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

  Sunday, 7th November –

  B minus 39

  Today I went to church. Well, when I say I went to church, what I really mean is that I walked past the church, went fifty yards down the road, heard the organ playing and a hymn being sung, turned around and went back, to peer inside. You can probably guess my views on religion. I had my fill of compulsory church services at boarding school. It's not that I mind how people choose to spend their Sunday mornings, but it has to be said that traditional religious belief sits uncomfortably alongside the life of the global investment banker. We serve markets, rather than gods. Or perhaps the markets are our gods. Anyway, truly efficient markets are morally neutral, and our role, as the people who service those markets, facilitating global trade and economic development — the very foundations of our civilisation — is to be completely unaffected, some would say indifferent, in the face of the choices we have to make between different courses of action. If we have to recommend a choice between a strategic restructuring of a huge conglomerate, resulting in massive job losses, or an enormous investment programme, leading to huge job creation, the moral and social consequences of any decision have to be put rigorously aside. We have to focus purely on the financial and economic results of any eventual decision. Which one carries the biggest fees?

  That brings me back to church. I pulled the heavy oak door open and peered inside. There was a typical Chelsea crowd, singing in a desultory fashion, off-duty management consultants, lawyers, journalists, a television presenter whom I vaguely recognised, plus assorted spouses and children. What were they doing here? It was Sunday morning, the time when some of us have only just surfaced, unshaven, to venture out and buy a paper, and here they were, scrubbed, shaved, dressed, and worst of all, actually smiling. It was as if they'd all been given monster bonuses, and didn't have to worry any more. But I knew — and in their hearts they had to know too — that they were running away from reality. Whatever they got from church wouldn't buy them a 911 Turbo Cabriolet, or His and Hers Rolexes, or even a week in Barbados at Sandy Lane (the only place to be seen there). I shrugged. Losers. I closed the door, quietly, making sure not to disturb them and wandered on to the newsagents, feeling hard-nosed and aggressive, my mind in overdrive again as I started working through bonus scenarios and how I'd spend the money. As we say in investment banking circles — he who dies with the most toys wins.

  Monday, 8th November –

  B minus 38

  The Monday morning meeting. It's amazing how everyone at this time of year suddenly discovers enormous prospects for new deals, new clients, new business, just around the corner, conveniently after the bonus gets paid. There is a view, to which only a cynic would subscribe, that the bonus is not really paid for past performance during the year at all, but for your perceived productivity going forward, particularly in the next financial year. That's why if you can, you put off really big ticket deals until late in the bonus year, so they're fresh in everyone's memory when those key meetings of the Executive Compensation Committee take place. Like I said, a dollar earned early in the year isn't necessarily wasted, but it doesn't carry as much weight as a dollar earned the week before the Compensation Committee meets.

  So today we all sit around and see if we can out-bullshit each other as far as exaggerated claims go. Rory sits and looks bored, until Jackie's turn. She smiles at him, flutters her eyelashes, and starts into a classic line that we've all heard a thousand times before.

  'I'm working on some major prospects in the Middle East. It seems the Sand People really want to re-structure some of their portfolios in the light of...'

  'Who?' Rory's voice cuts right across her. We all look up to see what's going on. Surely Rory isn't going to object to the old chestnut of enormous Arab wealth, huge trades, vast oil riches that need recycling — we've all used it. But he's leaning forward in his chair and staring intently at her, like a predator stalking its prey, about to spring. She looks flustered and blushes as we all gawp at her.

  'The... I meant to say, the Arabs.'

  'Do not — I repeat — do not use racist terms again.' Aha — now I see what's going on. 'It's unacceptable in this firm, or, I suspect, in any other. I will be taking appropriate disciplinary steps.'

