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

  The thing about presents is that you have to pitch them just right. Give too little, and you can actually cause offence, or seem like a cheapskate. On the other hand, if you overdo it, your gift might seem excessive, almost like a bribe, and obviously we'd never bribe anyone. It's in the firm's Code of Practice — we're simply not like that. And what could be even worse, would be if the clients felt obliged to reciprocate, not with business and deals and fees, but with gifts. Who needs gifts? Gifts are for girls. Real men want bonuses.

  So I drew up a list of clients and split them into three. The first part of the list was those who really could give me some business, and whose home addresses I knew. The next part was those who really could give me some business, but whose home addresses I hadn't been able to find out. And the third part of the list was those whose home addresses I did know, but who were not in a position to give me any business, although they did know my home address and understood the game.

  The best list to be on is the first. A client who really can give you some business is worth cultivating. Not bribing, mind you — cultivating. And if you know his home address, then cultivating him is a lot easier. Gifts that arrive at home obviously ought to be declared by the client to his employer, just in case they were ever to influence him in deciding who to give a piece of business to, but somehow in the hurly-burly of the run-up to Christmas, when there are a thousand and one things to do, some things may be overlooked. Like enormous hampers from Fortnum's, or cases of vintage port, or boxes of Cuban cigars. It's easily done.

  The worst part of the list to be on is the second. Gifts delivered to a client's office are subject to whatever regime his firm imposes. Some firms make the recipient donate them to their annual charity auction. Others say the recipient can keep gifts below a certain (ludicrously low) value, but anything beyond that must go into a pool of gifts distributed via a draw at the annual staff party. There's really no point in sending these people anything worthwhile, and so they're the ones who get the desk diaries and the restaurant guides. Later on, when it comes to Ascot and Cowes Week and Wimbledon and Henley, you do your best to make it up to them, but in the meantime Santa's reindeer don't park on their roofs.

  The really interesting group are the last one. They're the people who don't have any business to give you, and realise that, but understand how to play the game. They're the ones you can 'entertain' to dinner at a top restaurant without actually troubling them with an invitation or the requirement to attend: they understand. They're the ones you get the bank to buy Wimbledon tickets for without imposing on them the tedious obligation of sitting in those tight little seats in the Centre Court on a hot summer's day. In short, they're the ones who help you out when the in-laws are in town and you need to make a good impression and it's half way through the year and the bonus is still months away, but you're already overdrawn. They're friends.

  Friends are people you look after — because they look after you. So the third list get really special, personalised presents — silver coasters from Tiffany, special gift sets of aromatherapy oils from Jo Malone, a humidor from Davidoff. These gifts are the ones I really think about, because in a manner of speaking, I expect to be on the receiving end of 'presents' from these people all year round. And just occasionally, because they know me too, they send me something in return — at home, of course. It's never anything of value, obviously, or I'd disclose it to the Compliance Department, who exist to keep us on the straight and narrow. No commercial value is the phrase — and after all, once a bottle of Macallan forty-year old's been opened, it really doesn't have any commercial re-sale value, does it?

  So we all sit at our workstations, making calls, placing orders, working through our Christmas lists. This is the one area where the firm does not cut corners. We might all have to slum it in Business Class on long-haul flights, we might be forced to take public transport out to Heathrow, but we can still stretch the corporate plastic at Fortnums. There's a hum on the desk, a buzz, like I haven't felt in weeks. We're working, and the team spirit really kicks in. Just one big happy family, looking forward to Christmas and all it brings.

  After work, a normally pleasant event — someone's leaving drinks. I always feel instinctively good about someone leaving: one less mouth to feed come bonus time. The person leaving — strictly speaking retiring, though he's still a few years away from the official retirement age — is Jeff Ward, one of the longest serving sales-traders on the floor. Jeff is a classic old Stock Exchange figure, a source of advice in difficult situations, a fund of experience such as you rarely find in any firm, and while he does like a drink or two at lunchtime — almost uniquely in the firm, though once it was the norm — his instinct is always to do the right thing. It's as if he's the corporate conscience of the trading floor.

