At Bonus Time, No-One Can Hear You Scream Read online

  At Bonus Time,

  No-one Can Hear

  You Scream

  By

  David Charters

  Text © David Charters 2004

  ISBN 1 904027 31 8

  First edition

  Version 1.0

  David Charters is a Former diplomat and investment banker, who left the City in 2000 after twelve years working on many of the largest international flotations and privatisations. He is a partner in the investment banking boutique, the Barchester Group, co-founder of the Beacon Prize for philanthropy and is married with six children. He lives in London and Devon.

  Author's Note and Acknowledgements

  'Bonus Time' started life as a short story, but never knew when to stop growing. My publishers encouraged me to give it full rein and you have before you the result. It is not so much a chronicle of a particular time in the City of London, as the exploration of a type of character and the way that character responds to the extraordinary pressures placed upon people in the extreme situations that the City produces. Among my former colleagues, even the most ruthlessly aggressive fall short of Dave Hart and his fellows. Bartons, their bank, is not modelled on any single British merchant bank, but rather draws together the worst features of the scramble to emulate the Americans, borrowing the ugliest aspects of the soulless finance factories of Wall Street, while missing the lessons that the best US investment banks could have offered to help ensure an independent future for more British firms.

  Alice Rosenbaum brings a whole new perspective on the City, capturing the familiar and the human alongside the giant and impersonal, whether in the architecture of the Square Mile or the lifestyles of its workforce. She is a subtle and astute observer of the world around us.

  I am grateful as ever to a number of people for their help and input: Lorne Forsyth, John McLaren and Nick Webb deserve special mention, as well as Gavin Henderson of Laidlaw Capital. My oldest son, Mark, gave comments and insight, and most of all my wife Luisa kept the whole show on the road, as always.

  At Bonus Time,

  No-one Can Hear

  You Scream

  Last night I killed my boss. It was the second time this week, only this time it was much worse. He was sitting at his desk in his big, glass-sided, corner office, looking out at the trading floor with its hundreds of identical workstations, the computer screens, the phones, and us, the worker bees who feed the machine. Looking at us, as we stayed late in the run-up to the annual bonus round, putting in face time to look good, keeping busy, trying to persuade him how essential we all were. Well, I'd had enough. I wasn't essential anymore — at least I didn't feel as if I was — and I was going to act before someone took the decision for me.

  I cough nervously, glance around at my colleagues who all have their eyes glued to the screens in front of them, and pick up my briefcase from under my desk, leaving my jacket over the back of my chair. Now, this may sound straightforward, but you don't normally carry your briefcase around the trading floor unless you're going home, and when you go home, you put your jacket on. But if I put my jacket on first — at this time of year — the rest of the team will look at me and I don't want to attract attention, not at this stage.

  So I leave my jacket but pick up my briefcase and walk in a lopsided way, half hiding it in front of me as I make my way to his office with my back to the team.

  I step inside the open door and close it behind me. I reach across and pull the blinds, so we can't be seen from the floor. He looks up, puzzled.

  'What are you doing?'

  I smile, reassuring, ingratiating.

  'Rory, there's... something I wanted to discuss with you.'

  He sighs and looks at his watch. 'Okay, I'll give you five minutes, but do me a favour — no more special pleading about the bonus, okay?'

  'No, no more special pleading, Rory.' I smile again, a little nervously – still in character — and open my briefcase on his desk, but with the lid facing him so he can't see what I'm taking out. 'In fact no pleading at all.'

  I close the lid with a firm click and swing a sixteen-inch machete up in the air.

  Now, before you say anything, a sixteen-inch machete may not seem much, but it had to fit into my briefcase, which is not large. Even in London you can't just go and buy a full-sized machete without attracting some degree of attention. As I like to think I'm a little smarter than some mere criminal on the street, I'd bought the machete at auction, at Christie's, along with a collection of other memorabilia of famous nineteenth century explorers in Africa. So when I swing it through a broad arc and bring it down with a thunk into the middle of Rory's perfectly coiffed, fair-haired, blue-eyed skull, I'm actually using a piece of history.

