Dave Hart Omnibus Page 6

  Anyway, we were having dinner with the Harrises. He works for Schleppen- heim, 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 through 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 Stock Jobbers), 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?

  Anyway, back to the Harrises. I’ve noticed how he not only bolts down his food, but he always goes for the least healthy items on the menu too. I wonder if he has some kind of unconscious death wish, a desire to escape from his awful life, the sole Brit in a firm that epitomises American corporate aggression on steroids, a house in Balham with no help, and a fat wife who can’t dress to save her life. No matter how much he gets paid, I always know that when we meet for dinner, Wendy and I will look like the stars, and the other diners will assume we’re taking our poor cousins from the country to see the sights.

  But tonight was different.

  It pisses me off now just to think about it. It started to go wrong in the most horrific way imaginable. We’d just finished our main course, and Wendy and I were feeling good about refusing dessert, while Bob and Sally ordered crème brûlée, when I heard a familiar voice calling out from across the restaurant.

  ‘What a surprise – fancy seeing you here.’ It was Rory – Rory!!! He was sitting at a table on the far side of the restaurant, with a fantastically beautiful woman whom I thought I recognised, though I couldn’t be sure. How could he actually be here, on the very night I’d booked a table in his name? What had the maitre d’ said when he arrived? Coincidence can stretch so far, but this was insane!

  I beamed and got up as he came over, his hand outstretched and a warm smile on his face.

  ‘Rory – it’s great to see you.’ I wiped my sweating palm down the side of my trousers and held out my hand in greeting as I prepared to introduce him to Wendy, Bob and Sally, all the time searching desperately for an excuse about why I’d used his name to book a table.

  But he walked right past me. He walked right past me and shook Bob by the hand. Bob! Of all the people he could shake by the hand, it was this loser from Schleppenheim, this shabbily dressed, overweight, unhealthy guy with dandruff.

  Bob didn’t get up but kind of grunted and shook Rory’s hand in the gruffest, most perfunctory manner possible.

  At this point I had some catching up to do. ‘I… I… er… didn’t know you two knew each other.’

  They ignored me. Rory started talking with huge enthusiasm about some charity that Bob was funding for asylum seekers. Asylum seekers! I mean – what on earth is going on – and Rory approves! Has he lost his marbles? Has Bob? Or have I?

  They talk nineteen to the dozen for almost five minutes, with Sally joining in, while Wendy and I just look on, nonplussed, irrelevant and by-passed, until finally Rory says to Bob – yes, to Bob – ‘I didn’t know you knew these people.’

  These people – he hadn’t even said hello, let alone gone through the motions, which one would normally do, of being polite to an employee’s spouse. He feels he can call Wendy and me ‘these people’. We’re fucking REAL PEOPLE, in case you didn’t know it, and yes, I might have stepped mildly out of line by booking a table in your name, but it’s not the worst crime in the world and right now our life is hell because of you and your fucking bonus.

  Obviously I don’t say this. I smile, Wendy smiles, Sally smiles, and Bob, whom I could kiss, says, ‘We’re really old friends – we go back a long way.’

  ‘Really?’ Rory seems genuinely impressed, and for the first time looks at me, a little perplexed. ‘Let me introduce my wife.’ He walks halfway back to his table, calls over, ‘Darling, come over here for a moment, would you? There are some people I’d like you to meet.’

  She smiles, a beautiful, dazzling, radiant smile and gets up to come over. She’s wearing a dress by Dolce and Gabbana, shoes by Manolo Blahnik, she’s carrying a Gucci handbag and wearing jewellery by Graff. Everything is top of the range – things you have to wait in line for, personally designed, with no compromise – if you need to ask the price, you needn’t bother, and no queue jumping, no matter who you are or how big your wallet. At least a hundred grand is walking across the restaurant towards us, and the body is perfect. Toned, tanned, and above all, elegant. She moves across the room in an almost stately fashion, impervious to the looks and stares of every woman in the place not to mention every man. It must be my imagination, but it�
��s as if a hush descends on the restaurant as she makes her way serenely towards us, oblivious to the effect she’s having. I can feel that my tongue is hanging out – metaphorically, of course – and I want to take her clothes off there and then and… but then I turn and stare at Rory as he says, ‘Bob and Sally, may I introduce my wife? Claire, darling, let me introduce you to two of the greatest philanthropists in the City of London.’

