Shadow Banking

by C. M. Albright

  'Oh for Christ’s sake,' hissed Imogen. She frantically pulled on her clothes, as did Al. 'How fucking embarrassing.'

  'What shall I do about ...?' Al gestured at the rich velvet cushion covers on which his semen lay glistening in a thin pearl stripe. Imogen looked around the room for anything absorbent and finding nothing to hand, she passed Al a copy of The Lancet that was lying on a foot stool next to the sofa.

  'That’ll never work. It’s glossy for fuck’s sake.'

  'Oh just do your best.'

  But Al didn’t get a chance to test the magazine’s absorbency before a shriek from Von echoed up the hall. An ominous silence followed it. Imogen made her way towards the door and opened it to reveal her father standing there. He reached out to her and held her close.

  'Dad, I’m sorry about—'

  'It’s Molly.'

  His tone was unequivocal; Molly had gone. Imogen tried to pull away from him but he held her tight. She started to sob. Al’s and Tobias’s eyes locked onto one another. Al attempted a thin pursed-lipped smile that tried to convey his regret and apologies. He was sorry for so many things at that moment. He was sorry for Molly dying – the Green family’s loss of a beloved family pet – and he was sorry for having sex with Tobias’s daughter on the sofa where he sat down to watch the 6 o’clock news. But it was never going to be enough. Tobias looked away first and pressed his lips against his daughter’s hair and whispered, 'He had a wonderful life. He was dearly loved.'

  Al was frozen with indecision. What should he do? He couldn’t exactly sit down on the sofa, not under the circumstances and it didn’t feel right to step forward to console Imogen. Tobias seemed to be making a pretty good job of that. So he stood there with his arms by his side and let the copy of The Lancet slip from his fingers onto the rug. On the television, Andie McDowell was asking Hugh Grant if he wanted to come up to her hotel room for a night cap. Al picked up the remote control and pressed stop. But as he stopped the video, it clicked back onto a television programme, a game show, and the sound of ecstatic applause filled the room. It took him a moment to find the Power Off button by which time, Imogen was sobbing.

  'I’d better go,' said Al.

  'No,' said Imogen and she took one of her hands from around her father and gestured for him to stay. 'Come on,' she said to Tobias, 'I’m fine now, I need to see him.'

  'You’re sure?'

  'I’m sure.'

  As Imogen and Tobias made their way to see Molly, it felt to Al as though he had been holding his breath for the past couple of minutes and his entire body seemed to deflate as he exhaled. He moved towards the door and listened. There came the sound of Imogen crying. Al made his way to the downstairs toilet and armed with a thick wad of toilet paper, he made his way back to the living room and dabbed up the fruits of his mis-timed and thoroughly mis-judged ejaculation. Returning to the toilet, he flushed the tissue away, washed his hands and made his way back into the hallway to wait.

  It felt like he waited a week. A couple of times, he felt like ignoring Imogen’s request that he stay but each time, he fought the impulse and remained. He was relieved when only Imogen emerged from the kitchen and made her way towards him.

  'I’ll walk you to the tube.'

  'No, please, you stay here.'

  'No, I insist.'

  She had never spoken to him like this before. It was with a terseness that made no attempt to hide its underlying aggression. But she was bereaved, distraught. Her dog meant everything to her. It was understandable.

  'I’m so sorry about Molly.'

  'Yeah, so am I.'

  Al reached out to put his arm around her but no sooner had his hand touched the material of her jumper than Imogen had swung open the door and was making her way down the steps.

  'Should I say goodbye to your parents?' Al looked from Imogen back down the hallway.

  'What do you think?'

  Al pulled the door shut behind him and followed Imogen along the path to the end of the garden and then out onto the street. On the way to the tube, she walked purposefully with her hands crossed in front her. It was clear that she didn’t want consoling but Al couldn’t bear the silence.

  'I’m sure it was painless.'

  'Yeah.'

  'Just console yourself with the fact that she died happy.'

  'That’s what everybody says.'

