I go to see him at his offices in Curzon Street, Mayfair, in a smart, high-tech building. Why do so many hedge funds base themselves around here? I have no idea, but simply observe that it’s very handy for whatever pleasures Shepherd Market allegedly has to offer.
Fisher sits at a huge glass desk, surrounded by screens, in a large glass-walled corner office that looks out into his trading room, where a dozen traders are speaking into cordless earpieces and staring at even more screens. On one side of the trading room is a coffee ‘pod’, where the troops can help themselves to soft drinks and sandwiches, and next to it a pool table and a table tennis table. It’s all a terrible cliché, but I love it.
Right now, two of DLR Strummer’s finest are standing next to the coffee pod, dwarfing one of the traders who’s gone for a refill, silently intimidating in their suits and ties and dark glasses. Reservoir Dogs meets the hedge fund industry.
Mike Fisher is mid-thirties, average height, balding and slightly stooped – too much time in front of computer screens. He learnt his trade on the proprietary trading desk at Hardman Stoney and left with three buddies to start their own firm five years ago. They haven’t looked back. We sit down in his office and wait while an eye-candy babe pours coffee.
‘So, Mr Hart – you’ve made quite a comeback.’
He points to the newspapers and magazines strewn across his desk. The headlines read, ‘Back From The Dead’ and ‘Hart Returns to Save Markets’. I made a gratifying number of front pages.
‘Call me Dave. I’ve come to buy your firm.’
To his credit, he doesn’t blink. ‘It’s not for sale.’
I reach into my jacket pocket. Given my history, he does briefly look nervous about what I might have in there. Instead of whatever it was he was fearing, I take out a cheque and slide it across the table. His eyebrows go up.
‘You really want to buy my firm.’
I glance out at my legal team standing by the coffee machine. ‘And you really want to sell it.’
He follows my eyes and nods. ‘I do? Oh, I see. Maybe I do. This is an impressive number. Very impressive. Very fair.’
Very fair is investment banking speak for too much. It is too much. But I don’t have time to waste.
I nod. ‘And you can always start again. You’re young and you have time. I, on the other hand, am in a hurry. I have no time. You see, I have to get a haircut.’ I look at my watch. ‘I have an appointment at Trumpers down the road in five minutes. I’ll come back and sign when I’m done. My legal team will handle the paperwork.’
He looks at the guys by the coffee machine. ‘You mean they’re really lawyers?’
‘DLR Strummer. They’re also lawyers.’
ONCE A man has his base, his office and, in my case, his trading platform from which to sally forth into the world markets, he then requires something – or someone, rather – without whom he is incomplete: someone who understands his needs, supports him through the sweetness of success and the bitterness of failure, standing by him unquestioningly and tirelessly. No, not his wife – his secretary. I’m thinking of Maria, my half-German, half-English personal assistant at Grossbank, a middle-aged Grossbank lifer who supported me through thick – and at times I was really thick – and thin. And there were certainly thin times. In fact, my legacy to the firm she devoted her life to was the thinnest of all times. As Grossbank’s answer to Brunhilde, she weathered every storm and rolled with every punch. And now I want her back, to work for me in my new venture. I call the switchboard and ask for Maria.
‘Miss MacKay’s office.’
Damn. That’s the first I knew about who she was working for. Inevitable, I suppose. The new chairman would want to have the old chairman’s PA on side. She knows where the bodies are buried.
‘Maria?’
A pause. ‘Mr Hart?’
‘Yes, Maria, it’s me. How are you? It’s been quite a while.’
‘Mr Hart, we thought you were dead.’
‘Well, technically I was. But I’m back now. Maria, there’s something I wanted to ask you. Something personal. Are you OK to talk?’
Cautiously now. ‘Yes …’
‘Maria, you can guess what I’m going to ask you. I want you to come and join me in my new venture. It’s a fund. The Salvation Fund. You may have read about it in the press. We’re going to run, oh, ten billion or so to start with. A lot more later. Haven’t raised it yet, but we will. And I want the old team to be back together again.’
