by Soraya May
Leaving the studio, Dana’s words keep coming back to me.
…moral responsibility…
…do you see yourself as responsible?…
…Tom Macaulay can do no wrong…
I pull out my phone, and look at the photos on it. Me and my team, celebrating. Each of them has a family to go home to. I don’t; all I have is this game. Getting to the top of the mountain in finance hasn’t left time for relationships or a family. But that’s how I chose it. No regrets. I switch my phone off and keep walking.
Everyone is responsible for their own actions. If people do what I do, and don’t do it well enough, what can I do about it?
No regrets.
9
My apartment is a damn sight nicer than the tiny room I had at college, but in some ways, I liked my old college room more. This place is a good size, but it’s soooo anodyne; I’ve tried to dress it up with my Doctor Who posters (autographed!) and the tiny Serenity model hanging from the lampshade, but it still doesn’t really feel like home.
I sigh, and look down at my textbooks. After learning a bit about what Tom and the quantitative division are planning, I have a hell of a lot of study to do. It’s interesting stuff, well enough, but I wish I’d had more opportunity to take notes and ask questions before I committed to it.
My phone beeps, and I slam the book shut, grateful to get away from it. It’s Abby from the trainee group.
Hey Ron, are you watching the financial news? Hot Tom is on. You should so watch it. Preferably real slow with some wokka-wokka music.
Uh, thanks Abby. I’m kinda busy.
No, really, you should. He’s talking about this big deal thing you’re involved in. You are still involved in that, right?
Yeah, I’m still involved in it. Okay, I’ll watch the thing. Thanks babe.
The stream on my computer takes a moment to load, and the audio cuts in before the video does. Tom’s voice fills the room, reassuring, self-confident. Sexy. Damn sexy.
“—wouldn’t be right for me to take all the credit, but I’m definitely involved,”
The video pops up, and Tom’s there in a studio, legs crossed lazily, answering questions like he’s chatting to someone at the bar, nothing to worry about. The interviewer looks fascinated by his answers, and she’s lapping them up.
I’m about to turn the interview off, when it takes a different turn.
“—lose money because they think Tom Macaulay can do no wrong in the markets, do you see yourself as responsible?”
What does she mean, hurt people?
I listen as Tom smoothly explains that he and his team aren’t responsible for what happens to them if this deal goes ahead, that everyone makes their own decisions in investment. He never said anything like this when he explained what we were doing. Isn’t this important to him?
I don’t know what to do about it. Of course, people lose money by making bad investments, but just how much money will people lose, and how much do they know about what’s going on?
The interview concludes, and my phone beeps with another text from Abby.
Wowee. Scary, huh? Hot but scary.
I sigh.
What do you mean?
Well, all this stuff about how it might ruin people. I mean, doesn’t anyone care about that?
Hey, you were trying to sell discount businesswear to your coworkers last week. Why so moral now?
That was a legit business deal! People know what they’re doing when it comes to clothes. Besides, it’s only a suit. Aren’t you worried about it?
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say here.
Abby, this isn’t my problem. I just work on the mathematics of the deal, right? What happens to people outside that isn’t my business. Besides, it’s not like I could do anything to stop it, even if I wanted to.
10
I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself—us—into by bringing Ronnie onto the team. She’s smart, for sure; really smart. Her questions aren’t like anything I’ve had to deal with before. She’s always one step ahead of what we’re doing, and she’s not afraid to challenge me. Twice I’ve had to scrap ideas because she’s pointed out problems that we should have thought of ourselves, and she’s only a trainee. On the one hand, she’s already saved us from losing a bundle of money, and looking like idiots in front of those hyenas at Global Finance.
But there’s a problem. When she looks at me, it’s electric. Distracting. I keep thinking about what it would be like to kiss those lips, get her out of that dress. Just the touch of her hand when we shook hands had me thinking about her for the rest of the day. I think about what it would be like to spend the morning in bed with her, listening to her voice, rich and full of passion and conviction. Watching her eyes flash as she explains something or asks a question.
She’s throwing me off my game. I need to get thinking about her as just one of my employees. I have to stop thinking about…
There’s a knock on the door to my office, and I look across from my whiteboard. I go through a lot of whiteboards—my standard joke is that most of what I write should be erased about three times before anyone else sees it, so a whiteboard is perfect—and this one is about due for replacement.
“Come in.” I could use a break, to be honest.
The door opens a crack, but no-one enters. I wait.
“Hello?” There’s a pause, and a small dark head pokes through the door. “Phillip! Hey man, how’s it going? Come on in, seriously.”
Phillip comes in, as slowly as he possibly can. “Hey.”
“Hey. Have a seat.”
He perches himself on one of the chairs in my office—I found some more comfortable ones, thank goodness—and watches me. I rummage in the breast pocket of my jacket for a USB stick, and hand it to him. “Here, man. Firefly. You’ll really like it, I promise.”
He takes it, tentatively, and holds on to it. “Thanks.”
“So what’s happening at school? What subjects do you like?” I remember how much I hated those kinds of questions when I was twelve—sorry, thirteen—but now I’m an adult, it’s surprisingly hard to come up with anything else to ask.