  'Well maybe it’s true.'

  'I’ll tell you what is true.' Imogen stopped and turned to face him. 'It’s true that we didn’t give him his tablet when we should have done.'

  'But it can’t have been that late.'

  'We didn’t give him his tablet and now he’s dead.' Imogen’s face crumpled up once more and Al stepped forward and reached out towards her. He wanted to hold her in his arms but she placed her hands on his chest and pushed him back with a ferocity that betrayed her anger.

  'Imo, I can’t believe that a few minutes here or there with a tablet would have made that much difference. Maybe it was just his time.'

  'His time?'

  Al was shocked by the severity of her stare.

  'Yes, his time.'

  'I’ll tell you something about time, Al. It’s time that we stopped seeing each other.'

  'What?'

  'I don’t think we should see each other any more. OK?'

  They stood looking at each other in silence. Pedestrians passed them, cars moved along the road adjacent to where they stood but they remained frozen in a bubble of silence. She was in shock. Al leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

  'I’ll give you a call in a couple of days and see how you’re doing.'

  Imogen said nothing as Al turned around and made his way down the hill towards the tube station.

  What became apparent to Al during the coming weeks, despite his many efforts at reconciliation, was that Imogen was serious about them not seeing each other anymore. He managed to persuade her to join him for dinner one night and whilst she seemed to enjoy his company and for much of the night it felt as though nothing had changed, when he went to kiss her she pulled away. It just didn’t feel right, she said. They were no longer going out together. They were friends now. Just friends.

  Al was patient and a couple of weeks later after they had been to the cinema to see The Usual Suspects, he asked her if she would like to come back to his place for dinner but once again, she told him that they were friends now, nothing more.

  It didn’t feel like a break-up. It didn’t feel like there was something wrong with their relationship. But every time he tried to articulate that to her she would tell him that they made better friends than lovers. One night he couldn’t take it any more and they argued. He told her she was insane if she couldn’t see that there was something special between them. She agreed but said it was nothing more than friendship. She even told him that she loved him – as a friend. Fuelled with a few pints of London Pride, Al couldn’t take it. He wasn’t going to be her plaything anymore. If she wasn’t prepared to give them a chance then he didn’t want to be her friend.

  The following morning, when he awoke in his flat in Fulham, Al felt bad about what he had said. He phoned Imogen but the answer machine clicked in. For a moment he thought he might leave a message but decided against it. It was probably best if he allowed the emotional temperature between them to cool down. He would see her on Monday anyway.

  That night, Al went to Crazy Larry’s on the King’s Road with Fergal and Miles and he told his two best friends about the situation with Imogen.

  'That’s terrible, man,' said Fergal. 'All because of her folks catching you at it and the dog going and carking it when she did. What a fecker.'

  'Sounds weird to me,' said Miles. 'Maybe she’s testing you.'

  'It felt a little bit like that at first but now I don’t think so. I’ve tried everything. She just doesn’t want to know.'

  Al took a swig of his beer.

  'Anyway, enough about me. What about you two?'

  'Well, it’s looking pretty good o
n that score actually,' said Fergal. 'I’ve started seeing this girl from work by the name of Imogen. She’s recently finished with this total prick of a bloke and decided it’s about time she went for the real deal.'

  'Very funny, Fergal. How about you Miles?'

  'Nobody really.'

  'Nobody really? That means there is someone but you don’t want to tell us who it is.'

  'Well, let’s just put it this way, I’ve got my eye on someone but I kind of figure it’s bad luck to talk about it. I don’t want to jinx myself. You know me, I never like to get wedded to a position and if I am in a position that I feel less than comfortable with then I cut my losses, reassess and get myself into a position that I do feel comfortable with.'

  'I’m not even going to attempt a double-entendre,' said Fergal. 'That would be crass. However, on the subject of positions ...'

