Bray’s response was delivered with the smugness of a magician, who has convinced even himself that his conjuring tricks are real magic.
“What we have covered today is textbook theory. How Butterfly achieves its unparalleled results cannot be found in any tome. But maybe, if you are around long enough, some of you will be able to predict the future behavior of markets – and be right every time.”
Bray exited the stage with a theatrical flourish. Jo wondered if a standing ovation was expected.
CHAPTER FIVE
After a scant half hour for lunch, the new analysts made their way back to their allotted cubicles.
As they passed through the glorious halogen daylight of the trading floor, Jo was reminded of Las Vegas, where her sister, Amy, had chosen to spend her bachelorette weekend. The constantly glaring lights in the casinos intentionally removed any inclination to sleep. As it turned out, Jo had managed to catch up on plenty of sleep during her weekend sojourn.
Apparently no-one in the group had taken note of the fact that the legal age for drinking and gambling in the US was twenty-one, so the then nineteen year old Jo, (who was free to become fully intoxicated in the UK), was barred from most of the action and relegated to spending her mornings nursing her hung-over sister, and her afternoons lounging by the pool. Amy, however, still in her spirited and impetuous single days, had managed to party enough for both of them.
Back in her cubicle, Jo perused the exam material on her desk, willing her confidence not to falter as the range and depth of subjects seemed to expand before her with no discernable end.
Later in the afternoon, a message blinked on Jo’s computer screen. It read, “You are cordially invited to join Mr. Simon Wright and the Hon. Daniel Ives in the Waterloo Room for cocktails at 6.00 p.m. Appropriate attire”.
Every aficionado of the society and celebrity gossip magazines was familiar with the name of Daniel Ives. Portrayed as a dashing, high-ranking politician with expensive tastes in cars and companions, the current Minister of Science was also a non-executive Director of Butterfly Investments, and a significant shareholder.
Jo checked her watch and her attire. It was 5.40 p.m. and her shirt was wrinkled. She dug into her purse for some lip gloss and made her way to the ladies’ room.
After several unsuccessful attempts to push the bathroom door open, it became clear from the protests and resistance on the other side that the small space beyond was filled to capacity. Once she managed to join the throng, Jo momentarily imagined that she had stumbled backstage at a catwalk during London Fashion Week. Every inch of mirror space was occupied by fellow female analysts who had swapped the demure shirts under their suits for subtly suggestive camisoles, and deftly applied fresh make-up. Jo appeared to be the only one who had missed the advance memo on the subject.
Jo also noticed for the first time that the vast majority of female analysts were unusually attractive. At five foot six, Jo had never considered herself particularly short, but most of these mannequins were fully capable of staring down their perfectly powdered noses at her.
With the cocktail hour rapidly approaching, it became obvious that waiting politely was not advancing her cause, so Jo was eventually forced to bounce behind two of the girls to glean some brief mirror time. Despite the sudden distraction in the background, the girls’ mascara applicators never missed a stroke. In an admirable display of multi-tasking they also maintained a continuous commentary.
“I hear that Daniel Ives can be very friendly after a couple of glasses of Dom Perignon,” offered the sleek blonde at one point.
“Actually, I hear he will only touch Krug,” countered the polished brunette, “and it’s worth remembering, that if you value the opportunity, it is important to be friendly back. Doctorates in mathematics apparently hold little fascination for him.”
Jo, who reflexively joined in any conversation on fine wines, interjected, “Of course certain vintages of Dom Perignon are considered superior to average vintages of Krug.”
Two sets of stilettos swiveled in unison as the models looked behind, and then down, at the uninvited interlocutor. Their identity badges, displaying the names Alexis and Carolina were exactly at Jo’s eye level. Evidently concluding that neither Jo’s opinion nor her appearance bore any relevance to their plans, they both flashed patronizing smiles and swiveled back towards the mirror. Their synchronization was impressive.