He shrugs. “Don’t know. Math. Writing.”
“Oh yeah, your story. How’s it going?” I sit back down at my desk, and try as hard as I can not to look like I’m interrogating him.
“It’s okay.”
If I want to get him to talk, I’m going to have to change tack here. “So, uh, is it a science fiction story, or what? I’ve always found it hard to decide what I wanted to write, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a science fiction story?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.” Cool? There are few things worse to a teenager than an adult calling something ‘cool.’ You’re supposed to be the smooth-talker, Tom. “Are you thinking about publishing it or something? I mean, it’s a lot easier to get stuff published now than in the past, you know.”
“Maybe. Who’d want to publish it? I’m just a kid.” Phillip starts to kick his legs against the seat.
I smile. “Nobody needs to know that. You could be,” I deepen my voice, “Phillip, uh..”
“Buchanan.”
“Sorry. ‘Phillip Buchanan, famous science fiction author!’ Doesn’t that sound good?”
“I guess.”
“Seriously, if it’s something you like doing, you should keep doing it. I know it can be difficult at times, doing things that other people don’t understand. But if it’s something that you enjoy, then that’s the most important thing. Hey, find something you’re good at, and play to win, right?”
His face darkens. “You sound like my dad.” Something tells me that’s not a good thing in this case. “He said life was all about playing to win, and being with Mom and I was getting in the way of that. That’s why he left, he said.”
Oh, heck. “I’m sorry, Phillip, I didn’t mean it like that at all. I just meant that everyone makes their own choices in life, and you�
��re in charge of what’s right for you. Or something.”
He kicks the chair-legs again. “Yeah, my Dad said that too. He and Mom lost a lot of money in a big investment, then they started fighting. He said it wasn’t worth his time staying around.” He stands up. “That’s why Mom has to work late all the time. This place makes her work so hard she can’t come home, but she needs the money.”
“Phillip, that sucks, man, I’m sorry. Look, I’ll try and see—maybe I can—”
“Forget it.” He takes the USB stick and puts it back on the table. “I need to go. Here’s your USB stick back.”
“No, honestly, you keep it. It’s not a big deal.” He shakes his head.
“Mom said I shouldn’t keep things that aren’t mine.” The door closes behind him, and I’m left staring at my desk.
Well, you screwed that up, Macaulay. Nice one. It’s a really good TV show, too.
While I’m staring, there’s another knock at the door. From the tone of it, I can tell it’s not Phillip.
“Yeah.” Mike comes through the door, marker pens clutched in one fist.
“Hey, Tom, I’ve got some more ideas for the—” He sees my face. “Everything OK, man?”
“Yeah, Mike, it’s not a big deal. What were you going to say?” He’s undeterred.
“Was that Barbara’s kid I saw leaving your office just before?” I actually had no idea who Phillip’s mom was.
“Barbara? As in—”
“Yeah, as in, scary looks-at-everyone-like-they-did-something-wrong-lady. That’s her son. Phillip, I think his name is. Seems like a good kid, but pretty quiet. He’s in here most days early in the week.”
“Yeah, I know. I was going to lend him some stuff to watch. He said something about how his parents lost money in an investment.”
Mike watches me carefully. “Yeah, I think so; I think I remember Barbara saying they had a deal go south on them.”
I get a cold feeling in my stomach. “It wasn’t one of ours, was it?”
“Who knows? Might have been. Looks like the kid could use some friends.” He stands up to the whiteboard, pen poised, then glances at me sitting in the chair. “You…haven’t been around kids much, have you, Tom?”
I smile, ruefully. “Is it that obvious? No, Mike, I haven’t. I said something, I dunno, make him think of his Dad. Turns out they’re divorced. How was I to know?”
“You weren’t, man. Thing is, teenage boys have a lot going on, and sometimes it takes time to get them to open up to you. I know from my own boys, man, it was a struggle at times. Just don’t let it get to you, okay?”
“Okay, Mike, I hear you. Thanks.” I stand up and thrust my chair back with a crunch, maybe a bit harder than I’d intended. “Now, what have you got for me?”
11
I really need to unpack more of this stuff, and find places to put it. I don’t have enough hangers for one thing, and another one of those shoe-racks wouldn’t go amiss either. I look around my living room, trying to find the best place to put a plushie Dalek. It’s not the sort of feature which really suits ‘modern contemporary’ for some reason.
Maybe the bedroom? I leave it on the table, and go back to hanging up dresses.
I wonder if I can get another freestanding clothes-rack in here somewhere? Even the living room would do. It’s not like I’m exactly going to have guests very often.
My phone rings again, and from the time of day I’m pretty damn sure it’s Momma before I even pick up the phone. Dress on hanger in hand, I reach for the phone. Right every time.
“Hello, Momma. How are you?”
“Hello, baby. Can you hear me?”
“Yes, Momma, I can hear you.” Same thing, every time.
“Your father and I heard about this deal thing on the Internet, this ‘Macaulay Bond’ your company is doing. Is this something that you are involved in? It sounds like your kind of thing. You should—”
“Yeah, I’m involved. I only found out about it myself a few days ago, so it’s not like I can say very much at this point.”
