‘Dave, did you do this deliberately – to humiliate me?’
‘Humiliate you? Why would I do that?’
‘You know it makes me look like a complete damned fool? Either that, or totally untrustworthy.’
‘Paul, you know the score. We’ll make more by putting our capital to work in a situation like this in a friendly deal, with a huge discount to the market price for the shares we’re buying, than we ever could buying in the market alongside a bunch of hedgies. Profit, Paul – the magic P word. That’s what pays the bonus.’
‘No, Dave, there’s another P word. Principles. You seem to have lost yours.’
For a moment I’m lost for words. What is he talking about?
‘Of course I haven’t lost my principles. Like I said – profit. That sounds like a pretty good principle to me.’
Amazingly, he gets up and flounces out of the office. Once upon a time I’d have grinned smugly and given myself the afternoon off to spend with some beautiful, willing, paid-for creature. But today I feel flat. I’ve put him – briefly – in his place. But he won’t be down for long and I’d better watch out. I’d also better hurry up and get out of here. I really can’t take this much longer.
I’M GOING to the opening of a new Swiss-Vietnamese fusion restaurant on the Fulham Road called Yah-Yah’s. It’s drinks and canapés and a heaving crowd of the Chelsea set: actors, newsreaders, celebrities of one sort or another and, of course, the more mundane end of the spectrum – the bankers, lawyers, management consultants and other men in suits who provide the dumb money to pay for it all by showing up to eat mediocre food and drink overpriced wine all served by kids in black with attitude, just on the off chance that they might get a glimpse of someone who appears in Hello magazine.
Normally I’d say no, but I’m taking Two Livers, who could use a night out as part of her rest and recovery programme. Plus, she told me she’s having weird dreams, and I want to get to the bottom of that.
She looks stunning. She’s wearing a plain grey dress by Hervé Léger that she could have been sewn into, a necklace set with diamonds and citrines by Kiki McDonough and open-toed, high-heeled strappy sandals from Manolo Blahnik that could turn me into a foot fetishist. Physically she’s made a full recovery, but sitting with me in the back of the car as Tom drives us to Yah-Yah’s, she starts talking about her dreams.
‘I … I’m there – in the desert, at the crash site. And I’m alone. I don’t know if you’re there but just out of sight, but I can’t feel you in the dream. It’s just me. I’m standing by the fire, and it’s night. There are dogs circling. Vicious, wild dogs. I’m terrified, but I have to fight them off. I have this recurring image of a savage dog snapping and biting at me, and I have to grab something – anything – to fend it off. In the dream I pick up a sharp metal spike, something that must have come off the plane, and I wait for my moment and drive it into the dog. It howls with pain but I just keep on thrusting the spike into its body while it writhes and squirms on the ground, and I lean on top of the spike and put my whole weight and strength behind it and eventually the dog chokes and gurgles and blood comes out of its mouth and it lies still. It’s horrible. Utterly, utterly terrifying, and I wake up soaked in perspiration and exhausted.’
‘Oh, my poor, poor darling.’ I squeeze her hand reassuringly, all the while imagining her perspiration-soaked body. It’s exciting, and I can feel a stirring. I imagine tracing lines across her perfect torso with my tongue. Yet at the same time I feel a twinge of what I might consider guilt, if only I wasn’t immune. I put my arm around her. Not with a view to guiding her head down to my lap, which is what I would have done with Melissa, but because I’m not quite comfortable with the prospect of looking her in the eye, and don’t want her to turn to face me. I take a deep breath and manage a heroic sigh. ‘What you saw … you know what it was, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘It was me. It was me who fought off the dogs. You were lying under a blanket by the fire, and I thought you were asleep. But you must have been at least partly awake and seen some of what happened.’
‘Really?’ She sounds puzzled.
‘Sure. In your dream you’ve somehow stepped into my shoes. You’re doing the fighting.’
‘You must be right. But why?’
‘Maybe because you wanted to help. You wanted to help me fight, but couldn’t. You opened your eyes and you saw what happened, but were too weak after the crash. And in your dreams you do what you wanted to do back there in the desert, but physically couldn’t.’
