“I don’t give a damn what it is,” Sleet said, laughing. “All I care is that it keeps on going up in value.”
Blaze shook her head ruefully. “There are hundreds of billions’ worth of CDOs in the market and yet hardly anyone knows what they are or what they do. I am not—don’t worry—going to give you a boring lecture, but a CDO is a bundle of disparate loans which yield interest. All well and good until the underlying value collapses and you’re left with no income and no asset.” Out of the corner of her eye Blaze saw Sleet’s expression darken. She wondered if she should soften her stance—after all, the man had the power to fire her—but she had spent so long preparing her pitch, and was too keen to prove her point, to alter her course.
She cleared her throat. “One of the world’s oldest and most venerable invesment banks, Bear Stearns, bought two hedge funds specialising in CDOs. In 2007 its shares were valued at $172; just over a year later you could buy them for $2. That was the end of the Bear; nearly eighty-five years of history eviscerated. And yet the lesson wasn’t heeded; Lehman Brothers, the fourth-largest bank in the sector, has borrowed over thirty times its capital. Every single day it has to raise millions just to pay the interest. All their energies, their profits and, more worryingly, some of their assets have to go into restructuring their borrowings. Employees go home each night not knowing if there’ll be enough money to trade the following day.”
Looking around the room, Blaze saw concerned faces staring back at her. Even Sleet was momentarily lost for words.
Blaze swallowed. “The whole system is perilously close to collapse. I don’t think this is the eve of the dot-com crisis or the Tuesday before Black Wednesday: this is an abyss as dark as 1929.”
There was an outburst in the room.
“Hang on, hang on!” Sleet stood up slowly from his chair like an omnipotent Neptune rising above a sea of worried faces. “How do you explain that the stock market hit a seven-year high last year, followed by an all-time high on the Dow last fall?” He sat down heavily.
Blaze looked at him without blinking. “Everyone has puffed up their earnings and underplayed their losses.”
“Everyone?” Sleet sneered.
“I don’t think Lehman will last till Christmas. I’d put Goldman on the critical list.”
There was a gasp of horror at the mention of Goldman Sachs, long seen as the ultimate blue-chip safe bank managed by titans of the universe.
In two great bounds, Sleet left his seat and climbed onto the stage. He didn’t speak at first but shook his head in mock disbelief. As his chin moved side to side, the rolls of his stomach undulated. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his damp brow.
“My name, as you all know, is Thomlinson Sleet. I’m the adopted son of a Catholic vacuum salesman from Delaware. I was not born in a castle, like my colleague Lady Blaze Scott. My family were so poor that I didn’t own a pair of shoes until I was thirteen. Four of my seven brothers ended up in jail. Three of my nine sisters got knocked up before their fourteenth birthday. I didn’t get a double first in mathematics at Oxford like her but I did get to that venerable university on a Rhodes Scholarship to read physics. Do you remember the last time we met, Lady Blaze?”
Blaze shook her head, unable to recall anyone matching his description.
“Odd how a single shared event can transform one life and leave no trace on another’s.” Shrugging, Sleet returned to his main theme.
“I don’t want to do a colleague down, but let’s compare results. Last year my investment portfolio was up 32 per cent and Miss—sorry, Lady—Scott’s was a bit stagnant at 9 per cent. This year, and it’s only July and things have been a bit tricky; yeah, I am up 18 per cent and she is down 2 per cent. Apart from the fact that I own this company, these are my qualifications: my crenellations.”
The room roared its approval. Sleet held up his hand to quiet everyone. Blaze wanted to walk out of the auditorium but sat in her chair with a fixed smile.
“Lady Scott is a doom merchant. Last year she took her money off the table and missed out on the biggest rises in the market.” Sleet made a mock sympathetic smile towards Blaze. “Now, gentlemen—and let’s accept it, nearly all of you here are gentlemen—what our lovely friend doesn’t know is anything about team sports. Let’s talk about something we blokes have in common; let’s talk about soccer.”
Blaze could hardly believe what she was hearing. Was Sleet intent on presenting a serious financial meltdown in footballing terms? Casting a glance around the audience, she saw many leaning forward with a look of delighted anticipation.
