Dave Hart Omnibus II

by David Charters

‘I know a lot about you, Mr Hart. I won’t say I know all about you, because I’m not sure anyone ever really can, and particularly so in the case of someone like you.’

  ‘Really?’ Wow, that felt like a heavy opening gambit. What exactly does she know? I feel as if I’m on unfamiliar territory, and it’s exciting and possibly just a little scary. ‘Call me Dave, please. And let’s not talk about me. You’re the great observer, but who observes you? I want to hear what makes you tick. Who would write your biography, and what would it be called?’

  She smiles modestly and when she looks up we have this great eye contact thing and I very nearly blurt out, ‘How much? Name your price and let’s get out of here.’ The idea of a beautiful woman being so fascinated by me that she might actually write a book about me is one hell of an aphrodisiac.

  ‘I think it would be called, “Spectator, Not Participant”. It’s what I do, you see. I observe. I watch the people who are actually out there doing things. And I write about them. But it’s not the same as doing things myself.’

  I’m impressed. This woman has self-knowledge. She certainly doesn’t bullshit around. So what would my biography be called? Greed Is Good? It’s certainly been my principal motivation for most of my adult life. Or How Viagra Changed My Life? Nah – too shallow. I need something deep and meaningful, with subtlety and multiple layers of resonance. Best leave that to the Silver Fox. My thoughts turn back to Kim, who’s clearly waiting to see how I respond. Time to be kind.

  ‘Ouch.’ I grin my boyish smile. At least I hope it’s my boyish smile. I’ve been enjoying quite a lot of the Silver Fox’s liquid hospitality, and I don’t want it to turn into a devilish sneer. ‘That sounds like a hell of a put-down. And it’s not true. You analyse people, you interpret them and tell their stories. It’s a serious task. And it’s an art as well as a craft. You show how they did what they did, you help others understand and, in doing so, you inspire people. Don’t trivialise it. You make a difference.’

  Like I’ve said before, I can bullshit for Britain, and I manage to do it with total conviction. In fact I’m so convinced of what I’m saying that even I believe it. Or I think I do. And if I can’t actually tell the difference, then it’s effectively the same as telling the truth – isn’t it?

  Before long we’re ignoring the others, totally into each other, and she’s pouring her life story out to me. When I need to, I can be a great listener. It doesn’t matter that the cellist’s leg is rubbing against mine under the table, or that Toby the newsreader keeps giving me funny glances – maybe she normally rubs his leg under the table, and tonight she isn’t – and when the Silver Fox disappears for twenty minutes to discuss the state of the jewellery market with his adviser from Sotheby’s, I don’t even notice.

  This is when Toby decides to have his tantrum. He clearly hasn’t been getting the attention he expects from his girlfriend – understandable in the presence of a supreme alpha male like me – and he interrupts Kim and me to start one of those tedious rants about the City and how greedy we all are, and what do we actually contribute anyway, and why are we paid so much?

  ‘Beats me.’ I shrug, glance briefly – and sympathetically – at the cellist and turn back to Kim.

  ‘What do you mean? Are you saying you can’t justify the huge bonuses? So why do you pay them? Don’t you feel it’s morally wrong that one hedge fund manager sitting at a desk in Mayfair gets paid more in a year than a whole battalion of troops in Afghanistan? Or that one senior banker earns more than the entire House of Commons?’

  Oh shit, that old chestnut. Well, I’ve only myself to blame, and of course it’s wrong, but shit happens, pal. This is boring. Where is our host when this wanker starts? I look around and realise he’s busy elsewhere, and who can blame him? And Toby still hasn’t finished.

  ‘Do you know what you can actually buy with a million pounds, out there in the real world?’

  ‘Is that in shoes or handbags?’ It’s Kim, and even as she says it, she winks across the table at me. Outstanding! What a girl. I want her more than ever.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Toby shakes his head in despair. ‘Don’t tell me you’re on his side?’

  Before she can reply, I intervene. Time to be sober and mature, and move the conversation on before I say what I really think.

