how little they needed to understand. I didn’t need to make them share my vision, and I didn’t want them to. Why should they? It was my vision, and I was the one with the money. They just had to know what to do. This wasn’t easy, though—making them understand what to do. They were all London’s premiers: the best plumbers, plasterers, pine outfitters and so on. They wanted to do a really good job and found it hard to get their heads round the proposition that the normal criteria for that didn’t apply in this case.
The thickest groups by far were actors and interior designers. Morons, both. To audition the actors we hired the Soho Studio Theatre for a couple of days after placing an ad in the trade press. It read:
Performers required to be constantly on call in London building over indefinite period. Duties will include repeated re-enactment of certain daily events. Excellent remuneration. Contact Nazrul Ram Vyas on etc. etc.
Naz and I arrived on the first day to find a big crowd in the lobby. We’d got our driver to drop us off round the corner from the theatre rather than right outside, so as not to make an ostentatious entrance: that way, we figured, we’d be able to walk round the lobby incognito for a while, sizing people up.
“That one looks worth auditioning for the motorbike enthusiast,” I mumbled to Naz.
“The one in the jacket?” he mumbled back.
“No, but he looks worth auditioning too, now you mention it. And that frumpy woman over there: a possible concierge, I think.”
“What about the others?” Naz asked, still mumbling.
“We’ll need extras too: all the anonymous, vague neighbours. Those two black guys look vaguely familiar.”
“Which ones?”
“Those two,” I told him, pointing—and right then they all started clicking, wising up. A heavy silence fell across the lobby; everybody glanced at us, then turned away and started pretending to talk again, but in reality they were still glancing at us. One guy came right up to us, held his hand out and said:
“Hello there! My name’s James. I’m really looking forward to this enterprise. You see, I need to fund my studies at RADA, where I’ve been given a place. Now I’ve prepared…”
“What’s RADA?” I said.
“It’s the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts. I auditioned, and the tutor told my local authority that I was gifted—his words, not mine.” At this point in his spiel James held his hand up to his chin in an exaggerated manner, and I could tell he’d practised the gesture in the same way as the gay clubbers I’d watched several weeks ago had practised theirs. “But,” he went on, “they wouldn’t give me a grant. So I welcome this whole enterprise. I think it will help me expand. Learn things. My name’s James.”
He still had his hand out. I turned to Naz.
“Can you get rid of half these people?” I asked him. “And give audition slots to the ones I pointed out—and to any others you think might be right. I’m going to get a coffee.”
I went to the very place I’d sat in when I’d watched the clubbers, media types, tourists and homeless people, the Seattle-theme coffee shop just like the one at Heathrow: it was just round the corner from the theatre. I asked for a cappuccino.
“Heyy!” the girl said. It was still a girl, but it was a different girl this time. “Short cap coming up! You have a…”
“Ah yes!” I said, sliding it out. “Absolutely I do! And it’s edging home.”
“I’m sorry?” she asked.
“Eight cups stamped,” I told her. “Look.”
She looked. “You’re right,” she said, impressed. She stamped the ninth cup as she handed me my coffee. “One more and you get a free drink of your choice.”
“Plus a new card!” I said.
“Of course. We’ll give you a new card as well.”
I took my cappuccino over to the same window seat I’d had the last time and sat there looking out onto the intersection of Frith Street and Old Compton Street. There was a homeless person there, but it wasn’t my one. The new one didn’t have a dog—but he did have friends who sallied over to him from their base up the street just like my homeless person’s friends had; but then these didn’t seem like the same people either. The sleeping bag that the new guy had wrapped around him seemed identical to my one’s sleeping bag, though. So did his sweat top.
I’d forgotten about the loyalty-card business. Now I’d been