  He hasn't had any line management responsibility for some time now, since an unfortunate incident that embarrassed the firm and left everyone feeling slightly uncomfortable. We'd done what's called a block trade — bought a huge holding of shares from a corporate seller with a view to selling them on at a higher price. Jeff didn't want to do the business — he said the price was wrong and the market felt dodgy. Naturally the investment bankers whose client wanted us to do the business tried to downplay his views — they didn't understand what he meant when he said the market 'felt dodgy' and instead produced charts and graphs and trend lines and everyone smiled indulgently at the Old Man of the Markets who was trying to stand in the way of a lucrative piece of business.

  Except he was right.

  We bought the shares and tried to sell them on, but over the course of the morning, the market started to fall and soon we realised we were going to be stuck with a large unsold position — so large, in fact, that we would have to disclose it to the Stock Exchange, which would be a disaster, since all of our competitors would know we had it and the price would fall through the floor. Not only would we look like idiots, but we stood to lose millions.

  Naturally we had to do something about this, and the first instinct of the investment bankers was to conceal the information internally and work out a game-plan. So far, so good, but one of the people they had to deal with was Jeff, and in the simple world he inhabited, if you took a risk and it went wrong, you paid the price. If the position had to be disclosed, then disclosed it should be. He didn't say 'I told you so', but instead set to work trying to think how to hedge the firm's risk.

  In the meantime, the investment bankers decided to lie. Not a Big Lie, of course, just an itsy-witsy, teeny-weeny little lie. They decided to say nothing to the market, on the grounds that the amount of unsold shares was actually small enough not to need disclosure — the balance was sitting on the firm's 'normal trading book' and as a 'normal trading position', wouldn't need to be revealed to anyone. As sleight of hand goes, it was not a bad strategy — though of course I would never be tempted to do anything similar myself — but when Jeff heard, he said no. He said that it was almost certainly wrong from a legal perspective, and if they were caught they could go to prison, but it was definitely wrong morally. Morally? Yes, really — he said that no amount of money made on any one trade could ever justify jeopardising the good name and reputation of the firm, and he went over the investment bankers' heads, directly to Sir Oliver, and laid it on the line.

  Of course, Sir Oliver was hugely embarrassed. He was caught between a rock and a hard place, and had no choice but to Do The Right Thing. So the firm disclosed the position, the share price fell, and Jeff worked like a dog to hedge it and work it and eventually, three months later, thanks in part to a buoyant market, the last of the shares were sold, at a modest overall profit.

  And do you know what they did? They transferred the investment bankers overseas, and then waited another six months to 're-organise' Jeff's division, removing him from any management or decision-making responsibility. And this year, they were going to fire him — but he was a canny old fox, and somehow a little bird had tipped him off, which is why we had the very unu
sual spectacle of a retirement drinks party several years before he reached retirement age, and just a few days before the bonus. Jeff was leaving in his own time and on his own terms — with dignity and honour intact.

  Naturally, the rest of us felt very uncomfortable. It was not that we wouldn't put pride and reputation first, of course, and after a lifetime in the City, Jeff could probably afford to quit anyway. But fundamentally, we all agreed, he was a dinosaur. He'd been in the City thirty years, man and boy, and was simply out of kilter with the times.

  Only this dinosaur had teeth. This dinosaur was an Allosaurus — an Allosaurus with a sore head who was looking for a fight.

  We all went into the downstairs bar of the Happy Jobber, one of those traditional bangers and mash, sawdust on the floor, pubs that men of Jeff's generation had always enjoyed, and which had somehow survived the corporatisation of the City and the slow but steady disappearance of men who drank at lunchtime. The place was packed. I suppose there were two hundred of us, from all parts of the firm, including most of the heads of department, and Jeff had his credit card behind the bar so we could take full advantage of his hospitality. At around eight o'clock, Sir Oliver put in an appearance, with Rory in tow, and someone banged a glass for him to say a few well-chosen words.

