Jo sent a text to Bridget accepting the invitation to the Boat Club dinner that weekend.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Fridays in the Quantitative Group at Butterfly Investments usually offered some respite since Charles Bray habitually disappeared to what he referred to as his “weekend pad”. Most other people would refer to this pad as a huge estate with a sprawling 16th Century Elizabethan manor house.
As Bray usually made a point of inviting a senior colleague or board member under the guise of strategy meetings, Bray billed the weekends as work and reputedly made full use of the firm’s generous expense account.
This Friday, Bray came into the office during the morning to collect some papers before leaving for the weekend. He was accompanied by one of his most frequent guests, Daniel Ives, who was dressed in jeans, a collared shirt and a blazer.
As Jo observed Daniel Ives sauntering around the department, she had to admit that he possessed an undeniable charisma gleaned from supreme self-confidence. At the same time, Jo sensed something evasive about him, as if his persona, however polished, remained a veneer.
Ives wandered around the library area of the Quant Group, randomly taking down books and flicking through them dispassionately. Jo continued to study him from her office, trying to pinpoint the source of her unease. Ives looked up and met Jo’s gaze. He strolled over maintaining his stare, and knocked theatrically on Jo’s open office door.
Ives gestured around the Quant Group. “You appear to have settled in nicely then. Always pegged you for a fast mover,” he said nodding, “I’m impressed”. He perched on the edge of Jo’s desk on the same side as she was seated. The fact that Jo was sitting didn’t prevent him languorously surveying her full length.
Jo was still studying Bray’s model, the volume open in front of her.
“Let me see. What do they have you working on?” Ives leaned in. “You look a little frustrated. Maybe I can help?”
Ives looked intently at the formulas and then jabbed his finger at an equation exclaiming, “There it is. That’s where the theory breaks down.” Ives said it with such conviction, that Jo actually looked to where he was pointing.
“What the neuron propagation function?” asked Jo, puzzled since she had already covered that section.
Ives looked at her with mock intentness. “Yes, yes. No, actually much earlier in the logic.” He picked up the book and turned to the title page. “That’s where it all breaks down. Do you think the illustrious Professor Bray spends his nights tinkering with this model and running scenario analyses?”
“No,” said Jo, “I thought that’s what the analysts were hired to do. To apply the proprietary theories developed by Dr. Bray.”
Ives started to talk more about the model, but then paused and appeared to change his mind. “Yes, it’s true that what is achieved here is very proprietary. Just based on my humble knowledge,” Jo raised her eyebrows at the word ‘humble’, “the road to riches isn’t paved with quadrant equations.”
“Quadratic equations,” Jo corrected.
“It’s always so seductive when a woman is so well versed in higher mathematics,” Ives quipped back.
They were interrupted by Bray, who motioned to Ives that it was time to leave. Bray noticed the book on Jo’s desk.
“Don’t forget it’s not to leave the department,” he reminded before making his exit together with Ives.
Later that morning, Jo called Professor Radcliff’s office at Jesus College to request a meeting the next day. The meeting was set up for 1.00 pm on Saturday. Jo worked the rest of the day at a relatively leisurely pace, even allowing herself a full hour for lunch.
Adam called Jo promptly at six-thirty to ask if she could get away early. Jo left her jacket hanging on her chair to make it apparent that she was coming back and not slacking off for the evening.
She met Adam in the lobby of the building. He was wearing a suit rather than a polo shirt and tan trousers which was his usual Friday business casual attire. Jo wasn’t about to let that go.
“Well if you told me we were going somewhere smart, I’d have made an effort too.”
Adam waved dismissively at his clothes, mumbling “Oh this? I was part of some client presentation today.”
They walked to a wine bar in Billingsgate Market in the heart of the City. Adam was very chivalrous, opening doors and pulling out her chair. Jo was aware that he seemed a little less relaxed than he had been during their previous banter in the office. The wine bar that Adam had chosen was upscale and certainly muted for a Friday night in the City. The other clientele consisted mainly of small groups of older business people or couples.
Adam took the wine list and ordered a bottle of vintage Pouilly Fume. Jo refrained from correcting Adam that the l’s in Pouilly weren’t pronounced.
After the waiter left, Jo leaned toward Adam, “You certainly exact a high price for illicit IT demands. I trust my account will be in good standing for some time to come?”
“Your account is fine. And the charges for this evening are on me.” Jo began to object, but Adam stood firm.
The flow of conversation improved considerably after a couple of glasses. Adam told Jo that he had been working at Butterfly for almost three years and that during that time he had seen a lot of analysts come and go.
“Do you enjoy your work?” asked Jo.
“Yes, for the most part,” answered Adam, “from a technical perspective, it’s brilliant. Our department basically has an unlimited budget for IT equipment, software, technical toys and gadgets.”
“So what don’t you like?”
Adam measured his words carefully, “Well, the rest of the firm is basically our client. We’re here to keep that client happy.”
“I had no idea your brief was so expansive. I’ll have to remember that next time I’m low on my latte fix.”
“Technically happy, I mean.”
