Clapham Lights Read Free Page A

through the glass doors and wanders to his seat with his notepad tucked under one arm and his eyes fixed on his BlackBerry.
    MenDax Wealth Management’s Scandinavian markets department consists of just two banks of desks and Justin Fortesque’s office. Mark sits in the far corner, next to Amy Robertson. Behind them is a wall of locked cabinets and discarded filing boxes. Beyond that, the vast space is empty. The floor-to-ceiling windows provide a panoramic view of the City of London and outside it’s cloudy and spitting with rain. A new office block is under construction in the shadow of the Gherkin, opposite St Margaret’s Church.
    Justin, the head of department, and Julia Hayter, the senior account manager, are at a meeting. Ian Butler, the other member of the team, is on the telephone and chewing a biro whilst gazing down at Liverpool Street station. He has a goatee beard and is wearing a sleeveless jumper over his shirt and tie.
    Mark rocks back in his chair to spy on Amy’s computer screen. She is comparing the prices of flights to Dubai.
    ‘Do you need some work to do?’ he asks.
    Amy ignores the question. She is the same age as Mark - twenty-six - and from Edinburgh. She has full cheeks and a freckly nose, her shoulder-length brown hair is pushed behind her ears and she isn’t wearing make-up.
    ‘Where have you been?’ she asks.
    ‘I had a conference call downstairs.’
    ‘For four hours?’
    ‘Yeah. It was boring. Justin’s not been back has he?’
    ‘No.’
    Mark types some figures into a sprawling Excel spreadsheet, saves it, and deletes his only new email - a reminder that his subscription to
Men’s Wealth
magazine is about to expire.
    ‘I might go home,’ he says, yawning.
    ‘You should. You’ve had a busy day.’
    Mark nods, seemingly oblivious to Amy’s sarcasm. His cursor is lingering over the ‘Turn Off’ symbol when Justin bursts in followed by Julia, who towers over him. She has a gaunt, expressionless face and sunglasses perched on her head.
    Justin places his briefcase on his desk and stands outside his office. His scalp is visible through his blond hair and he is wearing black brogues with built-up heels and a long red tie which curls over his stomach.
    ‘Computers off,’ he orders. ‘We’re celebrating. We’ve got a titanic investor coming on board, so it’s drinky time, on me. No excuses.’
    ‘Quality,’ Mark says. He renames his spreadsheet
Growth and Prosperity Market Confidence Forecast: Winter ’08 - Autumn ’10
and re-saves it.
    Ian starts to speak but Justin cuts him off:
    ‘I’m not interested, Ian. See you all at The Receiver in fifteen. I’ve got a couple of calls to make.’ He shuts his door and pulls down the blinds.
    Mark calls his driving instructor to cancel his lesson and shuts down his computer.
    ‘Come on Amy, let’s go.’
     
    The Receiver is a bar-restaurant-nightclub split over three floors in a former bank on Chamberlain Street. The rain has stopped and people are outside smoking in a cordoned off area on the pavement. Posters advertising pitchers of Pimms for £10 and 30% off champagne hang in the windows. Mark nods at one of the doormen and strolls in.
    The spacious, neo-classical interior is full of suit-wearing office workers all drinking pints or white wine. There are only two staff behind the bar and a stocky man in a pink shirt thumps his wallet down when the woman next to him is served first.
    Julia leads Mark, Amy and Ian downstairs. The lower ground level is dimly lit with a low ceiling and smells suffocatingly of air freshener. The floor is sticky and there’s no music but a lot of noise filters down from upstairs.
    Most of the booths around the perimeter of the room are occupied but Julia spots a spare table behind a pillar near the bar. There’s a printed notice in the vacant area:
RESERVED FOR HARTMAN CLIFFORD LAMB FROM 6 PM
but she tears it to pieces and throws the bits on the floor. She takes a seat on one of the six faux