  The problem is, it gets stuck. The weapon goes thunk, right into his head, splintering the bone. My arm is driven by the strength that can only come from years of resentment, humiliation, nervous anxiety, pitiful gratitude and festering anger. He keels over, gently and silently, his eyes roll upwards and he bumps his head on his desk with a sigh. Seeing him lying there, helpless, I put one hand on his head and struggle to wrench the machete free for a second go (and to be honest, for a third and a fourth — I'd worked for Rory a long time).

  And then he gets up! No kidding, he actually shakes his head, causing me to leap backwards, my eyes wide with fear and disbelief. He pulls himself together, lifts himself up from the desk, blood streaming down his face, eyes wide open, with the machete still sticking out of his skull. He comes round the desk towards me.

  'You always were a loser.' His words have an icy venom to them — which I suppose is understandable. 'A loser, a no hoper, a truly second rate, sub-standard investment banker. The clients don't even like you, let alone respect you, half of them only deal with you out of sympathy, and you have no future here or at any other firm.' He jabs his finger in my chest to emphasise the points, and as he finishes, he reaches up, taking hold of the machete, grasping the handle, and pulls it out of his head, allowing a stream of blood to come gushing out of the crack in his skull splashing down over his face onto the carpet. 'You can't do a damned thing right.' There's blood all over the machete as he hands it back to me, and more blood runs down his forehead and face, but it doesn't seem to bother him. 'Now get out of my office. I have work to do — including some key bonus re-calculations.' As he says this, he gives me a long, meaningful stare — one of the ones I always hate, because when someone looks at you like that, you just know they've found you out — and then he flicks a drop of blood off the end of his nose and goes back to his desk.

  When I get back to my workstation, my shirt is sticking to my sides with sweat. I pull my handkerchief out and mop my brow. As I glance around, I catch the eye of some of the other team members.

  'Brown-nosing again?'

  'Looks like it didn't pay off.'

  'Rory's got the measure of you.'

  And I start screaming. I scream so loud that I wake my wife.

  'Darling — darling, are you all right?'

  I shake my head to clear it, and reach for a glass of water from the bedside table. Wendy turns the light on.

  'It was one of those awful dreams again, wasn't it?'

  I nod, too shaken to speak.

  'Oh, my darling,' she smiles, trying to be reassuring, and hugs me, though she clearly doesn't appreciate the sweat covering me from head to toe. 'Come on, darling — look on the bright side. It's not long now, is it? Then all this uncertainty will be over. It's... how many days?'

  I glance at the clock on the bedside cabinet. Twelve thirty — half-an-hour after midnight, another day has started. 'Fifty-two days,' I gasp. 'Fifty-two days until we know.'
>
  Monday, 25th October -

  B minus 52

  It was 6:30 in the morning. I was sitting on the tube, on the Circle Line to Monument, staring into space, working out what I'd do with a million pounds. Now, before you say anything, let me explain — even senior investment bankers take the tube sometimes. I know that Rory with his chauffeur-driven car would never be seen dead on the People's Underground, and why should he? He's the boss, after all. But for the rest of us, at least those who live in Chelsea, the journey into the City is quickest by Underground, especially first thing in the morning, even if it is a little democratic when it comes to things like getting a seat and who you rub shoulders with. And I know, I know — you don't need to say it. It's true that the man sitting next to me doesn't smell of Armani Mania. He smells of... well, let's just say he smells. And a lot of these people haven't even made their first million, and many of them never will. That's capitalism. It's enough for me that I know. I don't need to say anything.

  But back to that million. We all know a million isn't what it used to be. To begin with, the Chancellor takes forty per cent. So a million is already six hundred thousand. Then the bank won't pay it all in cash. Probably half the balance will be in some form of share-based incentive — options, deferred shares, some weird derivative, or whatever. But it won't be cash and you can't spend it now — it only turns into folding money slowly, over a period of years, perhaps three or even five years, providing you stay at the bank and don't move to a competitor. If you do that, you lose it all. That's why they call these things golden handcuffs. So your actual cash in hand is perhaps three hundred thousand, and these days three hundred really doesn't go far.

