The Ego's Nest (Dave Hart 5)

by David Charters

  He plainly hates having to delay clearing his office to make small talk with a non-person. ‘That’s right,’ he grunts.

  ‘It’s very tall.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Now he thinks he’s dealing with a real fucking dummy. ‘The tallest hotel in the whole of the Gulf. I’ve booked the penthouse.’ He can’t resist adding that fine little detail. Nice. Thank you, pal.

  ‘Look out for one of my colleagues while you’re there. A big black guy. Happy Mboku is his name. He’ll be there with a Japanese friend of his. You can’t miss them.’

  ‘I will.’ Liar.

  Afterwards Neil is gutted. Devastated, in fact. ‘Dave, I fucked up. I’m sorry. I blew it. But what more can we do? The man simply won’t engage. What do you have to do to get their attention?’

  ‘Leave it with me, Neil. Something useful did come out of this morning: we now know a good place to stay in Dubai.’

  Neil looks at me as if I’m mad, but it’s true. And Happy and Nob will get to find out just how good it is.

  I’M IN a smoker coming back from Italy. I’m too discreet to say where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing, suffice to say that ‘bunga bunga’ works for me. The flight back gives me time to reflect.

  I like to think I have good instincts. I can generally smell a deal and know when something is worth pursuing and when it’s not. I think media and sport will come good, and we’ll make a lot of money, but in the meantime I need something else. I’m thinking food. Not regular food, but specifically, sugar.

  I’ve never had a particularly sweet tooth, so I’m not in an ideal position to judge Big Sugar, but my uneducated view is that Big Sugar is as bad for humanity as Big Tobacco and Big Pharma, which is to say that we’re conditioned almost from birth to consume far more of it than is good for us, and without regard for the consequences. I know all about addiction, and I’d say sugar is clearly addictive. And it doesn’t just make us obese, it gives us cancer as well. Well, it’s bound to if you have enough of it. Most things do.

  My thinking started when I went to have a medical. Why did I bother? I never used to, although as a banker I was ‘encouraged’ to go every couple of years. No doubt the firm wanted to cover itself as a good employer, and they didn’t want any bad surprises at an inconvenient stage in a deal. It was always a pain, because I had to dry out and leave the drugs alone for a month beforehand. I was nearly out of my mind by the time I got to sit in front of the doctor, and so of course my blood pressure was sky high, because I was off the fucking drugs. What did he expect?

  But this time I went along to a new clinic off the Kings Road, a smart, high-end commercial operation specialising in corporate services for people in finance. Or maybe it’s people with finance. Either way, it’s a high-end commercial operation and reassuringly expensive.

  I did it for Two Livers. That may sound odd, but she’s in great shape and I’m … well, I guess I’m in pretty normal shape by the standards of the investment banking industry, which is to say I’m overweight (though not massively so), unfit, have a poor diet, drink far too much and indulge too frequently in substances best left alone.

  I was subjected to half a day of blood tests and physical examinations. I was hooked up to high-tech machinery straight out of a science fiction movie, and even had a brain scan that can pick up frontal lobe tumours. Why frontal lobe tumours? Apparently frontal lobe tumours can result in disinhibition, behavioural disturbance and poor judgement. Enough said. At the end I sat down with the quack, who asked me what sort of report I was after.

  ‘What sort? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Mr Hart – is this report for insurance purposes? Or for a prospective employer?’

  ‘It’s for me. It’s personal.’

  ‘You mean … you want to know how you really are?’

  ‘Of course. What did you think I wanted?’

  ‘Well … we’re a very thorough organisation. We have patients – we prefer to call them clients – who need all kinds of reports. For all kinds of different purposes.’

  I get it. That’s why they’re so expensive. ‘No, I just want the truth.’

  He actually looked disappointed. If all I wanted was the truth, I could have gone elsewhere and paid half the price. He glanced down at his notes. ‘Well, Mr Hart, subject to getting back some of the test results over the next day or two, I’d say you’re in much better shape than you deserve to be. I put that down to your parents.’

  ‘What do you mean? What have my parents got to do with this?’