  'Your retirement, Jeff, seems like the passing of an era. When I look around the trading floor today, I see no-one from the same mould as you. Truly, you have been unique and your contribution to the firm has been extraordinary. We shall mark your passing as a defining moment for the firm as we move forward into a different age, a different climate for the City of London...' and so on. I'm not sure he ever actually said he liked Jeff or would miss him, but I'd had a few glasses of champagne and might not have been concentrating. At the end we all clapped politely and then, instead of letting us all carry on drinking, while Sir Oliver and Rory sloped off, Jeff announced that he wanted to say a few words too.

  I had no idea what was coming.

  'Thank you, Sir Oliver, and thank you all, for coming along tonight. It's good to see so many familiar faces, because it will help me remember what it is I'll be missing from now on, the people I won't be seeing each day. When I first started at Bartons, Sir Oliver was a mere whipper-snapper, the old Chairman's son, brought in to learn the trade.'

  At this point, Sir Oliver smiles politely, but I can tell he doesn't mean it. Rory and the other heads of department take their cue from him and put on corporate smiles — polite ones that they don't mean, and which show that they're really just indulging the old codger because it's his last day and he's probably ga-ga and half-cut anyway.

  'Ollie the Wally, we called you — wouldn't dare to now, of course.' A few people, who have obviously had one too many already, snigger at this, but then stop as they realise their mistake. Too late, because Rory's clocked them — ouch, it's a bad time of year to be caught laughing at the Chairman. Sir Oliver's smile has become fixed, frozen in place, while Rory and the others have stopped smiling and are glancing around, looking at their watches, doing their best 'I'm bored and I'm not paying attention' impressions. Jeff seems to savour the moment and pauses to take a deep breath, as if by inhaling the moment, he can capture it for the future. There's a twinkle in his eye as he continues. 'But in those days, everyone called you that — even your special friend from Eton, that nice young man with the wavy fair hair who joined with you. Funny — I can picture him now as if it was only yesterday. Very tall, very elegant, with girlish features and delicate hands with long fingers and the family crest on a ring on his pinkie.' Jeff looks at Sir Oliver in a very unusual way, almost as if he's the predator, and Sir Oliver the prey. This makes me very uncomfortable — the investment banking food chain simply doesn't work like this, at least not normally. 'But then Sir Edward sacked him.' Jeff pauses, as if trying to recollect something from far back in his memory, while Sir Oliver stops smiling and stares ahead, tight-lipped. 'Something to do with the Christmas party, and some misunderstanding, as I recall. Something to do with the two of you. And a broom cupboard. Or was it the stationery cupboard? Anyway, that's not important now, is it?' Christ almighty — I stare at the floor, then glance up again at Jeff, trying not to catch anyone else's eye. He's grinning now, staring at Sir Oliver as if to bait him. 'What was his name? I saw him in the paper just the other day. Oh, yes, I remember — he's the Chief Executive of—'

  Before Jeff can finish, Sir Oliver steps in front of him and booms out in his loudest, most authoritarian voice, 'Thank you, Jeff, for that little reminder of the past.' He smiles magnanimously, but it's clear that his eyes are as dark as thunder. 'It's funny how these tales can grow in the telling. Ladies and gentlemen, let's have a big round of applause for Jeff.' Even as he's speaking, he starts clapping as loudly as he can, and Rory and the heads of department join in and look around commandingly, so that we all follow suit, and the applause rocks the rafters and drowns out anything else Jeff might have wanted to say. After a vicious glance in Jeff's direction — the sort of glance that would kill me on the spot, but Jeff just grins — Sir Oliver exits while the rest of us try to push our way to the bar for another drink.

  Jeff stays rooted to the spot, staring at Sir Oliver's retreating back, then drains his glass. We're all avoiding him, not wanting to risk being implicated in whatever it was that he just implied about Sir Oliver, aware of the intense scrutiny of Rory and the other hard men from the Executive Compensation Committee, as they search for dissenters, for anyone bold enough even to talk to Jeff, even though it's his retirement party and his credit card that's buying the drinks. Naturally, we all do the correct thing and ignore him.