  Take an example. Have you any idea how much a Porsche costs? I thought not. Well the basic Boxster comes in at a mere £30k, but no-one, I mean no-one, serious can drive one of those in the Square Mile. The minimum is the 911 Turbo Cabriolet and for that you're talking the thick end of £100k. So already a big chunk of my bonus is gone.

  I know what you're thinking — why buy a 911 at all? We already have a Range Rover — Vogue of course, with the usual extras — so why buy a second car? Well the thing is, we have to have the Range Rover. Wendy needs it to do the school run from our flat in Sloane Square to Cameron House, the private nursery school which Samantha attends, at the other end of the King's Road. It's almost half a mile, and kids these days need protection, and so does Wendy — not the world's greatest driver — so a big 4 X 4 is essential driving in Chelsea. It's also good for giving the impression that we have a place in the country, which we definitely don't yet, but would do if Rory ever got off his arse and gave me a decent bonus. And of course whenever Wendy ventures outside Chelsea, she needs protection even more — like when she takes Samantha to her Little Sweethearts ballet class in Fulham, or to her Young Prodigies violin lesson in Pimlico, her Gymnastics for Toddlers sessions in Battersea, or her Little Tadpoles swimming class in Putney. Don't laugh — if you don't do this stuff for your kids, they might not become a rock star, or Prime Minister, or win the Nobel Prize. Even White Van Man pulls over when he sees Wendy weaving down the middle of the road, talking on her mobile, staring into shop windows, at the wheel of a Range Rover.

  But back to my car. We ought to be a two car family, because if I ever need to drive to the office, for example on a Sunday, I can't arrive in a Range Rover — at least not a clean one, the way they tend to be in Chelsea. At weekends Rory drives a DB7, but then he would, wouldn't he?

  So once I've finally got myself a decent car of my own — a 911 Turbo Cabriolet — what else do I need? We still owe a hundred thousand on the mortgage on the flat, which we've paid down steadily over the past few years, and it would be satisfying to own it outright, but we already tell people we own it ourselves, so there ought to be something more... demonstrable that flows from this year's bonus. We could think about a place in the country, but then people would expect to come and stay, and we simply don't have the kind of money you need to buy a place like Rory's: two hundred and fifty acres in Sussex, his own shoot, nine bedrooms, two guest cottages, five staff — you know the sort of thing. Or maybe you don't. Anyway, a cottage is definitely out of the question, even though in terms of strict space requirements, Wendy and I, and Samantha (who's three) could technically survive in a cottage — after all, we only have three bedrooms in Sloane Square. But it doesn't matter, because a million doesn't do it, so there's no point discussing it further.

  Watches — and jewellery — always used to be a sure-fire sign of a successful bonus round, though these days people are getting more cynical. If Wendy and I treat ourselves to a new Rolex each, or better yet the latest Patek Philippe, people might think I really haven't done well and it's all a bluff.

  We could re-decorate the flat. I haven't costed that, but one of those chi-chi interior designers could transform the place for us. The problem is, I sort of like it the way it is, and I'd hate the disruption of having to move out while a bunch of Polish builders and Croatian decorators moved in. And it always costs more and takes longer than they say — we pay Chelsea prices and get Warsaw delivery times.

  If I only get a million, a few key purchases around the home are probably the best compromise — an antique dining table with chairs (less than £30k?), a new centrepiece picture for the drawing room (£20 - 25k?), a new set of crockery (£3 - 4K?) and perhaps new curtains (£10k?). We'd still have change for Barbados at Christmas, not forgetting the Porsche, and the balance I'd use to pay off the overdraft.

