‘Good God.’ Rupert was genuinely shocked. He looked helplessly around the table.
‘Now steady on.’ It was Ben Jackson, who looked after the department’s mining clients. ‘Some of those clients are in cyclical industries which are suffering a down-turn. In other cases we’re trying to recover lost ground in the face of transaction-based marketing to our clients by the Americans. And in some cases, of course, we’re entertaining non-clients, even corporates which are other firms’ clients, in order to try and poach them and win business for ourselves. Those efforts can take a long time to bear fruit.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Fleischfresser appeared to be making a visible effort at self-control. He slurped his coffee again, but this time Rupert did not follow suit. ‘Gentlemen, if you were a major corporation, and one investment bank offered to underwrite your rights issue at a twenty per cent discount to the current share price, and another offered to underwrite at a fifteen per cent discount, assuming you want the best price achievable, which would you pick?’
‘The one who gave me the Wimbledon tickets!’ It was Rory MacPherson, one of the livelier directors in the department. Several of the others laughed.
Fleischfresser stared at him, but did not comment and continued, ‘Gentlemen, transaction-based investment banking has been the order of the day in the City of London for the past five years.’ He looked around the table again, his glance lingering first on Howard, then on MacPherson. ‘But the past five years seem to have passed you by.’
‘That’s not fair!’ It was Rowntree, who was on his feet. ‘This firm has a name, a reputation for integrity that cannot be bought by some team of transaction-based deal jockeys! We’re part of the fabric of the City of London, and have been for nearly a hundred years. This department is widely regarded as a centre of excellence for executing complex transactions. We don’t contract out the difficult stuff to law firms, the way the Americans do, we do it all in-house. If that means we have to focus on fewer transactions, so be it. When a client hires us, he gets guaranteed quality of execution. And when a director takes on a client, he really takes them on. We don’t flit about like the Americans, from deal to deal, client to client, leaving the real work in the hands of juniors. We see things through. What you have here may be old-fashioned, but it’s quality, Dr. Fleischfresser, quality! And I hope your colleagues in Zurich realise what it is that they’ve bought!’
‘I agree.’ It was Howard, who was also on his feet. ‘We may have our little foibles, we may seem like an old-fashioned English gentlemen’s club to outsiders, but the people here are of the highest quality. Our standards are second to none.’
Fleischfresser was smiling. To their surprise, he looked delighted, finally, with what he had heard.
‘Good, gentlemen, good! This is what I needed to hear.’ He beamed at Rupert. ‘Rupert, you were… what is the expression? – Ah yes, you were hiding your light! The numbers are a false friend. The truth is that this department is high quality.’ He looked around at the assembled directors. ‘Very high quality indeed.’ Several of them nodded. ‘A training in the Corporate Finance Department here carries a special seal of approval.’ They were all nodding now, Rowntree and Howard most enthusiastically of all. Rupert had a peculiar feeling, almost as if he had eaten something that had disagreed with him and he knew he was going to be ill. ‘In fact a training in this department would guarantee a job anywhere in the City!’
‘Yes,’ several of them exclaimed, nodding vigorously, relieved that finally the Swiss had got it, yes, that’s absolutely right.
He paused, suddenly serious again, and looked slowly round the table, taking in each face in turn. Howard shifted uncomfortably. He thought to himself that Fleischfresser had a strange look in his eye – ‘For you, Tommy, the war is over.’
Fleischfresser stood and turned towards Rupert.
