Snow Job

by Jenni Ferchenko

  ‘Thanks … I’ve had to adjust over the years …’ he says, taking a deep breath.

  ‘And your mom?’ I ask.

  ‘She was beautiful, cared about her appearance. She emigrated miles away from her family in England, just to become a stay-at-home mom. She always used to tell us how we, “the boys”, stopped her from having an artistic career. One day she stabbed a sink with a knife during a fight with my dad. Eventually, he crashed his motorbike after yet another argument.’ He exhales, looking away. ‘I really missed out, not having a father … it’s like the worst … deformity … or social disability,’ he agonizes.

  ‘I know the feeling very well …’ I share the pain.

  ‘On a dark day I might hate my father for dying … and my mother for not dying.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say that,’ I say, shocked by his words. ‘You said it yourself, life goes on, the cloud passes.’ I try to cheer him up.

  ‘Yeah, I have more prosaic concerns … how to get all those girls into bed … just kidding,’ he says with a hollow smile, getting back to his computer. ‘I’ve sent you the job-search-follow-up-spreadsheet.’

  ‘Mm, OK,’ I say, checking my email.

  ‘It’ll help you to keep tabs on where and when you send your CV and when to follow up.’ He gets up and shows me a few things about how it works.

  ‘You’re taking job-hunting to the next level,’ I say admiringly.

  ‘If you’re going to do something, do it right,’ he says, closing his laptop. ‘I’m going to jog to the office in the morning. You should join me.’ He heads over to his mattress. ‘It’s only two miles one way. Four miles for you to come back, but it’ll give you a good kick-start for the day.’

  ‘OK,’ I agree, figuring it’s better to accept the house rules.

  ‘Cool. I wake up at six. Don’t turn into a night owl.’ He closes the tiny door to the tiny kitchen, leaving me with the metal bars of the bed, my job applications and the old couple watching TV.

  In the morning Richard makes porridge and green tea. After breakfast we jog to his offices near Southwark Bridge. The morning freshness and the pink sunrise overwhelm us with a beauty I never got to see before. We even get serenaded by the birds. The light wind caresses every pore of my skin as we jog the Thames path, and I am trying to race Richard: ‘For Christ’s sake, Katya, it’s a morning jog … not a sprint. Relax,’ he shouts.

  ‘OK.’ I gratefully slow down, trying to catch my breath.

  ‘It doesn’t mean you have to run at a snail’s pace now,’ he laughs, keeping up a steady pace over the bridge.

  We jog around Shakespeare’s Globe, and, after wishing each other a good day, I stroll back home to apply for jobs, contact head-hunters, customize my CV, and write cover letters to get some interviews.

  A few days pass like this, and looking for a job becomes an even more demanding task than having a job. The spreadsheet grows bigger by the day.

  In the evening we go to the gym and eat tuna and egg salad afterwards, and it is not that scary after all to go grocery shopping in Bangla City, especially for a fraction of what it costs in Chelsea.

  On weekends we go to the movies and cook dinner together, go to bed early … like the couple in the window across the street.

  Surprisingly, I regularly get a good night’s sleep, even on a crappy mattress. I don’t even need sleeping pills anymore. Charlie is out of the picture too … well, it’s going to have to wait till the big offer celebration … with a sexy blow-dry, smoky eye makeup … in the hottest dress and the tallest heels … Richard would barely reach my shoulder.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE OFFER

  ‘Good morning, can I speak to Miss Kuznetsova?’ says a confident female voice with an Italian accent on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Yes, how can I help?’ I answer, just getting back into the apartment after the morning jog.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Kuznetsova, my name is Cara, I’m a head-hunter. I’ve got an amazing opportunity at a major bank, selling financial products to Russian high net worth individuals. Is this something you’d be interested in?’

  ‘I could look into it,’ I answer professionally, holding myself back from getting overexcited.

  ‘Great. They are looking to hire someone as soon as possible. Your profile fits the description well. Could you meet their head of sales tomorrow?’

  ‘I could accommodate,’ I say, trying not to seem too keen.

  ‘Good. I’ll send you the details shortly, no?’ she says, elongating the consonants and opening the vowels.

  ‘Fantastico,’ I answer with the same intonation.