There’s a slightly theatrical gasp from the other end of the line. “You are involved? That’s wonderful news!” She pronounces it vonderful, despite having lived in this country for thirty years. “This is such a good opportunity for you! Just wait until I tell your father about this; he’s going to be so proud of you.”
“Yeah, I, uh—” I really wonder if now is the time to be talking about my reservations about the whole business.
“You are going to be so useful to these people, they are going to have to offer you the job, huh?”
“Well, maybe. I don’t know, Momma. I hope so.”
“You hope so? No way, for sure, huh? You are the best, you always were. These guys have to offer you a job if you do well with this.”
I try to find a nice way to change the subject. “Maybe, Momma. Look, the truth is, I’m a bit concerned about this whole deal. You see, if it goes ahead, there are going to be a lot of people who lose money, on the other side, you see? It’s kind of complicated, but I just want you to know that—”
Another theatrical gasp. “Veronica.” She knows how much I hate being called Veronica. “You are not seriously suggesting you are going to mess this up, are you?”
“No, Momma, I’m not saying that at all.” I am really beginning to regret trying to explain this, but I press on. “I’m just saying that I’m having second thoughts about what’s going on there, and whether it’s really the right thing to do or not. That’s all.”
“Do you know what you’re saying? I can’t believe I’m hearing this from my own daughter. You are seriously saying that you have this great opportunity to impress these people at this firm, to be involved in this big thing, and you aren’t sure whether you want to do it?” Uh-oh. Here it comes. “You need to grow up, Veronica.”
I try to argue. “Momma, this is exactly about growing up, okay? Don’t keep saying that to me. You’ve been saying that to me since high school, and all I’m saying is that I’m not sure being part of this is the right thing to do. That’s all.”
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing.” There’s a frustrated jingle of earrings, a telltale sign that she’s annoyed. “If your father were to hear about this, well, I don’t know what he’d think.”
I seize on that. “Is Poppa there? Can I talk to him?”
“He’s asleep. I don’t want to wake him up. He didn’t sleep well last night because of the coughing, and the doctor says if he’s still coughing by the end of the week, he needs to go back into hospital. I hate those verdoemde hospitals. They make people sick, you know. You know your grandfather died of something he caught in a hospital, don’t you? It was just after the war, and we were very poor.”
“Yes, Momma, I know. You’ve told me. Things are much better now. Much safer.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want your father back in that hospital. You need to promise me you won’t do anything to make him sick.”
I grip my phone tight enough to break it. “Hell, I won’t do anything to make Poppa sick! What are you talking about?”
“You need to promise me you won’t do anything to jeopardize your job. I don’t care what they want you to do, you do it. If you lose that job, your father will be so upset. I don’t want anything to upset him right now.”
I take a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll do what I need to do to keep the job.”
“You promise me?” She won’t let it go once she’s got it in her head.
“Yes, I promise. This is stupid.”
“Okay.” Mollified, she seems to have forgotten why she called in the first place. I try one more time to escape.
“I have to go now, Momma, okay? I have to, uh, get to the shops before they close. Say hello to Poppa for me, okay?” Before she can answer, I hang up, put the phone down on the table and stare at it.
What have I done now? This wasn’t what I signed on for when I turned up at Walters Capital.
I pace around my apartment
, trying to hang things up. After fifteen minutes, I throw my dresses on the bed in disgust, and put my coat on.
There’s only one way to get my mind off this.
Shoe shopping.
12
From my vantage point in the middle of the store, I can get a good view of all of the shoe-racks, stretching away in front of me. An attendant hovers expectantly, but I wave her off, maybe a bit more sternly than I mean to.
The secret to effective shopping is the terrain advantage. Take in as much of the store in one hit as you can, and you can compare everything at once. If you browse along racks like the store dressers want you to, then you’re at the mercy of every shiny thing they put in front of you. Much better to survey the battlefield, then move in and strike when you see a target of opportunity.
I’m working on a couple of pairs of maroon slingbacks, when I see that Emily’s online.
Hey Em. How’s Italy?
Hey Ron. It’s pretty damn fantastic. I’ve bought a pasta machine. No idea how I’m going to get it back home. Will is off at a conference for the day, but tonight we’re driving to Milan.
I snap a couple of photos of the shoes and send them to her with a question-mark attached. In another minute, her reply comes back.
Hmm. The ones with the detailing on the heels, yes. The flared ones? Maybe, although only if you’ve got the dresses to match.
Right. You’re a genius, Emily Masterson.
Hey, it’s Emily Spencer now, thank you very much; I’m a happily-married woman. And I learned all my shopping mojo from you, remember? Anyway, what’s happening with work?
Hmm.
It’s a problem. This deal, you know? Don’t tell anyone, but if it goes through, prices for a whole lot of mortgage securities are going to drop like a stone.
So what?
So, the people who invest in those securities aren’t big investors; they are everyday people. And we’re not even taking their money, or anything. They’re just going to be roadkill on our way to the top, you know?