  ‘Look, we live in a complicated world with a lot of big issues that none of us can fix. So why don’t we just pour ourselves another glass of wine, and live and let live?’ Was that sober and mature? Nah. It was patronising and bland. Too bad, I missed completely. I look at my wine glass, which is almost empty, and reach across for the bottle to pour myself a refill.

  ‘Because some of us take our responsibilities more seriously than that.’ It’s the cellist. Oh dear God, she’s going to start too. Probably because I wasn’t interested in her and made my move on Kim too obvious. ‘I’m sure I could make a lot more money working in the City doing some non-job – but I don’t. I put my art first. I do it because I think it’s worthwhile.’

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. I pick up my newly full wine glass, drain it, help myself to another refill and lean towards her. A voice of caution is shouting urgently in my ear, but whatever it’s saying I’m going to ignore.

  ‘Don’t be so sure you could work in the City. I’m not saying you couldn’t, but it strikes me as pretty arrogant when people say they could without even understanding what we do. We do some pretty complicated things. Even I don’t understand a lot of what goes on.’ In fact much of the time I barely understand any of it, but there’s no need to labour the point. ‘And when you talk about your art, I’m sure your commitment is a wonderful thing, but who’s it actually for? Dead people’s music performed for a declining minority who expect the rest of us to subsidise them. How inspiring is that?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ She looks incensed. So does Toby, though in a relieved way that suggests he’s glad to have her back on side. ‘Are you saying culture doesn’t matter? This is England. Isn’t this the land of Shakespeare and Milton?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? What do you mean?’

  ‘They’re dead. Been dead ages. This is the land of soap operas and Pop Idol and the X Factor. We’re shallow, easily bored, lazy and mostly not very bright. At least a lot of us are.’

  One of the many problems of alcohol – aside from the fact that I don’t have a ‘stop’ button – is that it makes you think you’re whispering when you’re not. I didn’t actually think I was whispering. More that I was engaging in a forthright exchange of views. In fact the noise has brought the Silver Fox hurrying back to the dining room, along with his Sotheby’s adviser, who looks satisfyingly flushed and has the faintest sheen of perspiration on her nose and forehead. What bliss.

  The Silver Fox waves his magic wand – he is definitely well on the way to becoming my role model in the unlikely event that I live long enough to reach his age – and before we know it, we’re all agreeing furiously that the common enemy is modern culture and what it’s done to society, and we all really do believe that great nations define themselves by the heights to which they aspire in all fields of endeavour, whether it’s the performing arts or the financial world. Yeah, right. How did he manage that?

  And somewhere along the way I disarm the cellist by putting my hand on her knee under the table and asking if I can see her again to talk about corporate sponsorship opportunities for Grossbank with the LSO and how we might try to come together and achieve something worthwhile for both sides.

  At the end of the evening, as we’re about to head drunkenly off in our different directions, I propose a toast. I want to say something memorable and inspiring for Kim, something that will make her recall me with admiration and affection. I lurch drunkenly to my feet and raise my glass while the Silver Fox hurriedly recharges the others’. Seeing me about to start, he holds up his hand to me to wait.

  ‘Two secs.’

  What a great idea. The master of spin always knows exactly what�
��s on my mind. ‘You’re right.’ I can tell I’m slurring my words, and I hope everyone else is just as pissed and can’t tell. I raise my glass and they all stand and do the same. I look at Kim and my heart sinks into her dark brown eyes.

  ‘To sex.’

  IT’S 10 A.M. and I’m already circling over Frankfurt in my new personal jet – my smoker – Grossbank One. It’s a brand-new, large-cabin, ultra-long-range, ultra-fast Gulfstream G650 that doesn’t quite reach the speed of sound, but very nearly does. Yes, it’s an extravagance, and yes, it’s true that in line with all the other banks we’ve started firing hundreds of our people, so is it appropriate? Well, yes, actually. I need my smoker. It’s not as if the chairman of the bank could fly commercial, is it? I’d have to mix with ordinary people. I don’t do ordinary. Which also means that I couldn’t have an ordinary smoker, could I? Paul Ryan and Two Livers, continuing their pattern of disloyalty, have both gone on record as saying they believe the purchase of the G650 is totally inappropriate in this time of financial crisis and cutbacks. But they’re just jealous.

