Dave Hart Omnibus

by David Charters

  I enjoy the theatrical aspects of occasions like this. When the room is full I wait a further five minutes, then Sir Oliver and I sweep into the conference room from the rear, flanked by Two Livers and Paul Ryan, and followed by Rory, who is carrying a pile of hard copies of the PowerPoint presentation we are about to deliver, and which somehow got left behind by the presentation team. In my mind, I can hear someone announcing ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States’, and indeed, such is the power of theatre that the press do actually stand up as we come in.

  We go up onto the podium, and Sir Oliver and I sit in centre stage, with Two Livers and Paul on either side of us. Rory steps up onto the stage last, carrying the presentations, only to find that there is not a chair for him, which we ignore while he finds a free space on the podium to leave the presentations, then awkwardly steps down and stands beside the stage, pretending not to hear the tittering from the hacks.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Grossbank.’ It’s crass, but I can’t resist it. ‘This morning Sir Oliver Barton and I jointly announced a major event in the development of London as the leading financial centre in the world. Grossbank, itself one of the world’s largest financial institutions, is merging its investment banking business with Bartons, taking over Bartons in its entirety, and at the same time planning significant moves to accelerate the growth and development of the two firms’ joint business.’ I pause and look out at a sea of scribbling hacks. I glance at Rory, who looks away nervously as I continue. ‘It will come as no surprise to you that the combined investment banking business of Grossbank and Bartons, the Grossbank-Bartons business, will be known in future as… Grossbank.’ The press pack stop writing and look up. They glance at me, then at Sir Oliver, who stares implacably ahead. As if he could give a shit. He’s done his deal. Some of them can’t resist smirking. ‘You will be aware that in many instances when two investment banking businesses are merged, the firms involved appoint co-heads of divisions, one from each firm, drawing on the experience and expertise of both sides to ensure a smooth and orderly transition.’ Heads are nodding sagely in the audience. Behind me on the big screen, two organograms appear side by side. One is the Bartons management structure, with the names of its heads of Equities, Corporate Finance, Fixed Income, Structured Finance and so on. Beside it is the equivalent for Grossbank. As I push a button, the two merge into one, but in each case only one name is left on the screen: the name of the Grossbank head of department. ‘We aren’t doing that. We believe it’s wasteful, lacking in clarity, and simply postpones the inevitable. We don’t shy away from tough decisions.’ Like the decision to fire the other firm’s people and keep the devils I know. I can hear tittering in the audience. ‘I’m going to hand over now to Sir Oliver, who will say a few words from Bartons’ side.’

  Sir Oliver clears his throat and looks around the audience. ‘Thank you, Dave. Ladies and gentlemen, today is a great day. It represents the culmination of many years’ hard work, and the crystallisation of a vision that I have long cherished. No one could be more delighted than me today. For me this is the pinnacle of my career, and I shall be retiring shortly from banking a very happy man, knowing that my legacy is in safe hands. I’d like to pay particular tribute to two people who have worked harder than any others to make this happen.’ He points to Rory, still standing by the stage looking awkward. ‘Most of you know Rory, who has been my right hand here for many years. Rory is to become Deputy Chairman of Grossbank London, working directly for Dave Hart, much as he has been today. This underlines Grossbank’s commitment to maintaining the culture and traditions of Bartons.’ Rory knew nothing of this, but I’d swear I can see the colour draining from his face. Yes, pal, grease up, bend over, grasp your ankles and say stick it in and make it hurt. Every day from now until you finally give up and quit. Revenge, as they say in Spain, is a dish best eaten cold. ‘And of course I have to thank Dave Hart.’ He turns to me and we shake hands for the cameras with great beaming smiles on our faces. ‘Thank you, Dave, from the bottom of my heart.’ He leans away from the microphone and growls into my ear, ‘And from my wallet…’

  * * *

  THE MONDAY morning directors’ meeting at Bartons used to terrify me. We called it morning prayers, mainly because we needed to pray for those whom Rory would prey upon. We used to sit at an oval conference table and try to justify our presence on the team, bragging about all the deals we were planning, the chairmen and chief executives we were pitching to, and the revenues that would surely come our way. It was almost entirely bullshit, and it bred a climate of dishonesty, lies and fear, which I guess is what Rory wanted.

