I lean back triumphantly. ‘Exactly. Fantasy is the word. You inherit a bit here and a bit there – the legacy businesses – but in most areas you have a blank canvas. Build your own firm, in your own style, with your own ethos, your own systems, your own infrastructure. You’ve got three years and a billion euros to do it. Hire whoever you want. Hell, if you really want to, you could buy the opposition. It would still be small change for Grossbank. The only rule is that you must succeed.’
The thing about Paul is that he could really do this. He’d have the credibility, the experience, the technical expertise, to pull together a world class business. In fact he has everything that I don’t have, which is why, like all good bosses, I want to delegate the real work to someone far brighter and more competent than myself. I want to say that the Panzer divisions are on the march, and you are either with us, or you can be crushed beneath our tracks, but Paul is too thoughtful for that kind of rhetoric. ‘How many times in your one unrepeatable life is someone going to make you an offer like that?’ I pass him a napkin. ‘Here – write down what you want by way of a package.’
With my right hand taken care of, I need to sort out my left hand. Whoever I hire to be Head of Corporates needs to have a natural top table manner, great connections, smoothness, charm, but also steel. Of all the people I’ve come across, ‘Two Livers’ MacKay is the most outstanding candidate, different in a way that I find exciting, but which some find hard to take. Two Livers has a reputation as one of the hardest drinking corporate coverage officers in the City of London. Starting at Bartons, then moving on to Schleppenheim, and finally Berkmann Schliebowitz, Two Livers outdrank the Russians at vodka to win some of the great Russian privatisation mandates, out-Scotched the Koreans and Japanese to refinance both countries’ heavy industries after their markets crashed, and out-Schnappsed the Germans to pull off the first hostile takeovers in what had been a closed corporate world. A lot of people are jealous of Two Livers – mostly people who missed out on mandates they thought were in the bag – and a lot, myself included, admire the ruthlessness, the single-minded determination, and the dedication of a true corporate stormtrooper. And there’s one other thing about Two Livers. She’s beautiful.
Two Livers MacKay is one of the new breed of women in the City who are good for something other than typing or shagging. She’s thirty-six, single, blonde, with a great figure and an Olympic athlete of a liver. She needs very little sleep, works like a dog and looks like a goddess. I haven’t spoken to her in almost ten years. In her early days at Bartons, we were pretty close for a moment – a brief coming together on a business trip to Madrid. But she sussed pretty quickly that I was a shallow, vacuous low-flyer who wasn’t to be trusted and would never commit.
Now things are different. Now a random spin of the wheel on the great roulette table of the Square Mile means that I can offer her even more millions than she’s getting at Berkmann Schliebowitz. Suddenly she wants to have dinner again.
I’m meeting her at Gordon Ramsay tonight, but first I have a chore to deal with – Wendy wants to meet me. She wants to know ‘what it is that I want’. Typical woman’s question – hell, I don’t even know what I want, other than money and success and fine malt whisky and willing, nubile young things in my bed at night. I may be a hero in some people’s eyes, a big swinging dick in others, but at heart I’m just a guy.
I go back to the flat and change into my oldest suit, undo my top button, loosen my tie and splash some whisky on my face like after-shave. Then I wander round the corner to the coffee bar – ‘neutral ground’ – where we’ve agreed to meet.
The first thing I notice is that she’s made an effort. Starting with the shoes – Manolo Blahnik – up through the legs – freshly waxed, with a silky sheen and a tan – to the skirt and jacket – Chanel – and the yellow and white gold necklace and matching bracelet – Bulgari. She’s at her elegant best. She looks like the kind of woman who would be an asset to any greedy, vain, ambitious investment banker.
Except that’s not what I am any more.
I explain that I’m in bad shape. In desperation after being shafted by Rory in the bonus round at Bartons, I’ve taken my sayonara job at Grossbank. She knows as well as I do that Grossbank are a joke. It’s not how I ever imagined I’d end up, but needs must, and now I have to do whatever I can to make ends meet. I fear that we’ve grown too far apart for a reconciliation, and besides, I never saw her with a loser. She deserves better, and she’s still young enough and good-looking enough to try. Whatever we decide should be friendly, civilised, and involve as few lawyers as possible. Samantha should be the priority and we should put her interests first. And anyway, I’m having so much fun shagging hookers and snorting nose candy that I’d have to be an idiot to get back together with her.