  ‘You speak Italian?’ she asks in a much friendlier manner.

  ‘Si, ho fatto il mio master in Bocconi. I state the obvious for someone who should have read my CV but still enjoy the conversation, as we seem to know quite a few of the same people – Italians in the City.

  ‘Magnifico! Me too. Senti, your profile seems to be exactly what Bruno is looking for. I’ll try to arrange for you two to meet over lunch,’ she suggests.

  ‘That would be amazing!’ I exclaim.

  ‘Bene, I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Grazie, Cara,’ I say spiritedly, thanking the gods for this opportunity, and praying for it to go well tomorrow.

  In a couple of hours an email duly arrives, confirming the lunch with Bruno Füssli, the head of sales and trading at the Swiss Bank, at the Four Seasons restaurant.

  I skip the evening gym session to prepare for the interview, studying the bank’s financials, current market conditions, revising the composition of derivatives structures …

  Bruno, a tall, athletic, clean-shaven fortysomething, bold, dignified, and dressed in an expensive suit, turns out to be uninterested in any of that. With a distinct Swiss–German accent he leisurely orders a bottle of Gavi di Gavi to complement our poisson plat du chef.

  ‘How much money did you make this year?’ he asks, sharply turning his gaze from the long rods of white and yellow flowers in tall designer vases, which decorate the spacious bright white interior of the restaurant. Now that I am the focus of his cunning blue eyes, I can’t help noticing his exquisitely-shaped eyebrows.

  Instinctively, I straighten up, checking my hair is still held in a neat bun: ‘About twelve million dollars.’ I give him a figure high enough for him to take me seriously. There is no way he could check this figure anyway.

  He tries to ask the next question, but luckily at this very moment our dishes arrive. ‘En Guete,’ I drop the obligatory Swiss-German phrase to wish my companion a good meal, hoping to steer the conversation onto another topic.

  ‘Have you been to Switzerland?’ he asks conveniently, putting the napkin on his lap.

  ‘Yes,’ I cheerfully exclaim. ‘I did a cycling trip from Milan … about two hundred kilometers.’

  ‘That’s exactly where I’m from.’ He leans backwards on the comfy white chair.

  ‘You speak Rumantsch there, right?’ I ask, recalling the strange-sounding language spoken between the Italian and German parts of Switzerland, that no one could understand.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, pleased. ‘So, do you do much business with Russia?’

  ‘Yes, a lot,’ I say, leaning back in my seat too, feeling the sweat on my silk blouse sticking to my spine.

  ‘Do you lend money to the top guys?’ he asks – the most painful question a high street bank can ask.

  ‘Well, it depends,’ I answer, trying not to sound too negative.

  ‘On what?’ he says, methodically cutting his fish.

  ‘If there is a derivative imbedded into a loan.’

  ‘For sure, that’s way more profitable.’

  ‘And the Russians can’t appreciate it anyway,’ I smirk.

  ‘How difficult is it to pass due diligence on them?’ he asks seriously, leaning towards me, so I can smell his sharp fragrance.

  ‘Well, I guess it depends how deep you let your compliance dig,’ I riposte. ‘There aren’t too
many Russian clients, who didn’t, say, bankrupt factories or snap up assets and then sell them at shares-for-loan auctions to those who could get a loan from the collapsed Soviet banking system or from special-purpose banks.’

  ‘Special-purpose banks?’

  ‘In the early nineties, government spending was checked manually once a quarter, all the banks were still state-owned, and there were no computers …’

  ‘So they issued a fake payment instruction and cashed in?’ he quickly guesses.

  ‘Correct,’ I say, impressed how quickly a Swiss man could understand it, although it is easy to relate to special purpose vehicles nowadays using a similar mechanism. ‘As Lenin said, “the greatest wealth is made when a country is collapsing or building up,”’ I quote, trying to be witty.

  ‘Unfortunately, they don’t collapse often enough,’ he quips back at me, checking the time on his Swiss diamond watch. ‘So what kinds of things do you trade?’

  ‘Well, everything, really: cash equity, FX, rates, commodities, derivatives, structured notes …’

  ‘We do a few things on that front too,’ he says more enthusiastically. ‘Our head of trading in Moscow, Valeria Kirillova, is a good friend of one of the top guys at a big fund; they went to school together or something. But we might need some help with presentation, compliance and legal approvals etc. There are some really good margins there,’ he reasons.

