When We Were Rich

by Tim Lott

  Jane shrugs helplessly and gets up to fetch the coffee. Probably the right move, thinks Frankie. Ratchett would have his revenge on her swiftly enough otherwise.

  Ratchett, now further provoked, rises, comes and stands over Frankie’s shoulder, staring at his computer screen. The search engine, Ask Jeeves, is still refusing to load. Ratchett owns a bog-standard Lenovo, about the size of a pizza box. Frankie hears the insidious whisper of Ratchett’s rounded vowels in his ear. He smells his breath – fries and cigarettes. Bad enough in themselves, they noxiously mingle with Burberry Weekend for Men aftershave that gives out his location like a tart in a fog.

  Watching porn on your pretentious piece of hardware again?

  It’s not pretentious. It’s elegant. You’re the only one who watches porn in the office. And you’ve got cheese on your beard.

  An extra K is a lot extra to pay for something to look fancy. You’re not a graphic designer. You flog bricks and mortar to mugs.

  Ratchett explores the perimeter of his mouth with his tongue and locates the food morsel, then places it on the tip of his finger. He holds it out to Frankie.

  Want it? It’s today’s.

  I’ve already eaten, thanks.

  Does a salad really qualify?

  Does no harm to watch your waistline, says Frankie, casting his eyes over the soft spill that protrudes over Ratchett’s trouser belt. Ratchett pushes the finger a few centimetres closer to Frankie’s face. Then, feigning boredom, he flicks the scrap of food from his beard towards Frankie’s wastepaper basket. It misses, and lands close to Frankie’s foot.

  Are you going to pick your food scraps up?

  Ratchett continues to stand over Frankie’s shoulder.

  What do you want, Nick?

  I was hoping, Francis, for a little tête-à-tête before we finish for the day. An event which you seem to be longing for.

  His voice has now produced an increased rounding of his public school vowels, to complement the roseate flush on his cheek that Frankie presumes comes from long country walks at his parents’ pile in Gloucestershire. This always has a sinister effect on the tone of his voice. Ratchett, one of three brothers, is the disappointment of the family, Frankie was once told by Ralph. The two others are in Law and the City. Ratchett got a third-class degree from a redbrick in the Midlands before being parachuted into the firm by his father, an old Oxford mucker of Ralph’s who was owed a favour. Ralph had spent the ensuing period of Ratchett’s appointment regretting it, but there was no easy way back. Ratchett was good enough at his job to avoid being sacked and since he’d been made partner he was almost impossible to get rid of, anyway.

  I’m listening, Nicholas.

  It would be better if we talked in private.

  Frankie raises his head to look at Ratchett directly, but can’t read his expression.

  I’ve already had my bonus, Nicholas. No further gesture of gratitude is necessary.

  This isn’t about your bonus, Francis.

  The biggest bonus of last year. By far, if you recall correctly, Nicholas. Because I certainly do. Recall correctly. Because I sold more houses than anyone else. Including you. And Simon. Combined.

  Farley throws him a look, then puts his eyes firmly back down to his desk. Ratchett hesitates. Frankie assumes, correctly, that he is summoning malice. His eyes dart to the top of Frankie’s head, where his birthmark is still red and weeping from the scuffing done by Frankie’s fingernail.

  You should get that birthmark seen to. Might put off the customers.

  Fuck off, Nick. You’ve already seen off Rupert and Giles. You can’t afford to lose another employee.

  Rupert and Giles were predecessors to Jane and Maree. They quit at the end of the previous year to join rival firms. Ratchett’s boorishness was never explicitly named as the cause, but no one in the office doubted it.

  Now Ratchett has got the rise he was looking for. Frankie’s body language has gone stiff. His arms are crossed defensively.

  Shall we go out back?

  Must we?

  It might be for the best.

  The other employees in the office are starting to stare, most notably Jane. A vaguely predatory expression sometimes penetrates her otherwise bland, gormless features, but now it is simply curious. Maree, whom, to Ratchett’s annoyance, Frankie has always got on well with, looks concerned. He gives her a wink, and she smiles with frosted baby-pink, thickly painted lips.

