Etienne looked confused and angry. He knew I was right, but he wasn’t going to admit it. He recovered swiftly. ‘This thing is dangerous, Bob. In a market like this the best thing to do is to sell anything you can as quickly as you can. You can’t afford to spend time mucking around with fancy machines. If the market falls again tomorrow, those positions Greg and Mark have put on will be a problem. A big problem.’ Bob was watching him thoughtfully. ‘Nothing can beat a good trader’s gut-feel, Bob. You know that.’
I was about to open my mouth to protest. With the trades we had constructed we should have been all right if the market moved either way. Then I saw Bob’s face, and kept quiet.
‘I sure hope you’re not just pissing away more money, kid,’ growled Bob, and he stalked off.
I re-entered Bondscape’s world. Over the next hour or so, I picked out a couple more trades to put on. Eventually, the landscape stopped shifting, indicating that the market had calmed down, and I took off the headset and stretched. ‘How much are we down now?’ I asked Ed.
It took him a few minutes to do the calculations. ‘Still two point one million,’ he said, glumly.
I rubbed my face with my hands. Shit! It took a long time to earn two million dollars, and it had only taken an afternoon to lose it. Why oh why hadn’t I hedged my positions that morning?
Greg came over and leaned against the desk. ‘How much did you drop?’
I winced. ‘Over two mill. And you?’
‘A touch more. But I’ll get it back. I’m long two hundred twenty of the Novie twenty-ones.’
‘Jesus! I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘I do,’ said Greg with a relaxed smile. ‘Thanks to that machine of yours. Was Bob impressed?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I think he prefers gut-feel to rational thought. I hope to God those trades we put on work.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Greg, ‘they will.’ With that he went back to his desk to tidy up.
‘Are you OK, Ed?’ I asked.
Ed nodded. He still had a scared look in his eye, but he had coped well.
‘That was a tough day,’ I said. ‘You did well.’
He smiled, and returned to the paper trail of our afternoon’s trading.
I stood up, and looked around the huge trading room. There were nearly two hundred trading desks in eight long rows. Bonds, foreign exchange and equities were all traded from the same room. There were no windows, although the walls were lined with a series of glass meeting rooms. At the end of a turbulent day, the floor looked as though a hurricane had hit it. Desks were cluttered with screens, computers, phones and intercoms, and there were bits of paper everywhere. Chairs were pushed haphazardly between the rows of desks, and traders were milling about, stretching, looking for a cup of coffee, chatting.
I headed over to the exit on the far side of the room. I walked past the equity group. Harrison Brothers was mostly known for its expertise in the bond markets, but it felt it had to have a presence in equities. The small group sat underneath a giant ticker-board, like an electronic frieze, giving constant updates on the prices of the thousands of stocks quoted on the New York Stock Exchange. It was irrelevant to nearly all of us, but Bob Forrester thought it gave the place a true American investment-bank look, and besides, it allowed him to keep up with his personal portfolio. It was of no use to the only people for whom it might have had any professional interest, since they couldn’t see it; they were sitting directly underneath.
Another Forrester touch was the brown HB logo on every column and wall, there to be picked out by any visiting TV cameras providing those background shots for market reports on the news. The room had to look good.
I stopped at the water-cooler just by the exit and poured myself a cup. The equity group, too, were all winding down after a hard day’s work. All of them except one. Karen. She was sitting on her desk, a phone jammed between her cheek and her shoulder, her long legs resting on her chair. Despite the day’s excitement, her yellow skirt and white silk blouse had not a wrinkle in them, and she looked as cool as she had at seven thirty that morning.
‘Oh, come on, Martin, really? You didn’t!’ She chuckled down the line. I sipped my water and listened. ‘Now, how many of those Wal-Marts do you want?’
She brushed the fine blonde hair out of her eyes, and winked discreetly at me. She turned to a trader who was packing up to leave. ‘Jack! Before you go, what’s the offer on Wal-Mart?’
2
I looked over the clusters of dark suits gathered around the huge atrium. She wasn’t here yet.