  What? Did he really say that? Philanthropists? I want to shout ‘Give me a break – you’ve just said he gives money to asylum seekers’. But of course I don’t. After Bob and Sally have shaken hands with Claire, and Rory still hasn’t introduced Wendy and me, I hold out my hand and say, ‘Hi, I’m Dave Hart – I work with Rory.’ I turn to Wendy and smile. ‘And this is my wife, Wendy.’

  Her eyes don’t exactly glaze over, but it’s as if somehow she doesn’t quite see us.

  ‘For me.’ It’s Rory. He’s looking at his wife, and then at Bob and Sally. ‘Dave works for me. Not with me.’ He’s speaking very quietly. I can feel myself blushing, stupidly, and I nod and grin. Can you believe that? I actually nod and grin. Am I a monkey or a nodding dog or what? And all for that fucking bonus, which isn’t going to be any good anyway.

  Wendy and I look on as awkward, sidelined teenagers while the grown-ups have a conversation, and when it’s over, Rory and Claire return to their table and don’t even say goodbye to us. Bob and Sally’s crème brulées have arrived and they start spooning it in, looking fat and content as if nothing had happened. I sit and wonder guiltily if Rory knows I booked the table in his name or not. He might not – I could easily imagine him asking for a table for two and no mention at all even being made of my booking. On the other hand, if he does know, and worse yet if he was actually embarrassed, he’ll wait for his moment. With the bonus just weeks away, it won’t be long coming.

  I want to scream.

  Tuesday, 16th November

  B minus 30

  LAST NIGHT was bad. I was entering a large stately home, the sort you see in films about the great families of the eighteenth century nobility. There was ivy growing over the outside of the house and I used it to climb up to a balcony where the windows were open and I could enter a bedroom. There was a huge four-poster bed with drapes drawn closed around it. I was wearing black clothes, a mask like Zorro, and carrying a sword. I pulled the drapes back at the side of the bed, to reveal, lying naked before me – Claire! And then… then I woke up, and Wendy went through the usual ritual: glass of water, arm around my shoulder, ignoring my sweat and my shaking hands and chattering teeth.

  I was going to rape Claire.

  There, I’ve said it. I was actually going to rape her, to repay Rory for the way he insulted not just me, but my wife as well. Our honour was to be restored by taking hers – and implicitly his as well. God – I shake my head and wonder how far all this will go, whether I’ll ever get used to bonus time, whether I’ll ever put all this behind me.

  It’s 2:00 am I can’t get back to sleep, so I go into the kitchen, make a pot of tea and sit staring out of the window.

  What’s it all about? Is it just money? It’s an awful question. I think I know the answer to that, so I make my thoughts go elsewhere. How much longer? I’m thirty-seven. How many more Christmases will be dominated by The Bonus? How much longer will it rule my life, validating my existence, determining my self-esteem? Should I be working on an escape tunnel, building a glider on the roof of the bank, to carry escapees away to freedom? But what is freedom and where would I go? I know almost nothing about anything worthwhile or – God forbid – useful. If Wendy tells me a cupboard door needs fixing, I tell her, ‘So get a man in to do it.’ But what is a man?

  I reach, sadly and with an air of resignation, for the whisky. Not ordinary whisky, you understand: this is a special Macallan, a rare bottling from the Second World War, and not available for sale to the general public. I’ve always thought Macallan make the best, but this is the best – and the rarest – of the best. Every drop is irreplaceable, and as I sip it – with just a dash of water – I feel better about myself. How many people in London tonight are drinking whisky like this? Or in the country? Or the world? Not only can very few people afford it, but even fewer know of its existence. This is a truly rare malt. I doubt if even Rory has ever tasted it. It was bought as a gift to present to an important client after a major deal, but somehow the celebration dinner kept getting postponed and finally never happened. I can’t even recall how it found its way to my flat. Oh well. Needs must and all that. I take another sip and feel better. This is what it’s all about.

  Wednesday, 17th November

  B minus 29

  RORY IS LOOKING at me, he’s stopped ignoring me, but it’s odd. I don’t feel comfortable, almost as if he knows that last night I was going to rape his wife. He can’t, obviously. Still, it’s a little unsettling. I even find myself wondering if he can smell the whisky on my breath, and might ask whatever happened to the presentation bottle of Macallan ordered for the Chairman of WunderKorp.

