The Girl Inside

by Susan Culligan

  “Unless what?” demanded Bray.

  “Unless you’re experiencing an unprecedented run of good luck. Some might say ‘suspiciously unprecedented’.”

  “You know I’m a gambler, Henry, and luck never comes into it.”

  “Well then perhaps you truly are smarter than the rest of us.”

  “And you’d hate that.”

  “Charles, not everything is a competition.”

  “You’ve haven’t changed, have you? Locked away in your sanctimonious world of academia, spouting some kind of moral superiority.”

  “Maybe I haven’t changed, but let’s hope you have.”

  Bray hung up.

  He sat back down in the chair and remained there as the fading light turned the color of the velvet to midnight blue and then to black. While his body was motionless, his mind churned uncontrollably, raging a path between restraint and revenge. Past events, long stifled, had reappeared bearing their ugly gifts of loathing and dread, and performed a taunting dance in front of the edited image that Bray had so carefully constructed for himself.

  Eventually Bray raised his hand that still held the telephone, his grip threatening to crush the receiver. He punched in two digits, dialing a number from the phone’s memory.

  “llo?” came the quick reply.

  “Eric, it’s Charles here. I need you to conduct some business for me.”

  “OK.”

  “Book yourself on the first flight tomorrow from Marseille to Stanstead Airport. There’ll be a driver waiting to take you to Cambridge. He’ll have a bag and instructions for you.”

  Bray finally rose with numbness in his legs that he could not wholly attribute to his wife’s choice in furniture.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  While Jo was walking to work on Monday, her cell rang. It was Professor Radcliff and the call was remarkably early by academic standards. Jo’s greeting was hesitant, already concerned with what might warrant the Professor’s impatience.

  “I’m sorry, did I wake you?” asked Radcliff.

  “No, no of course not. Just caught me mid caffeine build up. Are we still on for today? Lunch I mean.”

  “Absolutely. My train gets in at ten past twelve. But I hope I’ve caught you before you’re at the office.”

  “On my way now.”

  “Well there’s something you should know. I went over Bray’s model again –with an open mind I assure you – and I’m afraid to say that I remain unconvinced.”

  “I’m afraid I kind of expected that.”

  “Jo, there’s something else though,” continued Radcliff. Jo could hear a foreboding reticence in the Professor’s voice. “I had a conversation with Dr. Bray yesterday evening.”

  “You did?”

  “Maybe I was a little precipitous, but after your visit I felt decidedly uneasy about the whole situation. I decided it was time to renew my old acquaintance – judge the lay of the land from the one controlling it, as it were.”

  “So was Dr. Bray happy to hear from you?”

  “Not quite how I’d describe it. Courteous at first, but ultimately defensive.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t feel the need to explain himself. Was my name mentioned?”

  “Well yes, you were the pretext of my call. I just wanted Bray to know that I would be taking a close interest in your career.”

  Jo came to an immediate halt on the pavement, amid the flow of scurrying workers, and closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. She let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

  “Professor, I know you meant well, but I wish you hadn’t called Bray.”

  The last thing she needed was her boss thinking she was colluding with one of the most brilliant financial and economic brains to oversee the level of integrity attached to Butterfly.

  “Does he know I came to you, with the model I mean?”

  “No, no, of course not.”

  Jo was relieved but also knew she would remain uneasy while the copy of the model was out of her hands. She had never been so anxious for lunch hour to arrive.

  “I’ll meet you at your train then,” she told Radcliff.

  “I look forward to it. Pick a nice venue for lunch, my treat. This time there’s something I’d like you to go over. Our Department works closely with some of the City regulatory bodies, the FSA and such. I’ve drafted a letter to send to one of my contacts there, suggesting Butterfly is overdue for an audit.”

  “Isn’t that a bit hasty? I mean all this on the basis of some questionable inputs to a model.”

  “There’s more to it than that, Jo. I could tell by my conversation with Bray. I’ve seen it before – the bully emerges when he’s cornered. But don’t worry, if anything comes of it, any enquiries won’t be traced back to me, far less you. I’ve made the mistake before of ignoring the signs, and I’ve concluded that it’s always better to know.”

  Jo wasn’t sure she agreed. She thought it would be better to have chosen an employer who didn’t raise these questions in the first place.

  “Oh, and Jo,” finished Radcliff, “if you have a chance before we meet, have another look at the financing part of Bray’s model. Butterfly may have divested of its outside investors, but they’re not going it alone.”

  When Jo reached Butterfly Investments she only stopped briefly at her desk before hastening toward the trading floor with the sole desire of using its noise to drown out her own recurring thoughts.

  The distraction proved futile and Jo eventually returned to her office where she found a summons to Bray’s office on her desk. She complied with trepidation and found her boss on the phone. He motioned for her to enter and pointed to a file on his desk. Jo opened it to find details of her next assignment for the Quant Group.

  Jo didn’t move until Bray’s eyes clearly conveyed the question as to what she was still doing in his office. She had started her escape when Bray covered the mouthpiece of his phone.

  “Please bring the model back to my office this morning,” he mouthed.

