At Bonus Time, No-One Can Hear You Scream Page 11

  Then Rory's voice cuts across him, 'What is it, Dave?'

  I hold the phone away from me and stare at it. It's another nightmare. It can't be real. Why hasn't Wendy shaken me awake yet? What is it with me and phones?

  I hang up.

  I cannot believe I did that. What if they call back? What about when Rory returns to the desk and asks what that was all about? What if they're re-doing the bonus numbers right now and I've blown it? I might just have blown a million pounds.

  I run for the gents' to be sick.

  Later, much later, I emerge cautiously and sneak a look at Rory's office. He's in there, talking to his PA., dictating something, I think. I walk boldly back to my workstation to resume pretending to work. A flashing light blinks at me and I pick up my phone. I freeze as I recognise Rory's voice and turn to see him staring at me from his office.

  'Dave, could you join me for a moment, please?'

  I nod, gulp, swallow air, and finally, because I can't actually speak, raise a thumbs up in his direction and hang up. I do my deep breathing exercises, but I'm already sweating as I make my way towards his office, my mind a turmoil as I desperately grope for some kind of rational explanation for my idiocy.

  For a ridiculous moment, I wonder whether to tell him the truth. He's a lousy boss and I think I could do better. I really do. You don't doubt that, do you? Success in this business is all about confidence. We're all stark naked all of the time, but some get away with it and some don't. I could get away with it, if only I got the break.

  But not today.

  Today I open the office door and try to do an engaging grin — which emerges as a toothy sneer — while Rory's PA brushes past me, contempt oozing from her every pore.

  'Don't sit down.'

  I stop and stare at him. This is not a good start. He's busy studying columns of names and figures — bonus numbers.

  'Dave — what was that call you made to Sir Oliver while I was there?'

  'C... call?'

  'Yes.'

  'Oh, you mean that call.'

  He puts his pen down, looks up and nods. He's poker-faced, impossible to read. 'Which call did you think I meant?'

  At this point I want the ground to swallow me up. 'I... I was after you.'

  'Me? What for? Why didn't you wait until I got back?'

  'I wanted to catch you before you went in. But Sir Oliver's PA put me straight through. I d... don't know why she did that. I —'

  'Why did you want to catch me before I went in?'

  All sorts of stupid thoughts fly through my mind — and this time I can't say I wanted to offer him tickets to the soccer or the rugby or the opera or the mud wrestling or any damned corporate entertainment opportunity. 'I... I wanted to say good luck. That was all.'

  The effect is amazing. He rocks back in his chair, a look of utter bafflement on his face. I'm helped in part by the fact that the words come out very quietly — because I'm shitting myself — and sound sincere. Now, on the whole, investment bankers don't do sincere — at least not with each other. We do sincere with clients, when we're pleading for business, begging for fees, swearing undying loyalty and total commitment, but we don't actually mean it. This time, I sound as if I mean it, and Rory is completely thrown. He may never have come across a situation like this before and his face betrays a mixture of emotions — gratitude, quickly replaced by suspicion, followed by guilt (about my bonus number? — Aaaaargh!) and finally bewilderment: this does not compute. He coughs.

  'Thank you, Dave. I appreciate it. I really do. In fact everything's fine. Sir Oliver's very supportive and we've agreed a press release. As far as the team's concerned, it's business as usual.'

  'That's great, Rory. No-one's more delighted than I am.'

  Great. I'm doing well — in fact better than just well. I'm doing fantastically. And so of course I have to blow it.

  'Rory — one thing just occurs to me. What will happen to Nick's — ?'

  I don't get the chance to finish the sentence, because Rory goes bright red and explodes with anger.

  'IS THAT WHAT THIS WAS ALL ABOUT? DO YOU NEVER THINK OF ANYTHING ELSE?'

  I think there may be a few people on the far side of the trading floor, possibly somewhat deaf and in need of new batteries for their hearing aids, who don't actually hear Rory's response. But on reflection I'm probably wrong.

  I shrug, desperate once again for the right response.

  'Well, it is that time of year...'

  'GET OUT!!!'

