East v West – part 3
There was something of an ugly atmosphere of ennui about the Decline and Fall offices.
“That whale was a hell of a washout,” I remarked to the Editor, who sat glowering across the desk from me.
“Don’t even start!” he snorted. “Be careful or I’ll put you on the Valentine’s Day article. You remember what happened last time!”
I glowered back. “Everything’s fine. Fenella hasn’t had an outbreak for months now.”
We sat in silence for a few more minutes, while the Editor drew a bottle of Ardbeg from under the desk, uncorked it with exaggerated thoughtfulness, and poured himself a stiff measure. I glanced at the clock and sneered.
“Where’s the rest of the East v West article?” said the Editor accusingly. I nodded in the vague direction of my ‘to do’ tray (this actually contained a number of job application forms and a picture of Keira Knightley, but still). “It’s all in hand,” I said unconvincingly.
“Wasn’t it supposed to be about North London against South London anyway?”
“Does anyone of any importance care about that?”
“South London,” began the Editor, finding a theme he could warm to, “is an up-and-coming area. We have regeneration spreading out from the South Bank complex. We have attractive residential areas with comparatively reasonable property prices. We have…”
“Gentrification,” I interrupted.
“Regeneration,” he said sternly. “We have good transport links.”
“We do not,” I said. “Anyway, what’s with the ‘we’? You live in Islington. Have you got some kind of rented flat crammed with students down there or something?”
The Editor fell silent and began knocking back the Ardbeg at an increasing rate. Luckily, our journalistic idyll was interrupted by my phone.
“Aha, it’s Francis,” I said. “He’s found us our temporary offices, apparently. He’ll pick us up in fifteen minutes for us to have a look.” And I went off blithely whistling something by The Rakes.
Francis (our refurbishment architect for those who have neglected to read Part One), in a black cab and black polo neck, arrived right on time.
“I’ve, um, already told the taxi driver where to go,” said Francis. “Hullo,” he winced to the Editor, who slumped into the seat next to him and promptly fell into a grain-induced sleep. “I’ll keep the location a secret till we’re there,” Francis added glumly. “I thought it might, er, be a surprise for you.”
“Not as much of a surprise as that wall collapsing.” I said waspishly. “Poppy was picking the brick-dust out of her knitting for weeks, you know.”
“I’m sorry, oh God, I’m sorry!” said Francis. I laughed. “Never mind, old chap! RIBA needn’t ever find out, eh?”
The journey took some time, and passed mostly in silence; the taxi eventually drew up outisde a respectable-enough looking building in…
“Dulwich?” screamed the Editor, waking with a start.
“I thought you liked South London,” I replied, observing a small stream of sweat trickle down the Editor’s temple.
“But but but!” stammered the Editor. Francis looked pained. “On the publisher’s specified budget…I, um, don’t suppose you want to have a look inside, do you? I’ve bought the plans. Remember this will only be for a year or so, of course, until your old offices are ready again.”
“A year,” said the Editor, staring blankly at the pavement. “This…no. I’m not looking at this until I’ve spoken to the publishers. In person. Where’s that damn taxi?”
“He’s gone,” said Francis.
“How do I get out of here?” gasped the Editor in tones of rapidly mounting desperation.
“We have excellent transport links” I said, gesturing towards a forlorn-looking bus stop.
“A bus?” he practically screamed.
“Failing that I may have a bent coathanger about my person somewhere,” I said. The Editor looked around him wildly and started walking into the gathering gloom.
“Us relocating here will probably contribute a good deal to the regeneration of the area,” I shouted at his retreating back. Receiving no printable response, I turned back to Francis and shrugged.
“Back in Clerkenwell for last orders, you think?”