  Frankie sighs, just loud enough for Ratchett to register it. He is weary of being treated as just another employee at FR&G. His sales record has long been better than anyone else in the agency.

  He follows Ratchett into the small office that lies behind the main reception. In contrast to the sales area – all polished surfaces, uncluttered desks and shining pens stacked neatly – the rear office has a tatty, lived-in feel. There is a half-drunk cup of coffee on the battered wooden desk and a detritus of paper, brochures, Post-it notes and letters, opened and unopened, strewn across the surface.

  Ratchett makes for the seat behind the desk – pole position. The chair is larger, more expensive and positioned at a higher level. He lowers himself onto the seat and begins to fiddle idly with the small, chewed pencil that was resting on a glossy brochure for rental properties. He lights a Marlboro Red and takes a slug on it.

  Have a seat.

  I’ll stand.

  Suit yourself.

  Ratchett does not speak again, doodling instead on a notepad with the chewed pencil. Frankie matches him, refusing to capitulate by instigating a conversation. He understands that silence, like chair height, is a power ploy. He’s used it often enough with customers himself, to tempt them into an offer they only partially wanted to make. His matching silence seems to have the desired effect. Ratchett’s fidgeting with the pencil intensifies, and his eyes look more pained and irritable than before.

  You might want to make yourself more comfortable.

  I’m comfortable standing up. What do you want, Nick? Spit it out. Don’t let it choke you.

  Ratchett mumbles something into his lap. Frankie understands this to be yet another attempt to assert his – technically – senior position. Having to lean in, having to request that a question be repeated suggested the listener was deficient.

  I might as well get back to work if we’re just going to hang around here like a couple of mugs.

  You’re in a hurry, Frankie. Why? Are you busy?

  I’m always busy.

  You didn’t look very busy just now.

  Always. That’s why . . .

  That’s why you’re ‘the best performing salesman at Farley, Ratchett and Gwynne’. I know, I know. You had a lucky year.

  The edge of mockery in Ratchett’s voice is only just discernible, so as to keep it deniable. Ratchett excels in maintaining deniability. Frankie continues to look at him steadily.

  Luck had nothing to do with it.

  Don’t rest on your laurels.

  What’s this about, Nick? Why the secrecy?

  No secret.

  Frankie feels his irritation level rise another notch. Clearly Ratchett is out to rattle him, and is beginning to succeed.

  The thing is this, Frankie. And I know this might seem clinical. But business is business. You know me. Heart on my sleeve. Colours to the mast. It’s no longer Farley, Ratchett and Gwynne. It’s Farley and Ratchett.

  Frankie thinks for a moment that he can guess the significance of this remark, but then dismisses the thought. For Ratchett to get into this territory when Ralph is still fresh in his grave. To dishonour his legacy. No. Not even Ratchett would dredge the depths like that.

  Why are you bringing this up?

  I don’t know what Ralph said to you.

  Frankie stares back blankly, giving nothing away.

  What do you mean, ‘what he said to me’?

  Don’t force me to spell it out. I don’t want to seem hard-hearted. But it’s never too soon to be practical. Ralph would have agreed. Cards on the tabl
e.

  Frankie stares out of the window, straining to avoid solving the puzzle. The pane is dirty, blurred. He hardens his voice. This is business, whether he likes it or not. He can’t show weakness, particularly not to Nicholas Ratchett.

  Okay, so you’ve got your heart on your sleeve, you’ve nailed your colours to the mast and you’ve put your cards on the table. But you still haven’t come to the point.

  He pauses. Ratchett doesn’t react.

  You want me to say it, don’t you?

  Still Ratchett doesn’t speak. At least he has enough shame not to be able to make eye contact with Frankie.

  You’re talking about the partnership, says Frankie.

  Well, I don’t know. Am I? says Ratchett, now terse. What did Ralph say to you about partnership?

  You know perfectly well what he said.

  I don’t think I do, as a matter of fact.

  Frankie nods, his batted-away suspicions finally confirmed.

  Do you have anything in writing?

  Polly knows all about it, Nick. The partnership will be part of Ralph’s estate.