  Friday, 10th December-

  B minus 7

  A major shock — Rick Jenkins was fired today. Rick was an Executive Director, a good, solid producer, and everyone thought he was a cast iron certainty to be made up to MD this year, especially after Bill Myers had 'made room' for him. Rick was an operator. Not only had he invited Rory to his wedding last year, but he had even made him godfather to his first child just two months ago. He had the longest Christmas present list on the team, even though he wasn't an MD yet. He really knew how to play the game and work the system, and I'd have sworn he had a great future ahead of him. But Rory had decided his great future was somewhere else.

  He was in a state of shock when they walked him out of the building after 'black-bagging' him. He had always talked a good story about how tough he was and the sport he'd done at university, and how he'd personally hang rapists, and any mugger who tried it on with him had better watch out. So I wondered briefly if he would do something outrageous and smash up his desk or trash Rory's office. But he didn't. I suppose executive aggression and the real thing aren't quite the same.

  Later, Rory showed up at the desk — he'd been 'held up' in a management committee when Rick was fired — and wandered round, seeing how we all were, taking the temperature of the team and doing a morale-check.

  He needn't have bothered. We all smiled great cheesy grins and no-one mentioned Rick. His body could have been lying underneath the desk and we would have pretended it wasn't there. After a few weeks, when the smell got really bad, we'd have sprayed aerosols of air freshener around, but no-one would have said a word. Not before payday.

  After lunch, a note went round that there would be an important presentation at 5:00 pm, with attendance required by all executives. Suddenly those stories about the bonus being waived seemed a lot more plausible, although the rumour machine went into overdrive and invented a whole load of new ones too. The favourite was that there was going to be a takeover. Jean-Luc called from Paris to say that one of the big German commercial banks was going to bid for Bartons, and Sir Oliver, as the controlling family shareholder, was selling us out. Don't ask me how he was meant to have heard this in Paris of all places. And then again, if it was true, would it be good news? Would the incoming owners be anxious to ensure continuing staff goodwill and increase the bonus pool — yes, some people really wondered about t
his — adding some long-term incentive payments to keep us all locked in, or would they announce wholesale redundancies, closing entire business areas, on the grounds that it's a buyer's market for jobs out there and most of us would rather have any job — even without a bonus — than find ourselves on the street?

  We filed into the large presentation room on the ground floor and took our places. There was a podium at the front of the room where Sir Oliver was sitting with several heads of department, including Rory. They were all smiling, as if they had some really good news to tell us. This made us all extremely worried. When it seemed as if everyone who could be crammed into the room was there — it seated nearly five hundred, and there was standing room only at the back — Sir Oliver stood up and went to the microphone.

  'Ladies and gentlemen — welcome.' He smiled magnanimously around the room. 'It's good to see so many familiar faces here today' Don't bullshit us — there are several hundred fewer faces because of your pre-bonus cost-cutting. 'Today I have great pleasure in making a significant announcement that will affect all of our futures.' Oh Christ, he's sold the bloody bank. 'Today the board of the bank, under my chairmanship, has taken a major decision.' The board — shit — this is it: the real thing. 'The Management Committee has been fully involved in this decision and briefed upon it at every stage of the way, and is unanimously behind the move.' Bullshit — all that means is that they've been bought off. 'Ladies and gentlemen, after a hundred and fifty years, the board of Bartons has decided —' Oh God, let it be good news, please. '— to re-brand the bank.' There's an audible sigh of relief around the room. Imagine five hundred people taking a deep breath, holding it until they're going purple, and then releasing it in a single rush, almost like a collective orgasm. 'After a hundred and fifty years of honest, reliable service to our clients, of being known for the quality of our work and the integrity of our people, we have decided it is appropriate to move with the times. We live in an age of image projection, sound bites, spin doctors, advertising and marketing. We must adapt. So ladies and gentlemen, following an eight month intensive programme of brainstorming, research, focus groups, visual identity development and brand testing, I am proud to present: the new Bartons, Bartons for the twenty-first century!'