  ‘Mr Hart, if you want to live to a ripe old age, the best thing you can do is choose the right parents. You clearly did. You drink far too much, you test positive for things you shouldn’t, you’re unfit and, by clinical standards, you’re mildly obese. But you’ll probably live for a good few decades yet.’

  ‘Is there anything you’d advise me to do to change my lifestyle? I mean anything realistic?’

  ‘Nothing you’d be likely to do, no. Although you could always cut down on sugary foods.’

  And bingo! A light went on in my head. We don’t need less sugar. We need better sugar.

  SO TODAY I’m seeing John Mills, the chief executive of International Sugar Corporation, the UK’s largest and oldest sugar producer. His office is out towards Heathrow, in a thirties brick-built complex that would once have been impressive and state of the art, but now seems quaint. In fact a lot about this business seems quaintly out of date, which I’m sure helps them keep a low profile. That’s all about to change.

  Tom drops me at the main entrance, where an old-style commissionaire welcomes me, takes me inside and shows me to a seat in a waiting area. There are black-and-white photographs on the walls of well-dressed smiling workers in a dozen or more countries around the world. ISC is proud of its history and reputation. A truly great British company.

  I’m not ready to go in yet, because I’m waiting for the rest of the team. DLR Strummer are sending two of the biggest lawyers in the firm, and I’m also waiting for … Two Livers!

  She’s joining me for this one, and it’s going to be just like the old days. Grossbank bailed out ISC last year. They refinanced them in the middle of the credit crunch, when the bank they were going to deal with nearly went bust and pulled all its credit lines. They owe her one.

  The legal team arrive and the firm has once again done me proud. These guys are huge. Put wires in their ears and they could work at the White House. If I didn’t have such a massive ego I’d feel quite insignificant next to them.

  Two Livers arrives a few minutes later. She’s wearing a dark grey mid-length skirt and jacket by Valentino, sober yet sexy, and heels by Jimmy Choo. Did I say sober? I could undress her right now.

  She gives me a peck on the cheek, I introduce her to the legal team and we all go upstairs to meet John Mills.

  His office is small and ordinary. No rampaging egos here, just a few family photos on an otherwise neat and tidy desk. With the lawyers in the room, it feels positively tiny. He shows us to a small table in the corner of the office and helps push a couple of chairs round so we can all sit down. He’s late fifties, stooped, balding, very polite and low key, an ISC lifer who started at the firm at sixteen and never went anywhere else. Now he’s in charge.

  Looking at him, I bet that when he started his mates thought him the man least likely to succeed. But he stayed and they didn’t, and, just the same as in investment banking, the last man standing finds himself in charge. He’s probably as surprised as the rest of them.

  He clearly doesn’t like the lawyers being present, probably wonders why they are here and possibly finds them quite scary. That’s the point, John. You’re meant to be scared. He’s very polite with Two Livers, because he knows she saved him when he was in the shit, and you always stay on the right side of the bank.

  So he offers us instant coffee and says how surprised he was by my call, but he’s heard that I’ve been buying his shares in the market. Apparently he always likes to meet his shareho
lders. At least he did until today.

  ‘Mr Mills, I won’t beat about the bush. I’m here to talk about the harm done by your industry – not in a negative, critical sense, but in a positive one. I want to invest to put things right.’

  He glances at Two Livers, but she’s giving nothing away. Why is she here? He’s an important client of hers, but presumably I am too. Is she here to broker a deal, and if so what kind of deal?

  ‘Mr Hart, I’m not sure I follow you.’

  ‘I’m talking about sugar. Big Sugar.’

  ‘Oh, really? Mr Hart, you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers. There’s really no such thing as Big Sugar. And if there is, we’re not part of it. We’re a food solutions company.’

  Food solutions? Yeah, right. And Heckler and Koch, who make the best sub-machine guns in the world, are in the business of pacification and conflict resolution.