  Al hadn’t seen Miles behave in such a genial and relaxed manner in all the months that he had known him. But he would still not be persuaded by Fergal to join him and Al at the Metropolitan Club in Bethnal Green later that night. A six-thirty tee-off the following morning with an old friend from Harvard was a powerful excuse. Al wasn’t really too excited about making the trip eastwards on the Central Line but Fergal was as insistent as ever and by midnight, Al and Fergal were upstairs in the VIP bar seated in a booth armed with water pistols with which they were shooting the soap suds off a young Eastern European woman who was writhing in front of them in a shower cubicle. The only pleasure that Al managed to derive from this encounter was the look of childlike wonder on Fergal’s face as he went about his work. There was no getting away from it, he felt depressed about Imogen. The more she pushed him away the more he loved her and the more he loved her, the more she pushed him away.

  As the first anniversary of Al’s starting at the bank came and went, Imogen’s rejection of him was the only shadow on an otherwise superlative year. His decision to move to London and join the banking industry had been the right one. He felt no doubt about that. He had met some wonderful people and had forged two friendships – with Miles and Fergal – that he felt sure would stand the test of time and extend beyond their employment at Trenchart Colville. Whether his friendship with Imogen could overcome the stress of being forged in an initial passion and affection that Al felt sure was mutual – despite Imogen’s subsequent behaviour – remained to be seen.

  Al kept hoping that whatever negative emotion in Imogen had been triggered by the embarrassment of being caught in flagrante delicto by her parents and the discovery of Molly’s demise might fade away. He and Imogen still spent plenty of time together both in the Golden Hind after work and at various social events outside work and they enjoyed each other’s company. But as the months passed, Al gave up trying to make her change her mind and decided it was better to just let 'nature take its course' – a popular phrase of his father’s that he had never liked but now found strangely relevant. At least Al could reassure himself that Imogen wasn’t seeing anyone else. Or so it seemed. As for him, there had been a couple of post-Larry’s Saturday night scuffles with girls in the Chelsea Set. It was a small crowd; it was fun, casual, no strings attached and everyone knew the rules. Al’s life felt like a half-way-house between university and the responsibilities of adult life. He worked hard, far harder than he had ever done at college and yet partied like it was a Friday night at the Student Union. Nothing really mattered and while Al wasn’t earning a bomb, he had enough not to worry about going out on a Saturday night and buying a few rounds of drinks.

  Hang Seng: 9760

  Trenchart Colville’s Christmas party, 1995, was held at the Intercontinental Hotel on Park Lane. As Al, Miles and Fergal entered the ballroom, Fergal put his arms around his two friends and said: 'Exactly twelve months ago, we were unknowns, now look at us, we’re players. Especially you two.' Al and Miles were self-deprecatory, saying that Fergal was easily their equal in terms of his standing at the bank. But they both knew that it wasn’t true. Fergal had done well; he’d made a name for himself and amongst the older members of staff – particularly on the spot desk – he was something of a legend. They took a vicarious pleasure in hearing all about his ludicrous escapades. Al’s profile at TC was on the rise and Rob had let him know on more than one occasion how happy members of senior management were with his progress. But it was Miles who was the golden boy and confirmation of this came later in the evening when Daniel van der Weithuisen finished his speech to the assembled company and within moments of receiving a rousing round of applause, he was shaking Miles’s hand.

  'Miles, what can I say, you’ve had a great first year in the industry and we’re delighted that you’re here at TC.' It wasn’t the first time that Daniel had spoken like this to Miles and he was sure that it wouldn’t be the last.

  'Thanks Daniel. I’m looking forward to 96.'

  'Excellent, so are we.' Daniel leaned towards Miles lending a conspiratorial tone to his words as he said: 'My door is always open to you. Anything you want to discuss, feel free to drop by any time you like.'

  'I will Daniel.'

  'But you have to promise me something, Miles, that I don’t ever hear of any issues from anyone other than you, including you thinking about leaving.'