Arriving at the cocktail party, Jo helped herself to a glass of champagne from a passing tray. Taking a large swig, she allowed herself a certain air of smugness when her well-honed palette recognized it as Dom Perignon, more than likely the 2006 vintage.
In an attempt to mingle, Jo made her way toward one of the few faces she recognized in the crowd. Extending her hand toward the French analyst, she opened with “Bonjour. Ca va?”
Serge, as if his wrist was especially weighed down, sullenly reciprocated with limp fingers accompanied by, “Bien, merci. But, henceforth, please always address me in English.”
With the ensuing conversation going nowhere in particular, she cut it short with an attempt at humor.
“I see the cocktail invitation referred to appropriate attire. Let’s hope none of the Americans are wearing white socks with black shoes, or that a polyester tie hasn’t slipped in undetected.”
The wit was lost on Serge who reacted with a quizzical look as he moved quickly to distance himself from both the conversation and Jo. Downing another glass of champagne, Jo consoled herself that if things didn’t work out for Serge at Butterfly Investments, he had the potential for an illustrious career in the French hotel industry.
The room was now tightly crammed and very noisy, deepening Jo’s feeling of isolation. Lacking any other immediate options Jo reached for another drink and alarmingly found herself touching someone else’s hand as they both went for the same glass.
Jo looked up to find herself the recipient of the full Cheshire cat grin of the Honorable Daniel Ives.
“After you, mademoiselle,” insisted the gallant Mr. Ives, as he established unwavering eye contact and maintained an almost imperceptible pressure on her hand.
Jo wished that she had been more abstemious earlier as she became aware of her sudden rising color and blamed it on the Dom Perignon rather than the overtly slick and conventionally handsome figure before her. In his early forties, with a physique honed by regular exercise which included hunting and competitive riding, the fair Daniel Ives exuded breeding and charisma, and none of these charms were lost on himself.
Eventually releasing Jo’s hand to reach for a lighter in his pocket, Daniel ignited a cigar and blew the aromatic smoke directly towards Jo. He narrowed his blue eyes and ran a manicured hand through his thick blond hair, deftly separating several strands which then flopped deliberately over a forehead unperturbed by any stress-induced lines. Ives surveyed Jo like a colt he had just purchased, but had not yet put through its paces. The smile was a permanent adornment.
“Yours was the final offer we sent out.” Another puff of smoke, “Although we had been keeping an eye on you for a while.” This information was delivered as he scrutinized Jo’s shapely figure with an arrogance that held subtlety in contempt.
With a languor epitomizing old affluence, he continued, “We are glad to see that you recovered from your dip in the Mediterranean. We should have forewarned you, however, that we prefer our female analysts to attend interviews in bikinis.”
“Actually, the whole cliff jumping escapade was Wright’s idea. You know, we strive to be more creative each year. Have to make sure the new recruits are decent infantry material, prepared to follow orders unquestioningly and all that.” Jo inhaled another lung full of cigar smoke sent in her direction. “Or, as Simon puts it, ‘they have to jump when we say jump’.”
There followed only a slight pause, but Jo noted that it was long enough for any humor to make an exit.
“Didn’t you study under Henry Ratcliff at Cambridge? I’m sure Charles will be watching
you closely. Oxford man myself. Philosophy, politics and economics – PPE. Of course I dropped the superfluous P and E to concentrate on the only game worth playing – Politics.”
The grin reappeared as Daniel Ives moved closer and placed a hand firmly on the small of Jo’s back. He leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered his voice.
“And just so you know … I play hard.” Jo felt herself being pulled even closer for the final line, “And I always win.”
Only after Daniel Ives had merged back into the crowded room did Jo realize that she hadn’t said a word during the entire encounter. She looked around and caught sight of Alexis and Carolina staring in her direction. They were whispering together whilst looking stunned and irritated.
