Vince had travelled the country buying up stock from dealers who had withdrawn tapes following advice from the Director of Public Prosecutions. 'First generation rental, and – technically – totally legal,' he explained, pointing to an original copy of The Exorcist. He opened the lid and displayed a dealer stamp from an Aberystwyth public library as proof. 'There you go. That's so clean it belongs in a photo-opportunity with a politician.'

Vince knew he had made a sale the moment the tape passed into the stallholder's hands. It was easy to spot the fanatical zeal in the eyes of a true collector. In the next few minutes he sold the remainder of his stock for six times what he'd paid, and left behind a grateful buyer. As he strutted between the crowded railway arches, back towards the entrance of the market, a little mental arithmetic confirmed that he was within sight of his financial target. He could now afford to reduce his hours at the store and concentrate on his assignment for Esther Goldstone.

He took a last look back at the boisterous crowds. Not so long ago the transactions taking place beneath the railways of London involved Jacobean candlesticks, Georgian silver and Victorian paintings of dubious provenance. Now they teemed with housewives who had been forced into scouring stalls for cheap children's clothes. Only the contumacious energy of the multitude remained.

An hour later, he kept his appointment at Goldstone's cluttered Covent Garden office, situated above a mediocre Italian restaurant in Floral Street. Esther was an agent, and the mother of a boy he had befriended on his journalism course. An editor of her acquaintance named Carol Mendacre was preparing a volume of new London journalism for her publishing house. Esther had read several of Vince's unpublished articles, and had been sufficiently intrigued to pass them onto the editor, who in turn had expressed an interest in commissioning a more substantial piece. If the finished product worked and the book did well, it would lead to further assignments. Esther was happy to offer guidance to her protégé. She felt that his writing had conviction, although his style was a little wild and ragged. Now she listened patiently as he explained what he wanted to write about. She was a good listener, smiling and nodding as she absently touched her auburn hair. Glitzily maternal, she wore rings set with bulbous semi-precious stones on almost every finger, and sported an array of gilt ropes at her bosom. This may have given her the appearance of being Ali Baba's business manager but she was, in fact, a highly respected agent with a fondness for nurturing new writers.

'I don't see why nine per cent of the population should own ninety per cent of the land,' Vince told her heatedly, 'or why the country needs hereditary peers. It astonishes me that a city of nine million people selects its living options from a shortlist of outmoded ideas; that politicians are working for the common good and that the state has the welfare of all at its heart. The state is supposed to be there to uphold a sacred trust; to protect what rightfully belongs to its people. That concept disappeared when everything was sold off. How did we let it slip away? Isn't it time politicians learned that you can't excuse an incompetent career by having your picture taken with your arms around your children?'

'You're ranting, dear; I don't like that,' Esther gently chided him. 'Opinionated rhetoric is the province of the elderly, not twenty-five-year-olds. I read the piece based on the interviews you conducted. It was interesting enough, in a hectoring way. What Carol needs for this anthology is balanced reportage, not mere vocalised anger. No kneejerk stuff. Nothing in life is as clear-cut as you think. Don't turn this into a bleat about the class system; it's all been said before, and by writers far more articulate and experienced than yourself. Let's discuss practicalities. What I'll need from you fairly quickly is an outline of your intended piece.'

In the street outside, the Garden's performers were calling to the crowd, encouraging them to chant a set of comic refrains. Beyond this chorus, Vince could hear a coluratura soprano singing scales in the rehearsal room of the Opera House. A peppery cooking smell was wafting through the open window. There was an undertow of garlic in the air; restaurants were preparing for their evening sittings. On the roof above, someone was having a barbecue. So much life crowded on top of itself.

'You want me to pick something else to write about,' he said moodily.

'Not at all! The subject of class fits perfectly with what the editor has in mind, so long as you find an involving approach to your material. Don't just create a patchwork of facts and opinions. Find a vessel in which to present your argument. Don't forget – if she likes what you write, a quarter of the book will be yours. The other authors in the anthology all have extensive previous experience. You'll be her wild card, her new face. I'm counting on you to do this, Vincent.'

He sat back in his chair, chastened and feeling foolish. He wanted to leave her with a good impression. Esther reached over and placed a plump hand on his, her bracelets chinking. 'Stop looking so worried. You'll do fine, I'm sure. Just go back and concentrate on the project. Ask yourself if you've chosen your topic for the right reasons. It's obvious to me that you care, but that's nowhere near enough. Everyone feels passion about something. Everyone has ideas about their world. You need to refine yours through individual insight and experience.'

Her business manner returned as she withdrew her hand. 'It's not official yet, but this book is going to be part of a more ambitious project. Carol is hoping to sign a deal for a whole series of volumes, probably twelve in all. Each will feature the work of between four and six authors. They'll be setting out to chronicle the state of the world at the end of the twentieth century. She's come to me to help her find fresh young talent, and I don't want to disappoint her. You know I like your style, Vincent. I loved your London pieces and I'd love for you to become one of the series' regular authors. But you're not a recognised journalist. You're young, and the ideas of the young are not always thought through. You've only been published in fringe magazines. It all depends on you getting this first project right. I don't want to interfere editorially, but if you have problems with your material, bring them to me and I'll be happy to help you sort them out.'

'You have more faith in me than I have,' he said quietly.

'My interest isn't wholly philanthropic, I assure you.' She twisted a thick gold band on her finger, a gift from her divorced husband. 'As you know, I left the agency to set up on my own. This office is expensive, and Morris's settlement only goes so far. I promised Carol I'd find her fresh talent. I have to make this work. I search the literary backstreets for new blood, and what I find rarely holds promise. When I get someone like you, I hang on in hope. That you'll come through, that you'll be different from the rest. So write about London, if that's what interests you.'

'It's just… finding where to start.'

'Listen to that.' Esther sat back in her chair and nodded in the direction of the open window. 'What do you hear? Street vendors, tradesmen, punters, hawkers – and ranging above them, the opera singers. The centuries haven't overturned their roles. You talk about class. If the class system is so terrible, how come it's still here? What keeps it in place? Money? Breeding? Sheer selfishness? Perhaps you can find out.'

She rose suddenly, closing the session. 'Make it human, Vincent. There's much you won't understand unless you can find someone who'll explain from the inside how the system works. Try getting to know such a person. Assemble facts and figures, by all means -' she leaned forward, smiling now, and prodded him with a varnished nail, '- but filter them through that pump in your chest. Give your writing some heart.'