‘Mr Hart, you are very flattering. But I have been at the bank a long time. I’ve never worked anywhere else.’
‘Maria, how does a million pounds sound to you?’
Surprisingly, a million pounds sounds like a lot to a secretary. Even to the chairman’s personal assistant. Of course she accepts. Who wouldn’t? But I’m prepared to be even more generous.
‘Maria, alternatively, if you prefer, I’ll give you one per cent of everything we make. I’ll be running the fund personally. People will be backing me and my judgement. It won’t be one of those vanity comeback funds that ex-bankers try. I’ll put everything into this one, Maria – my heart, my soul, my total commitment – and it’ll be big and hugely successful. What do you think?’
A pause. ‘One million pounds is a wonderful offer, Mr Hart. Thank you so much.’
Now there’s a vote of confidence.
But at least I have her. My comfort blanket is almost complete, bar one key component. Tom, my driver, sharper than any London taxi driver, quick witted, resourceful, smart and physically tall and imposing – the perfect chauffeur for someone who needs to move fast and has a habit of pissing people off.
So my next call is to the driver’s pool at Grossbank. Can you believe it? After I left, they tossed Tom into the pool. Bastards. As a pool driver, he could be told to drive any jumped-up teenage managing director who doesn’t even have hairs on his chest. How could they?
When someone answers the phone, I just say it’s ‘a friend’. But when he picks up, he knows.
‘Mr Hart, sir. How are you?’
‘How did you know it was me, Tom?’
‘I read the papers, saw you on the news. You’ve lost a bit of weight. Suits you. So when do I start?’
‘Right now?’
There’s a pause and I hear him shouting to someone across the room. ‘Tell him to drive himself to the airport. I just quit. Better offer.’
MARKETS HAVE rallied on news of my return. Well, they’ve rallied. Whether it’s coincidence I’m not sure. Anyway, positive news is a good thing if you’re fundraising, which I am.
Fundraising for a new investment fund is never straightforward but post credit crunch it’s for heroes and naive romantics only, especially a so-called ‘first-time’ fund. Investors don’t like parting with their money at the best of times, but after some spectacular crashes and insolvencies in the hedge fund industry, and with so many of yesterday’s finance rock stars washed-up, it’s easier to be ‘prudent’ and do nothing than stick one’s head above the parapet. So the custodians of the wealth of some of the world’s richest people – the private bankers and wealth managers – tend to give people like me the brush-off. OK, so there’s no one quite like me. But you get the picture.
Today I’m seeing a lady called Jackie Scott. She’s midforties, serious, conservative, and she most definitely doesn’t gamble with her clients’ money. As a man, I admire women with good posture. No stooping. Walk tall and look the world in the eye. Jackie walks so tall and straight you’d think she had a broom handle up her arse. The firm she works for is Banque Arabe et Genevoise, a Middle-Eastern-backed joint venture with a large Swiss private bank. Conservatism is second nature to them, though in the last few years a lot of Arab and other new money piled into their coffers. In the finest Swiss tradition, they asked the minimum number of questions about where it came from – which is why she’s shortly going to get a surprise.
I’m sitting in the kind of oak-panelled meeting room with thick car
pets and fake Impressionist pictures that private bankers think inspire confidence in their clients. Because I’m meeting a woman, and because I want to unsettle her, I’ve brought two female members of my legal team from DLR Strummer, a pair of Amazons in their late twenties who look like they’ve walked straight off the set of the latest X-Men movie.
Once the coffee and the introductions are over – ‘Really? Your legal team?’ was probably the high point – we get down to business. I slide the inevitable Powerpoint presentation across the table but then ignore it and talk passionately about the need to turn the global economy around, the importance of profiting by taking risks to back winners rather than shorting and tearing value apart and, of course, about my own motivation in wanting to make amends for my past failings.
