A theatrical cough erupted behind Miles and Al. It wasn’t merely an attempt to clear the tubes, this cough demanded attention. They spun around to see someone they knew well and somehow didn’t know at all. He was standing next to a smiling Imogen. The man was Fergal, clearly, but something was different. He was wearing a suit that fitted – and not just a suit that fitted but one that was actually fashionable in an understated charcoal sort of a way.
'Welcome to the future, boys. Whaddaya reckon?'
'Oh my God, Fergal,' said Al, 'What the bloody hell happened to your suit?'
Before Fergal could respond, Imogen said, 'It’s been retired.'
'Has Vidal Sassoon been at your hair?' asked Miles.
'Might have been.'
Fergal’s suit had become a talisman amongst the graduate trainees during the past few weeks. It wasn’t so much that he was wearing it for a bet – although you might have been forgiven for thinking that there was a financial inducement of some sort – as wearing it for a dare. As the trainees had got to know each other, Fergal’s role as joker had been assured and his suit had been his key prop. Now it was gone.
'So, are we to take this as a sign then Fergal?' asked Miles.
'A sign of what?'
'That it’s time to get serious.'
'Maybe.' But as Fergal said the word, his grin was anything but serious.
Al watched Fergal. The suit really was very tasteful. Better than his, in fact. The haircut made him look almost – God no, was this possible? – handsome. And Imogen was watching him and smiling. Al hadn’t managed to shake off the suspicion that perhaps Imogen was attracted to Fergal. They had a close relationship – of that there was no doubt. Now, with the suit and the new look, the two of them didn’t look so mis-matched. Al’s over-active imagination was racing. They were clearly sleeping together. But now – at the Christmas party – this was the last place for resentment. Least of all for Fergal. He loved Fergal. If he was sleeping with Imogen then he was worthy of huge respect. To combine the ability of being the funniest and most popular junior member of the bank with sleeping with one of the most good looking women there was an achievement that he could only applaud.
Al clapped Fergal on the back and said, 'Come on you gorgeous bastard,' and the four of them made their way into the marquee.
Once everyone had taken their places and made their first attempts at small talk with the people sitting next to them, Daniel Van Der Weithuisen stood to address the company. Miles studied him; he was relaxed, impressively so.
'1994 has been a very interesting year for Trenchart Colville and an interesting year in the markets as a whole. I’m delighted by the company’s performance in what has proved to be a difficult year in many ways. That Trenchart Colville has managed to weather an uncertain economic outlook is a testament to the quality of our trading and the overriding sense of teamwork that we have in this company. I would like to take this opportunity to welcome new members of staff – in particular, our intake of graduate trainees who are trainees no more and will be taking up their positions within the bank at the start of the new year – I trust you’ll all make them feel welcome. Trenchart Colville are the people in this room. You. So on behalf of the senior management of the bank, it just remains for me to offer a big thank you to everyone for making Trenchart Colville the success that it is. I feel privileged to be your chief executive. Now it’s time to relax, celebrate, and enjoy our evening together. Hopefully I will have the opportunity to chat with many of you before the night is over. Thanks again for all your hard work and happy Christmas!'
Applause rang out through the marquee as Daniel took his seat and the chatter swelled once more. Food was brought to the table by an army of white linen-clad waiting staff. The first course comprised baked salmon with lemon-dressed salad leaves and no sooner was the food served, than glasses were replenished and as the evening progressed and more alcohol was consumed, the tone and timbre of the conversation began to change. Moods were enhanced, perceptions altered and the volume increased. The laughter and merriment came in waves, swelling and then falling away as cutlery clicked and clattered against china, and plates were cleared to make way for the American-style Christmas dinner of roast stuffed goose with cranberry and orange relish, Brussels sprouts with maple syrup and toasted almonds, parmigiana baked parsnips and roast potatoes with saffron.