  I run. I don't mean I walk at a brisk pace while trying to preserve my dignity — I mean run. I don't even bother going back to my workstation to collect my jacket or my briefcase. I couldn't have moved faster if there was a T. Rex on my tail, or a Lottery jackpot ticket lying unclaimed at the other end of the trading floor. And where do I run? To the gents', to hide in a cubicle and cry, silently, so that no-one else can hear me. Around nine o'clock that evening I sneak back to the trading floor, after checking that everyone's gone, get my things and go home to sob my heart out with Wendy.

  Today has not been a good day — and it's not over yet.

  When I get home, the flat's in darkness. I call out to Wendy, check in the kitchen, the dining room and the bedroom. The message light is flashing on the answer-phone, so I press the Play button. It's Jean-Luc, his voice sounding remarkably cheerful as he says there's a rumour going round the Paris office that I've been fired. I hit the Delete button and tiptoe into Samantha's room, which is empty. Finally I spot an envelope on my desk in the study. It has one word written on it, in ink, in Wendy's unmistakably childlike writing — Dave. She's underlined it as if to emphasise the finality of whatever it contains, and I pour myself a whisky before sitting down to read it.

  She's gone.

  But you knew that, didn't you? She's left me for someone else, someone who has become very close to her in recent months, and she wants to start again with him. They're going to lead a different life together from the one we had — a simpler, easier, better life. All she wants from me is the flat, the car, half the bonus, half the proceeds when I eventually get my hands on my options and unvested shares, maintenance for herself and Samantha — whom she'll allow me to see on alternate weekends — and whatever else her lawyer recommends. Oh, and I'll have to pay her legal expenses. She hopes I'll understand, she's not trying to be unreasonable, but the pressure was too much, and she wants to turn her back on material things and be with a man who truly loves and understands her. She's already taken her clothes, her jewellery, some pictures and other bits and pieces of artwork, the car, and 'as a precaution' has drawn some money from the bank — increasing the overdraft. She hopes we can do this amicably, if only for Samantha's sake, because it's her we should think of first and foremost.

  Shit.

  But she's right of course. I'd be lying if I said our marriage had been the greatest ever union of two people, and it's not as if I haven't occasionally — well, you know — but as it sinks in I feel a curious mixture of emotions: relief, that now I can go out and get laid whenever I want; concern that people might think I've somehow failed; anger that she's going to rip me off financially in what seems certain to be a terrible year; optimism that I can effectively trade her for a younger, more beautiful, more amenable model; outrage at what she's already taken — including my daughter, my own flesh and blood — and ultimately despair, because even my resolution and capacity for rationalising any setback are finally exhausted. I've lost my wife and daughter. I've lost my right hand, my trusted aide and confidante, my ally as I fought my way through the corporate jungle. She was the reason I did all this — well, her and the money and the lifestyle. I'll probably lose my home and most of my possessions, and with my bonus prospects down the toilet, I just can't see how I'm going to dig my way out of this one. Forget Barbados, forget the Porsche, forget the makeover for the flat — in fact forget the flat altogether. I'll have to go and live somewhere terrible like Fulham. When I look around me the brutal finality of it al
l sinks in. I feel physically sick. It's over.

  How could she do this to me? I gave her everything — everything — a woman could want. Well, maybe not an actual place in the country, and okay, the flat's not as nice as the Finkelsteins', but we would have got there. At least I didn't make her live in Balham like Bob and Irish Harris. And I know that Wendy would have looked great cruising down the King's Road on a sunny day in the 911, with the top down, wearing her Gucci shades. There's a new range of brushed gold jewellery from Tiffany that she would have looked amazing in — I already had my eye on the necklace and earrings as a post-bonus surprise for her. And then there's Barbados. She always loved Barbados.

  I'd like to say that I cried myself to sleep, curled up in a ball on her side of the bed, sniffing her perfume on the pillow.