  It’s just business. Ralph would understand that. I’m trying to be fair to you, Frankie. I don’t want you to be under any false impressions. I don’t want you to spend any more time than is necessary thinking something that isn’t.

  What kind of false impressions? What something that isn’t?

  You’ve already said it. Rumour has it Ralph offered you a partnership in the new year.

  It’s not a rumour. It’s common knowledge. It’s an established fact. Polly—

  You’re not in Polly’s good books at the moment. Apparently you wouldn’t even go and say goodbye to Ralph. Even though you were downstairs at the hospital. She might not be the ally you think she is. Not when there’s this sort of money at stake. Ralph was a generous man. And he liked you. For some reason which I fail to fathom. Now Polly. I’m not so sure about Polly.

  What are you saying?

  I don’t know how much more plainly I can put it, Frankie. No Ralph, no partnership. You were his baby. You ain’t mine. Or Simon’s. Simple as.

  They stare at one another. The white space at the top of Nicholas Ratchett’s cornea extends slightly, giving him a wilder look still.

  We should get Simon in here, says Frankie, bleakly aware that Ratchett will have prepared the ground. Farley is the lowest in the hierarchy after Ralph and Nick, with the smallest shareholding in the firm, standing at around 17 per cent. Nick, thanks to a big injection of cash from his wealthy family, had 37 per cent. Ralph had the rest.

  Of course.

  Ratchett goes to the door and puts his head round it.

  Simon!

  As if he had just been hovering outside, Simon Farley manifests immediately. He is ill-balanced and ungainly, with a persistent sheen of sweat even in the coldest of weathers. Despite the fact that he is undoubtedly wealthy by now, having been Ralph’s original partner, he continues wearing brown suits from Marks & Spencer. He positions himself awkwardly next to Ratchett, on the other side of the desk to Frankie.

  Hi, Frankie.

  His smile is bright, but razor thin.

  Frankie was under the impression he was going to be made a partner in the new year, says Ratchett, doodling on the ink pad in front of him. Frankie sees that he appears to be playing Hangman with himself.

  Really? says Farley, mildly, but with an underlying steeliness that Frankie cannot mistake. Ratchett has clearly primed him.

  Frankie turns towards Farley, aware by now that his face must be flushing. He can feel his right hand shaking. He wants to punch Ratchett, wants it badly, but knows that the cards Ratchett holds are too powerful. It will play into his hands.

  Farley looks at Frankie. Frankie sees a faint flicker of apology in his eyes. Or, perhaps, shame.

  There’ll always be a job here for you, Frankie, says Farley, weakly.

  Frankie raises two fingers.

  Do I take that as a resignation? says Ratchett.

  Frankie turns and marches back to his desk. Even as they were in the rear office, the sign above has been removed. A workman in blue overalls is putting up a new one.

  It reads, ‘Farley and Ratchett. Estate Agents’.

  * * *

  Back at home Frankie sits on the sofa, squirming. There is nowhere to rest his head – the back is too low – and the cushions seem harder than he remembers when he tried it in the shop.

  I hate this fucking settee. Sofa.

  He punches the right-hand armrest with the side of his fist.

  Frankie, what’s wrong?

  Veronica is sitting on a sternly designed chair opposite. Her eyes remain fixed on her copy of the New Statesman. Gordon Brown stares out from the cover, with beetle brows and power hair.

  What makes you think anything is wrong?

  He rearranges the cushions violently.

  Call it intuition.

  There’s nothing wrong.

  Are you sure?

  Stop banging on about it, will you?

  Frankie gets up off the sofa, kicks it, and walks into the kitchen. Seconds later, he reappears. Veronica has not moved in her chair. She is still calmly reading the New Statesman. When he speaks again, his tone has modulated, is softer, with a vapour trail of shame, shading into the clearer air of defiance.

  I’m leaving the agency is what’s wrong.

  Now she looks up from the magazine.

  What?

  I’m out. Simple as.

  But . . . your partnership!

  That’s gone.

  What do you mean, it’s gone?

  Ratchett and Farley stiffed me. No partnership.