‘Rupert, gentlemen, I may as well tell you this at once. At SGB we believe in being open and clear in all matters.’ He looked at Howard. ‘I believe you call it “playing a straight bat”.’ Suddenly the small, overweight man in the ridiculous clothes seemed menacing. ‘Gentlemen, this department will be closed with immediate effect.’ Around the table they gasped. ‘A small skeleton staff will be required to stay on to complete existing business, where it cannot be passed on to other firms. The rest will be paid their statutory minimum redundancy payments and will be terminated immediately.’ They were staring at one another, open-mouthed. ‘Before finalising this decision, I wanted to meet you to see what sort of men you were, to decide for myself if I thought you had potential as business-winners in the international market place. I also needed to establish whether it would be necessary to establish special compensation arrangements for you if our decision was likely to lead to unusual hardship.’ He looked at Rowntree and Howard. ‘But you have persuaded me that it will not. You have convinced me that your department members are of such a high calibre that the statutory minimum is sufficient. There will be no special compensation, and of course no bonus payments.’ He stood and was about to leave, when something occurred to him and he looked again at Rupert. ‘Please forgive me for being so blunt and for making the announcement so openly to your directors without first consulting you.’ He chuckled. ‘I wanted to be sure that I would be safe in doing so. Sometimes people can be very… what shall we say? Emotional. But not these men.’ He looked at Howard in his double-breasted suit and his lip seemed to curl upwards. ‘These men are very civilised.’
Regrets
THE LAUGHTER COMING from the cocktail bar had a raucous, drunken ring to it. As Lawrence entered, he had no need to look around for his team – they were the noisiest group by far, laughing and shouting, their table already crowded with half-empty wine bottles, cigar smoke swirling up towards the ceiling. Half a dozen voices called out to him.
‘Hey Tom – over here!’
‘What can we get you?’
‘Grab a seat, Tom!’
He smiled at their enthusiasm and their exuberance. He could have matched it himself once, but not any more. They were in their twenties, he had passed forty a few months ago. They still looked young and fit, whereas he was starting to develop a paunch and could not remember the last time he had been near a gym. They had their lives and careers ahead of them. He was jaded and cynical and was half a lifetime and a devas -tating divorce away from believing in the glamour and rewards of the City of London. They still looked innocent – well, relatively.
Lawrence was square-faced, with wavy hair and a broken nose that gave him a rugged, lived-in look. He was one of the firm’s top mergers and acquisitions practitioners, a position that would comfortably earn him £1m that year. But it really did not seem to matter any longer.
‘Champagne!’ he commanded. He picked up a wine bottle from the table and looked at it contemptuously. ‘Who ordered this? We’re celebrating, for God’s sake. How often do we close a $10bn acquisition?’ He looked around at the grinning faces. ‘Get me the wine-list.’
There was an unseemly scramble and three wine-lists were held out to him. He took one and flicked through it, then paused reflectively. A waiter appeared beside him.
‘Now the question is, do we want to go for the Krug – they’ve got a nice ’89 – or do we want something more delicate – there’s a superb Cristal here?’
Half a dozen voices chorused back replies, but he ignored them and looked up to the waiter. ‘We’ll take two of each, to help us make our minds up. And bring the humidor.’ He looked at some of the cigars his team were smoking. ‘Some of my colleagues seem to need educating on choosing fine cigars!’
The team were half drunk already, their ties undone, their jackets kept on only in deference to the hotel rules. They were tired, but they were exuberant. Some had been up for two nights running, pulling together the final agreements – by comparison, all Lawrence had had to do was negotiate them.
He waited until the champagne had arrived and then raised his glass.
‘Gentlemen,�
�� he intoned in a voice of mock gravity, ‘I would like to propose a toast.’ He looked around to make sure he had their attention. ‘The toast is to our beloved client, God bless him… because he’s paying for this!’
They cheered and roared and clinked glasses. More champagne was ordered, more toasts drunk, the air became thick with cigar smoke. Two young women in slinky cocktail dresses came and sat at the bar and kept looking over at the group.
‘Professionals,’ said Lawrence contemptuously.
‘So what? Doesn’t it just save time, make things simpler?’ It was Mark Taylor, one of the associates on the team, emboldened by drink. Lawrence looked over at the girls and shrugged to Taylor.
‘Hey – I’ve nothing against hookers. I buy all the old arguments about them being socially useful. I’d legalise them, licence and tax them. I just wouldn’t use them.’
‘What’s the big deal? They’re all the same in the sack, aren’t they?’ Others had stopped talking and were listening to the conversation now, intrigued to get Lawrence on to personal territory. ‘Haven’t you ever been tempted?’
Lawrence paused, his face suddenly serious.
‘Yes, I was seriously tempted once.’
They crowded closer, straining to hear.