  Well, how about that? I look down the table for Nick Hargreaves, who's grinning. An ambush! It was a fucking ambush. She didn't know it, but Rory was waiting for the chance to nail her. Sitting there at the end of the table like a nodding dog, he was waiting for her to take one step out of line — and she did. He's playing a pretty aggressive game here, though he has a roomful of witnesses on his side, and at bonus time we'll make sworn statements to anything he wants. If the rumours are right, she's got a formal complaint in hand against Nick, which most people know can't be true, but she's done it to strengthen her own position ahead of the bonus round. But Rory, bless his little cotton socks, has decided to take her on. Why would he do that? He couldn't care less if Nick gets hung out to dry. But on the other hand, it might reflect badly on him, as the head of department, if sexual harassment can go on right under his nose. So he must be... yes, that's it. He must be planning to turn it around, to put her in the spotlight, maybe even suggesting she's homophobic as well as racist, and turning the tables on her. In theory, according to the firm's Diversity Code, we must never make any kind of comments, jokes or allusions which run up against the '-isms': racism, sexism, ageism, you name it, we can't do it. Except that Jackie just did. And so today, Jackie my girl, today the Big Beast of our particular Jungle has decided you're going to be lunch.

  Jackie goes deathly pale, stares at the table and nods in acquiescence.

  Thursday, 11th November –

  B minus 35

  Jackie left today. Or at least, she didn't show up for work, and later I heard that a letter had come from her lawyers. It looks as if Rory's in fighting mood, and we've all been told we may be called upon to give evidence. Hell, right now I'd give evidence that she was guilty of cannibalism if it got me paid. Yes sir, your honour, I saw her with my own eyes. She lured passing children in off the street, offering them sweets as bribes, and after that, well I hesitate to explain in polite company what I witnessed with my own eyes... but all of it's true, I swear... at least until after the bonus.

  The sad fact is that it won't make much difference. I've no idea exactly how much she was paid last year, but my guess is not much more than two fifty, which wouldn't make much difference, whether it was split evenly thirty ways across the whole department or just seven ways among the Managing Directors (which it won't be: I'm sure if Rory's going to this much trouble, he'll keep it for himself).

  She didn't even have many decent clients for us to fight over. In fact she had one or two very difficult and badly paying clients that most of us would want to avoid. Maybe that was why she left. Anyway, she was here less than three years, and now she's history. Let's think no more about her, and instead think about... the bonus! On the way into work this morning I did some more scenario planning. I started with three million, but stopped when I realised just how ridiculous that was. Or put it another way: if I get three million, I won't have a problem thinking what to do with it.

  So instead I thought about some of the worse case scenarios — a bit reluctantly, I admit, in case thinking about them made them more likely to happen. It's not that I'm superstitious, you understand, but you never know. Anyway, I started with six fifty, the same as last year. That was disastrous. As I've already explained, six fifty gross means three ninety net, and that in turn means less than two hundred in folding money — which is a catastrophe. Take off the overdraft, the 911, and Barbados, and that's it... it's all gone... an entire year of my life... and for what?

  Then I went further. I started thinking about five hundred. At five hundred (three hundred after tax, one fifty in real money), I couldn't even pay off the overdraft, once I'd bought the 911 and paid for our winter holiday.

  I shouldn't have done it to myself — God knows, my life is
stressful enough already — but I then ran through four hundred, two fifty and one hundred. Each was more surreal than the last, each more terrifying as I worked through the consequences. At anything below two fifty I might as well not bother to get paid. Could it really happen? Was I really just torturing myself unnecessarily? I thought I knew the answer, but then I passed Rory in the corridor, and he didn't even glance in my direction — again. I felt like grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. Does he know the effect he has on people?

  Tonight I got home and Wendy wanted to make love. We don't usually make love at all during the bonus season, not because it might be bad luck, but because it's impossible to concentrate when this huge uncertainty is hanging over you. Can you imagine having sex with your beautiful, expensive, wonderful, expensive, loving, expensive, adoring, expensive wife while all the time you're wondering whether you'll make a million, half a million, two-fifty, or just a useless, hopeless, utterly disastrous hundred thousand?