“We men like to back teams, through thick and thin, and that’s why the U.S. Treasury will never let their side go down. The boys from Goldman Sachs run the world. Guess where Bush’s Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson and his Chief of Staff Joshua Bolten were trained? And John Thain at Merrill? And the Governor of New Jersey? And Robert Zoellick, head of the World Bank? And Mario Draghi, head of the Bank of Italy? Tito Mboweni, Governor of the South African Reserve Bank? And Mark Carney, Governor of the Bank of Canada? Yes, Team bloody Goldman. Guess where I was trained and where I made my first million? Same place. We are the best and we are not going to let our own kind go down.”
The crowd bellowed with laughter and the atmosphere in the room changed. Blaze saw that the worried faces had gone; Sleet had reassured them.
Sleet paused. “There are a few little issues but, as my friend Hank said the other day, ‘I do believe that the worst is likely to be behind us.’ In the meantime, what do we do?”
He paused again for dramatic effect. He walked around the stage. His audience were mesmerised.
“I’ll tell you what we do—we’ll go out there and make loads of money.”
The room burst into spontaneous applause. One or two got to their feet.
“What is the Chinese definition of the word crisis? It is opportunity and, fuck me, there is a whole load of opportunity begging to be taken. I love a bit of volatility; that’s how, as you Brits like to say, we make dosh.”
The audience stood as one and stamped their feet. Blaze’s colleagues, with whom she had worked and built the company for the last fifteen years, turned their backs on her. Unable to stand it a moment longer, Blaze left the auditorium with as much dignity as she could muster. Her face burned red and she traced her fingers along the wall to steady herself. Pushing open the door, she made it through and, out of sight, waited to see if any of her clients would follow. Only TiLing came. They walked in silence back to her office.
“I am—” TiLing said.
Blaze raised her hand. “Please don’t say anything.”
TiLing nodded.
They sat in Blaze’s office, waiting for the phone to ring or for another colleague to put their head around the door to offer words of consolation. At 12 p.m., a client emailed to say that they were moving their portfolio, valued at £50 million, from Blaze’s account to another senior partner recommended by Sleet. Throughout the afternoon, others confirmed their decision to look for alternative management within the firm. By 5 p.m., all but one of Blaze’s eighteen clients, worth a total of £270 million, had moved. Without any portfolios to look after, her income would cease.
With little else to do but wait, she googled Thomlinson Sleet and was confronted by walls of images of Sleet with beautiful women, larger and larger boats; or with captains of industry and political leaders. She put in the name Tommy B. Sleet and a smudged image from a college yearbook came up. She leaned in close to study the man’s features, to find the grown-up in the pudgy, ginger-haired, spotty youth wearing an ill-fitting suit, a shirt whose collar was a size too small and a tie the shape of a Dover sole. In a flash, the incident came back to her: Oxford, June 1988—Kitto had been visiting his sister and her friends Jane and Anastasia, and the four of them were drinking in Anastasia’s third-floor room. There was a frantic tapping and
rustling at the open window. A young man, bulbous in shape, dressed in synthetic trousers and a brown shirt with a rose clamped between his teeth, slithered through the narrow gap and landed on the floor at their feet. Apparently unperturbed by his inelegant arrival or the presence of three other people in the room, the would-be suitor heaved himself up on to one knee and, swishing his rose to the left and right, declared undying love to Anastasia. He held out his token of admiration but the rose, exhausted by its journey, drooped and its petals fell off into a desultory little heap at her feet. Twenty years later, Blaze couldn’t remember which of them laughed first but, once they started, it had been impossible to stop. The suitor got slowly and painfully to his feet, brushed the dust off his trousers and tried to cajole his hair back into some kind of order. He went to the door and, before leaving, very solemnly told Anastasia, “The name is Tommy B. Sleet. Don’t forget it.”
Blaze pushed her chair back. No wonder the man disliked her.
At that moment, Sleet walked into her office. He didn’t say hello or even wave a hand in greeting. Instead he looked around as if he owned the place; which, of course, he did.
“Interesting that you have no mementos, no pictures of loved ones or personal effects,” he said, glancing at the empty shelves and surfaces.