  Miles knew exactly what Daniel was doing. Daniel was trying to lock Miles in emotionally not just to TC but more importantly, to himself. Miles knew that emotional ties were always with people and not the complex organisations of which they were a part. Those were the ties that were the hardest to break. Miles had always liked Daniel but he had a new-found respect for him not simply because Daniel was saying the words to him but Daniel was doing exactly what Miles would have done in the same situation. Daniel clapped him on the back, wished him Happy Christmas and continued his tour of the room. Miles’s smile faded as his thoughts turned to Bonnie Sawyer who was standing nearby looking super hot in a tight black number. It was exactly a year since they had made their trip to Buckingham Palace and back and he idly wondered if she might like to relive the moment.

  As for Fergal, his wants and needs were of an altogether more innocent nature. He had annexed a table for the express purpose of creating the perfect cocktail for Keith and his spot desk colleagues. Bringing all his years of 'ridiculous drinks' research to bear, Fergal was the master of ceremonies extolling invaluable advice on subjects such as the best way to down a glass of Drambuie Depth Charge without gagging.

  For Al, the Christmas party had aroused in him a reflective mood. As hard as he tried to look at all the positives in his life – a job that he had found a true aptitude for and the potential to earn him a lot of money – he couldn’t help but cast surreptitious glances to the next table at which Imogen sat. She was looking stunning and every time he caught sight of her he felt that aching hollowness that he had grown accustomed to over the past few months.

  The pints of London Pride that he had consumed in the Golden Hind earlier combined with the white wine that had slipped down so easily during the meal gave him a sense of courage. Despite his having promised to himself so many times that he would play it cool with Imogen, he couldn’t help himself and he made his way over to where Imogen was standing talking to Rob Douglas and some other traders.

  'Imo.'

  'Hiya Al.'

  'How’s it going?'

  'Good, good.'

  'Don’t suppose I could have a quiet word?'

  'Of course.'

  There was no mistaking the reluctance in her voice. Perhaps she could tell that the mood of the party and the drinks had created a need in him to unburden himself. But Al couldn’t help himself. His longing felt like a sickness. It was an addiction.

  As they made their way to the lobby, Al was disappointed to see that the place was being used as an overflow from the party and was full of Trenchart Colville employees. Lift doors opened nearby with a ping. Seeing that the lift in question was empty, Al steered Imogen inside and pressed the button for the top floor.

  'You really did want
a quiet word didn’t you?' said Imogen, leaning with her back against the mirrored wall.

  'I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you away from the party but I just need to talk to you, that’s all. This whole thing between us is doing my head in.' Imogen went to speak but Al spoke over her. He needed to get it out and couldn’t afford to be waylaid. 'The fact of the matter is that I love you. That’s all there is to it. I love you. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.' It came out sounding like cheesy film dialogue but he didn’t care. There was a sense of fatalism to his need to unburden himself. It felt like emotional vomiting and even the uneasy expression on Imogen’s face couldn’t stand in the way of his outpouring. 'All I’m asking is that you give us a chance. Let’s just see how it goes and if it doesn’t work out then I promise that I’ll leave you alone for good.' It sounded pathetic. Even as he said the words, he had a premonition of the cringing self-doubt that he knew he would be subject to when he was next alone and able to analyse his words. There was so much more to say, so many more feelings to convey but before he could begin, Imogen raised up her hand and place her finger on his lips.

  'Don’t Al. This isn’t fair on me and it isn’t fair on you either.'

  'I just wanted you to know how I feel.'

  'I know how you feel. And sometimes I feel the same. But what we had together was great, it was really special and I don’t want to spoil it. I’ve moved on and I think you should too.'

  Al slapped the mirrored side of the lift causing a dull echo in the confined space. 'I don’t want to be your friend, Imogen. I don’t. I can’t cope with the compromise. It’s all or nothing now. That’s all it can ever be between us.'

  Imogen shook her head. 'Al, please. Let’s talk about this some other time.'

  'No, I want to talk about it now. I need to know whether we have any chance. You need to tell me.'

  'Don’t force me to say things that I know you won’t want to hear.'