As Miles concluded his presentation, he thanked the room’s occupants and went back to his seat as Rob led the applause. The next to present was Rhys Griffiths, the Welshman with the barrel chest. He stood up and smiled nervously, the index cards on which his speech was written trembling slightly in his hand.
'I’d like to talk to you about my cleaning business that I set up in Sydney during my gap year. It was called Dust Busters. I know, I know, not the most original of names but branding was not my primary concern at the time. All I was really interested in was earning enough money to pay my rent and to buy me a few beers at the end of the day.'
Rhys spoke well but details of his short-lived cleaning business had to be cut short by Rob when he ran over time having become bogged down in his profit and loss profile.
After Rhys, it was Eve Saunders’ turn and as she stood at the end of the room, it was clear that her nerves were not bearing up too well as she fussed with her hair and stared at a piece of paper that flapped in her shaking hand. She stuttered over her first few sentences and for a moment, as she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, it looked as though she might not be able to continue. But she managed to rally and by the end of her presentation which told of her attempts to open a video rental store in her home town of Banbury when she was only fourteen, she had relaxed enough to make light of her former nerves and she received the biggest round of applause so far, fuelled as it was by relief that she had managed to complete the presentation.
Next up was Charlie Warwick who strode to the end of the room with a sense of solemn purpose as though about to read a eulogy in church. In keeping with his military bearing, brass-buttoned blazer and aura that hinted at an old-fashioned almost pre-war sensibility, Charlie spoke of his and his brother’s attempts to develop a jam-making business during one of their school holidays as children, gathering blackberries from the heavily-laden hedgerows of their native Somerset and then selling the resultant jams door to door around their village. It was the most amusing of the presentations so far, the humour heightened by Charlie’s unexpected abilities as a mimic, impersonating the people they had approached with their jam.
Imogen’s presentation was on the subject of the fringe theatre production of Harold Pinter’s The Homecoming that she had performed in at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival the previous summer. It was a subject that she clearly felt passionate about and knowing her subject well, she spoke with confidence, barely glancing at her notes. For the most part, she addressed her words to her two closest allies in the room, Fergal and Al. But Al wasn’t listening to what she was saying as much as how she was saying it, relishing her smile when she spoke of technical disasters and the night the show went up with an audience comprised solely of an elderly couple who proceeded to sleep through the entire second act. Every time she looked away from Al to Fergal, Al willed her to look back at him, craving her attention, even in such a formal and unnatural environment. When she had finished, he clapped longer and harder than anyone else.
Fergal stood at the end of the room and looked out at his fellow graduate trainees and members of the bank’s senior management. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and looked at it, then returned it to his pocket, took it out again, looked at it again and then put it back into a different pocket. Smiling as though enjoying a private joke, he opened his mouth, about to speak, and then thought better of it and pulled at his collar which was damp with the sweat that glazed his neck. Looking around the room, his smile faded and then as though compelled to speak by some primal urge, he blurted out the word: 'Hamsters.' There was a long pause as the members of his audience shifted nervously in their seats. 'We all had one. It was like a craze. Mine was called Roland because it was more like a brown rat than a hamster and looking back on it now, it clearly was a brown rat that I’d been sold as a hamster by an unscrupulous pet shop proprietor. But I didn’t care what he was, I loved the little bastard.' Fergal frowned and muttered 'sorry,' aiming his apology at the back row of the room.
'So what with all of my brothers and friends having our own rodents, it seemed like the most obvious thing in the world. My uncle Bernie was a stable boy at Leopardstown Racecourse and I’d gone along and watched the racing as a little lad. So, inspired by my experiences there, I put my business venture into practice and Fergal Quinn’s Ten Punt Championship Hurdles was born.'