'Food’s not that bad for once,' said Nick Stevens to Miles and Miles concurred. Although careful to maintain a relaxed nonchalance as they chatted, Miles was quick to establish Nick’s key interest, namely sport. It was a subject area in which Miles could easily hold his own, golf, and they discussed Nick Price’s wins in the Open and the PGA championship; formula one and Michael Schumacher’s supremacy; boxing and George Foreman’s recent crowning as the oldest ever heavyweight champion, and throughout it all, Miles deferred to Nick whose alcohol intake easily trebled his own. Miles drank enough to make it plain that he was enjoying himself but not so much that he might say more than he should. Tonight was not the night for losing control. By the end of the meal, Miles was being treated to Nick’s tales of excess from the trading floor as he pointed out members of staff and told of their misbehaviour at various social functions.
'You should have seen him, I’m telling you, he was absolutely off his face. Couldn’t even speak. It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.' And Miles smiled and laughed, enjoying Nick’s indiscretions, noting the names, noting the stories, gleaning inside information and storing it away. After the Christmas pudding with rum butter, coffee and chocolate truffles, the seating arrangements that had been so closely adhered to at the start of the evening began to break down as people traded places and the party began in earnest.
'I’ll see you later,' said Nick as he clapped Miles on the shoulder and made his way over to another table and a particularly raucous group of traders.
Surveying the clusters of people in the marquee and the strategic opportunities that they presented, Miles felt angry with himself. Throughout the meal, he had managed to maintain a constant awareness of Daniel’s position on the next table but one. If there was anyone in the room with whom he wanted to engineer some face time it was him. But as Nick Stevens moved away leaving Miles all on his own, he looked around to find that he had allowed Daniel to fall off the radar. Time to get another drink from the bar. But as he turned around, he came face to face with not only Daniel but JJ Pietersen, the head of Treasury and Capital Markets.
'It’s Miles isn’t it?' enquired Daniel.
'That’s right,' said Miles, concealing his excitement and pleasure at being recognised by the most important figure at the bank.
'Looking forward to getting started in the new year?'
Here it was. A gilt-edged opportunity. His father had once said to him: 'Don’t screw up, Miles.' Miles was playing Hamlet in a school production. He was extremely nervous on the first night and his father had been as thunderously insensitive as to say that to him. But he made damn sure that he didn’t screw up. And he wouldn’t screw up now.
'It’s going to be good to put into practice everything we’ve studied in the past couple of months and start learning from the people at the sharp end how it really works.' 'Exactly right,' said JJ. 'You can’t learn this business from a book.' He looked at Miles and said, 'Are you following markets much, Miles? Any thoughts?'
Here it was. He paused to allow himself a self-deprecatory smile. 'Dollar weakness continues to be the driver particularly with Europe and Japan looking more healthy and global growth improving after the slow down. But I wonder if the market is too bearish dollars; the US bond market is very vulnerable to better data. The market doesn’t feel at equilibrium to me.'
'Sounds like you think that vol is too low?' JJ was smiling at Miles but scrutinising him at the same time too – as though Miles was someone who had been discussed in the past and he was taking this opportunity to evaluate him. Miles was also aware that Daniel was looking him straight in the eyes.
The question hung there. Daniel and JJ watched him.
Don’t screw up, Miles.
'I think I do and I’m very much looking forward to learning how to trade those kind of views here at Trenchart Colville.'
Miles’s mind raced. Was this too much? Was it too little? He felt a glow of relief as Daniel said: 'Well we hope you learn too.' Daniel’s hand was on his shoulder. A gesture of affection and support. This was enough. It would be so easy to take this as a signal to join the two of them and attempt to engage in conversation. But Miles knew that this was the time to get out, to take his winnings and move on. A graduate trainee attempting to ingratiate himself with senior management for more than a couple of minutes could easily overstay his welcome. Miles raised his glass.
'Happy Christmas.'
JJ: 'All the best, Miles.'
Daniel: 'Have a good one Miles.'
And he was gone. As he moved away, Daniel and JJ looked at one another and nodded – 'he’s smart.'