  So this Monday I thought I’d join him round at Bartons for the first morning prayer meeting since the announcement – to encourage the troops. I’m bringing with me two colleagues from Grossbank: Werner Grubmann, who still hasn’t learnt to brush his teeth, and Dieter Kuntz, who is a new addition to my personal hit squad of stormtroopers.

  Dieter Kuntz not only has a great name, but is physically huge, close to seven feet tall, broad shouldered and heavily overweight, with almost unnaturally huge hands, and large, coarse, pale features. His fingers are so fat that he can’t use a normal keyboard, and when he clutches a pen it looks like a toothpick in his hand. I call him the Mountain Troll. I don’t actually know what his skill-set is, but as soon as I spotted him, I had him seconded to London with a big pay rise. He barely speaks English, which is fine, because he has a deep, guttural, booming voice that seems to get him what he wants without actually mastering the relevant language. He’s a natural for my team, and his first assignment is Bartons. They’ll love him.

  We arrive early, and sit at the head of the table with Rory. It doesn’t normally work like this. Usually the troops assemble, chat among themselves, exchange a little banter, and then Rory arrives when he’s ready. Today their faces tell the story as they arrive, smiles disappear and they glance anxiously at their watches. No, they aren’t late. Rory and the new owners are early.

  The faces are different from my time – investment bankers are a pretty mobile bunch, moving from firm to firm before their bad deals catch up with them, leaving as soon as their two year guaranteed bonus periods expire to sign on somewhere else on what they hope will be better terms.

  There are twelve men and three women, which seems pretty enlightened by City standards, but then I realise that one of the women is a secretary who is taking the minutes and another is there to pour the coffee.

  Rory clears his throat. ‘Good morning. I’d like to introduce…’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ I cut across him before he can finish his sentence. ‘I think everybody knows me.’ A deathly hush descends. I like deathly hushes. They’re wondering if I’m about to hand out black bin-liners. They really have no idea. That would be far too quick.

  Rory looks flustered. This is his territory, and he wants to re-assert himself. ‘Dave, perhaps we could go round the table and the team could introduce themselves and say a few words…’

  ‘Nah.’ I cut him off with a wave of my hand. There’s a long silence. I stare around the room, looking at each of them in turn. I like long silences even more than deathly hushes. Silences can be hugely productive. They give me the chance to work out who these people are. I spot the nervous ones, the no-hopers, the arrogant ones who couldn’t give a damn, and even one who seems to find it all slightly amusing – probably already has an offer from another firm.

  I clear my throat. ‘Let me introduce two colleagues from Grossbank, Doktor Grubmann, on my left, and Doktor Kuntz on my right. They are going to assess the department’s work, its key client relationships, its skills, experience and track record, and then…’ I pause and look around the table again, ‘…and then they’ll make recommendations.’ I turn to the Mountain Troll, beside whom Rory looks like a primary schoolboy. ‘Doktor Kuntz, would you care to make a few remarks?’

  Kuntz has barely understood a word I’ve said, but Werner has briefed him on what to d
o next. In his deep, booming, growling voice he launches into a twenty minute speech – all of it in German – that varies between the purely aggressive and the completely totalitarian, punctuated by periodic arm waving and fist-smashing on the conference room table to illustrate a point, while Rory and the team stare in disbelief. It’s 1940 all over again, only without the RAF.

  When he finally finishes, I turn to him and nod my appreciation. ‘Thank you, Doktor Kuntz. I think that concludes the welcoming remarks.’

  Christ, I love my job.

  * * *

  THERE IS a postscript, about three months later.

  I stand watching lines of sad faces trooping out of the Bartons building. They are all carrying black bin-liners with their personal possessions, having cleared out their desks. Nice, discreet black bin-liners of the sort favoured by Human Resources people when they get to have their fifteen seconds of glory and finally nail the arrogant hot shots who have never respected them, and whom they are finally making redundant. ‘Here, take a black bin-liner and clear out your desk. Then off you go, out into the street. No one will notice. We all carry black bin-liners these days.’