By the time Fergal had finished explaining about his own bespoke Tote betting system and the racing colours on the vests that he designed and produced for each hamster, laughter rang out through the room. The only person whose laughter sounded more muted than the rest was Al’s. Bad enough that he had to go last but to go after Fergal whose presentation was, in its own unorthodox way, quite brilliant made his nerves gnaw at his innards even harder. How the hell was he supposed to compete with this? If Rhys might have felt a little sick having to present after Miles, Al felt more than sick having to stand up in front of the room which would sound so quiet and hollow after the laughter that Fergal’s presentation had elicited. It wasn’t what Fergal said so much as the way that he said it. The same presentation could have been delivered by one of the other graduate trainees and it would have been funny – mildly so. But it was Fergal’s delivery, his posture, his perpetual sense of bafflement that had his audience shaking with mirth. It was as though he knew how absurd he must appear with his gangly frame, springy ginger hair, enormous eyes and grin – and a suit that not only offended any fashion sense, it sodomised it. Everyone in the room watched him with a smile on their face but Al’s smile was more of a grimace. He’d kill Fergal for this.
The applause that broke out after Fergal had finished was not the polite applause that Rob had encouraged after each of the other presentations, it was spontaneous and hearty. As Al made his way to the end of the room – it felt as though he was taking the walk of shame – Fergal’s presentation stung like a betrayal. And to make matters even worse for Al, to make his torture complete, as he turned to his audience and Rob said, 'OK Al, when you’re ready,' he saw Imogen looking at Fergal and smiling in congratulation. This too felt like a betrayal; it felt like everyone in the room was conspiring against him. Al felt a light-headedness that brought with it a sudden paranoia that perhaps he was going to pass out. Being a successful trader was all about being good under pressure. Rob had drummed that into them in the past few weeks but here he was at the first sign of pressure, about to go toes-up on the carpet.
Al had read somewhere that fainting was much more likely for people who remained immobile. Any movement, however slight, sets the blood pumping. Al tensed the muscles in his legs but even as he did so, he could feel his breaths shorten and tremble in his lungs. Come on Al, get it together. If he spoke now, the preceding silence might be perceived as a pause born of confidence. Go on Al, speak.
And he did: 'Do you mind if I take my jacket off? It’s very hot in here.'
'Sure,' said Rob.
Al took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, clenching his buttocks, tensing his thigh muscles, crunching his calves. Come on blood, pump. When he turned back to the room and the expectant faces and eyes, he felt no cooler but he did feel a now-or-never impulse compel him to speak. If he did pass out and fall flat on his arse then so be it.
'When I was sixteen, I got myself a summer job working at Poole Sailing Club.' It was a single fully-formed sentence. It was a start; he hadn’t passed out yet. 'At first, I was working in the harbour offices but after a few weeks I was allowed out on a thirty-six foot sail cruiser belonging to the guy who ran the sailing club. I guess I was a sort of general cabin boy and dogsbody at first but I soon became fascinated in sailing and over the next few summers, I continued to work at the club until a couple of years ago, having completed my Royal Yachting Association Coastal Skipper course, I chartered a yacht called Sea Spirit and started taking tourists out on sail cruises around Poole Harbour.'
The presentation wasn’t coming out as he had outlined it on the single index card that h
e held in his clammy hand but he did manage to nail the point about harnessing the elements being a lot like successful trading. He wasn’t sure that it was an apt comparison but he seemed to get away with it. Now he was standing at the front, he could see how closely he was being watched, especially by Joanna Lumley. By the end of the presentation, after he had explained the financial intricacies of his business venture and the reasons why financially he had failed but spiritually he had triumphed, he received the customary round of applause and retook his seat feeling a huge sense of relief that he had managed to remain vertical and conscious.
On his way over to the pub at lunchtime, Al was about to cheerfully curse Fergal for his brilliant presentation when he realised that he had left his jacket on the back of the chair in the room where they had just been. Telling Fergal to get him a pint of London Pride in, he headed back over the road to Trenchart Colville and made his way up to the fifth floor.