“That sounds like less fun, but very investment firm speak. As in, ‘well the value of your portfolio Mr. Client, Sir, is down by a quarter this year, but technically we achieved a return of ten percent before we deducted our management fees’.”
“Sounds like you’ve caught on pretty quickly, except in case you haven’t noticed, Butterfly technically doesn’t have any real investors any more. Anyway, with the firm as your client, there’s no escaping the more irascible customers.”
Jo stopped, her glass midway to her mouth, “What do you mean no clients? That’s ridiculous. Surely the whole business model depends on managing investors’ money, earning a nice return and then taking an even nicer cut?”
“Well that’s how it started. Up until about two years ago the offices were always teaming with heads of pension funds and insurance companies, as well as absurdly wealthy individuals. The most amusing part was that the whole management-client dynamic was completely reversed. Investors were clamoring to get Butterfly to take their money, literally begging in some cases. Wright handled most of the client contact, reveling in the adulation. Bray was wheeled in as the math genius with the proprietary formula for unlimited riches to increase the feeding frenzy.”
“So the rumored returns really have been that good?”
“Better. But then something started to change. Each quarter produced better investment results than the previous, but management stopped accepting new money. Then they started returning money to existing investors.”
“I imagine that was popular,” said Jo, still confused.
Adam laughed. “Well imagine this. I can’t name names, but one day the Lady of a very prominent titled family came shrieking into reception brandishing a check that Butterfly had sent her, returning her investment money. She started yelling at the receptionist that she refused to accept the check and demanded to see Wright or Bray. When she was told that wasn’t possible she practically climbed over the reception desk and tried to grab the phone. It took two security guards to escort her from the building.”
Jo and Adam were both doubled over at th
e mental image. When Jo could speak again she said, “OK, maybe this wine is really potent, but seriously, I still don’t get it.”
“Yeah, it is kind of bizarre, I know. And Butterfly isn’t the most open when it comes to keeping its employees informed. I began to wonder if the firm was closing down so I asked my boss.”
“And?” asked Jo.
“He told me not to worry. The way he explained it was that Butterfly had been so successful that they no longer needed client money. The firm and its executives had amassed so much through management and performance fees that it made more sense to exclusively use their own funds to take advantage of investment opportunities. No inconvenient profit sharing with clients.”
“And,” Jo reasoned, “no client reporting. They can keep their methods and results entirely in-house.”
“For the most part. Based on some of the files I get to see, the firm’s board members are still investing big chunks of their own money so they still closely follow results. Also the Inland Revenue is probably quite interested, but that’s why Butterfly uses the services of an entire tax department over at Whitfield Bowes.”
“I suppose it makes sense,” Jo pondered, “well pretty much. Although I’ve seen the size of some of the investment positions they take. I mean tens of millions in multiple situations. Is that really possible with only internal funds?”
Adam shrugged, “I don’t know. I’ve told you what I was told. Remember, I’m just the IT guy. And a thirsty one right now.”
Adam motioned over the waiter and ordered another bottle of the same, but Jo demurred. Adam settled on an extra glass.
“How did we get onto all that?” asked Adam, “I was hoping we could avoid work talk.”
“OK, but I do have one more question,” Jo smiled, “if Butterfly doesn’t have any clients, how come you were making a client presentation today?”
Adam laughed, but looked uncomfortable. With the awkward realization that Adam’s suit may have been for her benefit, Jo engineered an abrupt change of subject.
“So, scuba diving? Any trips currently planned?”
Adam brightened. “Yes, actually. I think a trip to the Cayman Islands may soon be on the cards.”
“Sounds rather nice. When do you leave?”
“It’s a bit up in the air. I’m looking for a free trip.” He hesitated momentarily before confiding, “As part of an interview in fact.”
“Oh no, you can’t leave me. Who’s going to fix all my inevitable technical mess ups?”
“I’m sure your powers of persuasion will also work on some of my colleagues. Look, nothing’s set yet. Part of my job is to deal with the IT staff in all these offshore banks through which Butterfly channels most of its funds. You know data transfer, report reconciliation and stuff.”
“Is everything routed offshore?”
“Mostly. Anyway, I’ve gotten to know the head of IT at this Cayman Island bank pretty well and he’s asked if I’m interested in coming to work over there.”
“Are you serious about it?”
“Definitely considering it. The constant being on-call here gets a bit wearing and sometimes I feel like too much of my job is on a no questions asked basis. It’s just not my style.”
“Like what?” asked Jo.
“I don’t want to go into specifics, just file management, database maintenance – that sort of thing. Nothing exciting.”
Jo was suddenly completely sober. “Can you remember the names of the files or what was in them?”
“OK, here we are again back on work. I shouldn’t have said anything. Let’s face it, the real reason I want to go to the Cayman Islands is that the diving there is incredible.”
“And the diving in the Thames isn’t so great?”
“You’ve got it.” Adam looked around. “This place is a bit on the mature side don’t you think? How about going for dinner somewhere with a bit more life. I know this great Thai place in Bethnal Green.”