She looks utterly forlorn. ‘So is it guilt?’
‘Guilt? What do you mean?’
‘I mean my subconscious is punishing me for being helpless when I should have been doing something. When you were being brave, fighting to save us, I did nothing. And somewhere at the back of my mind I’m trying to replay what happened out there and make it right.’
‘Oh, my poor brave darling.’ I pull her close and squeeze her tightly. ‘There’s nothing to feel guilty about. You did all you could have done. I’m the one who feels uncomfortable when you talk like this.’
‘You? Why should you? We wouldn’t be here without you.’
‘Let’s not talk about me. We got through it as a team, the way we always have. In life there are no heroes, just survivors. We survived and we should both be grateful. Now don’t go torturing yourself with what might have been.’
Like the Seventh Cavalry charging over the hill, Tom comes to the rescue, coughing discreetly from the driving seat as we pull up outside the restaurant. It’s already heaving with a bunch of wannabe trendy middle-aged men wearing Canali sports jackets with their shirt collars undone and perfectly coiffed, waxed, Botoxed and mani/pedi-ed women with cut-glass accents in little black numbers.
‘What time would you like me to pick you up?’
About five minutes ago. What am I doing here? Give me a super-king-sized bed, a few lines of coke and a couple of hookers any day. Or maybe not the hookers. Not any more. Maybe I’d be happier just with Two Livers. And right now this isn’t about me. It’s about her. I smile across to her and squeeze her hand. ‘An hour? Mustn’t overdo it.’
She nods. And after that, maybe my place again – if I’m lucky. But I don’t say that now. Tom opens the door and people stare as we get out. Maybe some of them recognise us. Or at least me. As if I care. Fucking plankton.
WE’RE FORTY-FIVE minutes into the Yah-Yah’s launch party and I’m looking at my watch. Instead of splitting up to work the crowd, the way we might if we were somewhere interesting, we’ve stuck together. So far we’ve fended off two interior designers, a landscape gardener, some corporate lawyers, a couple of accountants, an architect and a political lobbyist. I keep mentally kicking myself that I really should have known better than to bring Two Livers here tonight.
The hardest to deal with are the Chelsea wives. One of them clocks me and moves in, hand thrust forward to offer what I know will be a seismic handshake. She’s early forties, hard-bodied, well coiffed, Botoxed, pampered, dressed in a too-short dress by a label that for once I don’t recognise, and my guess is she spends half the day working out – probably has a Power Plate in the bedroom – so she should have a strong grip. Normally I like that in a woman – Two Livers has a very strong grip – but it’s what’s on the end of this particular grip that puts me off. Loud, braying, pampered Chelsea woman doesn’t tick my box. I was married to one once, and that’s more than enough for one lifetime.
‘Julia Clarkson-Wright,’ she barks.
I’m tempted to say, ‘No, my name’s Dave Hart’, but it would be puerile, not to mention futile, once you’re in their sights.
‘And this is my husband.’ She looks over her shoulder and I follow her glance, expecting to see some downtrodden, stressed, mildly-out-of-shape but probably quite affable middle-aged professional standing dutifully beside her. Instead he’s playing catch-up, a glass in each hand, having been detailed to get them a refill but not
having executed orders quickly enough. ‘Simon …?’
Two Livers moves in beside me and I do the introductions. Julia Clarkson-Wright appears a little put off by Two Livers, and I like that. They’re always put off by Two Livers. In their world, no one that beautiful has a brain as well, and I can see it really pisses her off.
‘And this,’ she repeats, her tone indicating her annoyance at his tardiness, ‘is my husband …’
Before she can say the name, Two Livers interrupts.
‘I know Simon.’ She gives him the most beaming, intimate, irresistible smile, and giggles as he goofily holds his hand out. ‘Don’t be silly.’ She ignores his outstretched hand and puts her arms around his neck to give him a delicate, almost lingering kiss on each cheek, pausing for the briefest second in the middle, just when her lips are almost brushing his. I half expect them to kiss. They’re clearly lovers, or were once upon a time, and whatever it was that lit up their lives has obviously never gone out, not judging by her reaction anyway.
