‘That’s it! Outside, now, sir!’ The mâitre d’ was taller and stronger than Nigel and his voice silenced the restaurant. Nigel found himself ushered outside, where it had started to rain. He didn’t care. He was straining to catch the words at the other end. If only he could record them, but his mobile had no such facility.
‘…Anyway, let’s give him the good news on Monday, when we get back, assuming it’s ratified by the board, of course…’
Suddenly the phone clicked and went dead. Nigel stared at his mobile, put it to his ear once again, listened desperately, willing it to come back to life. Had Rodney realised his mistake and hung up? Had they entered a tunnel and lost the signal? Had Rodney’s mobile just ‘timed out’? Nigel stared at his own mobile, then let out a great whoop of joy. He ran back into the restaurant, rushed up to the mâitre d’ and reached for his wallet. He pulled out a hundred pounds, handed it to the man and smiled.
‘I’m so terribly, terribly sorry. That was unforgivable of me.’ He looked around at the other diners. ‘You’ve got my Amex number – charge everyone’s lunch to me! The whole restaurant – everyone! It’s the least I can do!’ He looked around. Now, where was that silly girl? Damn, she must have gone back to the office. Oh well, can’t win them all. But if what I just heard is right, I’ll get a second crack at her after Monday… As he walked back to the office, ignoring the pouring rain, he pondered his home life. Perhaps this weekend he should finally take the plunge. He had a great future ahead of him, and frankly Christabel was a liability. He really didn’t love her any more, despite the children. In fact he wasn’t sure he was that keen on the children. Perhaps this weekend he should finally sit down and tell her…
In the car driving to the airport, Rodney was laughing. Sir Oliver was laughing too. Even their chauffeur was laughing.
‘A case of ’85 Krug says he’s fallen for it hook, line and sinker!’ Rodney turned to the chauffeur. ‘Tom – you’re our witness. A case of ’85 Krug!’
Sir Oliver turned to Rodney. ‘We’ll have to talk to him together on Monday, of course, so that we can verify the outcome. I am a little concerned about how he’ll take it when we fire him and say we’re closing down the department.’
‘Don’t be concerned at all, Sir Oliver. The man’s a second rate, philandering little turd. If he was worth keeping on as head of department, he wouldn’t have fallen for our little ruse, would he?’
Sir Oliver looked at Rodney. ‘Let’s see if he actually has fallen for it, Rodney. You could have a big surprise on Monday if he’s contacted an employment lawyer and slaps a suit on you!’
Rodney chuckled. ‘Not a chance. I know my man. Not a chance…’
Sir Oliver gave him a long sideways look. ‘Rodney, has anyone ever told you you’re a prize shit?’
Rodney chuckled. ‘Once or twice, Sir Oliver, once or twice.’
The Big Break
THE AIR WAS stale in the crowded office housing the ‘pool’ of graduate trainees. It was stale most days, and only got worse in the evenings. There were too many of them in there, some had to share desks, and in the evenings when they ate pizza or Chinese while they worked, the smell of the food made the atmosphere even worse. It was not helped by the absence of windows. Their more senior colleagues joked about the ‘Black Hole of Calcutta’, located in the centre of the building where no natural light could penetrate. By midnight, when on a good day the luckiest of them were able to go home, they were tired, irritable and depressed. The ‘glittering prizes’ of a career in the City seemed far away.