All of this is the last thing she wants to hear. I sense my legal team shifting uncomfortably in their seats and can almost read the thought bubbles over their heads that say, ‘He’s blowing it – cut the emotion and stick to the numbers. Be rational, compose yourself, take a deep breath and start again.’ If I were rational I wouldn’t be where I am today. For that matter, none of us would.
So Jackie listens uncomfortably, and when my passion and excitement get too much for her she flicks through the presentation, reading ahead to the end before I get there, which just encourages me to go off piste even more and prolong the whole session until eventually we overrun and her secretary comes to remind her she has another engagement.
‘Thank you, Mr Hart – fascinating. I’ve got your card – Caveman Hart Associates …’
She laughs uncomfortably and looks at the Amazons to see if they’ll join in – but they stay poker-faced, and even if they didn’t have their shades on they’d give nothing away. She coughs nervously to hide her embarrassment.
‘Mr Hart, we’ll come back to you.’ She shakes her head, half disbelieving. ‘A number of our clients have already expressed interest in understanding what you’re planning to do next, just from what they’ve read about you in the press.’
‘A little publicity never hurt.’
I smile, we shake hands and she shows us out, clearly never expecting me to darken her doors again.
I COULDN’T put her off forever. It was inevitable. Wendy. Wendy the ex, once known as Attila the Ex, until she was neutered with a deal whereby she thought she was fleecing me and took a pay-off just before I started making real money. Some you lose, some you lose. Bad luck, Wendy. She wants to see me to ‘talk about Samantha’. Yeah right. Samantha means money. Samantha is Wendy’s route to my wallet. Whatever it is Samantha needs, it’s likely to mean Wendy will end up with a bigger house/car/holiday allowance/ski chalet, etc., etc. Wendy’s the kind of ex-wife who gives ex-wives a bad name. On the other hand, maybe I’m the kind of ex-husband … Anyway, let’s not go there.
Maria shows her in, pursing her lips and looking at the ceiling as if she has a bad smell under her nose. Maria never did like Wendy.
Wendy’s made a real effort. She’s wearing a pale blue matching skirt and jacket by Armani that shows off what I’m guessing is a fake tan, with diamond and pearl white-gold earrings by Tiffany and a matching brooch. She has a white Gucci handbag and shoes by Jimmy Choo. It looks like she’s had her hair done specially, the way she does most days of the week with a ‘y’ in them – and no doubt a mani/ pedi, and probably a massage as well, though not that sort.
These middle-aged Chelsea women are amazing. They don’t age. Maybe there’s something in the air in SW3. Or maybe it’s the water. No wrinkles, no crow’s feet, no laughter lines, no furrowed brows worn with age and care. These women are truly ageless, neat, trim, nipped and tucked and shaped and sculpted and worked out to produce the best looks money can buy. My money can clearly stretch quite far.
So as soon as I see her I get up, concerned, and pull out a chair for her.
‘Wendy – hey, come here and sit down. Are you OK?’
‘Dave – of course. I’m fine. What’s –’
‘Are you sure? You look … well … Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Yes, I’m OK. I’d know if I wasn’t OK.’
‘All right, I’m sorry. I guess I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. Worried, about you and about all these things I read in the papers. And exhausted, having to explain to Samantha everything that’s happened. She thought you were dead. We both did. You never even let us know. How could you?’
Easy. I’m a bastard. Utterly self-centred. I shake my head.
‘I know.’ Deep breath. ‘It’s been tough. Tougher than you can possibly imagine.’
There’s a ‘yeah right’ thought bubble over her head. She thinks she has me on the back foot and decides to press her advantage.
‘When do you want to see her, by the way? She’s your daughter, Dave, and she hardly knows you.’
‘I’ll get in touch as soon as my feet hit the ground. I’d love to see her, but right now I’m snowed under.’ I point at the piles of papers on the desk, none of which I have any intention of reading. ‘You can see how busy I am.’