Simon does a damned good impression of being completely taken by surprise, steps back, asks ‘Have we met before?’ and blushes bright red as Julia Clarkson-Wright looks daggers at him.
Two Livers giggles impishly again and touches him on the wrist. ‘Silly.’ She says it coyly, and her eyes have sunk completely into his. It’s amazing. The rest of us might as well disappear and leave them to it.
Julia Clarkson-Wright seizes Simon by the elbow and steers him imperiously away, cutting us dead.
Only when they are safely on the other side of the room, heading for the cloakrooms to get their coats and leave, does Two Livers revert to normal and we both roar with laughter.
‘You are so bad. Do you actually know the guy?’
She winks at me and signals a waiter for another drink. ‘Never met him before in my life, but I could see you were going to need some help.’
Awesome. Why is there only one of these girls on planet earth? When they made her, did they deliberately break the mould?
We’ve moved steadily towards the outer edge of the heaving mass and have hijacked our own tame waitress, who keeps topping us up with champagne and who turns out to be called Petra and comes from Minsk, the capital of Belarus. In no time at all she’s telling Two Livers her life story. She’s twenty-three years old. She was a trained physiotherapist back home, and is over here doing a pre-med course in London. The long-term plan is to become a doctor, and in the meantime she studies during the day and in the evenings she works as a waitress, a cleaner, an ironing service and a babysitter according to which day of the week it is. If only she were prettier there would be other possibilities that I might quietly raise with her, but she isn’t – she’s actually quite plain – and I keep quiet.
I’m having the first stimulating conversation with a stranger that I can recall in quite a while – at least without the benefit of artificial stimulants – and with a bit of prompting from Two Livers I’m starting to listen to this girl and actually think what life must be like for youngsters coming over from Eastern Europe to make their fortune in a strange country.
This is where Two Livers is so good for me. She opens my mind and makes me raise my game. I’d never normally talk to a waitress except to hit on her if she was cute and I didn’t have any better prospects. But this girl is actually quite interesting. She has opinions, cracks a couple of jokes that make me laugh and I find I’m warming to her. In fact I’m actually starting to think I’m glad I came, when a couple of Little Black Numbers totter over to us on their high heels and interrupt.
‘Could I get a refill?’ The first LBN, a dark-haired, early twenties Jewish American Princess type, thrusts her glass forward at Petra.
‘You are serving drinks, aren’t you?’
Petra looks a little awkward, nods and whispers ‘Yes’ as she pours. The JAP grins at her friend, who is a similar age, dressed more or less identically – why is it that young women who hang out together always dress the same way? – and the friend smirks back and thrusts her glass forward too. Isn’t it fun humiliating a social inferior, putting her in her place, especially when she can’t bite back?
Neither of them thanks Petra, who is about to make herself scarce when Two Livers drains her glass, gives me a look that says I should do the same, and holds it out to Petra.
‘Hey, Petra, do you mind? It’s hot in here.’
Petra hesitates, turns and starts to pour. I finish mine and wait my turn.
The JAP looks at Two Livers. ‘We haven’t met. I’m Suzy. This is my dad’s place …’ She waves her hand dismissively around the restaurant.
‘You’re right.’ Two Livers’ lips move into a kind of smile, but the rest of her doesn’t. ‘We haven’t.’
The JAP looks puzzled. You can see the cogs starting to whir in her brain. Did she just insult me? Did she insult me at Daddy’s party?
But then the second LBN points at me. ‘Aren’t you …? Oh God, I’m so embarrassed. I know I’ve seen you …’
‘On the news?’ Two Livers raises her eyebrows a little, as if she’s talking to a two-year-old who’s just performed some simple task particularly well. ‘Or in the papers? This is Dave Hart. Dave’s my bitch.’ She puts her arm through mine possessively. I turn and smile at her and nod.
‘I’m her bitch.’
‘But this …’ Two Livers indicates Petra. ‘This is the great star of the evening. Don’t you recognise her?’