Melvyn Goode was a rugby blue from Cambridge. He had rowed and boxed for his college as well as playing rugby for the University. He stood over six feet tall and cut a rugged, handsome figure. He was a few years older than most of the graduate entrants, having spent three years as a postgraduate studying for a doctorate in order to carry on rowing. The extra years and maturity gave him a critical edge over the other new entrants. He hated his work. What he enjoyed was an afternoon of rugby training with the boys, followed by a serious drinking session and then sex with one of the rugby-groupies. He looked back fondly on more happy times. His sex life had disappeared since he graduated and joined Barton’s, and his rugby training had been sacrificed on the altar of the firm. He had put on nearly a stone in weight and looked pale and sickly. The only thing he had kept up was his drinking, and that had increased markedly, though only at late-night clubs which he frequented when he finally got free from work. He spent weekends in the office, trying to catch up with the incessant requests from his seniors for more analysis, more presentation books, more PowerPoint slides…
His only way of letting off steam in the office was to torment the other trainees. To his surprise, he had found that a prep-school-like atmosphere reigned in the trainee room. He was physically the biggest there, and slowly found that by throwing his weight around, he could get out of some of the more tedious and mind-numbing tasks, like running errands for the directors. The odd short, sharp, very occasionally mildly physical shock kept the recalcitrant few in line, while the weaker trainees readily accepted him as the boss. There were only three women among the twenty-five trainees, and all so ugly that Goode had no interest in them. In theory the trainees were supervised and assigned ‘mentors’ from among the more senior members of the department, but in practice no one was interested as long as the work was done and there were no complaints from the directors. The trainees rarely if ever left the office on business, and seldom received any feedback on the importance or success of the work they were doing. Overseas business trips were unheard of, though it was widely known that many of the directors spent half their lives on aeroplanes.
‘Probably collecting Airmiles,’ said Goode to one of the other trainees, who dutifully laughed at the joke from the ‘boss’. ‘I wonder why none of us ever gets the chance to go on one of these fancy trips.’
‘Probably lack of experience.’ It was Ed Straker, one of the more difficult trainees, who did not always see eye to eye with Goode.
‘What do you mean – lack of experience? Bullshit. We’re all smart, or we wouldn’t be here. We can hack it.’ Goode was in no doubt that he could represent the bank in pretty much any situation that arose. He sighed and pushed away the presentation he was currently working on, a valuation document for the Russian natural gas supplier, KromGas. Goode had grabbed the assignment when he had heard that Sir Oliver Barton was personally heading the team. In fact he had yet to meet Sir Oliver, and the work involved had turned out to be horrendous. The Russians were trying to float the company at a valuation that simply would not stack up against the benchmarks that international investors would apply. Repeated requests to rerun the numbers simply reconfirmed the same result. He groaned. It would be another long evening. ‘You know, sometimes I wish we could each be given just one chance. One chance to really do something. If only we could show what we’re made of. Then all this bullshit would seem worthwhile.’
His phone rang. He looked at it, irritated, and then nodded at one of the other trainees, who shrugged, picked up his own phone and tapped in the numbers to pick up Goode’s line. ‘I’m sorry? Say again? Yes, sir, of course, right away, sir!’ He stood up, his hand shaking as he held out the phone to Goode. ‘Sir Oliver Barton,’ he whispered. Goode looked at him, sceptical.
‘If you’re bullshitting me, I’ll nail you.’
He picked up his phone and in his most composed voice, said, ‘Melvyn Goode.’
‘Ah, Melvyn, I’m pleased that we get to speak at last. It’s Oliver Barton here. I’m calling in connection with KromGas. I’ve been most pleased with the work you’ve done. I’d like to discuss it in greater detail with you tomorrow. Are you free around ten?’
Goode’s jaw dropped open. This sounded genuine. If the others were winding him up, he’d kill them. He looked around the room, searching for a clue, but found none. ‘Of course, Sir Oliver, I’d be delighted.’
‘Excellent. My office, ten o’clock tomorrow.’ Th
e phone clicked and went dead. Goode looked around the room.
‘What was that all about?’
He smiled. ‘Maybe something, maybe nothing. I think my fairy-godmother must have been listening. It might just be my ticket to Moscow.’
Goode stepped out of the lift onto the tenth floor. The carpet was deep pile, the receptionists were prettier than on his floor, and the atmosphere was discreetly hushed. He stepped forward, looking helplessly for someone to talk to.
‘Excuse me, I’m Melvyn Goode. I have an appointment with Sir Oliver Barton at ten o’clock.’
‘Of course, will you step this way?’
He was shown into an enormous ante-room with sofas, coffee tables and magazines.