  Jo nodded and quickly made an exit. Back at her desk, she opened Bray’s model and focused on the section Radcliff had wanted her to look at. On closer examination it became apparent why. On her previous readings, Jo had skipped over the details since the mathematics was relatively straightforward, but in light of her tutorial with the Professor, Jo now realized its significance.

  The section dealt specifically with how to calculate the size of the position the firm would take in a given trading scenario. As Jo interpreted the formulae, it became obvious that the means by which Butterfly was able to make such large investments was its enormous use of leverage or borrowing. In some scenarios, the model proposed funding only a tenth of the trade from Butterfly’s own money, with the rest coming from borrowed funds. The return on the capital was immense if the trade succeeded, but financially disastrous if it failed. Bray’s obsession with gambling was apparently no longer limited to theory.

  Jo couldn’t stand to be in the building any longer. It was only 10.30 a.m., but she had to escape.

  Jo stopped by the desk of Bray’s assistant. “Amanda,” she started nonchalantly, “if anyone asks, tell them I have a dental appointment. A long one.”

  “OK.” Amanda scribbled down a note. “And do you?”

  Jo was caught off guard. “Do I what?”

  “Have a dental appointment?”

  “Of course. I just told you I did.”

  “No, you told me that if anyone asks, I’m to tell them you do.”

  Jo laughed shrilly, shattering any credulity associated with the dental appointment. She handed Bray’s book to Amanda to return, relieved to be distanced from it.

  Jo walked directly to Liverpool Street station and took up position in a coffee shop that offered a good vantage point to observe arriving passengers. She kept checking her cell phone, hoping for a message from Professor Radcliff’s secretary informing Jo that he had caught an earlier train. No messages transpired.

  As the schedu
led time for Radcliff’s arrival approached, Jo went to stand at the entrance to the platform. The train pulled in on time and a scant smattering of business people and day-trippers disembarked. Jo craned to make out the Professor, but he was nowhere to be seen. Jo went onto the platform, peering into the carriages to check if he was still on board, perhaps having dozed off. By the time Jo reached the last carriages, she was running, afraid now that she had somehow missed him and that the Professor was currently wandering around the station searching for her.

  Jo sprinted back to the concourse, scanning the entire station. She had no way of contacting him directly since the Professor staunchly refused the tethering nature of a cell phone. He claimed it contradicted his sailing philosophy where the whole point was to carve out time when you were unreachable.

  Jo was confounded. Tardiness contradicted the very nature of her professor. She waited for two more trains to arrive from Cambridge, but Radcliff still failed to materialize. Reluctantly, she retraced her steps back to Butterfly Investments.

  With her office door closed, Jo dialed Jesus College and asked for Professor Radcliff. She was transferred to his secretary, who identified herself as Becky. Jo didn’t recognize her, surmising that she must be a relatively new hire. Jo wasn’t surprised since Radcliff’s independence, apparent lack of organization, and undisguised impatience for mundane matters, made the role of being his administrative assistant particularly challenging, and staff changes were frequent.

  Jo introduced herself and asked Becky if she knew of the Professor’s whereabouts or about the meeting they had scheduled in London.

  “Well, yes love. Of course. Didn’t you get my message?’ came the surprised reply.

  “No, what message?” asked Jo, sifting through papers on her desk, but finding nothing.

  “Well the Professor’s meeting at Imperial College this afternoon was cancelled, and something about his boat came up so he wasn’t going to be able to travel to London. He went off to Grafham Water.”

  “Well did he ask you to call me?”

  “Yes, I told you. The Professor was in a hurry and didn’t have your cell number so I called and left a message with – let me find my notes, oh here it is – I called the offices of Butterfly Investments in London to pass on the Professor’s apologies and to tell you he’d call later. Spoke to a lovely lady who said she would pass the message right on.”

  Jo was almost certain that the lovely lady in question was Amanda, who was notoriously lax in passing on any messages except those left for her boss.

  “You’re sure Professor Radcliff didn’t travel to London?” Jo was trying hard to keep her tone calm. “I spoke with him this morning. He had some papers he was going to give me.”

  Jo could hear the tapping sound of a pencil and contemplative noises at the other end.

  “Well there were some documents he wanted me to send. The Professor told me to go to his study and to collect two envelopes from his desk chair. He told me one was a letter to be sent to some organization in London – the Federal Services something – ”

  “The Financial Services Authority?”

  “Yes, that the one. And the other envelope was supposed to contain a copy of the same letter for you, as well as some papers he was returning. He wanted me to send it by bike courier to your home address to arrive this afternoon.”

  “When did the courier say it would be delivered?” asked Jo.

  “Well that’s the thing. I went to the Professor’s study, and I didn’t see any envelopes on his chair. He said you were one of his students right? Well you’ve seen that place. What a mess, who knows what envelopes or chair he was referring to. Anyway, I took the opportunity to do some tidying, and I figured I’d ask him about the packages to be sent when he gets back later.”

  Jo cringed imagining the Professor’s response to his newly arranged work space. She sensed the beginning of events that would lead to another resignation.