“I like to concentrate on work,” Blaze replied. Once or twice she’d been tempted to bring in a framed photograph of a handsome stranger for appearance’s sake.
“Do you live up to your nickname? A Blaze Runner? Are you like Ridley Scott’s automatons, a person with no feelings or emotions?”
Blaze winced; if only it were true.
Sleet sat down on the edge of her desk, his corpulent behind spreading over her paperwork. Idly, he picked up a pencil and snapped it in half. “By keeping your portfolio liquid, you’ve missed out on a great rise in the market. If I’d put £100 million in your fund a year ago, I’d have lost a fortune.”
“I don’t count fantasy numbers,” Blaze said. “You’re referring to a lost opportunity. If those games were real, we’d all be multibillionaires.”
“I am a multibillionaire,” he replied. “And, for the record, I don’t play games.” He leaned in towards her, apparently smiling, but although his mouth stretched to reveal white, even teeth, his eyes were hard and unblinking.
“I presume you’re firing me,” Blaze said, making a huge effort to keep her voice steadier than her spirits.
“Making money is not about calling it right, it’s about calling it at the right time.” He grinned. Picking up a second pencil, he broke it into three pieces and lined them up in a neat row in front of Blaze.
“I’m busy, why don’t you get to the point?” She rearranged the broken pencils into a triangle.
“I’m cutting your bonus to ten basis points.”
Blaze grimaced. With her fund down to less than £30 million, her bonus would be reduced to £30,000 a year. Less than she spent on personal trainers, shrinks and Madame Alvira.
“That’s insulting. My colleagues are on a hundred basis points.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll leave it.”
Sleet paused for the first time. When he did speak, he leaned forward, his breath smelling of hamburger. “Getting flouncy doesn’t suit you.”
“Is this about the Anastasia incident?” Blaze asked. “It was a long time ago.”
“You finally remembered.”
“There were so many men…” Blaze said.
Sleet threw back his head and roared with laughter. “For you and your ilk, it was an amusing little incident; for me, it was life-defining: it made me who I am today. Walking away from those college rooms, I promised myself never, ever to let anyone belittle me again. You should rethink my offer, Blaze; you won’t get a better one.” He got up and walked out of the room.
Blaze didn’t have time to reflect. Seconds later, TiLing put her head around the door and, hardly able to contain her excitement, said, “I’ve got Joshua Wolfe on the line.”
“Are you sure?” Blaze asked. Wolfe was a recluse who lived, as far as anyone knew, in a guarded estate near Aylesbury. The only definite information was that he was in his fifties and had come to the UK as a young man. There was one smudgy photograph of him on the internet, and all his staff had to sign privacy notices agreeing not to disclose any information about their employer or his practices. Rumours abounded that he was a hunchback or a cripple, that he suffered an allergy to light and lived like a troglodyte in the cellar of his stately home.
“It could be a prank,” TiLing admitted.
“Put him through.” What was one more humiliation, to add to all the others? She picked up the receiver on her desk.
“Blaze Scott?” the voice asked. “This is Joshua Wolfe.”
“How can I help you?” she said curtly.
“I didn’t like the way Sleet spoke to you earlier,” Wolfe continued, dispensing with any further introduction.
“Were you in the audience?” Blaze hadn’t seen his name on the list of attendees.
“That’s irrelevant,” Wolfe said. “There are two types of investor: the market chasers, and those who take a longer and more considered view. I like the second type and I liked your analysis.” He paused. “The winds are changing. I think your predictions are correct. Would you be interested in teaming up on some joint investments?”
Blaze inhaled slowly. It was a tempting offer. “I have a non-compete clause with this company and would automatically forfeit my bonus and options if I leave.”
“Those golden handcuffs will be worthless if your colleagues maintain their present course and, from what I hear, your sails have been trimmed.”
“You’re startlingly well-informed, Mr. Wolfe.” Where, she wondered, was he getting this information? She looked enquiringly at TiLing who shrugged her shoulders.
For the first time in the conversation, Wolfe hesitated. “Come have lunch with me and we’ll discuss it further.”
“That would be a pleasure,” Blaze replied, intrigued.
