Hedging His Bets

by Laura Carter

  Instead, I sit at my desk, pulling up the NASDAQ exchange on one of my three screens, the FTSE on another, and my inbox on the third. I see the headline of an email that names me as the highest earner for the fund last month. Some months you win, some months you lose. I’ve been lucky that my bets on commodities and other alternative investments have been paying off lately.

  Kind of pleased with myself, I pick up the envelope Marcus left and lean back in my chair. I have five minutes until the FTSE opens. I slide out the letter and open it. My eyes immediately bulge as I gawp at the number of zeros printed on the check attached to the letter. I’ve had bonuses before but this…this is N.I.C.E.

  Dragging a hand back through my dark hair, I exhale. Who’d have thought I’d be making this kind of money three years into my career? Little more than three years ago, I was tending a college bar. Now, this…

  At seven fifty-nine, I interlace my fingers and stretch my arms out in front of me as I prepare for the exchange to open.

  By lunchtime, I have tracked my highest risk investments, put client money into energy markets I expect will prove highly lucrative, and I’m ready for a break.

  There’s a sushi bar on the ground floor of the building and there’s a large sashimi salad with extra wasabi that has my name all over it. I pull on my suit jacket—black because Jess tells me my tanned skin and dark hair mean I can pull it off—and adjust my shirt collar. We don’t wear ties in the office. We aren’t as pompous as lawyers and accountants.

  Given it’s close to two p.m., there isn’t a huge line. That’s why I’ve trained my body to crave food at this time. I pay for my salad—does it count as a salad if it’s full of fish and rice?—and make for the self-serve counter to pick up chopsticks and a napkin. Except, I can’t pick up chopsticks and a napkin because Natasha with really big boobs, who always wears pink pumps, is standing between me and my cutlery, leaning back against the counter, the glint of ‘let’s fuck’ in her eyes.

  I can confirm that Natasha looks good in, and out, of clothes. But she’s as loose as a slipknot. I only ever broke my rule and went back for seconds because she’s very good at yoga, and all that implies.

  You’re probably thinking ‘but he goes for seconds with Jess, right?’

  Let me get one thing straight. Don’t think I make an exception to my rule for Jess because she’s the one or something. Jess and I have an arrangement. We’ve had an arrangement since a drunken night on the sofa watching movies two months ago, when we both wanted to screw but wanted to do it with no strings, and with someone who could understand what we each want.

  Now that’s cleared up, back to Natasha, and the fact she has put the tip of her index finger into her mouth as she wraps her hand around her lower waist, drawing my attention to her hips beneath her skintight pencil skirt. “I haven’t seen you down here for a while, Jake.”

  I signal for her to move aside so I can get my chopsticks. “Then you mustn’t have been around because I’m down here almost every day at the same time.”

  She giggles, despite the fact I wasn’t joking. “Right. Listen, I’m having a girls’ night with a few friends this Saturday. We’re going out on King’s Road. You’d be welcome to come say hi.”

  I discard the white paper packet from my chopsticks, bending around her to use the trash can. “Wouldn’t that defeat the point of having a girls’ night?”

  She giggles again. There’s not much between the ears with this one. “Right. Well, maybe you could bring some friends. We could make it a mixed group.”

  “Sounds great but I’m in New York this weekend.” I start walking away.

  “New York? New York with who? I love New York.”

  I lose the sound of her voice as I step onto the marble floor of the lobby and out through the revolving door to Pall Mall Street. The sun is out, lighting up the beige stone buildings. Pall Mall is my favorite street in London. You would think I’d dislike it maybe, because I work here, but it reminds me of Wall Street, Lower Manhattan. Home.

  Maneuvering through suits running to meetings and talking into cell phones, then navigating the traffic, I head down Marlborough Street and cross the road to wander into St. James’s Park. I find a free bench and take a pew, leaning forward across my knees to finally dive into my bowl of protein. This is a lunch that would win the approval of Brooks, who is a fitness trainer and nutritionist to the rich and famous in NYC.