  Anyway, I walked in the door and looked into the dining room. I could hear music. The table was set and candles were lit. For a moment I almost freaked — were we expecting guests? No — the table was set for two. And when I wandered through to the kitchen, there was no Samantha — she'd been put to bed early. And Wendy — well, Wendy looked terrific. She was wearing a low-cut, simple black gown by Armani, high-heeled stilettos from Fratelli Rossetti, a white gold necklace from Tiffany and amazing diamond and pearl earrings by Kiki McDonough. She looked complete, the way my wife should. And when she came and kissed me, with one of those lingering lips-half-open kisses, I thought... well, I thought what if I make two million? Think what I could buy her then. Now that is true love.

  Anyway, she took my hand and guided it to her thigh, so I could feel what she was wearing underneath her gown. I probably haven't mentioned this before, but I'm a sucker for lingerie. Okay, all right — I admit it — not lingerie, just stockings, preferably black, with suspenders. And no panties. Now I'm blushing, because I've told you too much, but what the hell — when I say stockings and suspenders, I naturally mean La Perla, and no, when you buy one of these outfits, you don't get change from a hundred pounds. So if you don't know what I'm talking about when I say how much I appreciate this stuff — I understand.

  Wendy had prepared a simple supper that started with beluga caviar, beautifully presented on crystal dishes filled with ice. It was followed by smoked salmon and a superb Grand Cru Chablis that I'd never heard of, but was delicious and which she must have picked up during the day to surprise me.

  And afterwards, well you can probably guess what happened afterwards. She whispered in my ear, told me how she knew it was always tough on me at this time of year, and led me into the bedroom...

  As if...!

  What actually happened when I got home was Wendy in tears, because the useless, hopeless, ugly, hairy-armpited Bulgarian shot-putter we employ as a nanny had stomped out after a row when Wendy caught her stealing again. It's not that we're materialistic, it's just a simple matter of principle. Another pair of earrings had gone missing, and some cash that was left lying around, and a few odd CD's, and then Wendy saw her late in the afternoon going through her handbag, and that was it. You can guess the rest — Wendy had the full hell of the late afternoon and early evening and no-one to help her. First the trauma of bathing Samantha at the most difficult time of day, when she's at her most awkward, putting her pyjamas on, reading her bedtime story, getting her to sleep, obviously having to cancel the session she had booked with her personal trainer, so that just when she most needs help to de-stress, she maxes out on STRESS. Anyway, I walked in and she was on her third gin and tonic. To be honest I can't blame her. Not that that stopped me. I work damned hard and I don't expect to come home to a wife who's half-cut, hasn't even thought about my supper and just unloads a whole bunch of trivia when the whole time I'm in a huge panic about the only matter of substance in our lives right now — the bonus.

  I slept in the guest bedroom.

  Monday, 15th November –

  B minus 31

  Dinner at Colon, the new 'in-place' on the King's Road. This was something of a coup, because it's only just opened, and it's really hot. Apparently Hugh Grant's a regular, and someone told me Madonna and Guy have been there. The reviews say the food's mediocre, the service slow, the surroundings 'airport-lounge' bland, and the prices outrageous, but that's not the point, is it? When I called to make the booking, they said there were no free tables, even on a Monday night. This really pissed me off. The maitre d's at these places think they're so fucking important because they have power. They have the power to allow the rest of us to feel good about ourselves, which is absurd, because they don't get paid a bean and mostly they're seriously inadequate people who have to get off on jerking real people around — people like me. Anyway, I had a moment of inspiration, and called back a few minutes later, putting on a different accent, and tried to book a table in Rory's name — and it worked. The idiot who took the booking even said how much he was looking forward to seeing me again. Rory has a permanent inside track to all the hottest places. Don't ask me how he does it, but he does — only tonight, he was renting it out to me!

  Sometimes, I try to dissect Rory's life, to work out how he does what he does and still succeeds as a global investment banker. Not that I'm envious, you understand, or somehow left in the shade, but sometimes I do wonder. Did I tell you he went to breakfast with the Prince of Wales? It was a breakfast for business leaders. Obviously nothing concrete or specific came of it, and no-one was expecting anything to come of it, but it was a great event to be invited to — it sent a signal, it said that some people had arrived, and others hadn't. Clearly, I hadn't. And then he was invited to a garden party at the Palace. How did that happen? Who puts the invitation lists together? Do they go around the various firms, filling slots with senior people? No — because generally speaking, investment bankers hardly ever get invited — I can't imagine why. So what is Rory's inside track? And how does he juggle all this social stuff and still play the role of investment banker? And it's not as if he's just any investment banker — he's the Leader of the Pack.