Daniel and JJ were distinctly old school, polished and competent. But one day they would cease to be relevant. Miles’s long term plans were well beyond the boundaries of Trenchart Colville. Trading was all about risk reward. He’d taken the risk, expressed his ambition to the two most senior members of the bank and handled the situation with aplomb. Now, he would accept his reward. Miles surveyed the room and there she was. She had been carefully chosen. Her name was Bonnie Sawyer; she worked in Human Resources. She had handled his work permit application with the Home Office and he had known there was a connection right from the start. The flirting had been subtle but deliberate. Both of them knew how to play the game and as he walked towards her as she stood in a cluster of her HR colleagues and some IT guys, he was reassured to see that she turned around and looked straight into his eyes – she had already been watching him – and the expression on her face told him all he needed to know. She was looking great. Gone was the tailored two-piece business suit that she usually wore. Tonight she was wearing a peach satin evening dress and beneath it, he could almost feel the lines of her body slide and swell beneath the shimmering fabric.
'Hello Miles.'
'Bonnie, how are you? Not ready to have me thrown out of the country just yet?'
Miles’s status as a foreign national had been the touchstone of their flirtatious banter and Bonnie smiled – straight white teeth and ruby lips – and as she did so, Miles knew that this was the moment. The preparations had been concluded and now it was time to book the ticket.
'Not just yet Miles. I think you still have some value to us at the moment. In the event that you cease to have any then we’ll have to re-evaluate.'
'That’s fair enough. I admire your ruthless exploitation of human potential.'
They smiled at one another. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was hoisted aloft into a chignon and Miles felt an urge to press his lips against her long slim neck.
'So Bonnie, how about we go for a drive and talk about my future with the company?'
'A drive? What, have you got a car here?'
'Yes. The driver should be outside somewhere.'
For a moment, she frowned, confused, but soon the smile was back.
'Sure.'
Bonnie put down her wine glass on the table and without even looking back at the circle of friends with whom she had been speaking only a few moments before, she accompanied Miles across the marquee to the main entrance and out into the cool night air. When they were clear of the marquee and away from potential witnesses, Miles took off his jacket and pulled it around Bonnie’s shoulders. Then he slid his arm around her, pulled her close and she responded by leaning against him as they walked along Charterhouse Street.
He was in luck. A black cab turned the corner out of Farringdon Road and approaching them on the opposite side of the street. Miles hailed it and it pulled over to the pavement. He opened up the back door for Bonnie and she climbed inside. The cab driver – an overweight Londoner with a Lonsdale sweat shirt pulled tight over his paunch – opened the passenger side window and looked at Miles with an expectant expression awaiting Miles’s preferred destination.
'Just drive.'
The driver frowned and was about to object when Miles took the five twenty pound notes out of his wallet and held them out to him.
'Where do you want me to go?' asked the cabbie.
'Buckingham Palace and back.' As the cabbie took the money, Miles said: 'Oh and er, do me a favour will you? Keep your eyes on the road. The rear-view mirror is strictly out of bounds.'
'All right mate.'
Any worries that Miles might have had that Bonnie wasn’t ready for his advances were quickly made redundant as she responded to his first kiss by flinging her arms around his neck and pulling him closer, her tongue finding his. By the time the cab had made its way around Smithfield Market and was heading west, they were exploring each other’s bodies. By St Pauls, he had unclicked her bra strap; by the embankment, her fingers had found the prize and he was already so hard that it ached as his attentions moved south.
'Miles? We’d better not …'
But as she began to voice her objection, he had found her mouth again and was kissing it.
'Miles? Don’t you think we should …'
But any further expression of potential dissent was silenced as Miles swung Bonnie around to straddle him as they passed Big Ben. Her mouth was stretched open into a silent gasp as his tongue found its way inside it once more. As they rounded the Victoria monument, Miles glanced up at Buckingham Palace. Slipping the straps of Bonnie’s dress down over her shoulders, he relished the musky aroma of her perspiration as he took her nipples in his mouth one after the other and sucked on them, churning them round and round against his tongue as they grinded their hips together faster, their increased urgency fuelling Bonnie’s mutterings of: 'Oh my God! Oh Miles! Oh God!'