  But of course I don't. I decide that activity is key, so I check the tickets for Barbados and leave a message on the answer-phone at the travel agents, asking if hers is transferable, and start thinking who I might take in her place. Then I call round the various credit card firms to cancel her cards, and leave another message for the bank. On a whim, I phone the police and tell them the car's been stolen — that should be worth a laugh in the morning. And finally I go to the storeroom where she kept her mementoes of childhood and schooldays boxed up in an old chest, and take the whole lot down to the basement and tip it into the rubbish skip. It's not exactly progress, I know, but at least it keeps me from hitting the bottle. It's not yet midnight, and I'm all alone, worn out, and desperately in need of a good night's sleep before tomorrow.

  So naturally I hit the bottle.

  One whisky becomes two, two turn into three, and soon a nearly new bottle is empty. And then, when I should be at my lowest point, when lesser men would be thinking of despair or even suicide, from deep inside me comes a strength I never knew I had. This is not it. I know I have to carry on, I can't give up now, because people like me simply don't do that, and while I still have the presence of mind to do so, I set the alarm for tomorrow morning before passing out sobbing on the sofa.

  Even in my sleep, I'm troubled. She's left me for a fucking personal trainer. How shallow is that? Mind you, it could have been worse. In my dreams, my tortured mind plays tricks on me. What if it was Matt Finkelstein? Or Bob 'Fat Man' Harris? Or Jean-Luc? Or Rory... Or all of them...

  Thursday, 16th December -

  Bonus Day

  I wake at 4:00 am, well before the alarm, and start pacing round the flat in the darkness. My mind's a blur of racing, crazy thoughts. I check the answer-phone three times for messages from Wendy. Nothing. I call her mobile, but it's turned off, and I don't want to leave a message. I stand in front of the mirror, naked, and stare at myself. Overnight I seem to have aged about five years. My hair is wildly tangled, streaked with grey that I never seemed to notice before. My eyes are bloodshot from a combination of whisky and tears. My hands are shaking. I think that perhaps I'm going mad. I won't ask what you think.

  I steel myself. Today is Bonus Day. The most important day of the year. As they say in the movies, this is not a drill. It's the real thing, and I have to get in early. Get in early and be on the phone, talking to a client — a real one, if I can find one that early, maybe someone in Hong Kong or Singapore — and avoid eye contact with any of the surviving members of the team. There's no point in not showing up at all, because if there's a chance, for the sake of one day and a little more humiliation, I might as well collect whatever's coming my way.

  I ignore the empty flat, my aching head and back, and force myself to take a shower and get ready for work.

  And then there's my briefcase. I want to get in early to get my briefcase under my workstation without anyone asking what's in it or why I don't just leave it open on the desk where it usually sits.

  Today's the day, and there's no reason not to.

  When Rory comes in, half an hour later than usual, I have final confirmation that I've blown it. Yesterday was the last nail in my coffin. He sweeps past me, makes polite remarks to a couple of the others, then goes to his office and closes the door. After a few minutes, his PA takes his coffee in, and when she re-appears, she has a list of timings for us each individually to see Rory to get paid for the year. He's left me till last, making me wait until he's seen everyone else on the team, even the juniors — hanging me out to dry, no doubt to savour the moment. I look up, catch his eye and he curls his lip disdainfully.

  Well, that's it. I've had enough.

  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. But you know all this, don't you? You know how I walk over to Rory's office, in a sort of lop-sided way, half concealing my briefcase from the watching eyes of the team, go in, close the door behind me and draw the blinds. You know how this makes him look 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. For an awful, tantalising moment, a voice inside my head seems to be saying that this isn't inevitable, it doesn't really have to happen this way. There is an alternative. But then my eyes fall on the paper in front of him, a list of names ordered to match the sequence of meetings. The name at the bottom is easy to read, because it's mine.

  Twenty five thousand pounds.

  I glance quickly up the list. Rory doesn't even attempt to cover it up. He wants me to know that mine's the smallest number. A number so small that no Managing Director in the history of the firm has ever been paid so little. In this business, size really does matter. Even the juniors are getting more than me. It would be kinder to fire me.

  I smile and shake my head as I rest my briefcase on his desk and flick the catches to open it.

  'No, Rory — no more pleading at all.'

  THE END