  As I have that thought, I remind myself to transfer the bonus I got this morning to my mom’s bank account.

  My parents think I don’t know that my brother paid for my college tuition. I’m not saying I’m unloved, here. This isn’t one of those stories about a kid who lost his parents to some terminal illness or who was beaten up by his alcoholic father. I was definitely loved. But it’s no secret I was also a mistake. I’m the youngest of three. Drew is almost ten years older than me. My sister, Millie, is eight years older.

  I guess my pops couldn’t keep it in his pants, or forgot to cover up or something. Hell, paying the medical bill for the snip would have been a lot cheaper than a third kid.

  Anyway, they had me and they gave me everything I needed, but definitely not everything I wanted. I was far from spoiled. But they gave me all they could. When it came to college, though, it would have cost them their retirement fund to send me. I guessed as much and even contemplated not going. I tried for scholarships with no real luck.

  Then, one day, the money was there and my parents were sour with Drew for a few weeks. So, I know he paid for my tuition and they have some kind of pact to keep it secret. I think it’s a pride thing.

  Whatever their choices, I respect them all. If they don’t want me to know, it’s cool. I’ll thank Drew one day. For now, I transfer money to Mom’s account to ‘pay my parents back.’ Knowing my parents, they’ll pass the money right on to Drew. Drew won’t want it. They’ll argue. Eventually, my mom will win because she always wins. She’s Mom. Heart of gold, determination of a gladiator.

  “Excuse me, do you mind if I sit?”

  I take my eyes from the salmon nipped between my chopsticks and follow the long legs of what I can only describe as a MILF.

  I do a quick assessment. No ring on the fourth finger of her left hand but a beast of a rock on the fourth finger of her right hand. I’d stake money on her being a divorcee. And since I gamble for a living…

  “Please, take a seat. I’d enjoy the company.”

  She nods, shyly, but flashes me a small smirk. Cheeky. Foxy. “American?” she asks, as she sits, crossing one of those fine legs over the other beneath her tailored dress.

  “New York. You don’t sound like a Londoner.”

  “Ah, no. I’m from Manchester originally.” She tucks a loose tendril that’s fallen from the clip holding up her hair behind her ear. “I moved to London almost six years ago for… Well, with someone. But it didn’t work out.”

  Bingo.

  “Forgive me, I know we’ve just met, but any man who walked away from you must be crazy.”

  She raises a brow and sips from her takeout coffee cup. “You assume it was a man.”

  I feel my eyes narrow, playing along, but I know she’s fucking with me. She’s sending pheromones all over me. She has eyes for only one sex and it’s the three-legged kind.

  She laughs before I have to respond. “Okay, it was a man. An arsehole, actually.”

  “There are a number of strains within our species.”

  She smiles. “And which strain are you?”

  I’m about to answer that question when my goddamn cell phone rings. “Sorry, I need to…” I lift the phone from my pocket to find Drew’s face lighting up the screen. “Drew, what’s up?” I say, the words grinding through my teeth. Cock blocker.

  The MILF, whose name I didn’t even get to, holds up a hand and leaves with a smile. “Master of fucking time, bro.”


  “It’s like two thirty in the afternoon over there. What can I possibly have interrupted?”

  “Nothing, now.” I finally stuff my salmon in my mouth. “What’s going on?”

  “Are you talking with your mouth full? That’s bad manners, dude. Aren’t the Brits teaching you anything?”

  “Hey, your British girlfriend hasn’t stopped you from calling when I’m in the middle of putting the moves on someone.”

  “Ah, that’s why you’re snapping. Listen, I’m calling to say I’m looking forward to next week. I can’t wait to see you, buddy.”

  “Me too. I’m keen to see this new pad of yours in the Hamptons.”

  “Right. So, I want to give you a heads-up. It turns out Emily is going to be in the Hamptons next week too. She’s staying with her parents for their wedding anniversary.”