The LBNs stare at Petra.
The JAP sounds dismissive. ‘She’s a waitress. She’s hired for the evening.’
‘Oh, come on. This is Petra Vanek. Hello? You girls should get out more.’ Two Livers makes a show of looking out the window into the street. She turns back to Petra. ‘So where are the cameras?’ She indicates Petra’s waitress’s uniform. ‘Are you wired for sound now? Don’t tell me you’re recording? Are we live?’
‘Recording?’ The JAP looks flustered. She’s looking differently at Petra now. ‘What do you mean?’
Two Livers looks at me. ‘Tell her, Dave.’
‘Sure, if you really need to be told. I’m amazed you don’t know who this is. She gets a couple of million viewers a week, but you girls must be tucked up in bed. Her show’s called Inside Out. Ring any bells? Hidden cameras, hidden mikes, she goes in somewhere different each week dressed as a waitress or a cleaner or something, and does a kind of social exposé. It’s great television. Cruel, but great.’
Petra doesn’t know what to do. She’s standing silently, a half-smile on her face, looking from Two Livers to me to the LBNs and back again.
Two Livers reaches across and touches her arm. ‘Hey, if we’ve blown the show for this week, I’m sorry. But half the people here recognised you anyway, which is why they’re all behaving the way they are. And we really wanted to speak to you. Look – we’re moving on from here. We’ve been killing time. There’s a party tonight round at Eric Clapton’s place. Everyone’s going to be there. Do you want to come?’
The LBNs’ eyes are out on stalks. The JAP looks around at the other guests, at Petra, and puts her hand to her mouth. ‘What …?’
Two Livers takes the bottle of champagne from Petra and hands it to the JAP.
‘Hey, Suzy – some of your dad’s guests have empty glasses. Do the rounds, would you?’
She takes Petra by the arm and pulls her with us towards the door just as Tom pulls up outside in the Bentley, bang on time. Petra doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and as we get into the car starts to giggle uncontrollably. Two Livers puts a protective arm around her and looks at me as we drive off.
‘Tell her about her new job.’
‘The new job?’
‘Sure. The new job.’
I put on my earnest, well-intentioned face. Trust me, I’m a banker. ‘Petra, congratulations. You just got a new job.’
‘What are you saying? I think I just lost one. What new job?’ She looks as if she thinks I’m taking the piss. As well I might under other circumstances.
‘Petra, we’re bankers. Investment bankers. And our firm needs a new medic on the payroll to work the late shift in our headquarters building. It’s a health and safety requirement.’ At least, it is now. ‘We pay very well, and we even offer sponsorship for university. Congratulations, you’re hired.’
Ah, what bliss. We drop Petra at her flat and then Two Livers gives me her special look, the one that means I don’t have to ask if she wants to be dropped off at her place.
And briefly – flawed, twisted, and shallow as I am – I’m happy. It’s been a good evening and an even better night beckons.
‘THIS FINANCIAL crisis bullshit is getting out of hand.’
Paul Ryan is staring at the newspapers on the conference room table. Around the room heads nod wisely. It’s the weekly meeting of the management committee and yet again I feel so bored I can sense that coma coming on. Why does this always happen to me? Am I the only person in the room who realises quite how tedious, futile and irrelevant all this management crap is? Or does everyone know it and they’re just playing along because I’m here and they think I value it? Worst of all, maybe they actually believe it makes a difference. As if the baying hordes on the trading floor need someone to tell them they should get out there and make more money.
The papers are telling a grim story. The whole SPIV thing has really caught the imagination of the press, and they’re running away with it. Not just in the UK but elsewhere, the story is catching fire and spreading out of control.
And it may be nearer the mark than I thought. It turns out that a couple of the biggest names in the banking sector really do have significant exposures to special purpose off-balance-sheet vehicles, where they have accumulated huge risk positions based on decisions by smart people in chinos and polo shirts with PhDs in subjects so fanciful that no one else understands them – least of all the board members who will ultimately carry the can if the firm goes under.
Dave Hart Omnibus II Page 6