  Anyway, I’ve got the Silver Fox on the speakerphone and I’m talking about Kim Clark and how last night went.

  ‘Dave, she loved you.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  ‘Certain. I spoke to her this morning and she asked me how I thought you’d feel about her pitching a book idea to you.’

  ‘A book idea? She wants to pitch a book idea to me? What sort of book?’

  ‘A biography, of course. It’s what she does. We’re thinking of calling it Hart of the City – what do you think?’

  We? And it has a title already? What’s going on here? I have a feeling I’m being set up, but I don’t mind that. I’m close to the final act, and I want it written up properly.

  ‘Great. When can we start?’

  ‘I’ve started already. I’ve given her a suggested template, a whole bunch of ideas, a library of material from the press and some stuff that never saw the light of day. All good stuff, Dave, the right stuff. She’s thrilled.’

  So am I. Thrilled and impressed.

  ‘So how long does she need?’

  ‘Depends on your availability, Dave. She needs time with you.’

  Time with me? She’ll get it. ‘No problem. She can have me whenever she wants.’

  He laughs obligingly at the other end. ‘Well, she’s not working on anything else right now and this will be a priority for her. She wants to hit the bookshelves this spring.’

  This spring? That is fast. I just hope it’s fast enough for what I need.

  A DAY of unparalleled tedium has passed. I was quizzed by the supervisory board. Yes, really. When I first took the chairmanship, I squeezed out most of the corporate dinosaurs on the board and replaced them with beautiful women. A famous actress here, an ex-politician there, a newscaster turned writer, a celebrity campaigner for overseas aid – all of them women of standing and profile, and all jumpable. Only now they’re asking about all sorts of things that they really shouldn’t bother their pretty little heads with. Like me taking direct responsibility for most of the reporting lines that previously went to Paul Ryan and Two Livers. Like the new smoker. Like the people I’ve fired, most of them senior and experienced with proven track records. And of course some of the huge increases in risk limits that I’ve sprayed liberally around the newly promoted people – my people – who are filling the gaps created by the massacre in Mauritius. Some of these young Turks have been placing big bets, the way impatient people do when they first get into the casino, and inevitably they aren’t getting it right the way their bosses did. Paul and Two Livers would never have allowed it, but they aren’t part of the chain of command the way they used to be. Now it’s just me, and there’s a little red ink. Well, quite a lot actually, but we’re big enough to get over it. I think.

  Anyway, enough of all that. The most humiliating part was them quizzing me on an email I sent. I have a schizophrenic relationship with email. Sure, it can be useful, but it can also betray you utterly.

  I was sending it to Allan Gordon in the Toronto office ahead of a trip I was planning. Allan’s an old friend, and knows what I like to do on business trips. It’s fair to say that like most trips made by senior investment bankers, mine are almost entirely a waste of time. Except for me, of course, because it’s on business trips that I meet new girls, explore new clubs and private members’ bars, and very occasionally experience something that revives even my jaded appetite.

  So I was having some email banter with Allan about what I expected on my trip to Toronto and hit the wrong button. And instead of allan.gordon@grossbank.com, my email went to all@grossbank.com – as in all seventy-five thousand employees in a hundred and seven countries.

  In case you’re wondering, yes, I’d had a long lunch.

  With hindsight I shouldn’t have been so candid: ‘On any trip that I undertake to any overseas office, there are three rules: I like to get laid, I expect to get laid, and I’d damned well better get laid if you want to get paid. Get the three rules right and we’ll get along fine.’ My problem is I’m too honest. Other people lie about this stuff or sweep it under the carpet.

  Anyway, part of me is relieved that I’m still subject to some form of checks and balances, but on reflection I just find it irritating.

  What’s worse is that I’ve got to stay on for a session with some financial journalists tomorrow. The story about the smoker and various other alleged financial extravagances on my part seems to be getting overblown, and I want to defuse it. What mustn’t happen is that people start to lose confidence in Grossbank. In the current financial crisis, confidence – and its bedfellow, trust – is key. Without it we’re finished.