  My stomach sinks so fast that cherished piece of salmon might make a reappearance.

  “Emily?” I don’t know why I repeat her name. I heard it well enough. I clear my throat and lower my decibels. “Great.”

  Emily. My Emily. At least she was. She was mine at lower school, middle school, high school and college, until she wasn’t mine anymore.

  “Jake? You there?”

  “Yeah, bad signal. I’m here.”

  “You’re still coming though, right?”

  There’s no way I won’t bump into her if I go to the Hamptons. Not when I know her parents live right next door to Drew’s new pad. In fact, it was her dad who told Drew the place was coming up for sale before it even went on the market. Emily’s dad is also an attorney, like Drew. He retrained after leaving the forces. I think he and Drew cross paths on the circuit from time to time. And our families know each other well; we spent years living on the same street.

  “Ah, yeah, I’ll be there.” I say the words with more conviction than I feel. “Why would Emily being around change anything?”

  Is she still with the dick I once called a friend?

  “Oh, I don’t know, Jake. Maybe because you guys were inseparable practically from birth; then three years ago you took a job in London when you could have worked for any hedge fund in Manhattan. Oh, and, that’s right, you haven’t spoken to her since.”

  “You don’t know that I haven’t spoken to her. And for your information, I always wanted to move to London.”

  “Jake, you never wanted to move to London. Why would anyone move from Manhattan to London? Look, I don’t know what happened between the two of you—I just wanted to forewarn you.”

  “Well, consider me forewarned.”

  “So, I’ll see you next week?”

  “Yes, fine. Christ, are you going senile?”

  “You’re such a dick. I make allowances for you because you were an accident.”

  Any other time, I might laugh. “Jackass.”

  “Yeah but I’m a jackass who loves you, kid.”

  “Yeah, love you too.”

  We hang up and I stare at the half-eaten bowl of salad in my hand, then throw it in the nearest trash can and leave the park.

  Fuck.

  * * * *

  Jess isn’t answering her cell when I finish work. It’s still broad daylight. That’s a perk of my job. When I’ve made enough money for the day, I can leave. Out on the sidewalk, I put on my shades, flick my jacket over my shoulder, and start walking home. I could do with stretching my legs after my workout this morning. More than that, I could use the headspace.

  I’ve tried not to think about whether I miss Emily. I used to. When I first came to London, I was crushed sometimes by how much I wanted to speak to her, even just send her a text message. We’d gone from speaking every day and knowing every single tiny thing there was to know about each other—or so I thought—to nothing.

  I’m going to the Hamptons. I have to. I want to. My brother and our friends are going to be there. A week of hanging together in one house is bound to be crazy fun. But I just can’t see Emily. What are we supposed to do? Act like nothing happened, continue as we always were? Or wind up in some kind of awkward handshake-hug, neither one of us knowing how to speak to the other?

  By the time I get back to the apartment, I feel like I’ve stewed enough. I’m hoping Jess is home. If she is writing for her regular column or freelance fashion stuff, she usually works from cafes because she gets too distracted at home. You’ll learn that about Jess. She’s always easily distracted. Well, except when we’re… Anyway, she mentioned that she was putting together some new clothing ideas today, which could mean sketching or sewing and pinning things. When she does the practical stuff, she tends to go to a studio she rents from a friend in Camden. So, chances are, she isn’t home, but damn, I want her to be. She’s pretty much the only person I feel like speaking with right now.

  I open the door of the apartment and don’t see her but can smell her. That sounds odd, but she has this distinct scent, like flowers and candy. Sweet and bubbly. Like her. I also hear her music—“Nine to 5” by Dolly Parton is playing through the iPod dock on the dining table. Then I see her mess. Fabric, pens, scissors, thread, sketch pads, all scattered around the rug in the living room.

  She’s a walking hot mess. But a fucking loveable one.

