At Bonus Time, No-One Can Hear You Scream Page 3

  By my calculations — based only on rumour and speculation — Rory must have been paid over twenty million pounds since he joined the firm four years ago. But do you think it makes him happy, all that material wealth? You bet it does. It makes him as happy as a pig in shit.

  Wouldn't it make you happy?

  Monday, 1st November-

  B minus 45

  Things are hotting up. I was sitting in my usual cubicle in the gents, reading a copy of the Sun left there by one of the traders, when I overheard a whispered conversation between two colleagues.

  First voice (sounds American, I'm not sure who it is): 'Jackie's suing!'

  This must be Jackie Thornton, a Vice President who was once considered a rising star, but seems to have had a bad year.

  Second voice (Bill Mackay, who sits at the next but one workstation to me): 'Is that right? But do you think it's true?'

  'Nah — but right now she's desperate. All she has to do is threaten to sue and she becomes ironclad. Not only can she not be fired — assuming anyone other than juniors will get fired — but she has to be well paid.'

  'But the guy she's accusing is gay — she must know, surely? Everyone else does. He's the last person who would ever touch her.'

  I almost start laughing at this point. They must be talking about Nick Hargreaves, who as far as I know is the only gay member of the team, and incidentally one of the top producers. The idea of Jackie, who thinks she's so smart, suing the only gay member of the team for what must be sexual harassment just makes me want to laugh out loud. But naturally I don't, because getting caught eavesdropping in the gents' is definitely not good form.

  Talking of sexual harassment, the head of the Paris office was in town today, lobbying Rory ahead of the bonus. I've always liked Jean-Luc. He has the widest smile you ever saw, struts like a cockerel in a three-piece suit with a gold pocket watch, exuding a total confidence that he is the handsomest, coolest, smartest man ever to walk the planet (even though he's overweight and has a shiny bald head and glasses with inch-thick lenses). Only a Frenchman could do this.

  Naturally, as he was on expenses, a few of us went out with him after work to catch up on developments in the French market, exchange views on business strategy, compare notes about marketing and origination, and get laid.

  Did I say 'get laid'? I thought I did.

  I suppose I owe you an explanation. One of the things about the pressure cooker environment of investment banking is that you need to let off steam. People do that in various ways — drink, drugs, gambling, you name it. In Jean-Luc's case — being a Frenchman — it's women. He's a member of a very exclusive club, called Andrea's, just off Dean Street in Soho. We piled into a cab and headed off there.

  At Andrea's — where I am not a member — you ring the bell (naturally, there's no sign outside), wait while they scrutinise you on camera, then get buzzed in and go downstairs to be checked in by giant doormen, who are very respectful, and call you 'sir' and 'gentlemen', but everyone knows who's really in charge. Then you go through to a pretty mediocre, dimly lit bar, and pay nearly a grand a bottle for fairly average champagne, which you drink in discreet booths, designed to prevent you catching the eye of the other patrons. Just in case you know them.

  Sounds awful, doesn't it? Well, it is awful, until you 'go outside'. 'Going outside' is shorthand for leaving the bar to visit the other part of the club, where the girls are (and if you're so inclined, guys too). Of course, being married, I've only ever heard stories of what happens when you 'go outside'. It usually takes Jean-Luc about half an hour, which is not long, and afterwards he just wants to smoke cigarettes and stare wistfully into the fireplace. If he's in a particularly expansive mood — or wants to get you on side for something, like putting in a good word for him ahead of the bonus — he might invite you to 'go outside' too — on his expense account, of course.

  Naturally, as a happily married man, I've never been outside.

  There is a story that when Jean-Luc first joined the firm, he was taken to Andrea's by one of the old directors, long since departed in some bear market cull, who went outside to find a girl for his guest. When he brought her into the bar to point her in the direction of Jean-Luc, suggesting to her what she might want to do to him, she giggled, 'Oh, you mean Jean-Luc? I already know what he likes. We all do.'

  I did say he was a Frenchman.

