Jo went to close the window but instead found herself typing ‘Ben Faber’ into the query box. The links ranged from his official BBC profile which highlighted his prestigious journalism awards, to a couple of devoted fan sites highlighting pictures of him looking rugged in dangerous locations. He was also featured on celebrity magazine sites accompanying the delectable Perdita to various society functions.
Jo also came across a biography and was surprised to discover that Ben held a first-class degree in anthropology from Balliol College, Oxford and a University Rowing Blue. Jo wondered if he was the one surreptitiously re-living high jinx with old college mates.
With an amusing, but not entirely unappealing image of Ben in lycra rowing attire, Jo made her way to her meeting, definitely on time. Making her way down a long corridor lined with empty rooms, Jo stopped at the designated door and knocked.
On hearing the command to enter, Jo pushed open the door to a large room reminiscent of a hunting lodge parlor, where the mounted animal heads had been replaced by presumably expensive impressionistic art works. The two men were seated in high wing-back leather armchairs either side of a large stone fireplace. Neither stood to greet their guest, but Bray motioned for Jo to take a seat on a low couch facing them, but at some considerable distance.
A uniformed butler appeared wheeling a trolley with tea and cookies, which he proceeded to dispense with meticulous ritual. After his departure the room was silent apart from the polite clinking of china cups.
Charles Bray eventually initiated the conversation. “Well Jo, how are you settling in?”
“Fine. Thank-you,” replied Jo, experiencing the shyness of a ten year old answering a query about school from unfamiliar relatives.
“Good, good. And how is our Professor Radcliff these days?”
Jo hadn’t expected that reference to come up so quickly. “Very well, I understand. If you believe the rumors in the press, his name is now being touted for a Nobel Prize.”
“Really?” responded Bray, almost convincingly indifferent. “I am far too busy to follow the developments in academia these days. Frankly, any news that doesn’t reach page two of the Financial Times doesn’t really register with me. I suppose they been busy removing my name from all of the department’s research papers?”
“No, I don’t remember much mention of you while I was in the department,” replied Jo, wanting to end the conversation that she sensed went beyond Bray’s desire for small talk.
Bray’s thin lips formed a tight line. Jo’s responses clearly generated little pleasure. Thankfully for Jo, Simon Wright’s visible impatience coincided with her desire for a change of subject. Having spent the short duration of the meeting so far compulsively checking his watch and drumming his fingers, he looked at Bray expectantly.
“Let’s get to the point, shall we?”
Bray abruptly changed his persona, switching the affability back on.
“Well we have some exciting news for you. We are taking you off the trading floor to come and work directly for me in the Quantitative Group. Quite an honor, as I’m sure you appreciate. We have some large deals in the offing, and I think your academic background will be very useful.” Bray looked expectantly at Jo.
“Oh,” managed Jo at the sudden news. Bray looked even more expectant. Jo wondered what precise reaction he was looking for.
“Well, I’m certainly surprised,” she continued, “and, as you say, it’s quite an honor. When will I start?”
“Well today, of course,” chimed in Wright. “Actions move as fast as decisions here. Your desk contents are being moved as we speak. Go along and see the IT department for your new security pass.”
Both Wright and Bray stood up to usher Jo out of the room. Jo found herself flanked and her mathematical brain had the bizarre thought that the line from the top of Bray’s head to her own, and down to Wright’s formed a perfect tangent. Wright put a hand on the door handle, then paused and placed his other hand on her shoulder.
“Oh, and Josephine, no more meetings with journalists, please.” He opened the door and let her out.
Jo found herself back in the hallway, taken aback by Wright’s parting comment and unsure how to make her way to the IT department. She padded along the silent, carpeted corridors, uncertain of her direction, in more senses than one.
Back inside the room, the meeting was not yet concluded.
“Who’s bright idea was it to let the BBC come and film inside here anyway?” asked Bray.
“Ives actually. He’s been getting some stick from within the Party and references have been cropping up in the press about his position here. Probably a bunch of investment fund managers being hammered by the markets trying to stir something up. Anyway, Ives got wind of this documentary about the City and thought that opening up our doors would quash all the irritating scrutiny.”
“But now our doors are firmly shut again, I trust?”
“Absolutely, it was a one-off thing. Covering the new analyst meeting was pretty innocuous. Then they just sent some junior to record me answering some of their fatuous questions.”
“So what was Jo doing meeting with that reporter?” pressed Bray.
“How the hell do I know? Maybe they already knew each other, or maybe he’s sniffing around, trying to justify his pay. In which case, he certainly started at the bottom of the information pile. Look, my secretary happened to see Jo coming out of some place on her way to work and then she saw the reporter chap exiting just after. I just thought it would be fun to spook Jo.”
“Well Ives’ clever ideas must be vetted more closely in the future.”
Wright changed the subject. “So you were pretty quick to secure young Jo’s talents all for yourself,” he prodded as he opened a cabinet and poured a generous quantity of dark amber liquid into a crystal glass. “You really think it’s going to make a difference?”