  ‘Mr Mills, I won’t try to teach you your business. I’m sure you’re aware of the medical research currently underway on the effects of sugar in our diet. I suspect you follow it closely.’ He looks wary. Probably doesn’t follow it at all until it’s published – too busy running his company. ‘You’ll be aware that an avalanche of reports are due out this autumn. There’ll be a ton of publicity. Most of it bad. In fact all of it bad.’

  That bit has to be true. What’s the point of publishing reports that don’t scare us? You don’t get funding by telling people they don’t need to worry. Mills isn’t saying anything. No doubt he wishes he had his chief scientific adviser with him – if he has one. I go on:

  ‘Reports are going to show that we all consume far too much sugar. Highly processed sugar that isn’t just associated with simple stuff like tooth decay and diabetes, heart disease, arteriosclerosis, mental illness, depression, senility, hypertension, hyperactivity in children, damage to the liver, pancreas and adrenal glands, and, of course, cancer. All that we know about. These reports are going to show a direct link to impotence as well.’ OK, I made that one up. But he looks concerned and he’s scribbling frantic notes at the end of the table. ‘Your industry is heading for a fall. Sugar consumption is heading for a fall. You’re facing a once-in-a-generation decline in demand. It’s just around the corner and you need to do something about it now.’

  I’m half expecting him to disagree with me. At least about impotence.

  ‘What do you suggest, Mr Hart?’

  Wow. He hasn’t shown me the door. But then he couldn’t, not with the bank sitting next to me.

  ‘Mr Mills, do you ever take a walk late at night and find yourself looking up at the sky? Looking at the millions of stars in the universe?’

  ‘Sometimes. It can make you feel quite insignificant.’

  ‘Really?’ Strange. Has the opposite effect on me. Makes me think that all those millions of stars are there for me, looking down on me, lighting my way. But I guess that’s why I’m in global finance and he’s in food solutions. ‘Well, you must have noticed how some stars shine more brightly than the rest. So far, ISC has been one of those bright stars. But unless you get in now, ahead of the curve, and reposition this company, your star could fade and even disappear altogether. What we want to talk about, Mr Mills, is how you do that – with our help and finance.’

  ‘What exactly did you have in mind, Mr Hart?’

  ‘Call me Dave. Forget the substance, it’s all about presentation. Ninety per cent of everything we ever do is about presentation. You need to produce a few new lines of product, probably less refined, less synthetic, and then market the hell out of them. Dazzle the customers and shame the competition. Become seen as the healthy alternative. With our money.’

  He looks nonplussed. ‘Oh … I thought you were going to say something different altogether.’

  ‘Really? What was that?’

  ‘Something about fair trade practices with the developing world. You know – buying cane sugar grown in poor countries rather than sugar beet grown in enormous, taxpayer-subsidised farms in Europe and North America. A lot of people have strong views about that.’

  I make a sweeping gesture with my hand. ‘We don’t care about that.’

  He seems a little surprised and looks across at Two Livers, who’s said nothing so far but scribbles a note and passes it to me. I glance at it. She cares. Damn. I slip it into my pocket.

  ‘No, you’re right. We care enormously. We want to reinvent the supply chain completely. We have no interest in pandering to powerful lobbyists in Brussels and Washington acting on behalf of farmers’ groups in the developed world. We want to support poor third world nations growing sugarcane. Sugarcane grows in the fresh air, it tastes better, it’s a superior crop, it’s even healthier. Sugar beet’s a root crop. It grows in mud. Who wants to eat sugar that grows in mud?’

  OK, it wasn’t a vintage performance, and I let Two Livers come in and take it on after that. She’d actually prepared for the meeting, knew what she was talking about and had got the lawyers to draft an investment proposal, backed up with fresh loans from Grossbank.

  She and I are like a jazz ensemble. When one of us fades, the other takes the lead. Except she didn’t really fade, but ran with it all the way to the end, when we shook hands with John Mills and said our goodbyes. He looked surprisingly grateful, though I got the sense that more of it was directed at her than at me.

  But still, we’re a great team, and afterwards we said goodbye to the lawyers and she came back to the Ritz to celebrate. Now that’s what I call a successful meeting.

  ‘NEIL MORELAND on line three.’