  Which brings me on neatly to the Kai Tak Convention. If you've never heard of it, I'm not surprised, because it doesn't exist, at least outside of investment banking circles. The Kai Tak Convention is the unspoken code whereby investment bankers on business trips never, ever reveal on their return anything that might — hypothetically speaking, of course — have occurred in the course of their trip. Because that wouldn't be in anyone's interest, would it?

  It's rather like the old joke about the patient in the dentist's chair. Just as the dentist is about to start wielding a particularly nasty looking drill, the patient's hand shoots out and takes hold of the dentist's testicles, gently but firmly, whereupon he looks the dentist carefully in the eye, and says, 'We're not going to hurt each other, are we?' Well, investment bankers don't hurt each other either. At least not when it comes to little things like minor peccadilloes on business trips to Hong Kong, Manila, Bangkok, Moscow, St Petersburg, New York, Milan, Paris, Amsterdam, Stockholm, Helsinki, Berlin, Prague, Madrid...

  Anyway, without being crude about it, we get to earn a lot of Air Miles. It's one of the compensations of the job.

  So there we were, sitting in Andrea's, drinking champagne, with sensual delights by the roomful just the other side of the wall, and what did we do? We talked about the bonus. You know a man is serious about something when he isn't distracted even by the pleasures that one of London's top clubs allegedly has to offer. Dedication is the name of the game — at this time of year, we all stay faithful to our purpose.

  Anyway, that's all you need to know.

  Tuesday, 2nd November –

  B minus 44

  After last night, I feel rough. I look at myself in the mirror. It's one of those awful self-awareness moments. I can deal with the lines and the bags under my bloodshot eyes, the shadows and the first grey hairs. I can deal with my paunch, and the way I seem to be perpetually stooping after years spent hunched over a workstation. Those are almost a badge of office. What I can't deal with is the fact that I'm a loser. I hate my job. I hate my boss. But my biggest fear is that I'll get fired. Am I fucked up or what?

  Don't answer that — I had a late night and now I'm feeling terrible, so give me a break.

  And besides, there's something else. Last night the dream thing happened again. Rory was running through a forest in the moonlight, the ground covered in snow, working hard so that his frozen breath puffed out in front of him and desperate to escape, but I was faster. I was wearing an ice-hockey mask, overalls and carrying a chainsaw, which roared every time I squeezed the trigger, making him panic, blubber and run all the harder, though he knew and I knew that in the end he couldn't escape. What happened next is... well, you can probably guess what happened next. Wendy shook me, I was soaked in sweat, the sheets were drenched, and I actually looked at my hands to see if they were covered in blood and bits of gore from where I'd first sliced his arms and legs off and cut open his torso. My hands were actually shaking. I looked at Wendy and wondered if I was really losing my marbles.

  I sat for a while on the edge of the bed, and Wendy fetched me a glass of water, though she had to hold it to my lips to drink, because I was shaking so much. She looked at me. I could see the question in her eyes.

  'Just a dream. A bad dream. I'll be all right in a minute.'

  Wendy never questions me. We're a team. We're on life's great journey together, and where I go, she goes.

  I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night, and I looked like shit when I arrived at work. Mercifully, when I looked around the team, I could see I wasn't alone. There were a lot of other pale faces and dark-shadowed ey
es. It's the time of year. Nick Hargreaves was the worst. If what I'd overheard in the gents was correct, I could understand why. And then I spotted something. On his desk he had a copy of a Christie's catalogue for an upcoming auction — 'The Christie's Africa Sale'. I got up and asked if I could take a quick look at it, and there, on page seventeen, I saw the machete from my dream.

  Now this really freaked me out. This was weird. I mean, in the movies, yes, stuff like this can happen — but not in real life. Or maybe I'd seen a poster somewhere advertising the sale. Maybe somewhere in my subconscious I'd registered something without realising it. I looked at the date of the auction: three days before the bonus announcement. Weird.