‘Do take a seat, Mr Goode. Sir Oliver will be with you shortly. Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘Er…no, thank you, I’m fine.’ He looked around at the oak panelling, the paintings on the walls – could they all be originals? – and turned back to the receptionists sitting opposite the lifts. Where did they find them? Most of them were stunning, but weren’t they bored working for old farts like Sir Oliver?
He heard the door open behind him.
‘Ah – you must be Melvyn.’
He turned to see Sir Oliver standing in the open doorway of his office.
‘Do come in. Have they offered you a cup of coffee?’
‘Yes, thank you, Sir Oliver.’ Goode was a full head taller than the older man, but Sir Oliver was by far the more commanding of the two. He had a disappointingly weak grip as they shook hands and sat down. Goode was nervous in case he had grasped Sir Oliver’s hand too firmly – he did not want him to think he was trying to make an impact.
‘Now,’ Sir Oliver said, leaning forward with a friendly and engaging smile. ‘Let’s talk about your work.’
Goode found himself flattered by Sir Oliver’s knowledge of the KromGas project, and surprised by the high regard in which he held his valuation work. He repeated his findings to Sir Oliver, emphasising that he was enthusiastic about the project, but not at all sanguine about the prospects of selling shares in KromGas to international investors.
‘I see.’ Sir Oliver sat back in his chair and contemplated the younger man. ‘Well, you’re the expert, you’ve done the work, and from what you’ve said I find it hard to disagree with your findings. The question is, how do we tell the Russians?’
Goode saw his chance and went for it. ‘I could tell them, Sir Oliver! I know I’m relatively junior, but I’m the one who’s been doing the groundwork. I’ve got the detailed knowledge of the material, and I’d be happy to walk them through it in detail. With the facts in front of them, they could hardly disagree with us, could they?’
Sir Oliver leant back and scratched his chin. ‘That’s an interesting suggestion. As you know, we normally prefer to field more experienced corporate financiers for such a difficult situation, but you do know the subject matter.’ He got up and walked around to his desk, where he consulted a large, leather bound diary. ‘Let me see, yes, here we are. The Russians have asked for a meeting to discuss our conclusions on valuation on 17 April.’ He looked at Goode. ‘I must be honest with you, Melvyn, that date presents some particular difficulties for the KromGas team at Barton’s. I have to be in Bermuda for the Investment Banking Divisional off-site, where I’m the keynote speaker. Rory, who’s been acting as the transaction director, will be in Augusta for the Treasury Division’s annual golf day. He has over a dozen clients attending. And Damien, who’s been assisting Rory, will be in Bermuda with me.’ He gave Goode a penetrating stare. ‘At times like this, we all have to think not of ourselves, but of the firm. I think it’s down to you. The question is, are you up to it?’
When he got back to the trainee room, Goode was cock-a-hoop. His first trip! Yes! He called over Lorna, the trainees’ secretary, and informed her that he would be flying to Moscow on 16 April, staying at the Kempinski, and attending a meeting with KromGas at ten the following morning. He would need a visa, air tickets, hotel booking, currency, and of course a car to the airport. She looked at him, wondering if it was all a joke. He caught her glance and looked at her condescendingly. ‘Sir Oliver Barton will sign the necessary authorisations.’
Goode stepped off the plane and searched for his name among the jostling crowd holding placards at the terminal entrance. There – ‘Melvyn Goode – Barton’s’. It was being held by a big man in a black leather jacket. Goode went up to him and introduced himself. ‘Ah yes, this way, Mr Goode.’ The man’s Russian accent was so thick, so Hollywood, that he nearly laughed. ‘VIP clearance this way, Mr Goode.’ Together they went to the unmarked VIP clearance channel for which Barton’s and other foreign corporations paid a premium. In no time they were through, his passport stamped, and they got into a waiting Mercedes to be driven into the centre.
‘Your first time in Moscow, Mr Goode?’ The Russian leant close to him, his breath smelling of onions.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.’