  “I don’t suppose the Professor now possesses a cell phone?” asked Jo, in desperation.

  Becky laughed ruefully, “And make it easier for the rest of us to keep up with him? No, that would be too convenient. I’ll get back to you when I see him again though. I have another call coming through.”

  In the absence of hearing back from Radcliff’s secretary, Jo took the initiative and called Becky four more times during the afternoon to check if Radcliff had returned. Recovering Bray’s model with the telltale photocopy signature was becoming an imperative. Becky was initially polite, but by the last call her gentle nature had been pushed to its limits.

  Jo conceded that the matter would have to wait until Radcliff called her. On a different day she may have contemplated taking the train to Cambridge to try and meet with him, but this particular evening was the occasion of the Analyst Dinner and Quiz Night. The event was being hosted by Simon Wright, and Jo was certain it would be inadvisable to miss it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The social event for the analysts was billed as a fun affair to celebrate the achievement of those new recruits who had survived beyond their first month. It was also designed to spur on the analysts as they entered into the final weeks before their first CFA Program exam. The only emotion that the mention of the exam spurred in Jo at this time was dread.

  To add to the frivolities, Simon Wright and Charles Bray had personally compiled a list of quiz questions centered on the exam syllabus as well as on the firm and its strategies. The analysts were divided into teams seated at different tables. Jo observed from the seating chart that a few analysts haven’t made it this far, including the American Zach Bryant. Jo couldn’t help but to smirk a little as she contemplated that his knowledge of European history had not been sufficient to save him.

  It was the first time since moving to the Quant Group that Jo had been together with such a large group of her fellow analysts. She noted that they all looked tired, but from the general level of enthusiastic discussion, their conversion to the Butterfly ethos appeared to be almost complete.

  Jo was seated next to Serge, the Frenchman, who was acting notably less effusive than his peers.

  “How’s it going? Ça va?” Jo could not resist, given that she was now no longer in contact with him enough to be affected by any distaste he may have towards her use of the Gallic language. Jo was surprised by his muted response.

  Serge merely shrugged. “I’m tired of eating sandwiches.”

  Jo could empathize since she was familiar with how the French liked to sit down to two hot meals a day.

  “What are you working on?” asked Jo determined to carry on a conversation which entailed the use of more than two sentences.

  Again the shrug. “I have been assigned the task on the trading floor of keeping records of all the trades.”

  “Sounds like it might be interesting?” ventured Jo.

  “For whom? A junior accounting clerk? No, it is intolerable. I am being treated like a glorified administrative assistant to those arrogant traders. This is not what I intend to waste my degree from Sciences Po on,” spat Serge.

  “Sciences Po?” admired Jo, focusing on the one positive element so far in their discourse. “Isn’t that the hardest university to get into in France?”

  Serge’s chest inflated with reflexive pride, yet his mouth remained in a sneer as if he had just been presented with another offering of English sliced bread with an undefined filling.

  Simon Wright’s arrival at a podium in the center of the room saved Jo from trying to put any further positive spin on his situation. Wright announced the commencement of the evening’s games.

  Although the analysts were grouped and scored as a table, Wright appeared to derive great glee in suddenly singling out an analyst at random for individual questions. As a result, none of the guests were able to fully relax and enjoy the excellent food and accompanying expensive wine. Jo was relieved when it was over.

  At the end of the event, the tables’ rankings were announced. Jo’s table had scored
somewhere in the middle. Wright’s secretary then appeared with a briefcase and a fixed smile, impressing Jo with her willingness to enter into the game show theme. Wright proceeded to ceremoniously open the briefcase and take out thick manila envelopes. He then handed one to each analyst sitting at the winning table.

  “Go on, open them up. Breathe in the smell of success,” he encouraged. “The smell of £10,000 of success to be precise. Now it’s up to you if you want to declare it, but let’s just say it’s never too early to start looking into some personal offshore accounts.”

  The whole room applauded and there was loud laughter, the response from the winning table noticeably the heartiest.

  Simon Wright then casually walked over to the table that had ranked the lowest in the quiz. He placed his hands on the shoulders of two of the apprehensive analysts.

  “You’re all fired!” he announced, still smiling broadly.

  A deathly hush descended on the room with the entire analyst group frozen with shock. Wright broke the silence with a loud laugh, slapping one of the analysts on the back and bringing him back to animation.

  “I’m just kidding! Can’t we have a little fun around here?”

  As Wright continued to stride around the room, Jo noticed for the first time just how short he was. Even when standing, he barely reached the height of some of the taller seated members of the audience.

  After he had passed by their table, Jo heard Serge muttering, “Petit Napoleon” with contempt. Suddenly the building’s myriad of references to the French commander made sense to Jo as she realized that Wright was paying visible homage to the diminutive leader and his aggressive leadership style.

  Wright was still grinning and rubbing his hands together as he left the room, but stopped abruptly when he encountered Bray pacing in the hallway outside.

  “Bloody hell, Charles! What’s wrong?”

  Bray’s disheveled appearance contrasted sharply with his usual pristine façade, and his eyes shifted like a fugitive risking a public appearance.