“I’d love to, but I’ve got an early start tomorrow. I’m off to visit some college friends. And I need to go back to the office tonight to collect something.”
Adam was visibly disappointed. “Fair enough. I’ll walk back with you.”
In the lobby of Butterfly Investments, Jo paused in front of a large canvas that had always caught her attention. The subject was bleak but arresting. It appeared to show a group of soldiers struggling over a craggy landscape. Overhead, the sun was visible but was menaced by an encroaching blackness in the sky that engulfed almost half the scene. Jo marveled that oil and brushstrokes could so vividly capture an air of futility that so often pervades the human condition, transcending any epoch.
Adam interrupted Jo’s thoughts. “Are you familiar with the painting?”
“Yes, of course,” Jo lied, peering forward to examine the engraved plaque underneath the frame. “It’s ‘Snow Storm: Hannibal and his Army Crossing the Alps’ by Turner, 1812. My goodness, it’s a Turner. Is it real?”
Adam laughed. “Of course. The rule here is if it’s ostentatious, then it’s real.”
“I would call it haunting rather than ostentatious.”
“It’s an incredible work. I meant that the price that they purchased it for from the Tate was ostentatious. It represents Hannibal’s invasion of Italy in 218BC, although it is has a contemporary parallel in Turner’s time, between Hannibal and Napoleon, who had crossed the Alps to invade Italy in 1797.”
Jo wasn’t surprised there was a Napoleon connection, but she was surprised once again by how far Adam’s interest and knowledge strayed beyond his list of IT acronyms.
Jo bade her goodbyes to Adam. “Thanks for a nice evening. It was great to get out of here for once.”
“Glad you enjoyed it. Maybe we can go straight for Thai food and beers next time. And,” he added, “no suit.”
“I like the suit. Very distinguished,” Jo said, reaching out and straightening his tie.
Adam leaned forward and Jo went to kiss his cheek. After a summer in France, the farewell gesture seemed natural. Only as they got perilously close did Jo realize that Adam was aiming for her mouth. At that moment, the ding of the elevators startled them and they sprang apart just as someone appeared.
Jo took Adam’s hand and thanked him once again. She quickly left while trying to convey with a look that she was okay with everything.
Jo collected her jacket from her office. She looked at the leather bound volume of Bray’s model on her desk. Even though she had written out the formulas that she didn’t understand in the hope that she could discuss them with Professor Radcliff, she would have preferred to take the whole model, to put the work in context. Bray, however, had been commandingly clear on when the volume could be removed from the department, which was never.
Jo stepped out of her office and scanned the surrounding areas. The department was sparsely populated since it was a Friday evening. Jo only hesitated for a few seconds before striding over to the photocopier and rapidly copying the first thirty pages of the model.
She left the department, half expecting an alarm to go off due to the removal of the smuggled copies.
During the walk home, Jo wondered how she could have been so slow and not have realized until the last minute that Adam was taking her on a date. She hoped that Adam didn’t feel too awkward, although she was already cringing at the thought of their impending “I like you as a friend” conversation. It was a discussion that she would be as loath to initiate as she was sure Adam would be to hear it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Early on Saturday morning Jo took the train from Kings Cross station to Cambridge. The train was painstakingly slow, stopping at every small hamlet along the way. Jo contemplated how many times it was that she had made the same journey. Her trip to interview at Jesus College for a place at the university had been a particularly memorable one.
Cambridge University encompassed many academic departments differentiated by subject. All students enrolled at the university attended
lectures and sat exams in the department of the degree they were studying towards. The university was also divided into different colleges where the students lived, socialized, played college sports, and had the opportunity to receive tutoring from the graduate students and professors of their college.
Each college was its own physical enclave either located in the town center or in the vicinity. Most of them were steeped in history with immaculate courtyards and ancient passageways, halls and chapels, with every college presided over by a Master who was an eminent professor in their field.
During the application process, students applied to individual colleges in order to gain admission to the university. Jo had toured most of the colleges the summer before she had applied. These had included the magnificent King’s College and the smaller and picturesque Gonville & Caius. For Jo, however, the choice of college had been simple. She only wanted to attend Jesus College, a mid-size college on the edge of the town center, close to the river.
Founded in 1496, Jesus College took its name from the chapel of the twelfth-century Benedictine nunnery on whose site the college was founded. The college’s long and illustrious history, however, had little to do with Jo’s choice. Her main motive was to have the privilege of being taught by Professor Henry Radcliff himself, also a Jesuan.
Radcliff had taken his work and brilliantly applied it to the analysis of world economic and financial markets, in order to identify predicable mathematical patterns in seemingly random or unrelated data. Radcliff had transformed established thinking in the field. Both economics and mathematics students were eligible to complete their degrees in Radcliff’s department in their final year, but the application process was extremely selective.
At Jo’s first interview with Radcliff, when still only eighteen, Jo had not been sure that she would even be able to talk in his presence, but Radcliff had been, and remained, extremely approachable. Jo had talked spiritedly about some of her own theories she was developing, extrapolating from her high school advanced math courses.
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