‘Excellent. My name is Georgi. I look after all Barton’s people when they come to Moscow. Just tell me if there is anything you want, Mr Goode.’
Goode nodded. ‘Definitely.’ Then he wondered, ‘In fact, I’m free this evening. I have no plans. What can a man do to enjoy himself in Moscow, when he’s on his own?’
Georgi looked at him, his face a picture of seriousness.
‘You like culture?’
Goode was taken aback. ‘Er, of course. But as a young man… on my own for just the one evening, what are the alternatives?’
Georgi laughed and slapped him on the back. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Goode. After you have checked in, I will show you Moscow.’
The girl was gyrating on his lap, grinding her naked hips into his crotch, pulling his hands to her breasts and rubbing them rhythmically against herself in time with the music.
‘You like our lap-dancing, Mr Goode?’
Goode, fully clothed but slightly the worse for wear, looked at Georgi’s grinning face.
‘I like it very much, Georgi, I like it very much.’ He laughed drunkenly. ‘You beat the Americans hands down. They have a “no touching” rule in their clubs. “Full contact” lap dancing, Moscow-style, could have won the Cold War!’
Both men laughed.
A loud buzzing was going off in his head. He rolled over and tried to bury his head under the pillow. It continued. He looked up at the clock on the bedside table. Eight o’clock. Shit. He vaguely tried to recall the previous evening. The girl! Where was the girl?! He propped himself up on one elbow and looked around the room. There was no sign of her. He tried to recall how far it had all gone. Had he done anything stupid? No, he was sure he hadn’t. And anyway, he was single, he could make his own choices. His head felt fuzzy, doubtless the effect of all the alcohol, but he was used to heavy drinking and made his way to the bathroom, where he put his head under the cold water tap in the wash-basin. Had they actually…? He couldn’t remember. Well, he thought, as far as the guys in London are concerned, we definitely did. He looked around for his clothes. Time to get dressed. The meeting’s at ten, Georgi’s picking me up at nine thirty. Time for a shower, shave, breakfast and a final read-through of the presentation.
‘And so, gentlemen, you will see that the transaction as presently proposed simply does not work. The buyers will not be there. The issue will be a flop.’
He looked at the three men sitting in front of him. All three were heavily built, but dressed impeccably in tailored suits through which their massive arms and shoulders bulged. To Goode, they looked like caricatures of Hollywood heavies. One of them leant forward.
‘So when do we launch the share offering? When do we have the money?’
He was nonplussed. ‘Mr Markov, I don’t think you under stand. There won’t be a share offering. There won’t be any money.’
The three men looked at one another, baffled. Markov turned back to Goode. ‘Mr Goode, are you crazy? Do you know who we are?’
&nb
sp; He was unsure how to respond. His head was still throbbing, he felt hot and flustered, and he could not for the life of him see why these simple-minded Russians did not understand him. ‘Mr Markov,’ he began again, ‘what I’ve said is relatively straightforward. The price you are seeking for your shares is too high. It’s simply not possible to sell them for such a high price in the international markets.’
‘But Sir Oliver Barton told us we could.’
Goode was momentarily taken aback. ‘Well, sir, I’m sure that at the time Sir Oliver told you that, it was perfectly true. But market conditions have obviously changed considerably since you first awarded us the mandate. We have to be mindful of the market environment.’
‘No! We questioned him very carefully on this matter. He was very clear. Barton’s’ price was forty per cent higher than the next highest competitor. He said his firm would deliver, or face the consequences. He said it was a matter of honour.’
‘Well… sometimes things can be misunderstood in the context of a marketing presentation. We sometimes find that we pitch aggressively to win a piece of business, and subsequently have to reign in our ambitions on behalf of our clients, because the market simply doesn’t match our positive spirit!’
‘Are you saying Sir Oliver is a liar?’
‘Certainly not!’ Oh God, thought Goode, I’m in way out of my depth. Beam me up, Scotty. ‘If Sir Oliver says something, you can rest assured that it’s true.’
Dave Hart Omnibus II Page 36