Bray shrugged. “Jo’s obviously very smart. Radcliff only ever accepted the best students. She needs to be brought up to speed – but give her six months or so, and she could prove to be very useful.”
“Six months!” spluttered Wright. “You’re joking right? You need to sort out whatever’s wrong with that model of yours in six weeks, not six months.”
Bray walked over to the window, literally turning his back on the invitation to enter into an argument.
“As I’ve said before, there’s nothing fundamentally wrong with the model.”
“Well that’s reassuring Dr. Bray,” came the goading reply, “and it certainly offers some consolation for the unacceptably large losses we have suffered recently using your model. As long as there’s nothing fundamentally wrong with the model, we can be unconcerned that practically it doesn’t appear to be working.”
“The recent losses are just anomalies due to market conditions that happened to fall outside the parameters of the model’s scenario analysis. Making the necessary adjustments will be challenging and time consuming considering the complex mathematics behind the model’s assumptions. It’s exactly the kind of trouble shooting that Jo will be able to work on when she’s trained.”
“You’re telling me that all the bloated salaries we’re doling out to the MBA’s and PhD’s on the Quant Group’s payroll can’t already buy us a solution?”
“Look, Simon, we’re working on it, and the day to day arbitrage opportunities our group comes up with are still proving very profitable.” Bray’s tone was dangerously even.
“But what we’re really interested in is your Aladdin’s lamp – the tarnish seems to have rubbed off recently. Anyway, in the meantime, Ives and I are continuing to pursue our own model. You know the one that has, let’s just say, produced more consistent results.”
“You know it’s getting too risky.”
“Well what’s life without a little risk?” drawled Wright nonchalantly, swilling his drink around the heavy glass. “Let’s face it; I’m already behind schedule on my goal of retiring sickeningly rich at thirty-five. Frankly, even
starting cocktail hour before noon is becoming dull, especially since we axed all the client lunches.”
Bray removed his glasses and massaged his temples. “Look, just give me some more time. This is important to me.”
“Well then, it appears our priorities are diverging, my friend.”
Wright downed the dregs of his early aperitif and exited the room.
CHAPTER NINE
Jo eventually found her way to the IT department to procure the security pass that would allow her access to the Quantitative Group area. She was greeted by Adam Carter, a young IT manager with close cropped dark hair, a ready smile and the compact physique of a rugby player. Jo instantly found him likeable.
“First, let’s take your fingerprints.”
Jo clasped her hands together. “Wait, this isn’t for a criminal record check is it? Because I did once damage some municipal property. It was an unfortunate collision with a lamppost that jumped out in front of a car I was driving.”
“No, but I may now have to make a note of delusions of moveable lampposts to be recorded in your psychological assessment.”
“They do psychological assessments?”
“They probably have an analysis of your social skills in kindergarten. It’s quite a filtering process to become one of the chosen ones. But, don’t worry, your misdemeanors are safe with me, unless of course I need to bribe you at some later point. Access to the Quant Group area is controlled by the security pass and also by the latest fingerprint recognition system.”
“Sounds like you’re falling behind technically. I heard retina scanners are now all the rage,” bantered Jo.
“We did consider that option, but we were concerned that rival firms may kidnap the Quantitative analysts to steal their eyes,” deadpanned Adam. Jo instinctively reached up to her face.
“Just kidding,” Adam grinned, “but you may want to watch your fingers if you’re ever invited to a meeting with another fund.”
Jo marveled that a sense of humor had passed through the hiring process. With the clearance procedures completed, Adam escorted Jo to her new home within the Quantitative Analysis Group, where once again she entered a whole new world. The unmistakable theme this time was the meticulous recreation of a Cambridge college library.
Two of the walls in the large area were covered in floor to ceiling bookcases, which, on closer inspection, were laden with economic, math and financial reference texts. In the center of the space were long, antique wooden tables and carved chairs.
Unobtrusively set into one side of the room was a series of small offices with glass walls facing the central area, each of which was currently unoccupied. Adam showed Jo her personal office where her workstation was already set up. All the study books and belongings from her previous short-lived abode were in boxes next to her desk.
Jo then noticed the less unobtrusive office of Charles Bray that occupied the entire length of the opposite wall and commanded its own security pad entry system. Bray’s office was also the only area in the department that enjoyed natural daylight.
Adam booted up her computer and gave Jo her password for logging on and accessing her e-mail as well as the Quantitative Group files. He then handed her a business card.
“Feel free to call me with any IT issues. Anytime.”
“Thank-you, Adam Carter MBA….” Jo trailed off looking at the bewildering list of tech qualification acronyms following his name, “I’d give you one of my cards, but my supply is rather short for now.” Jo looked around. “Where is everybody?”
“I’m guessing the department is currently enjoying their weekly luncheon with Dr. Bray. It’s always in a nice, expensive venue and I’m sure the department really looks forward to the quality time with their boss.” Adam gave Jo a wink so swift, she wondered if she imagined it.