  * * *

  There are times when I wish I was Rory. That may sound strange, but it's true. I happened to be passing his office late this afternoon, when I heard his secretary confirming a business trip for him. Naturally, his chauffeur would pick him up from home to take him to — Biggin Hill! I suppose the name doesn't mean very much to you. It's a former Second World War airfield, you might vaguely recall it from watching old movies.

  In investment banking circles, it means a whole lot more. In investment banking circles, Biggin Hill has real resonance. It means freedom — freedom from the burden of travelling with the general public on ordinary flights from airports crowded with ordinary people. To us, it means seniority, privilege and success. Biggin Hill means smokers.

  Smokers? Let me tell you. A smoker is a private jet, and Rory gets to fly in a GV You don't know what a 'gee five' is? I'll explain. The Gulfstream Five is not just any old executive jet. On the team we call it Air Force One. Rory once flew between four continents in twenty-four hours, changing flight crews as he went, juggling the kind of schedule that only global investment bankers can manage. The GV can technically take up to fifteen people, but Rory's jet is equipped just to take him and up to five colleagues. It goes at Mach .885, and flies at up to 51,000 feet, higher and faster than commercial airliners — public transport — literally leaving them in its wake. The firm doesn't own it. That might look bad to shareholders. We lease it. So not only does it make Rory's life more efficient, but it's tax-efficient too. And it's very efficient indeed when he wants to get away for a long weekend to relax and reflect on the future direction of the business, in Rhodes or Capri or Monte Carlo, maybe with his wife, maybe without. I'm sure if it was properly costed, we'd realise how much we save by providing Rory with the GV — it's a bargain and if anyone were ever to ask me — not that anyone would — I'd tell them I'm all in favour of Rory having whatever jet he wants. Or anything else, for that matter, at least this side of the bonus.

  Though, in strictest confidence, there is one thing that really pisses me off. I've never been aboard the GV No, not even once. Jackie has. In fact when she first joined, she and Rory used it for a whole load of strategy weekends and off-sites. But these days it looks as if she's grounded, the same as the rest of us.

  Sometimes I feel as if I'm destined to live my life with my nose pressed against the window, a permanent outsider desperately peering in at where the real action is.

  'He'll be flying alone, and he'd like the same stewardess as last time.' His secretary's words say it all — this man has arrived. 'No, he prefers the '85 Dom Perignon.'

  What can I say?

  Which brings me to the subject of expenses. In the good old days, it was understood that senior investment bankers didn't really need to worry about expenses — the market was roaring away, share prices were rising, we were all making money, and expenses were a detail. We actually used to authorise each other's expenses. An extremely workable arrangement. Today things are different — we live in a tougher climate. Accountants and financial controllers actually have influence, and management listens to them. They have the authority to question things like the two thousand pound bottle of Yquem I ordered at dinner with the Chief Executive and Chairman of Pattison Construction a few weeks ago. The total bill for dinner for four was a little over five thousand, which would not be unreasonable as part of the softening up process of an important client about to award us a major mandate. The irritating thing is that neither of them was actually present at the dinner — yes, I admit, it was one of those dinners, but God knows, we are all guilty of a little exaggeration now and then. Anyway, had they been at the dinner, it would have been a great opportunity to broaden and deepen our relationship. Instead, I took Wendy and her parents to dinner, and must have accidentally used the corporate credit card instead of my own. We've all done it from time to time.

  The problem now is how to explain. And the worst part of it is that the person I have to explain to is an underpaid, uncouth, unpleasant individual named Samuelson, who thinks people like me are overpaid, arrogant, unreliable and probably dishonest. He's sent me a note, asking me to justify the expenditure, and copied it to Rory. If I ever find myself in a position of authority, little shits like Samuelson will be toast. Then a light goes on in my head. I have the solution.