The atrium was ridiculous. Waterfalls, smooth sculptures, and whole trees seemed to take up most of the space in the middle of the building, leaving a narrow shell around the outside for people to work in. We had both been invited to a party by Banque de Genève et Lausanne, who were opening new London offices. I usually avoided these things if I could, but Barry, their head trader in London, had been insistent that I should come. I didn’t know anyone there, and was happy supporting a black marble column that shot fifty feet up into the air above me, sipping a glass of champagne.
What a day! I had managed to lose over two million dollars. Whichever way you looked at it, that was a lot of money. My year’s profit and loss should be able to stand it. In fact, Ed and I were, or rather had been, three million dollars up on the year. But dropping that much money had hurt my pride badly, especially since I had foreseen Greenspan’s move and done nothing about it.
Still, in a funny kind of way, I had enjoyed the day. I was facing quite a challenge – to make back two million dollars in a treacherous market. And I was determined to make it all back. I had my reputation to think of, my track record. For a trader, the annual profit and loss is all.
And I had a pretty good track record. I had started trading the proprietary book for Harrison Brothers two years ago. In my first year, I had made eight million dollars for the firm, and that had grown to fifteen million dollars in my second year. Not bad for a twenty-eight-year-old trader. And my salary, and especially my bonus, were beginning to reflect my trading success.
So, how was I going to make back that two million dollars? Bondscape would certainly help. It had given me a tremendous feeling of power. I had been able to visualise the whole bond market, to get right inside it, to see and feel it moving. And I was the only one in the market with that capability. Richard and I had been working on Bondscape for a few months. I had been through several practice sessions, and suggested a number of changes. I had known it would work, but never dreamed it would work that well.
It was a strange sensation. I had indeed experienced an alternative reality. I had always been sceptical that virtual reality provided an experience that was any different from a fancy computer game. But today I had felt as though I were living and moving inside another world, an abstract world of bonds, yields and currencies. What would other virtual worlds be like, I wondered.
A flash of blonde hair weaving its way through the suits caught my eye. ‘Hi. Sorry I’m late. God, I need a drink.’ She looked round, a waiter was instantly by her side, and she was soon swallowing her own champagne.
‘I got here as quickly as I could,’ she said. ‘It’s impossible to get Martin off the phone. I don’t know when he gets any work done.’
‘He just likes to chat you up, that’s all.’
Her eyes twinkled over her glass. ‘As long as he does the trades, I don’t care. Anyway, I hear you had a good day.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it. Another is that I dropped two million dollars.’
‘Well, Greg was impressed. He says you’ll make it back. He told me you were using that virtual reality machine.’
‘That’s right. Bondscape. It worked brilliantly.’
Karen laughed. ‘I bet you looked pretty funny in those little glasses.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I think they suit me. In a couple of years everyone will be wearing them.’
‘Nerd.’
�
�Hey! As long as it helps me make that two million back, you can call me what you like.’
‘I’m sure you’ll make it back. You always do.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ I sipped my champagne thoughtfully. ‘How did you cope today?’
‘Not too bad. The panicky clients panicked. The sensible ones sat on their hands. Nothing I couldn’t handle.’ And she did indeed look as if the day’s turmoil had had no effect on her at all. ‘The atmosphere on the desk is pretty bad though.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘The rumours are they’re going to reorganise Equities worldwide. That probably won’t be good for London. Everybody’s getting pretty defensive. Watching their own backs, looking for exposed areas in other people’s.’
‘What a team!’
Karen snorted. ‘We’re just one big happy family.’
‘You’ll be all right, though, won’t you?’
‘I should be,’ she said. ‘My commission is up fifty per cent on last year. But you can never tell.’
She was right. You couldn’t tell. Somehow, though, I expected Karen would be a survivor.
‘Do you want to play tennis on Saturday morning?’ she asked. ‘I’ve booked a court for nine.’
‘Oh God,’ I groaned. ‘Nothing like some early morning humiliation to set me up for the weekend.’