Their rhythm accelerated as the taxi pounded its way up the Mall. When they reached the Strand they could wait no more. Bonnie came first – Miles made sure of that – and he felt her entire body go into spasm as she dug her nails into his shoulders. When she was done, Miles let himself go, his face pushed into her chest as she rested her cheek against his hair, her hands around the back of his neck pulling him against her.
Ten minutes later and Miles and Bonnie were fully clothed once again and walking back towards Smithfield market. Putting his hand around her waist and pulling her close, he said: 'I look forward to continuing with this line of training and development at another time,' and she giggled. Still flushed with a post-coital contentment, Miles felt a rush of self-satisfaction. But as they walked back into the marquee, Miles saw something that troubled him. Walking together so closely that they might as well have had their arms around each other were Al and Imogen. As they reached the exit, Imogen glanced at Fergal who was standing nearby and she winked at him which elicited a big drunken grin and a reciprocal wink from the Irishman. The secrecy and subterfuge implicit in this exchange intrigued Miles.
'Bonnie, I’ll see you in a minute,' he flashed her a smile and kissed her on the cheek as she made her way back to her friends still standing in the same cluster as she had left them earlier. Miles couldn’t help himself. He had to know where Al and Imogen were going and what they were going to do. Outside the marquee, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the lack of light and looked around. There, standing between two guy ropes he could just make out the silhouettes of Al and Imogen as they embraced and kissed. The emerald green of Imogen’s dress was unmistakable. He’d thought how attractive she’d looked in it earlier on. Suddenly, his little tour of London with Bonnie Sawyer felt trivial and sordid. Dirty even. Imogen might not have been the shining light on the graduate training scheme – that accolade had been bestowed on him alone – but she was beautiful and she came from a good North London Jewish background. And she really was Jewish. Not like him, a half-caste, something that had made him feel second best all his life.
Al thought that he’d probably n
ever enjoyed kissing a woman so much in his life. The beers and the Champagne that he had drunk earlier lent the scene a dreamlike quality, and what made the experience all the sweeter was that it should come at this time. How could he have seriously believed that Imogen and Fergal were together? To end up like this with Imogen’s sweet Champagne-flavoured lips pressed against his was the perfect end to the year. All worries he had had over the past few months that perhaps he had chosen the wrong career path; all of them melted away now. He was kissing the most adorable woman he had ever met. Christmas had come early.
As Al and Imogen stood kissing, holding each other, their bodies pressed together, neither of them was aware of Miles Ratner watching them from the shadows.
5 Waiting for the Numbers
US Treasury 10Y yields: 7.32%
'Fifty, fifty-three, Bill ‘n’ Ben.'
'Fifty, fifty-three, five by five, come on!'
'Any Stewart Granger someone’s gonna deal?'
'Three paid. Hoo-bleedin’-ray.'
Al sat at his desk in his new YSL suit and felt sick. He had read the description in thriller novels of people’s palms sweating; he had always thought that it was a second-rate literary affectation. Until now. If only he hadn’t allowed Fergal to coax him into those two triple Jamesons just before last orders the night before.
Since the start of the new year, the former graduate trainees had been on the trading floor, rotating between different desks, watching, learning, soaking up the climate and the mood of the place. But first they had had to sit the dreaded Securities and Futures Authority regulatory exam in January. They all passed. Al was not entirely sure how Fergal had managed it but felt that it was probably Miles’s after-hours tuition sessions in the Golden Hind that had just about swung it in his favour. While Charlie Warwick had moved over onto the banking side on another floor, the rest of the team had ended up in Markets. Al, Imogen and Rhys had been assigned to sales; Miles, Fergal and Eve had been assigned to trading. How much any of this had to do with the Joanna Lumley lookalike psychologist who had so clinically appraised their presentations, Al couldn’t tell, but their characters and relevant skills had clearly been evaluated.
Shadow Banking Page 7