Just kidding about that last bit.
The trouble is, Wendy’s nobody’s fool. She tells me she’s heard from Gloria Finkelstein – wife of Matt Finkelstein, who runs the swaps desk at Hardman Stoney – that Grossbank have actually given me a real job, with power and authority and that I’m doing things like firing people and offering big packages to new hires. She wants to know what I’m earning because as the woman who stood by me all through the tough years of my early career, she surely has a right to some of the benefits now that I’ve re-launched myself?
I take her hand across the table and look her earnestly in the eye. I’m good at this. I assure her that I would never, ever wish to deceive her about any aspect of my career, my finances or my life. We’ve been together too long and know each other too well for that. I promise to get her a copy of my contract of employment from Grossbank to settle things between us once and for all. We agree to meet again in a few weeks’ time. She asks if I’d like to see Samantha this weekend and I explain that I’d love to, but I’ve got urgent business to attend to in Lithuania and Estonia, and she gives me a parting peck on the cheek, wrinkling her nose when she realises that it’s ten a.m. and I’ve already been on the whisky.
After she leaves, I head back to the flat again, wash and change, and take a cab to the office. I ask Maria to call Charles Butler in.
He appears about thirty seconds later, looking nervous, as if his time might finally have come.
‘Good morning, Charles.’ I don’t look up and I don’t smile, but my cheek is twitching.
‘Good morning, Dave.’
I toss Paul Ryan’s napkin across the desk. He stares at it, uncomprehending.
‘Paul Ryan’s leaving Hardman Stoney.’
‘Really?’ Charles looks as if he doesn’t understand the significance of this. I wait a few seconds, and finally he asks, ‘Where’s he going?’
‘He’s coming here.’
‘Here?’ Charles almost laughs. ‘Paul Ryan is coming here? What’s he going to do?’
‘This job.’ Without looking over my shoulder I raise one hand to point to the right hand side of the flip chart behind me.
‘What job?’ Charles is looking puzzled.
I turn and see that my ‘org chart’ is gone, presumably removed by the cleaners – or maybe Maria, to be sent secretly to the board? - and I’m pointing at a blank sheet of paper. ‘Plan Alpha. Head of Markets.’
‘Oh.’ Another pause. ‘You mean the Paul Ryan?’
‘No. I’m talking about the other Paul Ryan. The one who works in the mailroom at Hardman Stoney as a messenger. That’s the one we’re hiring.’
For an instant his eyes widen, but then he realises it’s just my little joke and he finally rises to the occasion.
‘Congratulations! That’s amazing. People won’t believe it. I can hardly believe it myself. It will finally give us credibility. I mean – even more credibility than we already have since you joined.’
I indicate the napkin on the desk. ‘We worked his package out on a napkin, and shook hands on it over breakfast. Draw up an offer letter, would you?’
He picks up the napkin and examines it, frowning. ‘What exactly am I looking for
?’
I grab it back and look at it, turning it over several times in frustration. Damn, I’ve picked up the wrong one. That’s what comes from doing important meetings when you’ve been shagging all night and you’re still half cut.
‘Maria!’
She appears at the door. ‘Yes, Mister Hart?’
‘Call Claridge’s. See if they can find the other napkin from our table. Paul wrote some numbers on it. It’s quite important.’
‘Yes, Mister Hart.’
I no longer have any idea what numbers he wrote, other than that they were impressively large. Damn. I look at Charles and tap the side of my head.
‘Need to fix my head. Sometimes think I’m going crazy.’
‘Really?’
I don’t reply, but rub my chin pensively. ‘Charles, there’s one other thing.’
‘What’s that, Dave?’ He’s watching me intently, and I think I can spot a nervous tic in his cheek too. I wonder if eventually everyone at Grossbank will have one.