  I really can’t decide whether it’s better to be noticed, or not to be noticed. I know that sounds facile, but frankly speaking (NB: whenever an investment banker says ‘frankly speaking’, remember he’s not speaking frankly – maybe I should have told you that sooner, though you’ve probably worked it out by now) – I think there’s a higher risk profile involved in being noticed than not. Some would argue that at bonus time the best rewarded people are those regarded as uncontroversially good, high achieving, apolitical individuals whom everyone respects and nobody has strongly negative views on. Yes – really.

  And then there’s reality. You knew I was bullshitting just now. This happens when I haven’t slept, I’ve been out to dinner the night before, and when I can’t sleep during the night I hit the whisky. It’s a stupid, ridiculous formula, and at thirty-seven I really ought to know better, but – well, you can guess the rest.

  Let’s talk about Rory. No, not about me – you know enough about me. Rory is forty-three years old. I know, he’s just six years older than me, and I know what you’re thinking. He read history and got a First. But then, he would, wouldn’t he? I read history too, at Balliol College, Oxford, and got a Second. Rory was at Exeter. No, before you ask, Rory didn’t go to Exeter College, Oxford.

  He went to Exeter, Exeter. Yes, that’s right – the place in Devon where the yokels come from. And before that he went to a comprehensive school. Seems unthinkable? He was one of the beneficiaries of the broadening of the City’s catchment area after Big Bang. It should never have happened. They wanted to go fishing in a bigger talent pool, where they wouldn’t be limited to people like me, but could instead hire people like… him. Don’t ask me why. The result is that he’s part of the City’s nouveaux riches, the new generation of high achievers who’ve made it without showing any respect at all for the finer traditions of the Square Mile. I’m a third generation stockbroker, a man with his roots in the City. My father was a liveryman like his father before him, a member of the Honourable Company of Stockjobbers and Brokers, and ended his career as the partner in charge of settlements at Carruthers and Stroud, before it was acquired after Big Bang, and my grandfather was a private client stockbroker at the same firm. As an only child it should have meant that I was set up for life, but somehow it never happened that way. Grandfather was a drinker and a womaniser, and he spent his money. At least my father didn’t drink, but he did get through his too. I last saw him three years ago, when he brought his latest wife to see Samantha, his first and only grandchild. I forget her name – Susie or Floosie or something. She was younger than me, so I made a point of asking if she minded me calling her Mum.

  I haven’t seen them since.

  Anyway, this isn’t about me. Rory’s always been a Golden Boy. Youngest ever member of the Executive Committee. Hoping to be the youngest ever Main Board Director. Some say he’s Sir Oliver’s heir apparent. He’s certainly heading for the top. A fast track with a rocket up h
is arse. Me, on the other hand… but this isn’t about me.

  He has two children – apparently. I say that not because I doubt they exist, but because I don’t see how someone as perfect as Claire could ever have had children. Unless she’s immune to all the things that affect other women – or buys her way out of them. The really irritating thing is that she seemed not only beautiful, elegant, lively, adoring and bright, but a nice person as well – at least if you were part of her universe, which Wendy and I evidently were not.

  In this business, it’s easy to forget what a nice person is. Elsewhere, I’m sure you see them all the time: nurses, for instance, or teachers, firemen, ambulance crews, even social workers. I bet they’re all nice people. Or most of them, anyway. But investment bankers? You must be kidding. We eat nice for breakfast.

  So what does Rory think of me? You might wonder whether he doesn’t see me as just another faceless, brownnosing, unprincipled whore, who’ll do anything for money. Would you like to sleep with my wife, Rory? Sure – go ahead, why not? You pay our bonus, after all. Humiliate me, stop me sleeping, give me ulcers, high blood pressure, a heart condition. Why the hell not? I’m yours, Rory, yours for the duration. So go ahead – abuse me, the way you kick a puppy and it comes back, nervous, frightened and ingratiating, always wanting more.

  Except you wouldn’t treat a puppy like this.

  Monday, 22nd November

  B minus 24

  AN AMAZING thing happened tonight. I’d waited until Rory finally left the office, around eight, before packing up my things to go. The rest of the team were doing the same, once someone had checked that the coast was clear, and I went down to the main entrance to walk towards Bank underground station. It was dark and pouring with rain, and for some stupid reason I’d left my umbrella in the office, so I was splashing through the puddles when a car horn sounded behind me. I turned around and saw a dark grey Bentley flashing its headlights. Rory’s car! It pulled up beside me, the rear window slid down and Rory peered out at me and said, ‘Get in.’