  When the last person leaves the building, around eight o’clock at night, I’m filmed standing in front of the main entrance, as someone flicks a switch and the lights go out all over the building. It’s a moment of great symbolism. A hundred and fifty years of British banking tradition. London’s last chance at a home-grown global investment banking player. Stripped of its capital, all I kept was the investment management business that was housed elsewhere. The investment banking business has been written down to nothing in what some in the press have unhelpfully called a scorched earth policy.

  It’s a poignant moment, and I put a handkerchief to my cheek for the cameras, then – yeehaa! – off to celebrate in the private dining room at Colon, the in-place on the King’s Road, Chelsea, with Erica from Amsterdam and Eva from Hamburg.

  A few months later I’ll be back, in the early hours of a Saturday morning, when the City is more or less empty, the whole area cordoned off, and the building swathed in thick plastic sheeting to prevent glass or debris dispersing around the area. That’s when I get to press the button.

  We all have our demons to slay.

  Me especially.

  * * *

  I’M WALKING down the King’s Road, after paying my semi-annual visit to the flat off Sloane Square where Wendy, my avaricious ex-wife, lives with Samantha, our daughter and her meal ticket.

  By my rough calculation the visit has cost me about £300,000 – about half a peanut based on my last year’s compensation, but I’m not going to tell Wendy that. It needn’t have cost even this much, but I was always a soft touch, and I definitely don’t want Wendy and her lawyers finding out how much I’m making. Besides, it’s easier to write a cheque than actually do the whole ‘quality time’ thing. Or maybe I’m just lazier than I am greedy.

  Anyway, Wendy obviously needs holidays in Verbier (Christmas), Klosters (February half-term), the Seychelles (Easter) and Tuscany (the school summer vacation) so that Samantha can learn to ski, swim, sail, ride, etc. And now that Samantha is four, Wendy needs more help in the flat, so a second housekeeper is going on the payroll, along with various part-time tutors, and of course she really ought to have her own driver. Then there’s the question of air travel. What with all the security scares, she has to take Samantha by private jet, and so on and so forth. After an hour of this, feeling irritated and vaguely bored, I need a break and some fresh air.

  Tom is driving the Merc slowly along the pavement beside me, the Range Rovers are in convoy, and the Meat Factory are with me, Scary Andy on my left and Arnie the Terminator on my right, with the rest of the team around us. It’s a sunny day and we’re all wearing sunglasses to go with our suits and ties. It could be a scene straight from Reservoir Dogs.

  Anywhere else in the world we’d get curious looks, but this is the King’s Road, Chelsea, and most of the people who live around here are just like me – they live in their own social exclusion zone. If a stranger isn’t famous or useful, they ignore him.

  As we amble slowly along, we come to a series of pavement cafes. At the first one, a pretty young woman with strawberry blonde hair is trying to negotiate a path for her pushchair between the tables. She’s slim, with small breasts and she’s wearing a short denim skirt and a simple t-shirt. There’s a weedy management consultant type dressed in new media black, even down to his collarless shirt and dark glasses, sitting alone at a table, tapping into one of those neat, rinky-dink little laptops that people like that can never be without, and he’s blocking her path. Naturally, he carries on tapping, pausing only to sip his decaf espresso. Jerk. It gets worse. A waiter appears and waves to her. ‘No, madam. You can’t come in here with the pushchair. We don’t have room. You’ll have to collapse it.’

  He’s an olive-skinned, vaguely handsome garlic belt European with a slightly dodgy accent and he really pisses me off.

  I stop. We all stop. The Meat Factory follow my glance and stare at the waiter. I really don’t give a shit about the stupid woman and her pushchair, but it pisses me off when people piss me off. I remove my sunglasses and step forward so that I’m standing in front of the waiter and he can’t ignore me. I pause and look him in the eye, saying nothing. He looks uncertain. His uncertainty visibly increases when Arnie and Scary Andy step forward and stand on either side of me. I lean close to him, so close that he probably thinks I’m going to kiss him. The woman has stopped trying to get her pushchair past the management consultant and is watching what is going on. I whisper in the waiter’s ear.