  Veronica throws the magazine to one side, adjusts her position on the chair, straight back, hands on knees, narrowed eyes.

  Were you sacked?

  He doesn’t answer.

  We’re about to move to a new house. And while I appreciate that you’ve had a bad day, can I just gently point something out? We’re married. Decisions like this need to be taken together. You can’t quit without talking it through with me.

  Frankie considers this.

  You’re right. Except.

  Except what?

  I’ve already quit.

  Oh. Right. Great.

  I’m sorry, Veronica. I should have . . . I’m still learning. About being married, I mean.

  Veronica picks up the magazine and starts reading again.

  Put that down. Come and sit next to me.

  No. I’ve made an executive decision about this magazine. I don’t have to consult you.

  Veronica remains in her chair, back stiff, staring at the page. Eventually, though, she lowers the magazine.

  You can go back. I’m sure they’ll take you. You’re the best salesman they’ve got.

  Now Frankie begins to pace around the room, eyes everywhere except Veronica.

  I’m going to start my own agency. FLB Estates. I was going to do it anyway in maybe five years. I’ll just have to move my plans forward.

  Frankie. Be realistic. Swallow your pride. Think it through.

  Nothing could make me go back to Ratchett. Nothing. Not the way he’s treated me. I’m going to borrow some money and start the agency.

  That’s insane!

  Frankie takes no notice, and continues pacing.

  There’s a lot of credit out there at the moment. I’m going to borrow to the limit. Always borrow to the limit. Basic financial sense. Apart from which, I don’t have any choice. From what I know about these things, it’s going to be at least a year before a new agency turns any kind of profit. And I don’t have a salary. But we do have your salary. No other commitments. We can survive for a year – can’t we? I mean, we’re partners, you and I.

  Veronica says nothing and remains in exactly the same stance on the chair. Then she lowers her eyes to the magazine again.

  Frankie sits down again, and resumes trying to vainly locate the sweet spot on the sofa.

  * * *
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br />   The room in the basement of the Irish pub has about thirty rickety wooden chairs arranged randomly across the scratched, dusty floorboards, which are punctuated with cigarette burns. Furthest from the doors, on the north side of the room, sitting behind a small trellis table are one woman (smart, middle-aged) and one man (scruffy, young). They are the chairman and deputy chairman of the local Labour party.

  Most of the seats are full in this subterranean debating chamber – more customarily used for cut-price parties and support-the-IRA piss-ups – and arranged in a series of rough semi-circles in front of the chair and deputy chair.

  In front of the seating there are some tables supporting drinks from the bar upstairs. The room is already a fug of cigarette smoke. Ashtrays spill at the brim. Nodge pulls on a stick of Craven A. He’s been meaning to give up, but can’t quite find the wherewithal, despite Fraser’s hectoring. Fraser is not only a non-smoker, but also a vegetarian, lately thinking of going vegan.

  Nodge and Fraser sit at a table to the left of the room. Noise from the jukebox upstairs permeates. The strains of ‘Bring it All Back’ by S Club 7 burrow through the floorboards. The chair of the meeting stands and, after welcoming the members, and dealing with formalities, makes the proposal of the evening.

  ‘This ward opposes the official Labour candidacy of Frank Dobson for Mayor of London’.

  Go ahead and make my day, jeers a voice from the back of the room. This is the phrase Dobson has used when it was suggested that Ken Livingstone might stand as an official candidate against him. There is scattered laughter from the floor and a few plaintive boos.

  Before the chair has a chance to invite speakers, Fraser is on his feet. Tall, nearly six-two, his grey-cropped head nearly makes contact with the low plasterboard ceiling, almost certainly backed – Nodge anxiously believes – with deadly asbestos.

  Mr Chair, can I just . . . ?

  Can you wait your turn, brother? I think Ms Frobisher had her hand up first. Formally we take questions in order of the raising of hands.

  Looking to his right, he sees Maureen Frobisher, a longstanding rival, frowsty in some thick mud-coloured dress, with her hand imperiously raised.

  That’s typical, says Fraser. She’s had her hand up since before you were meant to put your hand up. Jumping the queue, yeh?