He googles another rental agency and begins to scroll down their list of flats, but price remains the problem. Now that he no longer has a job, he will have to think again about this plan of Laurie moving in, for even large one-bedrooms appear to be beyond his pocket. Moving further out of London doesn’t appeal, for he has always been scornful of the suburbs and the commuting life, but at the moment the idea of knuckling down and getting another job is also unappealing. He should really start looking at social work job listings online, but he knows that he will be immediately pigeon-holed as an expert on inner city black problems, and be expected to spew sound bites to the media about how gun and knife violence are not black crimes any more than paedophilia is a white crime. However, when he points out to the press that Bangladeshis in Tower Hamlets or white gangs in Essex are committing exactly the same gun and knife crimes, he will immediately be viewed as part of the problem itself. Some years ago, shortly after they left Birmingham and moved to London, he suffered his first, and only, instance of media backlash when he stood up at a national conference on drug trafficking and pointed out that a young teenager who had £10,000 in his pocket should not be liable to be arrested by the police, and have charges pressed against him, unless there was some direct evidence of criminal wrongdoing. Apparently, according to the Daily Mail, this made him an apologist for drug-dealing. Without even looking at the jobs that are available he knows that with his experience and complexion, and given the national push towards more racially polarised community monitoring, he will undoubtedly find it hard to land a job that doesn’t place him in the firing line of the press on race issues. What he finds even more galling is the fact that even the most senior job in this area is likely to pay him less than he was earning as an executive policy-maker with the local authority under Clive bloody Wilson.
The ringing of the doorbell interrupts the gentle clatter of the keyboard as he once again changes the parameters of his flat search. He glances at his watch and can see that it is going up for ten o’clock. He picks up his mobile phone from the messy desktop and makes sure that nobody has been trying to get hold of him, but as he does so the discordant sound of the doorbell again cuts through the silence and so he quickly grabs a tracksuit top and makes his way downstairs. Lesley stands before him with her hands pushed deep into the pockets of her winter coat.
‘I’m sorry, I know I should have called. If this isn’t a good time then we can always speak in the morning.’
He stands to one side and smiles in an attempt to disguise his surprise. ‘It’s fine. Come on in. I’m just playing about on the computer.’
He closes the main door behind them and decides that whoever gave her his phone number must have also given her his address. Lesley doesn’t look distressed, which might excuse her behaviour. In fact, there is an air of impatience about her manner, which leads him to believe that they are about to have a confrontation of some kind. But does he truly care? He knows that some friendships cannot be dissolved little by little, they require an indelicate blow. She follows him upstairs and into his flat, where he takes her coat and hangs it on the solitary hook in the cramped entrance hall. He then ushers her into the living room and encourages her to take a seat on the sofa, while he crosses to the computer and closes down the open window. He assumes that she will not be staying for long so he does not log off. He offers Lesley a glass of wine, but even before she can formulate an answer he moves back in front of her and goes into the kitchen where he pours them both a glass of the only wine he has left, a somewhat overpowering Australian Chardonnay. Before he shuts the fridge, he makes a note that there are two more bottles lying on the bottom shelf, in addition to the one he has just returned to the holder behind the door. He carries the two glasses back into the living room and decides not to apologise for the wine in case it sounds as though he is being pretentious. Instead he just passes Lesley a glass and then takes a seat opposite her.
‘So,’ she begins, having taken a sip of her wine. ‘You’ve done it then.’
‘Well, I suppose he told you.’
‘Oh yes, and everybody else. He said you really lost it. Black rage.’ She takes another sip of wine. ‘Well, he didn’t actually use that term, but that was what he was getting at. You know, where you get all loud and illogical and he’s the calming paternal figure.’
He starts to laugh. ‘And you believed him? I mean, do I look like I’m out of control?’ He opens his arms and gestures, although he is careful not to spill his wine. ‘Do I look like some nutter who’s about to push somebody off a tube platform?’
‘You could have calmed down, I suppose.’
‘Yes, and I could have held up Lloyds Bank this afternoon with a sawn-off shotgun but it’s just not me, is it? That’s the point. He says something and everybody suspends disbelief and goes along with it? Makes me feel glad I jacked it in.’
‘I never said I believed him. In fact, most people haven’t got any time for him, but you already know this. However, the problem is, Keith, I wish you’d have spoken with me first. Given me a chance to let you know what was going on.’
‘Hang on a minute.’ He stands and crosses to the kitchen where he removes the bottle of Chardonnay from the door of the fridge. He once again takes up his seat and pours himself a splash more, before putting the wine down on the floor to the side of his chair. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Did he tell you that Yvette’s taking the matter to a tribunal?’ She pauses. ‘No, I didn’t think so.’
‘I thought she was getting promoted.’
‘Shunted to one side, and she didn’t like it and so she’s been threatening to go to a tribunal, which means it will probably be all over the papers.’ Again she pauses. ‘He didn’t tell you, did he?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Look Keith, what it means is that your resigning is irrelevant in terms of bringing an end to things. In fact, it’s probably about to kick off for real now.’
‘For Christ’s sake, who told her to go to a tribunal? Her lawyer, I suppose.’
‘I can’t help you there, but you might have been better sticking with the job and going head to head with her, rather than throwing in your cards now. It makes you look weak.’
‘Weak? Guilty more like. As though I’m running away from something.’
‘I do wish you had talked with me first.’ She holds up her glass and he reaches to the floor and picks up the bottle and pours her a refill. ‘Look, am I keeping you from something? Or someone?’
‘No, I told you, I was just doing some stuff on the computer.’
She kicks off her shoes and tucks her legs up underneath her on the sofa. He watches as she swirls the wine around in the glass, and for a moment he worries that she might smell the bouquet and pronounce her verdict.
‘You know, it’s still possible for someone to have a word with Yvette.’
‘You mean for you to have a word with Yvette?’
‘I really don’t think she’s getting sensible advice. To go to a tribunal isn’t good for you, but it might not be good for her either. She’s been offered a pay rise and promotion, but I imagine her lawyer is just focused on the harassment issue and dangling some imaginary big cash settlement in front of her. It’s such bullshit.’ She sips at her wine and then looks up at him. ‘Would you like me to talk to her?’