‘What do you mean? You might win. You’ve won before.’
‘Yes, twice.’
‘This could be the third.’
‘OK,’ I sighed. ‘I’ll play.’
Karen was a much better tennis player than me. She was a better skier too. And swimmer. She was athletic, co-ordinated, and she liked to win. I just sweated a lot and hit the ball too hard.
A studious-looking man of about my own age hovered at Karen’s shoulder. ‘Peter! How are you?’ she said, holding out her cheek to be kissed. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’ She looked around her. ‘This building is amazing!’
‘It is rather good, isn’t it,’ said Peter. ‘Much better than the rabbit warren we’re used to.’
‘When did you actually move in?’
‘Last week. We’re still trying to get the phones to work. As you know.’
‘Don’t I just! It’s been a nightmare getting through to you. Oh, by the way, this is Mark Fairfax. He trades the proprietary book at Harrison. Mark, this is Peter Tewson, from BGL Asset Managers.’
I smiled at him. He nodded quickly towards me, and then turned back to Karen. ‘You were dead right about Chrysler. It’s up over ten per cent since you recommended it.’
‘I’m glad it’s working out,’ said Karen. ‘You know, when I hear something, I want to make sure my best accounts hear it too.’
This I knew wasn’t true. Karen had researched Chrysler thoroughly before tipping it. But she knew that her clients would be quicker to act if they thought they were the first to hear a rumour.
I let them talk, and watched the crowd, looking for Barry.
A tall, silver-haired man glided across to us. Peter saw him coming, stiffened, and shut up.
‘Good evening, Peter, how are you?’ said the man in a French accent.
‘Very well, thank you, er, Henri,’ stammered Peter. ‘Henri Bourger, head of our London office. Er, this is Karen Chilcott from Harrison Brothers, and this is, um . . .’
‘Mark Fairfax,’ I said, holding out my hand.
‘I was just remarking how wonderful these offices are,’ said Karen.
‘Thank you,’ Bourger replied, politely.
‘They look very similar to your New York building. But I think this central space works much better. Was this designed by Fearon as well?’
Bourger’s eyes lit up. ‘Well yes it was as a matter of fact,’ he said, and he launched into a long description of how and why BGL had commissioned Fearon for London. Trust Karen to look up the architect before coming here.
I felt a touch on my elbow. ‘All right, Mark? How are you, old son?’
It was the bulky figure of Barry, BGL’s head trader.
I winced. ‘I’ve had better days.’
‘You’re telling me. My lads have been shitting bricks all afternoon.’
I looked around and grimaced. ‘Why am I here, Barry?’
Barry laughed. ‘Not your scene, is it? Well, it’s not mine either. Come here, I want you to meet someone.’ He pulled me over towards the far side of the atrium. ‘He’s our head of trading, worldwide.’
So that’s what it was. They were sounding me out for a job, and Barry wanted to show me to his boss before he made the first approach. It was flattering, but I wasn’t interested. In my business, Harrison Brothers was one of the best firms in the world. BGL was an enthusiastic amateur with deep pockets, and big trading losses. One day I might cash in my experience at Harrison Brothers for a big ticket elsewhere, but not yet. I was still learning my trade, and enjoying it. The money was secondary.
I was polite to Barry’s boss, and we talked for half an hour, neither of us giving much away. When eventually I did break free, I saw Karen standing by herself near the entrance, looking around agitatedly. She was relieved to see me.
‘Can we go?’
‘If you like,’ I said. ‘I won’t keep you. What’s up?’
Karen bit her lip, and didn’t reply.
I hailed a taxi outside, and we jumped in. ‘Barry’s going to offer me a job, I’m sure of it,’ I said.
Karen didn’t respond. She stared out of the window, her shoulders hunched.
I was worried. I hadn’t seen Karen like this for several months.