The door to the room was ajar and through the crack he could see that the senior management team remained seated at the back of the room. Rob had joined them and was sitting next to Joanna Lumley who was referring to a clip board on her lap and enjoying the undivided attention of her audience. Al’s knuckles were poised over the wood, just about to knock but he couldn’t help but strain to listen to what she had to say. Al had no idea who this woman was or what her professional contribution could be but she coldly dissecting the trainees’ attributes and character profiles.
'So to recap, Miles Ratner, highly analytical, clearly will perform well under pressure. Obvious trader material in more structured products I would have said. But note there’s a guardedness there and he’ll need close watching. Rhys Griffiths is a details man but I’m concerned that he doesn’t have the instinct to take risk nor the people skills for sales. Research and analysis look to be his niche. Eve Saunders was nervous today, I think much of it was to do with the subject she’d chosen but she’s got a very sharp brain and I sense she could be a very efficient trader. Charlie Warwick, on the other hand, is a relationships man, pure and simple. Perfect for banking. Imogen Green’s a bit of an enigma. It’s almost as though she doesn’t want to be here. She gave a presentation that didn’t really tell us anything about Imogen. I don’t sense she’s analytical. I certainly don’t think she’d be comfortable with risk. But there’s something very endearing about her. In the right circumstances she could be a very effective sales person. And as for Fergal Quinn …' There were affectionate chuckles from the senior managers at the mention of his name. 'He gave a thoroughly enjoyable presentation about an utterly absurd concept. He connects to people but I don’t see him as a salesman. I don’t think he’ll be polished enough, yet he’s clearly as sharp as a tack. Flow trading I’d say would be perfect for him.'
These mini-appraisals were all so cold. Someone’s personality, skills and attributes summed up in no more than a sentence or two. Even though he couldn’t help but feel that it was all grossly unfair to analyse someone’s abilities in such a fleeting manner, Al was desperate to hear what Joanna Lumley had to say about him. But one of the receptionists was approaching along the hall and there was no way that he could loiter there eavesdropping for a moment longer so he knocked on the door and entered. Joanna Lumley looked up and said, 'Oh!' – surprised by the coincidence that the person she was about to discuss had just walked in. Al made his apologies, retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair and left the room.
As he walked off down the corridor, he could hear voices from the room but they were receding into the distance and he couldn’t make out the words. All he knew was that in that little room, it was his turn to be appraised and analysed in a couple of sentences. Whatever those sentences contained – and he would never know – they would have an enormous impact on his career in the City. Al realised again that he had under-estimated the entire graduate process and the scale of what he was getting involved in. For the first time, he felt troubled about the path that lay ahead.
4 Buckingham Palace and Back
Gold: 380
It was a strange experience for Fergal. It was the middle of the day and he wasn’t at work and he wasn’t in the pub. And to make the whole thing doubly strange, he was walking along next to an attractive woman who had linked her arm through his and was looking up into his eyes and smiling.
'I’m going to level with you, Fergal,' said Imogen as they walked down Regent Street beneath the giant baubles and fake green foliage of the Christmas decorations wired above them, 'I didn’t just want you to accompany me while I did some shopping. I thought you might like to do some shopping too.'
'But I don’t need to do some shopping. I always leave my Christmas shopping to the last minute and do it on Grafton Street in Dublin on Christmas Eve.'
'OK, I’m just going to say it. Fergal, and I don’t want you to be offended about it. Remember, I’m saying it as a friend. It’s the look. Your look. All of it.'
Fergal stopped, like a rock amidst the treacherous rapids of Christmas shoppers raging all around him. Imogen turned and looked back at him.
'I have never been so insulted in all my life.' His words rang out across the heads of the shoppers bobbing beneath him. One or two of them turned to look at the eccentric Irishman shouting in their midst but most of them kept their heads down and thrust on to their destinations. To them, he was just another Christmas party reveller who’d started a little early in the day. Which in a way he was although he hadn’t really started yet at all.
