At the end of his apprenticeship, Patuk had taken over the shop with the money he’d earned honestly in Rochdale. He had believed it would be a short hop from embossed business card to membership in an elite club. Which would in turn lead to a house in Belgravia, where a useless British upper-class spouse would be permitted to spend her days on the sofa with migraines. But. Unfortunately. Even his employer during his apprenticeship didn’t have it easy. He came from a country created by the British—they had given birth to the Pakistani tailor, so to speak—which conferred on him the status of a farm animal. For thirty years, the owners of other tailor shops greeted the Pakistani with a tip of the cap and a contemptuous downturn of the corners of their mouths while simultaneously smiling. No people on earth could ruin a smile like the English. No people represented so starkly the concept of a class system. And have yet to overcome it to this day. Just as in the bombers there were only two ejector seats for the two upper-class pilots while the third man, the engineer, a commoner, had to reach the ground without a parachute. That’s how Patuk felt. He’s the one without a parachute. And now—

The businesses are slumping on top of it all. The wealthy are investing in personal security, weapons, and houses in other countries so that if the situation, whichever situation, comes to a head, they can relocate. The old middle class, which could indulge in a bit of bespoke clothing as a status statement, no longer exists. The tourists are hordes of losers from all over Europe. The rich Chinese have stopped vacationing on the island. They own it. Beyond real estate, corporations, automobiles, and whores, the Arabs who still live in London have no interest in the culture of the natives; British fashion is not ostentatious enough for the Russians; and the IT billionaires dress in athletic gear rather than like daft poofs.

At the start of his apprenticeship as a tailor, Patuk had been surprised by the colorful fabrics worn by British upper-class males, whose female counterparts came across as particularly dowdy and shapeless. Since then he’s come to better understand the deeply rooted nanny-cult system of the upper class. Women here have to resemble governesses to attract any attention from their sexist spouses, in whose minds the only women who exist are prostitutes and strict governesses, who are also somehow prostitutes.

The men don’t come anymore, and Patuk will never find his way into the city’s elite, into the company of men’s clothiers who keep company at their own private club, White’s Club, or some other club, any other club for god’s sake, because even in a three-piece, herringbone tweed suit and a bespoke cotton shirt he doesn’t look like a gay man of the upper class but rather a gay maître d’. On his computer, Patuk looks at his surveillance video appearances of the last few days. A service that was enthusiastically welcomed by the people. You scan your chip and immediately see in orderly sequence any surveillance clips where you played a role. Alongside that is your current point tally.