We sat in silence until the taxi pulled up the narrow cobbled mews just off Holland Park Road where I lived. Karen went straight into the bedroom to change. I went up to the large sitting room at the top of the house. It was my favourite room. It was sparsely furnished with a sofa, an armchair, a TV, stereo, a small fridge, and my mother’s piano, which I had no idea how to play, but which I couldn’t face getting rid of. The evening sun shone in from a large sliding window that opened out on to a tiny terrace. I grabbed a can of Stella from the fridge, and walked out on to the terrace to watch the sun setting over West London. The little town gardens were dotted with the white and pink of cherry blossom. I quickly checked the house next door. No luck. A famous footballer was supposed to live there, but I had yet to see any sign of him.
I had bought the house six months before, helped by the proceeds of last year’s bonus, and it was my first. After six years cooped up in small flats in various parts of London, it was wonderful to be able to move up and down stairs between rooms.
It wasn’t very big, but I loved it. When I’d bought it, it had been a sickly pudding of orange, black and brown. Lots of velours, lots of dust. Even I hadn’t been able to handle that. So the painters had been in, and I was pleased with the result. The place was now light and airy, under-furnished with the randomly assembled pieces from my much smaller flat.
I took a swig of my beer. Things were going well. The house. The job. Karen.
But what was wrong with her this evening? I didn’t think I had said or done anything to upset her. She had seemed perfectly fine at the beginning of the party. Whatever it was, I was confident I would sort it out.
I heard her footsteps coming up the stairs.
‘Glass of wine?’
She nodded, a barely perceptible movement of her chin. I opened a bottle and poured her a glass. I sat next to her on the sofa. ‘What’s up?’
She took the wine and stared ahead of her.
I waited.
‘I saw him,’ she said at last. ‘He was there, at the party.’
‘Who?’
She didn’t say anything, but she bit her lip.
‘Who?’ I repeated. Then I realised. ‘Oh no. Not him?’
She nodded. I took a deep breath. This was trouble. I put my arm round her.
‘Did you talk to him?’
She shook her head.
‘No, but . . .’
‘But what?’
I took her hand, and gripped it, and waited. Damn! After all the work I had done – no, we had done, the last thing we needed was for her old lover to show up.
I’d never found out much about him. I didn’t even know his name. He was married, and a lot older than her. They had been having an affair for a couple of years, when Karen had given him the choice of her or his wife. She hadn’t liked the answer.
They had split up. She’d been distraught. I’d been considerate and friendly. Rather than probe the depths of her pain, I’d tried to take her mind off it. We’d clicked. There was a lot about each other that we genuinely liked. Underneath all that confidence, she was vulnerable, unsure of herself. I never could fully understand why, but I found that mystery alluring. Why she liked me, I didn’t know for sure either. I think I relaxed her. I was fun, in a safe kind of way. Over the last eighteen months I had won her trust, her confidence, and now, I hoped, her love. She had her own flat in Maida Vale, but a couple of months before she had effectively moved in with me. She hadn’t said anything, nothing was discussed. It was just that now she spent almost every night at my house, and little by little, her things were migrating from her place to mine.
We kept it quiet. An open relationship in a trading room would be bound to cause problems somewhere along the line. Only Greg and Ed knew. If there was gossip, none of it had got back to us yet.
And now she had seen him again. As I sat next to her, watching the tension in her face and her body, feeling it in the pressure of her hand, a slow fear began to grip me. I didn’t want to lose her now.
At last she sighed deeply. Her shoulders relaxed, and she turned to me with a small smile.
‘Oh Mark, I’m sorry to put you through that again. You’ve been really good to me.’ She touched my face. ‘And he was a real shit. I don’t know what I ever saw in him.’
She reached up and kissed me.
Half an hour later, as we were lying naked on the sitting room floor, with the last of the twilight creeping out of the room, I thought of telling her that I loved her. Love was something we never talked about, never mentioned. But it was a good description for the overwhelming feeling of affection I felt for her right then. But I was afraid. Afraid of something. Not exactly rejection. More the part of Karen I didn’t yet know, but which I had glimpsed that evening. Anyway, I didn’t want to risk the moment.
Trading Reality Page 2