“I’m busy with the harvest at the moment but I’ll be in touch when I have most of the wheat in.”
Blaze wondered if he was teasing her. What would a man like Wolfe know about cereal crops?
“Agreed?” he asked.
“I look forward to it,” Blaze said. Meeting the reclusive investor would make a good story, even if nothing else came of it.
5
Attics
TUESDAY 8TH JULY 2008
Jane took the ninth of eleven staircases up to the attic floor to her studio. As usual, she carried a duster, a torch and a bucket useful for emptying the pots and pans strategically placed to catch incoming rainfall. There was never a moment, in summer or winter, when some part of Trelawney Castle’s one-acre roof wasn’t leaking. Reaching the top floor, she turned left along a corridor known for many centuries as Housemaids’ West Wing.
It had been nearly three weeks since Jane had had time to go to her studio. Swinging her duster like a scythe, she swept away the gossamer cobwebs hanging across her path. A recent storm had poured in through a hole in the roof, leaving the pale floorboards below dark and soaked. Rounding a corner, she saw that the stone lintels on either side of the window had cracked and the architrave was buckling. Its collapse might block access to her studio and Jane’s heart contracted. She couldn’t imagine a life worth living without this creative outlet. Weeks passed without making the long trek upstairs, but its very existence and the promise of another session sustained her.
Jane had found the printing press ten years earlier while trying to locate the source of a leak in the third ballroom. She’d never been to that section of the fourth floor before and was amazed to discover thirty nearly identical rooms, each almost bare save for twin iron beds and a small cupboard—the staple furniture of junior domestic staff. Opening t
he door of Room 128, Jane wondered why, and for that matter how, anyone would heave a laundry mangle to the attic so far from the washing rooms downstairs. Forgetting the search for the leak, she examined the heavy cast-iron table with a large metal roller at one end. Using all her strength, she managed to turn it around, forcing the roller majestically and rustily from one end to another. The contraption must have weighed half a ton. Intrigued, Jane opened the neatly stacked wooden crates lining the wall. They contained blocks of typefaces and letters in different fonts and dried-out bottles of ink. In a nearby cupboard she found some fading printed posters, all relating to the suffragette movement and specifically to a women’s march from Penzance to London on 19th June 1913. Jane laughed out loud. Someone had deliberately hidden the press in the farthest maid’s room in the attic, where neither the butler nor any member of the family would dream of venturing. It made her happy to think that, deep within the heart of this ancient bastion of absolute male hegemony, there had existed a small and defiant opposition: a group of feminists prepared to risk their jobs and livelihood for the rights of their own sex.
The following day Jane returned with some oil and set to work dismantling the old machine, lubricating and cleaning each of its parts. It took three weeks. She bought some inks, carving tools and lino blocks in a local art shop and made her first drawing since school: a fox running through a cornfield. It took many attempts to reproduce the drawing on a piece of lino; at first, her etching lines were wobbly and inept. To her, the image had none of the elan of a child’s drawing and lacked the sophistication and surety of an adult’s, but a touchpaper was lit. From then on, she spent every spare moment trying to improve, working for hours at a time, neglecting other duties. Six months later she produced an image worth printing.
The same afternoon, Jane inked her design and, covering it with a piece of paper, cranked the roller over it and held her breath. Slowly, she peeled the paper away from the linocut. Her heart quickened and soared as she saw her fox in brown ink sneaking through an imaginary garden. It was a naive, inept print but it was a start, a clarion call. Room 128 became her exclusive world, independent of Trelawney and the overwhelming burden of her husband’s inheritance. Her printmaking was a safe space to explore her own feelings and to be herself. Her inspiration was the Cornish landscape; her drawings were, ostensibly, of the local flora and topography. Had any of her family (who occasionally wandered into her studio) looked closely, they would have detected a strong autobiographical element. Her nearest kin were transformed into trees and plants: her mother-in-law was an all-pervasive and poisonous ragwort; her father-in-law, an overblown elder; Arabella, a wild rose; Ambrose, a stocky privet; Kitto, an elegant ash; and Toby, a kindly oak. For herself, Jane chose a series of wild weeds: a usurper, tenaciously clinging to the rocks.
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