‘Charles, I don’t know quite how to put this, so I’ll tell it to you straight. I’m having to let you go.’
‘G – go? G – go where?’ He knows exactly what I mean, but is in denial.
‘I didn’t know how to do this, and to be frank, I’m not really sure how to fire the head of HR. After all, you’re supposed to be the one who handles all the firings. And you can’t exactly fire yourself, can you?’ I smile benevolently and walk around the desk to stand behind him, a friendly hand on his shoulder.
‘W – why?’
‘Why? Well it’s obvious, isn’t it? You don’t fit in.’
He half turns to face me. ‘H – how?’
‘You have no sense of humour. You don’t laugh. You don’t fit in.’
‘But I try to. I really do.’
‘Okay. Let me give you an example.’ I start pacing round the room, so that he has to squirm and wriggle in the low chair to follow me. ‘I’m planning a practical joke to play on some friends of mine. People I’ve known for a long time, and who have a great sense of fun. I want to show them a contract of employment, on official Grossbank letterhead, that shows me earning, oh… let’s just say a preposterously small amount of money. At Bartons, I’d have gone to the head of HR, who would have run me off a contract in a flash, and would have asked me afterwards how it went. But you’re distant, you have no sense of fun, you don’t join in.’
He’s nodding now, frantically, and almost trips over the words in his haste. ‘I c-c-can do that. I think that would be terribly funny. A scream. You w-want a prop for a practical joke? Of course, no problem, we’re great practical jokers here.’
‘Really? I must have misjudged you. Okay, let’s put it to the test.’ I look at my watch. ‘It’s quarter to twelve. I have an important recruitment dinner tonight, and my back’s been giving me such gyp that I’m seeing my acupuncturist at twelve-thirty, which means I’ll probably work from home for the rest of the day. Let’s see what you can do before I leave the office in, say twenty minutes, shall we?’
He nearly sprints from the room. What a good man. I can see that we’re going to get along fine. My acupuncturist is nineteen years old, blonde and comes from Belarus. And after that I’ll probably be so tired that I’ll have to sleep until dinner.
THE GORDON RAMSAY restaurant in Royal Hospital Road, Chelsea, provides the ultimate dining experience: sublime food served in perfect surroundings with exceptional wines and service that is attentive without being intrusive. There could be no better place to meet Laura ‘Two Livers’ MacKay. I get there ten minutes early, still feeling tired after extending my acupuncture session by three hours – some of these nineteen-year-olds have incredible stamina. I’m worried that I might fall asleep. The trouble is that Viagra extends my ability to perform way beyond what my body can naturally sustain. I’m not a marathon runner, just a regular guy who eats too much rich food, drinks too much and never exercises. I need to slow down. At this rate I could kill myself.
There are a smattering of diners at other tables, chatting quietly to the occasional tinkle of cutlery on plates and the chinking of glasses. It’s peaceful, discreet, luxurious.
And then there’s a hush.
I look up to see a vision of beauty drifting serenely across the room. She’s wearing an elegant, pale yellow mid-length dress and matching shawl by Loro Piana. The dress is not particularly low-cut – too sophisticated for that – but it clings to her body as if she was sewn into it. She’s got amber and gold earrings, beautifully crafted, and to my shame I can’t place them. Around her neck she has a matching amber pendant. No rings on either hand, which is a relief.
I stand to greet her, beaming like a kid in a candy store. ‘Two Livers – how the hell are you? It’s been a while.’
She dazzles me with her perfect white smile, ignores my outstretched hand and leans close to kiss me on the cheek – not a formal peck, but a softly lingering kiss that allows me to soak in her perfume – Un Bois Vanille by Serge Lutens. As her cheek gently caresses mine, she whispers in my ear, ‘Yes.’
YES? A voice in my head is screaming at me. What does she mean – yes? The maitre d’ pulls the chair out for her and she sits down, leaving me feeling like an awkward teenager, way out of my depth and struggling for words. I sit down and bury myself in the formalities of what would she like to drink – a large Screwdriver made with Uluvka vodka – and does she prefer still or sparkling – neither – and would she like to look at the menu – no, she already knows what she wants.
