‘After the artists, the money starts coming in – the hipsters, the younger City guys, guys in advertising. People who want buzz, who want to live somewhere a bit edgy, a bit cool, who want realness and authenticity. They’re the ones who establish the neighbourhood as an investment destination. That’s when beautiful projects like this get unlocked, and that’s where you come in, ladies and gentlemen.’

A friendly murmur of recognition ran through the room. I squirmed in my seat.

‘Is there still value to be realised in Shoreditch?’ De Chauncey asked. ‘There assuredly is, ladies and gentlemen; every day we see handsome gain on new developments, especially when bold investors buy off-plan, as the first and second waves of regeneration give way to a stable third-wave ownership community. And Wolfe / De Chauncey is here to help you realise that value. I call it the no-key guarantee: you won’t even have to set foot in your assets. We can offer end-to-end agency service, handling every stage of the tenant journey totally seamlessly. You’ll hardly know they’re there. What we offer is the investment dream: all the advantages of ownership and none of the burden.’

He paused, as if setting up a punchline.

‘Of course, you might be looking to live in the property yourself. Whatever. I’m not here to judge.’

Laughter. Heads bobbed and I gave the backs of necks an executioner’s eye. Groomed hair, sharp-edged: all had felt the warmth and gentle press of the barber’s electric razor recently. Mine had not. Some of the necks were fat, folded, spammy; others tanned and gym-fit. White collars on coloured shirts. Gold chains. These were them, for sure, these were the owners. Pierce would want to be here – a room rigid with targets.

I finished the first glass of wine and began the second. The woman sitting three empty seats away from me turned her head, very slightly, precision electronics, keeping her glance discreet, but I still clocked it. I might have muttered something under my breath to draw her attention, an opinion of the people in the room, or she had noticed the chain-drinking. I turned to her and raised my glass cheerily. She turned away, stony. I didn’t take any pleasure. I just didn’t want to be seen.

De Chauncey’s pitch had the cadence of words spoken many times, a funny story the teller is fond of telling, smooth and pretty as sea-glass. Like most self-made men, he enjoyed reflecting on his beginnings. The tale was given an air of humble, self-deprecating surprise, as if success had been the last thing on his mind, and he couldn’t quite believe it had arrived. Curious that self-unmade men, like myself, had the same obsession with origins, but a harder job finding them. For De Chauncey’s breed, there was always the good decision, the bold move, the happy partnership, the opportunity that others had missed, that spelled success. Whereas I skidded to failure on a smear of circumstances and decisions that hadn’t even felt like decisions when they happened. Maybe it was the same for De Chauncey, really, but he had been able to rationalise it all in a way that I had not, to compose it into a neat story. Of course he would want to justify his success, and make it logical, laudable, only right.