8. A Drink and a Lifeline

A drink and a lifeline

Two years after that conversation had taken place, David was no longer ‘da MAN’ and David’s rm would have been happy to take any commission that came their way, always assuming that it was a solvent one. Architectural practices were having a particularly hard time during the crunch, the assumption that the world could never have enough office space having proved to be an il usion. Jimmy and Monica were therefore faced with the fact that their old friend could no longer shield them from the debt they owed his bosses.

‘I’m afraid David’s Rainbow is screwed for the same reason Webb Street’s screwed,’ Jimmy said mournful y. ‘Nobody can sel the property they have.

ey just don’t need any more buildings, particularly bent ones that cross national borders. David ain’t the golden boy any more. e truth is he doesn’t know how long he can keep his boss from taking action against us.’

A icker of fear passed across Monica’s features.

‘Taking action? What does that mean?’

‘Wel , suing us, I suppose.’

‘ Suing us? But . . . he’s our friend, a founder member of the Radish Club.

You were at Sussex together.’

‘Yes, and I imagine Laura is saying exactly the same thing to him about us.

We are their friends, I was at Sussex with him, we shoved the radish together on graduation night. And now I owe his rm a lot of money. Money they hold him responsible for.’

‘ey were happy to take the job at the time,’ Monica snapped, tears wel ing up in her exhausted eyes, ‘whatever David might have pretended about being too grand for it. Money’s money after al and you were doing them a favour.

You could have taken the work anywhere. ey sent us round a magnum of Dom Perignon ’89.’

‘Yeah, Mon, I know. But they wouldn’t have wanted the job if they’d known I wouldn’t be able to pay for it, would they?’

Monica shrugged. ere was nothing else to say. Perhaps it was the thought of Dom Perignon that led her mind to the bottles in the huge American fridge.

Not Dom P of course, ve-pound deal, three-for-two Pinot Grigs from Sainsbury’s, but very tempting just the same. is was one habit that had not changed since disaster struck. Monica always loved to point out that being rich did not mean being stupid and that Sainsbury’s cheapos were perfectly bloody OK if al you wanted was a good glug.

‘How many did I have last night?’ Monica asked.

Monica and Jimmy had always loved drink, much more than the obligatory cocaine and Es that they’d done in their early days together. Booze was their drug of choice and they appreciated it even more now that their lives had been torn to shreds. But with Monica breastfeeding they were trying, despite everything, to watch it.

‘A large double G and T at six and a large single after your last evening feed.’

‘So that’s three units then.’

‘Wel . . . let’s say three.’

According to the rules they had both drawn up, that was Monica’s entire daily al owance.

‘But we also had a large glass of wine each before we went to bed,’ Jimmy reminded her. ‘It was our little treat, remember? To prove we were stil human beings.’

‘So that’s one more unit then?’

‘Wel . . . let’s say one.’

‘Which makes four, so a minus one to carry forward.’

e idea was that if Monica went over her limit, it represented a minus that had to be deducted from the fol owing day’s al owance.

Jimmy checked the list which was stuck to the fridge with a big plastic magnetic letter.

‘Yes, but you were already minus three on the week so far, so now you’re minus four.’

‘But clean slate on Sunday? Fresh start?’

‘Of course, we agreed.’

Monica took a bottle of wine from the fridge.

‘I love these screw tops,’ she said, holding the bottle in the hand of the arm that was supporting Lil ie at her breast and unscrewing it with the other. ‘I think they must have been designed by a nursing mother.’

She poured out two glasses. A unit each. Or three units each, depending on whether it was measured by her or by the government.

ey both took a deep swig.

‘Anyway –’ Monica put down her glass with the air of somebody with something to say – ‘I had hoped to avoid this, but if David is real y going to be so mean . . .’

‘He’s not being mean, Mon. It’s got nothing to do with him. He’s just caught in the middle.’

‘Wel , it doesn’t matter anyway because actual y I think I might have some good news.’

Jimmy smiled a weary smile. He couldn’t imagine how that could be. ere was no prospect of good news ever again. Good news belonged to the era before it had emerged that American banks had been actively persuading penniless itinerants to take out huge mortgages on worthless properties.

‘Great,’ Jimmy said.

‘Lizzie rang today and I ended up tel ing her how bad things were. I didn’t think you’d mind.’