‘Of course, but don’t you have people …?’
‘It’s not the same. I’m starting out afresh. I have to get this right. It’s not the bank anymore. This is me.’ I look at her face as if I’ve spotted something. She follows my eyes and puts her hand to her forehead. ‘Wendy, are you sure you’re all right? You look … older?’
Her voice is icy now. ‘We’re all older, Dave. It’s what happens.’
I hold up a hand apologetically, defensively. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I guess it’s just unfair how it works, you know … with men and women.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about that stupid cliché about men growing more distinguished as they get older and women just growing … Well, anyway, let’s change the subject.’
The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees. Who needs air-con when you have an ex-wife? I like it this way.
‘Let’s. And by the way, you might be interested to hear I do have a new man in my life. I thought you should know, just in case it comes up when you see Samantha.’
Touché. As if I care.
‘Wendy, that’s fantastic. Maria! Maria – do we have a bottle of champagne in the fridge? Wendy has some great news.’
Now she’s blushing. At least I think it’s a blush beneath the fake tan.
‘It’s not … It’s not serious.’ Couldn’t be, otherwise he’d be the one writing the cheque for whatever it is she’s come to see me about today.
‘Maria – hold the champagne.’ I turn back to Wendy. ‘White wine instead? Or coffee? Water?’
‘You know you have some grey hairs?’ Meow.
‘Dye.’
‘What?’
I think she thinks I said, ‘Die.’
‘I dye it. Makes me look more distinguished. Gives me gravitas. Very important in some parts of the world – Asia, Middle East, Africa.’
From then on it’s all downhill. She doesn’t want to hear about my amazing adventures, ‘finding myself’ in the Himalayas, being adopted by a Tibetan guru, working with Chinese orphans, or whatever. Anyone would think she assumed I spent my time away shagging and doing drugs.
She wants more money for Samantha to have a bigger place in the country to go to at weekends, where her friends can come to stay and they can all ride ponies. She wants another new car – a two seater, because it’s not practical to go everywhere in the S Class Merc I bought her last year to take Samantha on the school run, and there’s a new Maserati that would make a perfect lady’s car. And then she wants me to pay the bill for her probate lawyers. She had to contest my will for Samantha’s sake, and now that I’m alive – for which we’re all supremely grateful – they’re expecting her to settle her account.
I’d like to say I showed her the door. I really should have. But because I’m a man, and therefore weak and gullible and prone to feelings of guilt as we
ll as metaphysical anguish, I wrote her a large cheque. I’m not going to say how much. Large.
I GET a phone call from Jackie Scott at Banque Arabe et Genevoise. She doesn’t quite know how to say this, but, well, they’d actually like to invest in the new fund. In size. She reported back to her clients who had specifically said to her they were interested in what I was up to, and the result was, well, unprecedented. Seven billion. From clients all over the world. And word spread and they even had some new clients – people they’d never dealt with before – who were investing with them for the first time precisely in order to have access to the Salvation Fund. It is the most she has ever seen invested in a single fund by the bank’s clients, let alone a first-time fund with no specific track record.
She can only think that it is me people are backing. Clearly my name counts for a lot. My name and what I’ve been through. And, of course, she had personally been very impressed indeed and had passed that on to the bank’s clients. It’s not often a prospective fund manager speaks with such passion. Normally these presentations are such dry affairs, numbers driven and rather dull. So she likes to think she’s contributed in some small way to my success, and can I remind her again what I’d said about rebating fees to introducers of investment funds? It’s very rare for a private banker not to pay full attention to anything that relates to how they get paid, so she clearly hadn’t rated my chances at all.
Over the next few days I get similar equally surprised calls from a dozen other banks and private wealth managers, all of them equally baffled. The total for the first closing of the Salvation Fund comes to eighteen billion dollars. Where was all this money coming from? How had I generated such interest?
The Ego's Nest (Dave Hart 5) Page 5