  It really fucks me off.

  But tonight at least, I was briefly a hero... well, at least in Wendy's eyes. I called her from the office to tell her where we were having dinner, and she was over the moon — it went some way towards healing the rift after last night. But then she had to hang up, which irritated me, because her personal trainer was coming to the flat to give her a massage.

  Anyway, we were having dinner with the Harrises. He works for Schleppenheim, the US investment bank that made its name in the arbitrage business. They're aggressive as hell, towards each other as well as the competition, and this time of year is sheer murder for him. By halfway through the evening, I was actually starting to feel sorry for him. It's good to get a sense of perspective now and then, which you can only do if you meet someone really unfortunate. Last year he made a million and a half, but that's not the point. He's seriously overweight, drinks like a fish — though only after hours — looks pale and pasty-faced, and I'd rate him a serious health risk. When I look across the table at him, I see myself in a worst case scenario in, say, ten years or so — except Bob Harris is two years younger than I am. He's thirty-five years old and looks like an unhealthy fifty-year-old. He has bad skin, eczema, and dandruff. He's rich as Croesus, but I know he'll never enjoy it. I really like being with him.

  His wife is called Trish, they were childhood sweethearts, and I suppose she doesn't notice how overweight he is, or his bad skin or dandruff. She's plain, dumpy, has no idea how to dress, and has come out tonight wearing a two-piece suit that could have come from M & S. How can she do this to him? I can tell Wendy really likes coming out with her too.

  Conversation centres on — guess what? — the bonus. Schleppenheim have had a terrible year. They placed a couple of big bets early on, using the firm's own capital, and both went terribly wrong. They went t
hrough a huge upheaval, even fired some of their management, which shows just how bad it was, and haven't recovered since. Naturally, no-one feels sorry for them — those who live by the sword...

  He shovels his food into his mouth as if he's worried someone will take it away from him. Maybe they do that at Schleppenheim. These US firms can be really aggressive. And he drinks like a fish, slurping great gulps of Chassagne Montrachet as if it was beer. Between courses he smokes — filthy French cigarettes that I know will make our clothes smell horrible, and which cause other diners to complain. But somehow I enjoy seeing him do this to himself. Thank God Colon hasn't succumbed to the tyranny of the health Nazis and still allows smoking.

  The thing about dinner with Bob and Sally Harris is that I always come away feeling good about myself, and terrific about Wendy. Compared to Bob Harris, I'm Brad Pitt. And Wendy — well, Wendy's Jennifer Anniston. For once, even the money doesn't matter, because these guys are just rich losers. They've stayed so true to their working class roots that they wouldn't know Giorgio Armani if he bit them on the arse — which he might, if he saw how they dress. I don't know what they do with their money, but they certainly don't spend it —at least not as far as I can tell. They don't even own a car. Can you believe that? Bob doesn't drive — he just never learned. They live in a big house in Balham — yes, Balham. They have four kids, and no nanny. That's right — no nanny. Someone even told me they have no cleaners or other help either. She does it all herself. Yes, really. Everything — the cooking, the cleaning, the school run, even the ironing. I heard they give away a huge amount of their money each year to charity, though you'd never know it — they don't say a word. Wendy and I do our bit too, of course — but we do it publicly, at charity auctions where we can show what we believe in by bidding for items donated by generous sponsors. Last year we spent five grand on a two week yacht charter in the Caribbean (actually worth ten if you paid the full retail price, but we did it for Pro-Motor, the motorists' lobbying group against bus lanes); we paid three grand for a week in a really plush ski chalet in Zermatt (actually worth four and a half, but I did it at a riot of a livery dinner for the Honourable Company of Stockjobbers), and we picked up five cases of vintage port for four grand (worth at least half as much again, but we did it for the Poodle Sanctuary). We all do our bit for charity, but why not give it a competitive edge?