  Overdraft? I can see the question in the thought bubble over your head. Well, yes, I do have an overdraft. I know what you're thinking. Why does a successful investment banker have an overdraft? Well, actually we all do. No-one lives on their salary any more. Besides, Rory only pays me £100k a year, and Wendy couldn't begin to live on that. So what do you expect?

  At 11:30 I had a meeting with the Finance Director of Pattison Construction. PC — as we call them on the team — is one of the biggest and fastest growing construction companies in the UK, having come from nowhere over the past five years. We took them public on the stockmarket two years ago, and now they've come to us for advice on what to do next. Yes, really — they've come to us for advice. It amazes me, but people still do that. Naturally, my advice is that they should do whatever will pay the bank the largest fees. In this case, I recommend we list their shares on the New York Stock Exchange, so that they can access US investors, increase liquidity in their shares and send their stock price higher. None of this is true, of course. The most serious US investors already can buy their shares, without the expense and trouble of a US listing. Creating a separate pool of shares in the US reduces liquidity, and in times of uncertainty, US investors would dump their shares pretty quickly and send the stock lower. But that's all detail. I like to think I'm a big picture man. The big picture I'm thinking of today is my bonus, because as you know, it's that time of year.

  On reflection, any time of year is that time of year, but the last few weeks running up to bonus particularly so.

  Anyway, PC nods, makes all the right noises and I orchestrate the presentation like a circus ringmaster. We explain why US investors have a different valuation approach to the construction sector and will push his stock higher, a representative of our US operation explains why our tiny New York office is best equipped to do the job (after all, why would anyone want to hire a US firm to do a job in the US?), and finally I wind up with my assurance of the firm's total commitment, how much we want the business, how great it will be for them, the strategic vision, the next step forward — sometimes I think I could do this stuff in my sleep. It's not that investment banking is undemanding work, it's just that at times it's repetitive. Like repeating the same script a hundred times. Or a thousand. I've been doing this a while now. In theory you get slicker, more persuasive, more reassuring, but it can come to sound... jaded. Not that I'd ever get bored with my job, of course. I'm committed, not quite in the way that lunatics get committed to an as
ylum, but committed nonetheless.

  Afterwards, he tells me how impressed he is with our presentation, how highly he values our input, and how useful it is to be able to get genuinely sincere, impartial advice. For a moment I look at him and wonder if he's taking the piss, but then I realise he means it.

  Christ, I'm good.

  Wendy and I went to a dinner party at the Finkelsteins'. He runs the swaps desk at Hardman Stoney, one of the most successful US investment banks. He never has anything to say, always arrives at least half-an-hour late to his own dinner parties, and always looks distracted — almost vacant, though obviously that can't be right, because he runs the swaps desk at Hardman Stoney.

  The Finkelsteins have an amazing apartment in Holland Park — the sort that Wendy dreams of. You come in through a grand reception area with marble floors and twenty-four hour porterage, step into a big mirror and marble elevator, and get out onto a large landing that serves just two apartments. You buzz at double doors, both of which open when your host's butler (hired for the night — don't worry, this isn't Rory's place) receives you and takes your coats.

  The drawing room is huge, with a great view and interesting art: a contemporary bronze here, a classical marble bust there — you know the sort of thing. Or maybe not. Anyway, there are a few coffee tables and some couches, but mostly the impression is space and order. And a 'to die for' black babe dressed as a waitress offers you a drink with a 'come to bed and fuck me' smile on her face and a knowing look in her eyes. Where do they find these girls? Why can Wendy only find short, fat Filipinas and Essex girls who claim to know what they're doing, but only spill things on guests, or worse yet, on the furniture?

  Gloria Finkelstein is dressed from head to toe in Chanel — and it's wasted. Twenty thousand dollars, and you still can't defeat nature. That's without the hair stylist, the manicure, the pedicure, the botox, the lyposuction, the personal trainer, the masseur and the expensive suntan. I guess she must do something for Matt Finkelstein (or at least she did once upon a time). A few good memories and a killer of a pre-nuptial can do a hell of a lot for these American investment bankers' marriages.