick her up, can you? About seven.

  Who with?

  It’s on the wall chart.

  I haven’t had time to look at the wall chart, says Frankie.

  How long does it take?

  I’m not going to get dragged into an argument.

  That’s right. Just walk away. That’s what you do.

  Her eyes swivel back to the computer and her expression takes on a serene, slightly torpid aspect.

  So often now, thinks Frankie, they talk to each other like colleagues or rivals rather than lovers. The discussions are practical and formal.

  But Frankie is grateful. He has surprised himself by remaining loyal to her, despite a number of opportunities that have presented themselves. He convinces himself, through these voluntary abstinences, that he has finally grown up. He is, after all, married with a child. A respectable businessman. A pillar of the community, he has even joined the local chamber of commerce.

  Sometimes he looks in Veronica’s eyes for what he once saw there – passion, love, interest? – but it is hiding, always hiding nowadays. Behind the reflection in her eyes of her computer screen and her brand-new iPhone. The first person in the street to own one, it already owns her.

  * * *

  When Frankie arrives at FLB Estates he pulls his Beemer up outside on the yellow line, where, to his consternation and puzzlement, a group of people, maybe twenty in all, are chanting, Yuppies out!

  Some of them hold placards. ‘Reclaim the Bush’. ‘Gentrification Displaces Low Income Residents’. ‘Die Yuppie Scum’.

  Frankie is sure it is much the same bunch – or at least the same breed – he saw at the anti-war march nearly five years ago, wearing their silly fucking Peruvian woolly hats over artfully dreadlocked hair. Two policemen are attending, looking respectively bored and amused.

  As he approaches the door
a chorus of boos begins. Frankie, made irritable by the night’s lack of sleep, rounds on the crowd.

  Who the fuck are you?

  No one says anything. The bored policeman perks up.

  Frankie picks out one of the women – the one with the Peruvian hat on. Young, scoured pinkish skin.

  Where do you come from? What do your parents do?

  Leave her alone! shouts another woman, with an anorak and a placard that reads ‘Eat the Rich’.

  You then. He turns to the placard waver. Where you from?

  It’s you that needs to answer the questions. People like you – you’re ruining it for the local community, declares Anorak.

  A third person, a man this time, well dressed in expensive jeans, conventional in a pressed white shirt, chimes in.

  My kids can’t afford to live in places like this. It’s about a million quid for a broom cupboard.

  Where do you live, then? Frankie says, swivelling again to catch him in his gaze.

  Stoke Newington, says the man. So what?

  I’ll tell you so what. I grew up over there . . .

  He points to the grim outline of the White City Estate.

  My mum worked as a dinner lady. My dad Joe worked at the brewery in Fulham. I went to that shit school over there. That one with all the asbestos in the roof, which you can’t see under the concrete cladding. That one that looks like Stalag Luft 17. So don’t talk to me about local this and local that. This is my manor.

  Check your privilege, shouts Peruvian Hat.

  You check your fucking privilege.

  One of the policemen – the formerly bored one – steps up, holding his palm out.

  No need for bad language, sir.

  Frankie turns to him in desperation.

  Who are these people? What do they want?

  A diminutive Asian woman steps forward. She is tiny, old and looks scared. She is holding a plastic bag with something in it. When she speaks, her accent is thick, Bangladeshi, Frankie would guess.

  I grew up around here too. My children – I don’t know where they’re going to live.

  How many children you got then?

  What’s that got to do with it? calls Peruvian Hat.

  How many?

  I got six children, says the woman.

  Check my privilege? says Frankie, turning to Peruvian Hat. She should check hers. What you doing have six kids when you’ve got nowhere to put them?.

  Birth is a birthright, says Peruvian Hat.

  I built up this place, says Frankie. This place from nothing. From a slum house. And now you’re telling me I’m a yuppie. Go and do something useful. Go and get a job.

  He turns his back on the crowd to walk into the office. He feels the slap of something wet on his back. The crowd cheers feebly, as if unsure that they haven’t gone too far.

  He takes his suit jacket off to examine it. The tiny Asian woman has thrown an egg at him and it has broken on his Armani suit. One of the policemen is closing in on her. She cowers back.

  Leave her alone, for fuck’s sake, says Frankie, wearily. I can get it cleaned.

  He walks into the office. The others have been watching him.

  Losers, mutters Frankie.

  He looks behind him to the outside. To his astonishment, the policeman is wrestling with the old Asian woman. Several of the other protestors are shouting and taking pictures with their mobile phones.

  Frankie rushes out.

  Leave her alone.

  One of the policemen, the amused one, no longer amused, steps forward.

  Sir, I don’t think . . .

  She’s about bloody eighty, for Christ’s sake. Leave her alone!

  Now the crowd turns and starts uncertainly cheering Frankie.

  She’s guilty of causing an affray, says the policeman, clearly losing confidence.

  You’re guilty of making a fuss about nothing. Just let it go.

  The policeman looks at his colleague, who gives him some kind of signal.

  We’ll let you off with a warning this time, he says.

  That’s better, says Frankie.

  No, you. We’ll let you off with a warning, says the other policeman. For Obstruction of Justice. Unless you go back inside right now and let us do our job.

  Frankie squares up to the copper. The policeman is loving it, he sees. He wants to arrest someone. Frankie will do as well as the Asian woman.