  ‘Why don’t you go fold some napkins?’

  It’s a wonderful moment. The Sopranos meet the King’s Road, Chelsea. Guess who blinks first. As the waiter scurries off to the back of the café, I hear the door of the Merc slam and Tom appears beside me.

  I nod towards the management consultant, who is tapping into his little machine just a bit too studiously.

  ‘Tom, could you help this gentleman to get out of the lady’s way?’

  Tom bends down and grasps the man’s chair on either side, and lifts it – and him – up into the air and places them on top of the table. The guy shouts ‘Hey, what are you doing?’ in a terrified, squeaky sort of voice, and hangs onto his laptop and the edge of the chair. Then he’s no longer sitting at the table, but on it. Strange how a few extra feet of elevation can change a man from Cool to Pratt. A couple of Sloane Ranger types walk past and laugh. I nod in their direction. ‘Installation art.’ This cracks them up even more.

  The woman with the pushchair has decided it’s best to leave. I pass Tom a wad of notes. ‘See if you can get the lady a table at the place next door.’

  She’s not sure how to respond. ‘It’s all right, actually I…’

  ‘I insist. You shouldn’t have to put up with crap like that. Let me buy you a coffee.’ I give her what I hope is a dazzling smile. She’s actually quite pretty, with definite possibilities. I look down at the child in the pushchair. ‘And what’s your name?’

  The woman is flustered, unsure whether to get the hell out of Dodge or be charmed. ‘Her name’s Ruth. She’s nearly two.’

  ‘Fantastic age. Come on, let’s go next door and have that coffee. I’m gasping for one. My name’s Dave, by the way, Dave Hart.’

  ‘I’m Paula. Paula Hayes.’ We shake hands, and she has a delightfully powerful grip. I’m a sucker for a woman with a firm grip.

  We leave the dork to climb down by himself and go next door for a coffee. Christ, I’m nice. If I was this nice all the time, even I might start to like me. I ask more about the baby, and coo and gurgle at her, and I ask about Paula, what she does (nothing, she lives in Chelsea), where in Chelsea she lives (just off Sloane Avenue) and finally, having spotted her wedding ring, what her husband does.

  ‘Sean’s a banker.’

  ‘Really? Small world. I’m in banking too. What area does he work in?’


  ‘Syndicated loans. Please don’t ask me to explain. I have no idea what it is he actually does.’

  ‘Syndicated loans? You’re kidding – is that the Sean Hayes?’ She shrugs, embarrassed, not sure how to respond. Actually I’ve never heard of Sean Hayes, and have no interest at all in syndicated loans. But I am interested in her. I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a business card, which I slide across the table. ‘I run Grossbank in London, Sean will have heard of me. We’re desperate to hire a new head of syndicated loans.’ At least we will be as soon as I get into the office and fire whoever it is who runs syndicated loans at the moment. ‘We’re paying top dollar.’ She reaches out to pick up the card and I place my hand on hers. ‘You will promise to get him to call me, won’t you?’ She blushes and gently pulls her hand away.

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  I smile and lean forward, looking her straight in the eye. ‘You see? We were meant to meet.’

  Awesome. I try to imagine her face when she’s having an orgasm. I always do this with women. I think she’d be a screamer, or at least she would be once I’d had my way with her.

  I signal the waitress to come over. ‘Check, please.’

  The waitress is late teens, Eastern European, slightly dumpy with a spotty complexion. No possibilities there. I hold out my Grossbank corporate Amex card, and she plugs it into a portable credit card reader.

  ‘Two coffees, nine pounds fifty pence.’

  I tap my PIN number into the machine, and when it prompts me to give a tip, I tap in ten thousand pounds, press Enter and hand it back to the waitress. She’s pressed the button and a receipt is printing out before she realises what I’ve done.