  ‘I can help,’ I say eagerly, switching to hard sell mode. ‘I’ve prepared quite a few compliance cases for all sorts of structured notes: range-bound, performance tracking, inflation protection … They usually get approved fairly quickly … obviously, revenue is never less than ten per cent.’

  ‘It does feel like there is business to pursue in Russia,’ he says, musingly. ‘The sales team in Moscow really needs someone proactive and enthusiastic over there … Someone London-trained.’ He almost says ‘like you’, making me gleam with a broad smile. ‘We offer a very competitive relocation package.’

  ‘A relocation package?’ I ask, confounded.

  ‘They didn’t tell you that the role is in Moscow?’ he asks.

  ‘Mm … no.’

  ‘Well, we think it is best to cover Russian clients out of Russia, as you would be so much closer to them. Of course you’ll be traveling regularly to London, but based in Moscow. You’ll also be getting the benefits of thirteen per cent tax, an expat contract, and a corporate apartment,’ he says slowly.

  ‘Er … this is a bit unexpected.’ I take a sip of the fruity wine. ‘It does sound like a good offer, though,’ I say, realizing this job will get me right into the inner circles of the oligarchy. I could end up marrying one of them … But this is in freaking Moscow – the ignorant man’s world, with hot models on every corner.

  ‘We are interviewing a few other candidates, but need to know now if you would be willing to move to Moscow,’ he says, pressurizing me with his gaze.

  ‘Hmmm, I guess so … OK … yes,’ I respond, hearing Alex’s voice in my head: ‘At the end of the day, what matters is how much money you make.’

  ‘Good,’ Bruno says, calling for the bill. ‘You’ll need to meet my colleagues and our global head of sales and trading sometime within the next couple of days. It’s a formal process. HR will be in touch with you shortly to arrange everything.’ He pays and we quickly head to the exit, passing a tray with delicious-smelling and looking desserts … tiramisu, mmmm … Richard would never approve of it – too much sugar … I have just realized I have been craving it for so long.

  Just as I am talking myself out of getting some champagne truffles to prematurely celebrate my success with Bruno, Gabi’s message catches me.

  ‘Katya, come to Brompton tonight. Meet my new bf’s loaded friends. We have a table. It’s been a WHILE!’

  As I read it, I automatically turn to the supermarket and get a pack of the tastiest chocolates in the world, timidly getting in line with a bunch of impatient bankers grabbing their lunches. You could almost be embarrassed at seeing the intimate choices people have made, all laid out in public – being added up, casually tossed in bags, then to be inserted, absorbed and expelled. Just a few days ago I was one of them, getting a mayo salad, potato chips and a Diet Coke.

  With a rampant jealousy I watch them pay with corporate cards – the gateway to business-class travel, to the world’s best places and finest restaurants.

  ‘OK. I’ll be there,’ I respond to Gabi, feeling it is time to get back to the lifestyle I want.

  Covertly, I eat the truffles just before going to the gym, when Richard cannot see me.

  The email confirmation of tomorrow’s HR interview arrives just before we start doing our abs, stimulating the intensity of the crunches.

  After the training we scamper back home to prepare for our respective nights out.

  ‘So where are you taking her?’ I ask Richard as I come out of the bathroom. I’m already dressed in a tight hot dress, with my wet hair wrapped up in a towel.

  ‘Casino Royale,’ he says good-humoredly.

  ‘Good action,’ I say, fixing my push-up. ‘But the script and the dialogue …’ I frown.

  ‘Bond is never a good place for meaningful dialogue … just cocktail tips,’ he says, putting on his regular jumper over the usual white T-shirt and jeans, dressed entirely for comfort on a city bike.

  ‘As if you need cocktail tips … you never drink,’ I josh, drying my hair with a towel, and putting in the expensive but amazing-smelling argan oil.

  ‘Well, hopefully my date will get inspired,’ he grins, coiffing his thick, dark hair.

  ‘It’s always the same – dirty martini. You don’t have to waste fifteen pounds on tickets,’ I banter.