After three glasses of champagne in rapid succession, and nothing to eat, Jo was feeling slightly tipsy and in need of some fresh air. She slipped from the room intending to head towards the front of the building, but her hazy navigational skills steered her into a labyrinth of identical looking corridors.
About to change direction, Jo stopped as she heard two voices clearly in the midst of a heated disagreement. Not wanting to eavesdrop, she turned to retrace her steps, but her curiosity got the better of her as she recognized the voices as those of Charles Bray and Daniel Ives.
“Charles, the timing is appalling for such a big move. Chancellor Meier is meeting with the PM tomorrow to give some spiel on the recovery of the European economy and how it’s now more important than ever for the UK and Germany to strengthen business ties. This will screw up the whole Party agenda at a critical stage.”
“Oh get real! You’re suddenly interested in your higher political callings? What really matters to you is the big figure with a row of zeros in your bank account, to which, as you well know, we have contributed significantly. The procedures are in place and everything must go ahead as planned.”
“Now hold on,” interjected Ives, “I think you may be forgetting exactly who contributed what. As I recall, you’re the one always bleating on about how knowledge is power and power is money. Well that’s an equation even I understand, and, let me remind you, that I have made a considerable contribution to the knowledge part.”
“Fair enough, fair enough,” conceded Bray. “Look, let’s not forget we’re both looking for the same outcome, and I’m telling you that that outcome isn’t going to be as palatable if it’s not served up tomorrow.”
Ives exhaled heavily. “Well if it can’t be put off, OK,” he retreated. “I’ll smooth things over with the political fallout. Are you absolutely certain your sources at IBG are reliable?”
“Aren’t the Germans renowned for their reliability? In the case of Herr Schmidt we have the happy coincidence that he is both reliable and greedy. Don’t concern yourself.”
Ives voice rose again. “Don’t concern myself? Surely you know by now that the only thing I am concerned with is myself. These games are dangerous, Bray.”
“Well then, it’s fortunate that you always win.”
Hearing footsteps striding towards her, Jo slipped into a darkened meeting room as a trail of smoke from an expensive cigar wafted through the corridor.
CHAPTER SIX
Jo emerged from the room and fell-in behind a group of analysts hoping that they would lead her to an exit with access to fresh air. Instead, Jo found herself retracing the already familiar path across the trading floor to the cubicles. She checked her watch and let out a sigh. It was, after all, only 8.00 p.m.
Scanning her study materials, Jo attempted to select a title from the menu. Unfortunately, neither Quantitative Investment Analysis nor Financial Reporting and Analysis appealed to her, and nothing else on offer seemed as appetizing as leftover dinner and a sobering cup of tea at her parents’ apartment. Grabbing the least intimidating volume, and making a tentative resolution to study later, Jo succeeded in finding her way towards the main exit with only two wrong turns.
The security guard was obviously unaccustomed to being interrupted during his evening crossword break, but he made an attempt to be affable as he leapt to open the door.
“Early night, huh?”
Jo walked slowly, allowing the night air and the muted sounds of the City to gradually alleviate the effects of the champagne and the eventful day. As she approached her parents’ home Jo’s footsteps reverberated around the almost deserted brick and concrete metropolis of the Barbican Centre. Conceived in the optimism of the 1950’s, designed in the freedom of the 1960’s and built in the modernity of the 1970’s, the Barbican had aimed to bring self-contained community living to the center of London’s financial district. With its labyrinth of walkways, monolithic apartment towers and cavernous arts center, self-containment had been achieved, but signs of life, Jo reflected, were often curiously lacking.
Jo entered flat 222 of Shakespeare Tower and made her way down the long and narrow corridor which revealed glimpses of the box-like bedrooms and bathrooms on both sides. The corridor opened into a contrastingly open living area where the almost institutional character of the apartment was eclipsed by the walls of windows. Twenty-two stories above the pavement, the curved concrete balconies appeared to cup the sky itself.