  Maria’s voice pulls me out of a trance. I’ve been staring at my desk, fantasising about Two Livers and imagining … Well, anyway, Neil’s on line three and it’s possible for you to have too much information.

  ‘Neil? How are you? What’s up?’

  ‘Dave – I just had a call from Charles Merton.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Charles at MileHigh TV. That meeting didn’t go as badly as we thought.’

  ‘Really? What did he want?’

  ‘He wants to get us back in. He wants to introduce us to his chairman and board of directors, and he says he’s keen to get behind our project. He says he’s going to recommend that MileHigh back it.’

  ‘Amazing. So we did get his attention after all.’ I try to sound surprised and excited, but I’m not. I’d be backing us if Happy Mboku and Nob had held me by my ankles from the balcony of my suite on the sixty-third floor of the Al Khalid in Dubai. Must have been quite a view, especially upside down.

  ‘So what are the next steps?’

  ‘I’ve agreed we’ll meet him Tuesday afternoon. I’m emailing across detailed proposals and draft agreements. Do you want to join us? It’s Tuesday at three.’

  ‘No. I don’t think I could stand being in the same room as that wanker twice in one lifetime. But I’ll send someone. I think I’ll send Happy. And maybe Nob too, if he’s free.’

  GOOD PERFORMANCE deserves recognition. I’ve been holding off from doing this for a while, but I think the team deserve a night out.

  We’re going to Horrors on Greek Street, a nightclub come pick-up joint, and I’m going to burn the corporate plastic to give everyone some R & R. It’s true that I haven’t invited Maria, and actually went to some lengths in the office to hide from her what we were planning. I’m sure I failed completely, but that’s not the point. This is not a large firm with PC thought police, and I don’t have to live in fear of employment tribunals – not that I ever did. We can recognise that we employ a bunch of guys who will bond together and be better motivated by getting pissed and shagging, while at the same time valuing the contribution of Maria, who gets a million pound bonus at year end if she’s lasted the course. The guys get laid, she gets paid. Who’s smarter? I wouldn’t like to say. I simply observe that people are different.

  There are twelve of us, and I suppose we don’t look like your average investment bankers. When we arrive, the guys on the door start speaking i
nto their headsets and, within moments, reinforcements arrive. And then the manager appears. He’s mid-fifties, square build with closecropped white hair and a bushy moustache. I’m guessing he didn’t get to be manager by being good in the accounts department.

  ‘Hello – Dave Hart. I called yesterday. Twelve of us for an office party. A VIP party.’ I unpeel some fifties and he stares at us. They all stare at us. ‘It’s OK, we’ve just come to have a good time.’ I think they thought another gang were moving in on them. ‘We’re traders. City traders. We run a hedge fund.’

  ‘You run a hedge fund? Sure you do.’

  He nods slowly and stares as we check our coats in and go downstairs. Maybe he recognises some of the team from a previous life? Maybe they recognise him? For some reason, I’m the only one smiling.

  Downstairs we have two large tables in a separately cordoned-off ‘VIP’ area next to the dance floor, where we get to pay double the already very high prices for our drinks. I order champagne, which I don’t think anyone will drink except me, several rounds of beer, which I know will go down well, and tell the manager to bring on the girls.

  The dance floor fills with several dozen beautiful creatures from all over the world, dressed in short skirts and low-cut tops, who do their moves and smile at us, hoping to be selected to make our work outing the success we all intend it to be.

  I grin at the team. ‘No more than two each.’

  Our tables are soon packed, more chairs are brought, but even so we have to accommodate a lot of girls on our laps, and space is so short that a couple have to be directed to go underneath the table because there just isn’t enough space around it. And, of course, the girls all order drinks – champagne, which must be a standing instruction from the club.

  I look around at the other tables, the non-VIP ones, and can tell we’re getting a lot of ugly looks. Who do we think we are, coming in here, taking the best seats next to the dance floor, showing off with our fancy drinks orders, and then getting all the best girls? And just what is going on underneath the table? Nothing’s supposed to happen on the premises. This is London. There are discreet hotels around the corner for that sort of thing.