  A voice screeches from the radio of the policeman who is holding the old lady. As if it is a cue, he loosens his grip on the woman, and answers the call.

  Just leave it, says Frankie.

  The policeman backs off. There is a moment’s silence. Then Frankie silently walks back in to the office. This time, a rattle of applause from the street follows him. Mixed with catcalls. The policemen consult with one another. Then with straightened backs and sheathed notebooks, they head to their patrol car.

  You must have generated some good karma, says Victor.

  Huh?

  Instant results. We just got a message through. Some good news.

  Victor stands up and the rest of the office stand up with him.

  What’s going on?

  Frankie, says Jane. We’ve been nominated for Estate Agent of the Year.

  The whole office breaks out in cheers, clapping and whooping. Victor pulls out a bottle of champagne he’s been concealing under the desk and pops the cork. Foam flies everywhere.

  Oh, my bloody god, says Frankie. Oh, my lord.

  Ceremony’s in a few weeks, sputters Victor. Fancy hotel. Up West.

  Frankie grabs the champagne bottle, does a little dance as he swigs from it.

  Old Ratchett’s going to bust a gut! Fucking hilarious. Awesome!

  Now the noise of the clapping and whooping dies down.

  Possibly not, says Victor, taking the champagne bottle from Frankie and pouring it into a plastic cup.

  What do you mean? says Frankie, still grinning idiotically.

  Farley and Ratchett have been shortlisted too.

  * * *

  Nodge and Owen are walking down the aisle or, to be exact, the central corridor of the Purple Room at Marylebone Register Office. It is an elegant space with art-deco style pendant lamps hanging from the ceilings, purple ruched curtains on high sash windows, a paler purple carpet and lilac walls. There are eighty chairs arranged in two groups of forty either side of a central aisle.

  The room is practically full, primarily of men in their thirties. Slightly out of place are two burly men in ill-fitting suits, sitting next to one another, one black and one white – Mickey the Wrench and Big Eddie Fox. Each of them wears a red carnation in his lapel.

  Frankie and Veronica are in the second row back with China between them. Roxy is next to Veronica, wearing an outrageously frou-frou dress with a giant ruff of feathers round the neckline and clouds of sky-blue taffeta emerging from the shoulders.

  In front of them are Owen’s family, his mother and father – a milkman and a school dinner lady – both beaming with pride. Nodge’s sister is on the other side of the aisle, with her daughters Flossie and Dilly. His mother and father are to the right. A gas fitter and a shop assistant, staunchly conservative, they look severe rather than delighted, having long struggled to reconcile themselves to Nodge’s sexuality. But they are here, which as far as Nodge is concerned, is what counts. Nodge smiles at them. Wearily, they smile back.

  They don’t look exactly ecstatic, whispers Owen, from the back of the room, where they wait for the ceremony to begin. Owen is fully recovered, blooming. The weight he has lost from his illness suits him, now that he is tanned, clear-skinned and straight-backed once more.

  They’re getting there, says Nodge. They’re good people. Just a bit old-fashioned.

  Nodge is wearing a canary yellow suit, Owen more formal in charcoal grey.

  The music starts – ‘You Make Me Feel Mighty Real’ by Sylvester – and the registrar beckons. The couple approach the front of the room with slow steps, turning
towards the left then the right, greeting all with smiles and waves.

  When they reach the lectern where the registrar stands, Nodge holds Owen’s hand. He can feel himself beginning to tear up. The registrar is a smartly dressed black woman with cropped short hair, in a dark blue formal suit and fashionable oversized spectacles. She seems genuinely happy. She nods to each of the couple as if seeking permission to begin. In sync, they return her nod. The assembly fall silent.

  This place in which we are now met has been duly sanctioned according to law for the celebration of marriages.

  You are here today to witness the joining in civil partnership of Jonathan Percival Drysdale and Owen Emrys Driscoll.

  Owen and Nodge gaze at one another, astonished that such a tremendous event can be happening to them.

  If any person here present knows of any lawful impediment to this civil partnership they should declare it now.

  There is the conventional staged silence. It is suddenly split by a familiar, acidic voice, somewhere at the back of the room.

  Romantic, isn’t it? I think I’m going to cry.

  Nodge turns to see, in the back row, Fraser Pike standing with a swarthy-looking man whom he does not recognize.

  I know of a lawful impediment all right. Yeh? says Fraser, grinning like a crocodile. There are mutterings from the congregation, some angry, mostly puzzled.

  It is Owen’s face that frightens Nodge now, not Fraser’s, because it has turned bone white.

  You look worried, love, says Fraser, speaking to Owen now. He is making no secret of the fact that he is enjoying himself, a coyote smile plastered across his moisturized, tanned and carefully plucked face.

  Owen does not speak but looks at the floor.

  May I ask what is going on here? says the registrar.

  Then the swarthy-looking man speaks up. His voice is reedy and high with a strong Spanish accent.

  I obhect, says the man. Because this man he is already marry-ed.

  I beg your pardon? says the registrar.

  He is marry-ed. Esta casado conmigo. To me. To me.

  Nodge looks at Owen who, although it is barely possible, has turned paler still. Finally he turns to Nodge and speaks, in a hoarse whisper.