The atmosphere in the offices of Trenchart Colville that morning had been peculiarly relaxed. There was very little work being done. The lack of visible female members of staff after lunchtime was explained away by their male counterparts as being down to their appointments at hair dressers and beauticians. The men joked as such, as though they wouldn’t dream of making an effort to look their best for the Christmas party. But it was best suits all round, good shaves, new haircuts and just that extra care taken over personal grooming. For everyone of course, except Fergal.
'Shut up Fergal, you’re not offended in the slightest.' Imogen turned towards him and they both stood facing each other as the shoppers swirled and eddied around them.
'This suit’s a classic.'
'Be serious Fergal.'
'It’s timeless.'
'It’s not just the suit. It’s the shirt, the ties, even the hair Fergal. I’m sorry but it’s time to end the madness.'
Fergal looked down at his suit. She was right, it was all wrong. But it was the suit that he wore to his brother’s wedding in which he delivered his best man speech. That was a night of triumphs. Not only did he get to enjoy the laughter of the wedding guests during the speech but he got lucky with the chief bridesmaid, a comely girl from Kerry by the name of – what the bloody hell was her name? It was the suit that he wore on possibly the greatest night of his life, the night that he had gone to the casino in Paris and being drunk and over-confident had gambled far more than he could afford – and won big. He had woken up in the morning lying in the suit on the bed at the hotel, not knowing how he had got home and finding bundles of cash in his pockets. Perhaps he should have seen that as an opportunity to buy himself a new suit. But the fact of the matter was that he hadn’t wanted a new suit, he had wanted this one. It was the suit he’d worn to his graduation at Trinity, Dublin. It was the suit that he wore to his interviews in the City, the suit that he was wearing when he was told he’d got the job at Trenchart Colville. This suit was more than just a fashion statement. To Fergal, it was the nearest that clothing could come to being a friend. But even Fergal had to admit that this was a friend that was best left in the wardrobe.
Fergal’s mock offence melted away as he grinned and said, 'You cheeky bastard!' and he and Imogen let themselves be swept away once again on the river of Christmas shoppers. As Imogen ushered Fergal through the doorway of Aquascutum on Regent Street, she said, 'Anyway, my selfless attempt to save you any further fashion shame does have an ulterior motive. I wante
d to talk to you about someone. So think of yourself as a surrogate girlfriend.'
'I can be that,' said Fergal looking around at the mannequins and the shop assistants and knowing that he was by far the worst dressed amongst them.
USD/DEM: 1.5721
The venue for the Trenchart Colville Christmas party was a marquee adjacent to Smithfield market. Al and Miles had had a couple in the Golden Hind before catching a cab over there. God knows where Fergal was. The air was thick with the smell of perfume, aftershave and cigar smoke. On an easel in the entrance to the marquee was a seating plan. Al and Miles feigned nonchalance as they studied it; both of them knew that the plan held secrets, hints, confirmations of the standing in which the company held them. Al was pleased to see that he was seated next to Keith Peake, head of FX Trading. His professional concerns thus assuaged, he was also pleased to see that Fergal was positioned only a couple of places away on the other side.
Miles wasn’t concerned about the location of friends or potential drinking partners. His focus was on where he was positioned within the hierarchy of the firm – only these co-ordinates meant anything to him. He too felt a sense of relief when he saw that he was seated next to Nick Stevens, Head of Options Trading, and someone he was keen on getting to know better. But he also knew that a Christmas party like this was all about having a good time with the people you have worked with for the past year and not talking to some graduate who might be a total prick. The right to be included had to be earned; it was never just given.
Miles checked where each of the other graduate trainees were seated. Being next to Nick Stevens was a good omen; it was going to be a good night. Once the important part was over and done with, he promised himself a treat. An extra special one and he knew exactly who he would share it with.
Shadow Banking Page 6