After Adam left, Jo checked her e-mail. There she found instructions from Bray for her first assignment. Jo was to familiarize herself with a financial scenario that potentially offered trading opportunities and to present her conclusions to Bray by 4.30 p.m. that day. Attached to the e-mail were links to spreadsheets and financials for the relevant companies.
Jo worked rapidly to prepare the report, switching her brain into a mode akin to exam taking. Her advanced math and financial knowledge served her well and the report was completed and printed by 4.00 p.m.
When they met in his office, Bray was clearly impressed by Jo’s work. As he slowly turned the pages of the report, Jo looked around the opulent space. Late afternoon sun streamed through the large windows onto Bray’s expansive desk and the surrounding area. There was a noticeable absence of paintings, leading Jo to believe that the art investment in the other areas of the building reflected Simon Wright’s passion.
Instead, the walls displayed framed certificates, showcasing Bray’s many academic achievements. Interspersed among the certificates were photos of Bray with various dignitaries, including some heads of state that Jo recognized. The largest section of wall space was reserved for a generous enlargement of a photo depicting Bray bowing in a line of individuals, clad in evening wear, greeting the Queen of England. Bray noticed Jo staring at it.
“My wife is a generous supporter of the arts. We were invited to an audience with the Queen after a performance of The Merchant of Venice by the Royal Shakespeare Company.”
“One of my favorite Shakespeare plays,” replied Jo. “I admire the courage and resourcefulness of Portia, the heroine.”
“Personally, I think Shylock is misunderstood. He merely wants his due, and sometimes unpleasant methods are required be successful in business.” Bray waved his hand, dismissing the digression. “Anyway, the good news is that you apparently live up to the impressive reputation that precedes you. The slightly unfortunate news for you, however, is that this was merely a fictitious test. Here’s your real assignment.”
Bray handed Jo a thick folder. Jo opened it to find reams of financial, statistical and analytical data on a large number of companies, all in the same industry, but trading on a number of different exchanges.
They were interrupted by a knock on the door followed by the entry of Daniel Ives, resplendent in tuxedo and white tie.
“Well, well, it’s Miss Lavelle isn’t it? I see you’re moving up in the world. Has Bray nabbed you to take advantage of your special skills?”
Jo bit back several withering replies and settled on a restrained, “I’m happy to work in whatever position I’m most useful.”
“I’m sure,” responded Ives infusing the phrase with as much innuendo as two words could support.
Bray grabbed his own tuxedo from behind his office door. Jo went to leave.
“Oh, Jo,” added Bray, almost absentmindedly, “the deadline for the assignment is seven-thirty tomorrow morning. We need to be ready to place trades based on your analysis when the London Stock Exchange opens. I’m convinced there’s an arbitrage opportunity in there somewhere.”
Jo attempted to appear enthusiastic, reminding herself that this was the kind of challenging work that she had signed up for. She wasn’t entirely convincing.
“Believe me; you’re not going to be the only one working. We’re off to some intolerably boring gala event thrown by Ives’ cronies. Need to keep in with those insufferable politicians. Can’t have them sticking their noses too far into the private sector. They’ll be wanting to know how we make our money next.” Bray guffawed at his own wit.
Ives looked like he was about to retort, but was silenced by a dismissive Bray with “Oh, you know you’re all insufferable. Let’s go.”
Jo trudged back to her desk trying not to dwell on how distant the prospect of sleep had just become. Looking for an energy boost, she went to raid the vending machines in the corridor outside the department.
She really craved some fois gras pâté and warm baguette, accompanied by a crisp salad and a pichet of rosé to wash it all down; all of which she had regularly enjoyed at her favorite pavement café on the Cours Mirabeau in Aix-en-Pro
vence. None of these options were currently on the menu. However, everything on offer was provided courtesy of Butterfly. She settled for some bottled water and mixed nuts before impetuously pounding in the numbers for the largest chocolate bar on offer.
As anticipated, the file Bray had given Jo was very dense and the information extremely detailed. To add to the complexity of the task, Bray had offered no specific instructions regarding the trades Jo was expected to recommend. The word arbitrage covered a wide range of practical scenarios and, as Jo had already discovered, appeared to command an even wider definition within the confines of Butterfly Investments.
All of the companies involved were in the paper products sector, and most of them traded on the Finnish or Swedish stock exchanges with many names containing the umlaut character, ö, that Jo was never sure how to pronounce. She started with an analysis of the companies’ trading histories. The sector had been in favor recently, and most stocks had outperformed the stock markets as a whole during the current year.
Two stocks in particular, had experienced notable run ups in their share prices over the past month. Upon further investigation, Jo found a series of news articles stating that both companies were rumored to be takeover targets. Investors had rushed to acquire their stocks, pushing up the price, speculating that a marauding company would offer a premium over any current trading price to convince the majority of shareholders to sell.
Four hours into her work, and dozens of annual reports later, the intricacies of Scandinavian accounting were no longer a mystery. Jo now knew more than she had ever wanted to about the growing, harvesting, processing and distribution of timber products to supply the paper industry. Her humble notebook, now covered in pages of inconclusive analysis, appeared in a whole new light.
The Girl Inside Page 5