Jo’s parents were engrossed in a game of Scrabble and their daughter’s entrance barely merited a pause in the match. The previous Christmas, Jo had given them an official Scrabble dictionary to help diffuse the heated debates that often arose. But the dictionary had for the most part, remained unused, and Jo had realized that the game her parents were engaged in had little to do with spelling.
“How was your day, dear?” greeted her mother, while scanning her letters and the board with a hawk-like vigilance.
“Tiring,” managed Jo, which thankfully sufficed as Nancy Lavelle finally swooped with a triumphant three hundred and fifty-six point “quixotic”.
“That includes the fifty point bonus for using all my letters,” gloated Nancy while double checking her addition with ill-disguised relish.
Jo’s father sat back in his habitual armchair, momentarily defeated, and fixed Jo with his unwaveringly blue eyes peering over black rimmed reading glasses.
“Good evening Josephine.” Her father and the headmistress of her secondary school were the only two people who consistently addressed Jo by her full name. In both cases, Jo always sensed that the enunciation implied that more was expected of her.
Jo went over and kissed the expansive forehead that crowned his distinguished and still handsome features. She welcomed the wafts of crisp laundered linen and woody cologne which she had associated with her father for as long as she could remember. Even at this relatively late hour, the ironed pants, shined brogues, and dark grey cashmere sweater worn over a collared shirt, spoke of a man unaccustomed to idling.
“Hello Dad. Good to be home.”
Joseph Hamilton Lavelle was a retired academic, and an author of some renown. During the late 1970’s, he had distinguished himself at Oxford both as an undergraduate and doctorate student in Philosophy, after which he had gone on to enjoy the rarefied life of a true scholar. Engrossed by, and immersed in his work, Joseph had been prolific, producing copious texts, many of which were still recognized as seminal works.
Three years ago, however, Joseph Lavelle had abruptly resigned his illustrious professorship at King’s College, London, when most academics of a similar age were comfortably easing into their years of greatest acclaim and basking in the reverence granted by accumulated achievements. Nobody it appeared, including Jo’s mother, had been consulted prior to Joseph’s resignation, nor had any explanation for his decision been forthcoming after the event. A further enigma in her father’s enigmatic personality.
By contrast, Joseph’s wife, Nancy Lavelle, was openness personified; the divine mother incarnate, ample in body and bountiful by nature.
Jo made her way to the kitchen and helped herself to a large helping of shepherd’s pie washed down with a cup of tea. Not much later, after settling under the covers, Jo was fast aslee
p before the end of the first page on “Multiple Regression Analysis”.
The next morning Jo grabbed some toast and coffee and went to join her father at the breakfast table. Eventually noticing his daughter’s hovering presence, Joseph emerged from the Wall Street Journal and piled together some of his numerous newspapers in order to make a space for her. Jo had suggested that her father should consider digital newspaper subscriptions as a gesture towards saving some trees, but the expression “digital” and reading had never meshed well for Joseph Lavelle.
“Where’s Mum?” asked Jo.
“Um, meditating, yoga-ing, ruminating, whatever she calls it,” replied Joseph, closing one paper and opening the next in a single deft movement.
“Ruminating? Isn’t that what cows do?”
“Well her guru, that Singh fellow, should approve then. The bovine species are highly revered in India.”
On her way out Jo stopped by her mother’s bedroom to find her midway through her morning yoga routine. Nancy was on all fours looking up at the ceiling.
“Jo, darling. You should join me.”
“Um, maybe another day. I’ll be late for work.”
“No really. This pose in particular is excellent for releasing tension in the spine; think about all those hours you’ll be spending at a desk. It’s the cow pose.”
Jo was still smiling as she entered Butterfly Investments for her second day, at 7.35 a.m., a five minute improvement on her habitual tardiness. Later that morning as the analysts started their work rotations on the trading floor, Jo had an experience that was the worldly opposite of the practice of meditative yoga.
The Girl Inside Page 3