‘I was in Moscow, working on the first debt-for-equity programme. It was just before my divorce.’
The more sober among them avoided his eye. This was getting into dangerous territory. Lawrence’s divorce was well known in the firm. He had come home to find his wife, his college sweetheart, had been having an affair. She had confessed to him tearfully that she had become involved with a married man, it was all a terrible mistake, she had been lonely, he was always away, she was so sorry – and she had been forced to confess by the man’s wife, who had discovered the affair and threatened to tell Lawrence. He had been devastated.
‘I was travelling with my boss at the time, Charlie Villiers. We had a free evening and went out to see the town. There were a couple of stunning girls in a bar and they asked us if we wanted a good time. The one who attached herself to me was called Anya. She had blonde hair down to her waist, she had an engineering degree and had trained for the ballet. Her figure was to die for, she had the cutest lips, eyes to drown in and the sexiest Russian accent when she spoke English.’
He looked dazed, as if he could still see her in front of him.
‘So did you?’ It was a stupid question, but he was too far away to rise to it.
‘No – we asked them what they’d charge us. They said two hundred dollars each. So Charlie said we’d pay them their money, but we didn’t want to have sex with them. We wanted them to show us the town – all the sights we’d never see on our own. We had the best night ever. We had dinner in a restaurant they knew, danced in a club, listened to live jazz, went with them to a Russian gambling den. The best night ever.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Around three in the morning Charlie realised we’d be in big trouble the next day unless we stopped and got some rest. So we took them back to the hotel for a night-cap. They said they’d had a great time, and they wanted to give us a freebie. They said they knew some tricks that we’d never forget.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘We said no. Charlie said we were both married men and loved our wives very much, and thanked them for the kind offer.’
‘Oh God – what a waste! So did they just go?’
‘No – before they left, Anya said to me that she understood if I was faithful to my wife, and if I didn’t want to go all the way, that was fine by her, but couldn’t she at least give me a “special treat” to remember Moscow by?’
‘Oh no – this is too awful for words. Don’t tell me you turned that down as well?’
Lawrence looked around, as if waking up from a dream, and took in the perspiring, drunken faces around him.
‘Yes. I told her I loved my wife and it would be wrong.’
‘Wow…’
There was a strange, almost wistful silence around the table. Taylor looked again at Lawrence.
‘Tom – I know I’m half-cut, and I shouldn’t say this, but that’s pretty bloody impressive. How do you feel about it today when you look back on it?’
Lawrence took a long pull on his cigar. The bar was utterly silent. The waiters, the people at the other tables, the girls sitting at the bar, everyone was hanging on his next reply.
‘The biggest fucking idiot on earth. My wife was off shagging a married man. Charlie fucking Villiers turned out to be fucking gay, but he only came out six months later.’ He looked around the table again and said in a hoarse, half-whispered voice, ‘Carpe diem, guys – seize the day!’
Misdial
NIGEL WAS JUST starting dessert when his mobile phone went off.
‘Oh Christ,’ he apologised to his pretty companion. ‘Excuse me for a second, will you?’
She nodded reassuringly. Not that she had much choice – it was rare enough for a graduate trainee to be entertained to such a lavish lunch by someone so senior.
‘Try the Yquem,’ he suggested, nodding towards the dessert wine that the sommelier had just brought to the table. ‘I won’t be a moment.’ He looked her up and down as he left the restaurant to receive his call. Definite potential, he thought, ripe for the plucking, as he took a final look at her long legs and long blonde hair before stepping outside.
‘Andrews,’ he snapped into the phone.
‘Ah, Nigel, sorry to have to call you on the mobile. It’s Rodney. I called your office but your secretary said you were still at lunch.’
‘Rodney! How very good to hear from you. I thought you were still in Asia?’ Damn that stupid temp, he swore silently to himself. She’s going straight back to the agency the moment I get back.
‘Not at all, old chap. I got in this morning. I’m in the car now with Sir Oliver, heading for the airport again for the board meeting in New York. I wanted to touch base to see if there’s anything happening on the syndicated loan side of the house that I should know about?’