  I check in with Rom Romanov and update him. It’s too late to call Bang Bang, who’s in Kuala Lumpur. I’m checking in with one or other of them almost every day now. The wheels are well and truly in motion and I feel relieved. When that’s done, I go to my hotel.

  I’m staying in a suite in what passes for a luxury hotel, a glass and steel tower in the centre of Frankfurt called the Jaegerhof, bored out of my mind and wondering what on earth to do to pass the time. I spent much of the early part of my career travelling around the world, staying in places like this, having sex with second-rate hookers or watching the adult channel on the Pay TV. Tonight the porn is so bad that I end up watching the Harry Potter movie instead. How sad is that? What’s happening to me?

  Normally I’d have lined up some girls, but I’ve made a point of not spending time in Frankfurt, and without the status of a regular I can’t just call up quality at short notice – everyone I know seems to be ‘busy’.

  I stare at myself in the bedroom mirror and I don’t like it. I don’t usually look at myself in mirrors or shop windows. Not any more. I know what I’ll see.

  Which is how I end up wandering down to the lobby just before midnight, and spot a cute-looking blonde in tight leather trousers and a low-cut top. She doesn’t look like she’s working, but you can’t always tell. I hear her speaking what sounds like American to the receptionist, so I guess I have to go after her the old-fashioned way, but who knows.

  ‘Excuse me, madam, may I have your room number?’

  She’s startled, looks me up and down, taking in the Savile Row suit that must make me at minimum a manager of the hotel, and looks at the key in her hand. ‘Er, yes – two one three.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m also a guest of the hotel. I’m staying in the Kaiser Suite on the top floor.’ It’s actually the whole of the top floor, but telling her that would be overkill. ‘My name’s Hart. Dave Hart. I run Grossbank.’ At this time of night, anything’s a long shot, but with women it pays to get money on the table. Or it does with hookers. Anyway, the guy who runs Grossbank must have a lot of it, and I’m sure it won’t hurt. ‘I was on my way to the bar for a nightcap. You’re very beautiful and you seem to be alone. Would you like to join me? Purely for a drink. We look like we could both use some company.’r />
  I know it’s dreadfully transparent, but it’s late and I’m tired. And strangely enough she doesn’t have the reaction I’m half expecting.

  ‘Dave – may I call you Dave?’ I nod my acquiescence. She can call me anything she damned well wants as long as I get to sleep with her. ‘You’re certainly very forward, but I’d love to join you for a drink.’

  ‘I don’t believe in beating about the bush.’

  ‘Bush?’ She smiles knowingly, almost conspiratorially. ‘What bush?’

  Oh boy. I think I may have just struck gold.

  THERE’S A hammering on the door of my room. I’m aware of it, but can’t actually move to get up and answer the door. I’m only dimly aware of my surroundings. I know I’m lying naked on the bed, face down, but don’t know how I got here. I know it’s my bed, but at first I don’t know why. Then some of the details start to come back. Frankfurt. The Kaiser Suite. A blonde with an American accent. But then there are gaps.

  The banging stops. Someone’s opening the door – must be hotel staff using a pass key. Several people come into the suite, speaking German. They’re in the antechamber, and their footsteps and voices seem to spread out in different directions. Then the bedroom door opens. Something short and sharp is uttered in German and then others come in. And still I can’t move. I’m lying naked on the bed in front of strangers and still I can’t move. What is going on?

  ‘DAVE, WE have a problem.’

  I like it when the Silver Fox says ‘we’ have a problem. He means I have a problem, but he’s going to help me solve it. I’m sitting up in bed in a private room in a private clinic on the outskirts of Frankfurt, not taking calls from the press. Worst of all, I have a policeman standing outside the door, and he’s not there to protect me. I’m under arrest and going to be charged not only with possession of drugs, but potentially also with dealing in them. Apparently, the quantity found in my room far exceeded what any human being – even me – could ever handle, and therefore I must have been intending to supply heroin – yes, that’s right, we’re talking heroin – to someone else.