‘Mon, she knows. Everybody knows about our cash- ow situation.’

at was how he liked to see their problem, how he lived with it and managed it in his head. It wasn’t utter nancial ruin, a life-shattering car crash or a cosmic-scale fuck-up. It was just a cash- ow problem. A temporary thing.

A money-management chal enge to be ridden out. Once their assets regained their proper value, Jimmy would be able to service his debts and begin to rebuild his fortune. e fact that they were almost certain to be declared bankrupt long before that happened was something that Jimmy tried not to acknowledge even to himself.

‘I know she knows,’ Monica agreed. ‘I rather think that was why she rang.

She says she and Robson want to help. You know, just with the David thing and the Webb Street development. She hates the idea of al of us mates being in trouble with each other like this.’

‘Mon, we don’t need fancy sandwiches. I owe David’s rm two hundred and fty thousand in fees already and the same again if we ever complete.’

‘She knows, Jim. Laura told her.’

‘ Laura? Fuck! You mean Dave’s wife is trying to get Lizzie to lend us money so we can pay Dave? at is fucked!’

‘Why is it fucked? We’re al mates, aren’t we? Lizzie and Laura were just chatting, that’s al , and now Lizzie knows al about it she real y wants to help.

She says we can put up one of the houses in Webb Street as col ateral and pay her back when the recession is over.’

Jimmy looked at Monica. For a moment he wondered if he was hearing right. Whether the tiredness had nal y made him unable to understand English.

‘You mean she’s offering to lend us the money? I mean, a hel of a lot of money?’

‘Yes.’

‘Unsecured?’

‘I suppose so. Whatever that means. Like I say, she says we can put up one of the houses.’

‘e houses are al negative equity. at’s not a security. ey’re not properties, just a row of semi-detached debts.’

Monica shrugged. ‘She says she’l wait. Til they go back up in value.’

‘ Until the recession is over? ’

‘at’s what she said.’

Jimmy’s initial anger at his old friends discussing his pathetic situation had lasted seconds. Not even that. One second. False pride had never been one of Jimmy’s faults.

Now he was elated. Not just elated, ecstatic. He punched the air.

‘Yee-ha!’ he cried. ‘Now that is Rock ’n’ Rol !’

One of the symptoms of the extreme exhaustion and stress under which he now lived was that Jimmy found his emotions yo-yoing far more ferociously than they had ever done in his old life. And never so much as at this moment when suddenly he perceived a lifeline to drag him from his troubles. A wave of exhilaration coursed through his body.

‘My God, Mon, that would be absolutely bril iant!’

Monica’s smile was suddenly as broad as his. She was actual y shaking.

‘Wouldn’t it?’

Jimmy scarcely dared to hope that the situation could be resolved so simply, but of course he knew that it could. Lizzie and her charming but basical y useless husband Robson were stil rich, very rich. Perhaps she real y could help them out, just for a little while. A year.

And it wasn’t like he’d be abusing a friendship. And in fact the loan would not be unsecured. He had the security. Of course he had the security. Fuck yes,

he had the security. He owned a street. Him and the bank. e fact that the street was currently in negative equity was just a blip. at was al . A blip.

‘I’m so glad you’re going to let Lizzie and Robson help us, Jim. I’m so sick of this worry.’

‘Of course we’l let them help,’ Jimmy replied, emptying the rest of the bottle into their glasses before grabbing the phone. ‘What’s more, in the end we’l make a pro t for them on it.’

‘Oh Jim. You know Liz and Robbo don’t care about money.’

‘Yeah,’ said Jimmy, ‘they can afford not to.’

Lizzie was stil rich. Her money was real. Concrete. It was secured by actual concrete stuff. She wasn’t like Jimmy. She hadn’t built her fortune on the shifting sands of the futures market but on foundations hewn from the solid, timeless rock of people’s love of posh things, fabulous design and exquisite nibbles.

Lizzie had parlayed her charm, her good looks, her genuine love of food and her commitment to what she cal ed the ‘art of living’ into a very substantial lifestyle business. A business that included cookery books, occasional TV

appearances, three restaurants and an endless range of beautiful y presented Lizzie Food treats. Fortunately for Lizzie and Robbo, despite the deepening nancial crisis, there were stil enough people left in the world prepared to pay three pounds for a single chil i-soaked olive presented in its own exquisite little box to keep the wolf from the door.

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