  ‘It gives a whole generation of Brits strange ideas about Russian women,’ he winks.

  ‘Really? Like what?’ I ask, curious.

  ‘Well, that you are always armed and deadly, which, I suppose, you do nothing to disprove,’ he says, putting his loafers on.

  ‘Me?’ I ask genuinely astonished, and somehow wanting to be perceived as small, cottony and harmless, in need of care and protection.

  ‘Behave tonight. You’ve got an important HR interview tomorrow,’ he says.

  ‘I’ll try not to come back too early in case you bring the girl home,’ I wink back.

  ‘Don’t worry about that. Come anytime you want. I can always go to hers …’

  When he leaves I feel calmer … as though I can finally let down my guard and stop pretending to be a cool, mighty amazon. I stall in the middle of the room, detangling my hair, when a message from Gabi arrives: ‘Babe, u r on the list. So excited to finally see u;-)’

  ‘Me 2! Finally!!!’ I text back and start to blow dry my hair.

  In about an hour a taxi brings me to 92 Old Brompton Road.

  ‘Ciao, Franco,’ I say, saluting the suited and booted doorman.

  ‘Ciao, Katya. Bel vestito.’ He compliments me on my hot black dress, checking the other chicks in the line without emotion. ‘Joining Gabriella tonight?’

  ‘Who else?’ I radiantly smile.

  ‘She’s in there with some handsome guys.’ He lets me in after signing me in as a member’s guest.

  I walk down to the small, dark, stuffy basement, singing along to a familiar tune and moving to its beat.

  I can’t help the joyful smile that appears on my face, as I anticipate the long-awaited night of hedonism. The usual bottles of vodka and Dom Perignon are on the table, where my petite blonde Bulgarian friend in her tight gold dress is surrounded by a bunch of tall, dark-haired bearded guys.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Gabi screams, taking a step towards me. ‘Katya! Finally! You look amazing! I told you, you should have stopped screwing Alex a long time ago,’ she shouts, almost embarrassing me, but I’m so happy to see her that I easily forgive her. ‘So how’ve you been?’

  ‘You know, looking for a job … I should really be preparing for my interview tomorrow morning,’ I say self-consciously.

&
nbsp; ‘Oh, c’mon, you deserve a bit of fun!’ she says with her characteristic blend of American and Eastern European accents.

  ‘I need to get the job first …’ I can’t stop sounding like a downer.

  ‘You can always join me in the brokerage business! I’ll talk to my boss,’ she enthusiastically suggests.

  ‘That would be great. As long as he’d help me with a visa extension …’

  ‘Oh my God, you should totally see the new Chanel handbag that Omar gave me!’ she interrupts, and grabs the classic coral pink purse from the couch, waving it in front of me. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you. I met him at that party at Kensington Palace … it was full of high-profile guys. Such a shame you didn’t come.’ She takes my hand and walks me into the forest of arrogant-looking men, clouded in excessive fragrance.

  ‘Omar, this is my friend Katya.’ She introduces me to a tall, reserved man with thick lips.

  Suddenly some Arabic song starts, inspiring half of the club, including Omar’s friends, to start singing along. He grabs Gabi’s neck, pulls her towards him and they snog, his black beard getting entangled with her platinum blonde hair in a sweaty mix.

  Left alone, I turn around and ask a tall, well-built guy with fearsome eyebrows and chest hair overflowing the collar of his white shirt, ‘What is this song about?’

  ‘It means, “What are you, that you could behave like this?”,’ he says indifferently, looking away, prompting me to do the same. In a couple of moments he asks abruptly, ‘Where are you from?’ with a strong accent like Ahmad’s.

  ‘Ukraine … I’m an investment banker,’ I quickly add, so he does not perceive me as a whore, like many of my comrades on the London nightlife scene. ‘What do you do in London?’ I shout through the music.

  ‘This,’ he says, spreading his arms to show me the club, checking out the hot waitress and snapping his fingers for her to come over. ‘Here for Ramadan.’ He pours vodka into his glass, without offering me one. What a jerk. I do not know what ‘hidden gem’ Gabi has found in these guys but they are seriously rude. I am a hot girl capable of getting any guy I want, and don’t have to talk to idiots.