  I call out for her but when she doesn’t answer I go in search of her. I hear her talking and assume she’s on the phone when I reach her bedroom. The door is ajar so I nudge it open to ask if she wants anything, maybe one of her funky loose-leaf teas from Spitalfields market. But I don’t ask because she looks uncommonly stressed. She’s pulling on her bottom lip, her cell phone pressed to her ear as she paces in front of her window.

  “You know I hate to ask. It’s just that one of the magazines hasn’t paid up this month and the fashion show I did last week actually cost me money. I have most of the rent but I’m about a hundred short and it needs to be paid today.”

  She’s talking about the rent on the apartment. I know because it’s on my to-do list for tonight—transfer money to landlord.

  “Oh, really? No, I understand. No, really, don’t worry. I’ll figure something out. It’s one month. I always pay on time. I’m sure it will be fine. The magazine said the money should be in my bank early next week. Thank you, anyway. Sorry to interrupt your Mai Tai.” She chuckles, her dimples showing beneath her high cheekbones. “Okay, speak soon.”

  I move quietly away from her door, then call out to her from my own bedroom. “Hey, Jess!”

  “Hey! I didn’t realize you were home.”

  “Just walked in. I’m going to grab a shower; then I’ll be out.”

  “Great. I’m going to make some tea. Sencha with orange and rose petals. Do you want some?”

  What the fuck? “No, babe. I’m good.” What I could really use is a natural disaster to stop Emily going to the Hamptons next week. Okay, I don’t mean that. But maybe, I don’t know, high winds or something. Nothing fatal.

  I jump in the shower to remove the office grime, and pull on a pair of sweatpants when I get out. I take my Mac from under my bed and load my internet banking. She said she was a hundred short. I add two hundred pounds to my usual rent contribution and log off.

  In the living room, Jess is sitting among her mess, her legs crossed in offensively bright floral lounge pants. She looks content. Happier than she was when I arrived.

  She beams when she looks up at me. “How was your day?”

  “A lot less messy than yours by the looks of it.”

  She twists her face and presses the tip of her index finger to her button nose. It’s a thing she does when she knows she’s being cheeky. “Sorry. I didn’t feel like heading up to Camden today, what with the underground strike. I’m almost done with this piece, then I’ll clean up.”

  “Don’t move it for me, I can watch TV around you.” I take a seat on the sofa behind her and lean back, my legs spread. “Do you have chopsticks i
n your hair?” I ask, studying the way she has pinned her brown locks.

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve never eaten with them or anything, though.” Her words are only just decipherable as she speaks with a pin in her mouth. “There. Done.”

  She stands and holds up a silk top. It has an Asian feel to it. Like a short kimono. It is red with pink, green and blue flowers embroidered down the sides. But she has added lace around the low V-neck so it finishes like a ruched turtleneck. Okay, my descriptions of chick clothes aren’t the best, but you can imagine the kind of things she makes. Fusion. Victorian British meets geisha.

  “I like it,” I tell her, non-committal because I know what comes next.

  “What do you like about it?” There it is.

  “I like the colors. Red silk works for me. As does black lace, for the record.”

  She picks up a sofa cushion and throws it at me but smiles as she does. “Your mind is in the gutter.”

  “Always, babe.”

  “You’re such a fiend.”

  As she’s clearing up the living room, I turn off her music and switch on the TV, selecting BBC World News. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?” I ask. “Do you want to go out?”

  “Mmm, can’t. I have aerial yoga tonight.”

  “What on earth is aerial yoga?”

  “It’s yoga but you do it hanging from the ceiling.”

  “Really?” I raise a brow. “If you like hanging from the ceiling you should have told me. I’m happy to put some ropes and a sex swing in my bedroom.”

  She narrows her eyes and comes to sit on the arm of the sofa next to me. “All right, what’s wrong?”

  How does she do that? “What are you talking about?”

  She snatches the TV remote from my hand and turns it off, forcing me to look at her. “What is our number one rule?”