‘Oh lots, Rodney, lots,’ lied Nigel. ‘Though I’m a bit wary about talking over a mobile, you know what these things are like. Perhaps I could call you later in New York, when we can talk on a land line.’ And when I’ve had a chance to concoct something plausible, he thought to himself.
‘Of course, old chap, of course,’ Rodney chuckled. ‘I understand entirely. You just can’t trust mobiles, can you?’
‘Absolutely not, Rodney, but don’t worry, I’ll call you later on. I’ll liaise with your office and sort out a time. I’ll make sure you’re fully briefed on the syndicated lending side of things before you go into the board meeting.’
‘Very good, I look forward to talking to you later, old chap. Cheerio.’
Phew, thought Nigel, that was close. Now, I’ve got a delicious creature awaiting my attentions in the restaurant, but I really ought to get some people working on Rodney’s briefing. Bugger it, they’ll just have to work harder and faster when I get back. What’s the point of being boss if you can’t cut yourself some slack?
He sat down and smiled at his lunch guest.
‘I’m so sorry.’ He indicated his mobile phone, which he was putting back into his jacket pocket. ‘Rodney and Sir Oliver. You know how it is.’
‘Of course,’ she stuttered, impressed. She blushed. She was still uncertain about the purpose of the lunch, though before the call she had been getting increasingly uncomfortable.
He leant forward across the table, raising his glass to her.
‘Here’s to an excellent career at Barton’s,’ he smiled, looking into her eyes. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ she replied, as they clinked glasses. Oh dear, she thought to herself, as she sipped the dessert wine, I’ve really had too much to drink. I do hope it isn’t going to turn into what I’m thinking.
Her thoughts were interrupted once again by his mobile.
‘I don’t believe it!’ he snapped. The mood
had been shattered and other diners were looking at him with irritation. He reached inside his jacket pocket and held his mobile phone to his ear.
‘Yes!’ he snapped.
At the other end he could hear two voices talking.
‘Hello? Hello? Who is this?’ he repeated. Still no answer, but the voices were carrying on a muffled conversation. He held the phone close to his ear and listened carefully.
She leant across the table, concerned and uncertain what to do next. The mâitre d’ was hovering nearby, clearly perplexed that a diner should be using a mobile phone in the restaurant.
‘Who is it?’ she asked.
‘Shut up!’ he spat. ‘I think it’s Rodney. He’s talking to Sir Oliver.’
Nigel listened carefully, desperately trying to make out the words at the other end. Rodney must have put his mobile back in his pocket or his briefcase, and inadvertently pressed the redial button. Now Nigel had a perfect eavesdropping opportunity as the two men drove to the airport. He strained to make out the words. Rodney was talking. He could hear him saying something about syndicated loans, his name was mentioned. Sir Oliver said something.
‘What is it, Nigel? Is it a message? Shall I listen? I may be able to help make it out.’
‘Shut up, you silly girl! Get back to the office!’
She looked horrified and crestfallen, but he paid no attention as she ran to the cloakroom. The mâitre d’ was still hovering nearby. Nigel looked at him with obvious annoyance and fished out his wallet. He threw a Platinum card on the table. ‘Here, charge it!’ He stood up and walked over to the restaurant door, still listening intently to the mobile.
‘…And as for Nigel, I think he should definitely go on to the board in the next promotion round… he’s long overdue if you ask me, possibly one of the most talented people in the firm. In the long run, I can see him running Barton’s, with all that that implies…’ It was clearly Sir Oliver. Nigel could hardly believe the words. ‘… I agree…’ This was Rodney. ‘He’s talented, hard working, something of a visionary from what I hear…’ The next words were muffled. Nigel listened desperately, straining to make out the words. Sir Oliver was talking again. ‘…Yes, and eventually he’ll get all that goes with it – a ‘K’ for starters – ‘Sir Nigel’, and in the end a chance at the Lords, if he plays his cards right. But that’s all a long way off, of course…’ The mâitre d’ was standing by Nigel, clearing his throat loudly to get his attention, holding out the Amex slip for him to sign. Nigel scribbled his name on it and then physically put his hand on the man’s shoulder to push him away.
Dave Hart Omnibus II Page 35