‘Yes.’ She’s leaning forward across the table, smiling, running her fingers up and down the tall cocktail glass that’s just been placed in front of her. Her eyes are fixed on mine.
Damn. At my time of life, there aren’t many women who can do this to me. I put down the menu, trying not to appear flustered. ‘Yes?’
‘Yes, I want to work for Grossbank – I’ll need three by four sterling with a million sign-on and a buyout of my unvested paper – and yes, I’ll have sex with you.’ Her voice is low, husky and clear. And she definitely said she’d have sex with me.
I put the menu down. ‘Great.’ I look around to see if anyone else has heard our conversation. ‘How hungry are you?’
She lifts her glass and I watch while she downs it in one. ‘Not hungry at all. Shall we go?’
THE PROBLEM with having sex with four different women in twenty-four hours, not getting any sleep, rushing around London in taxis to attend high impact recruitment meetings, seeing your soon-to-be-ex-wife, having to lie convincingly to her about the true state of your finances, and having to threaten your head of HR to get him to produce a bogus contract of employment that you can use to deceive said soon-to-be-ex-wife, is that the toll eventually catches up with you.
Just as Two Livers and I collapse naked onto the bed in my apartment, our clothes scattered on the carpet where we have pulled them off, I pass out. I wish it were otherwise, but the cumulative effect of all that’s been going on finally hits me. When I eventually wake up, around six the next morning, she’s gone. I wonder if any of it really happened, until I wander into the bathroom, and see written on the mirror in red lipstick: ‘Yes. 3 x £4 + £1 sign-on + buyout. + sex.’ THINGS ARE going well. We’ve fired a lot of people, mostly second-rate, and we’ve hired a bunch of first-rate people, all very expensive, and hardly any of them available to start for several months, because their spiteful firms are enforcing the gardening leave provisions in their contracts. Grossbank’s London business has actually picked up slightly, as people make a real effort to avoid what they fear might be a campaign of ethnic cleansing once the new people start.
So why have I been summoned to Frankfurt? I call Herman and he sounds almost apologetic. ‘It’s Doktor Biedermann. He’s one of the old guard. He doesn’t like what he hears about the London operation. He used to be responsible for the London office on the board. He personally knew most of the former business heads. In fact he was responsible for hiring them.’
‘So what does he want?’
‘He wants to trip you up. He wants you to come to Frankfurt far too soon, before any of your efforts have born fruit, and be humiliated. It’s the old way. It’s his way.’
‘And what do you suggest I do?’
‘Come here and face him. You of all people are not a man to run away from confrontation.’
Damn. ‘You bet, Herman. Let me know just as soon as I can come over.’
‘Next Tuesday would be good. The regional managers from all over Germany will be here. You could address them first, and then talk to those board members who are… most concerned about our investment banking strategy.’
‘Next Tuesday? Really? Great. That’s… five days away. Wonderful – I’ll see you Tuesday morning.’
Double damn. All investment bankers live in fear of being found out. This really could be it. This could be the moment when they say it was all a joke. Did I seriously think they’d put me in charge of anything, let alone running the entire London office? Being in charge is all about faking it. I like to think I can fake it with the best of them. But if you so much as blink you’re dead. I could already feel the onset of rigor mortis.
‘Maria!’
‘Yes, Mister Hart?’
‘Maria – get me the smartest associate in the firm. I need a presentation prepared on our global strategy – a complete business plan in fact. Budgets, revenue forecasts, the lot. And a speech. A killer speech for Frankfurt.’
She hesitates. I look at her, irritated. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Where will he get the information? I don’t think we have any budgets or forecasts or plans.’
‘Really?’ She’s right, of course. So far, I’ve been winging it. ‘Well, tell him to write them. It’s a great opportunity.’ What do we pay these guys for anyway?
The next few days are hell. A weasel-faced kid called Jan Hagelmann, a trainee on loan from Frankfurt, sits outside my office working on a laptop, poring over figures, producing draft after draft of numbers, graphs and charts.
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