  I prepare two replies. The first is to Samuelson, apparently copied to Rory. I grovel and schmooze and weasel my way around the issue, saying that the chairman of Pattison Construction chose the dessert wine, and that there were four of them on their side, not three, as originally suggested (I just had a salad, instead of a main course), and pointing out that in fact three thousand pounds (thereby excluding the cost of the Yquem, which I had been obliged to buy out of courtesy for the client) for dinner for five people, of whom four were clients, was expensive, but not totally unreasonable, and had to be seen in the context of the development of the overall relationship, and imminent business prospects which I was not at liberty to reveal to him for reasons of confidentiality relating to price sensitive information. Just the right mix of taking him seriously, flattering him, sharing hints of 'inner circle' information with him, apparently treating him as an equal, but then reminding him who generates the revenue around here. And I apparently copied it to Rory, who would also see that I was taking him seriously, which could do his bonus prospects no harm at all. But then my masterstroke — I prepared a second version of the note to Samuelson, which I would actually copy to Rory alone. It was much brusquer, sharper, reminding him of the importance of carefully targeted, well thought through 'rifle shot' entertainment of the right people in the right way, emphasising the false economy of entertaining key clients on the cheap, and citing a ten million dollar revenue-generating transaction which we are very close to, but which is still highly competitive. To Rory this is a reminder that I'm out there playing in the big league, swinging through the corporate jungle with the big hitters, there's a large deal just around the corner, and I'm not taking any shit from bean counters. When Samuelson fails to challenge me — which he would in a second if he saw this version — Rory will realise who gets respect around here. A masterstroke.

  Afterwards, I worry that I've never actually met the Chief Executive and Chairman of Pattison Construction — I only know the Finance Director. But I guess that's a detail.

  Wednesday, 3rd November –

  B minus 43

  Today my worst nightmare happened. Well, not quite my worst nightmare, but something pretty bad. I got stuck on the Underground. To anyone accustomed to travelling by Tube, this may not sound too frightening — irritating, yes, even inconvenient, but not life-threatening. And for anyone used to living in the Third World country that modern Britain has very nearly become — at least outside the Square Mile — it was almost normal. Except that today we were launching a deal.

  Today the European subsidiary of All Nippon Rubber were bidding for the Great Western Chassis Company. The bid would be announced at the market opening and I had to be there, so I left half an hour early to get into work. I didn't actually have anything to do with the bid, and had never met the client, but it was essential to be around when the deal happened.

  It was actually Nick who was working on the deal, having been briefed by the Corporate Finance team, and I had only learned abo
ut it last thing yesterday. But that really didn't matter. If it was well received, I'd make a point of going around to anyone senior and influential to tell them about the deal, so that they first heard about our role in it from me. I could bask in reflected glory, while Nick was still too busy actually doing the deal to take any laps of honour himself. On the other hand, if it went badly, I'd keep my head down and carefully pick my moment to wander over to anyone who was around from the Management Committee. Shaking my head sorrowfully, I'd let them know that it really was Nick's baby, and maybe he'd been just that little bit too ambitious, just a tad too aggressive, perhaps a little impatient — all great qualities in an investment banker, providing they weren't taken too far. He always had the best of motives, of course, and naturally he'd learn from this one and I for one was still optimistic about his long-term potential...

  So that was the plan, but half way into work, midway between stations, the train stopped. To begin with, I wasn't concerned. I glanced at my watch, then carried on reading my paper. The carriage was crowded, but I had a seat and I wasn't sitting next to anyone too objectionable. After a few minutes, people started to complain. An old lady standing in the middle of the carriage, barely able to reach the straps hanging from the ceiling, started giving me 'meaningful' looks, as if she thought I was going to offer her my seat. Instead I just gave her one of my wide, beaming smiles, nodded encouragingly and went back to the FT market report. Still nothing happened, and then a very large, very pregnant, very ugly woman pushed her way through to me and asked in a thick Midlands accent if I'd mind giving her my seat. She was probably in her early thirties, but looked older. Her bushy, unplucked eyebrows very nearly met in the middle, she had a teenage boy's moustache, a mole on her cheek with long bristly hairs coming out of it, a sweaty sheen across her face and was wearing crimplene and polyester with clumpy, square, practical shoes. Why on earth would anyone ever breed from her? I looked around indignantly, but all the other seated passengers seemed to be very old, very infirm, and mostly women. Damn — this is what happens when you have a means of transport without First Class.