Miles and Nick got to work, selling out half of the management’s call options. But for their book, they closed out all of their calls and bought some short dated puts. A stream of visitors made their way to their desk during the afternoon. All of them wanted to know the same thing. Where was Miles’s stop? On learning that Miles’s was much closer than JJ’s, all of them put their stops at the same level as Miles. He may have been the grad – and a cocky one at that – but one thing was certain, he was on a roll.
The following day, concerns about slow US growth and a weak goods report triggered an abrupt collapse in the dollar. The management book was also stopped out, booking a healthy profit but it was lost on no one that had Miles’s level been used, they would have made an additional five million dollars.
'You absolutely nailed it,' said Nick Stevens at the end of the day as Miles was pulling on his jacket to follow Al and Fergal to the Golden Hind.
'Thanks Nick.'
'I have to say, when you first turned up here, I thought you were a bit of a chancer. But I was wrong.'
The drinks tasted great that night. Even the ridiculous ones that Fergal insisted they drank at last orders. Miles Ratner had arrived.
7 Long and Wrong
Brent Crude Oil: 19.5 USD per barrel
When Al was a little boy, London meant the smell of cinders on the London Underground, glossy brochures from tourist attractions like Madame Tussauds and the Tower of London. The Christmas lights on Regent Street had sparkled in his six year old eyes when he had stood there between his mother and father and thought that London was somehow magical, something akin to Lapland, a place where other-worldly characters might exist. Then his perception of it had changed. He grew up and London became a place of work. It was a place of suits, offices and ambition, and the smell of the tube hinted less at excitement and more at routine. Here was another London, and within it, Hyde Park, a secret garden. On a recent trip to New York, he had been to Central Park. He loved it but it was still very much an urban space. The sky-scrapers formed cliffs at its edge. But the centre of Hyde Park was different. This wasn’t part of the city, it was separate, co-existent.
Al stood next to Miles in the middle of the park. They both wore grey sweat pants, white T-shirts and trainers. When they had first seen each other in their sports kit earlier, Al had said: 'That’s snap.' But the coincidence was rendered obsolete when they arrived with the other members of staff from Trenchart Colville, many of whom were dressed identically. The inter-departmental sports day was a yearly event which the HR department planned as a team building exercise. But for many staff members, it was far more important that an office junior was dispatched to the pub to fetch a bucket of ice for the beers than display any great sporting prowess.
Al saw it first. He nudged Miles and nodded into the middle distance across the grass. It was vaguely humanoid in shape apart from its head. Rob stood alongside them and maintained a whispered running commentary regarding their opponents in the forthcoming softball match in which they were pitted against the corporate finance department.
'We’ve got to take them apart. There’s nothing else for it.' Rob was in a jovial mood. When he was away from the office, his hierarchical superiority was cast aside and over the past few months, he had become an occasional member of the Al, Miles and Fergal, Golden Hind after-hours research team.
'Look at them,' Rob chuckled. 'They’re so up themselves.'
Al and Miles were no longer listening to him.
'Rob, here a moment.' Al tapped Rob’s arm and his line of sight joined those of his two junior colleagues.
'What the fuck is that?' asked Rob.
'Who knows,' said Miles.
The figure made its way across the grass towards them. It was tall and rendered misshapen by various bizarre additions. Its boxer shorts were over the top of its trousers and a wastepaper basket had been attached like a cricket box around its middle using parcel tape. On the figure’s head was a potted plant held in place by a generous lashing of parcel tape and in the middle of the plant was a large piece of polystyrene fashioned – with no lack of artistic skill – into an enormous penis.
But the trajectory of the weird behemoth was interrupted by a small group of Japanese tourists who stood in its way and pointed their cameras at it. The figure stopped and proceeded to dance a jig.
'There’s only one thing it can be,' said Al.
The three of them said it as one: 'Fergal.'
Once sufficient photographs had been taken, a pound coin was pressed into Fergal’s hand by one of the tourists, clearly believing him to be some sort of performance artist, and he continued on his way.
Rob spoke to Fergal first. 'Why?'
Fergal’s face erupted into a big grin. 'Well, dollar/yen went up.'
Rob frowned: 'You’re dressed like this because dollar/yen went up?'
'I had a bet with some of the guys on the spot desk that it would go lower and I lost the bet. They decided I had to make a forfeit.'
'The forfeit being your humility and self-respect?' asked Miles.
'No – well yes obviously – but they just got to choose what I should wear for the sports day, that’s all.'
The game of softball against the corporate finance department was a close run thing and Rob, Al and Miles were gutted to be defeated, especially Miles as it was his over-enthusiastic attempt to make third base that resulted in the only injury of the game when he thundered into a baseman – a secretary called Annabel – and twisted her ankle.
In the pub after the game, Fergal went to the toilet leaving Al and Miles standing together at the bar. It didn’t come out as though it was something that had been preying on his mind or had been rehearsed in any way but Al realised as soon as Miles said it that their relationship had entered a new phase. He had never asked Al anything of a personal nature before. Theirs was a friendship that skated along the surface of things although beneath it there was a bond, a sense of identification that they were walking the same road with the same desired destination at the end of it. This, however, was something different.
'Tell me about you and Imogen.'
Al took a big gulp of London Pride and looked into Miles’s brown eyes. 'Everyone knows, right?'
'No, not that I’m aware of.'
'But you know.'
'It’s fairly obvious.'
'Well, there’s not much to tell. I suppose we’re seeing each other. It’s no big deal really. We’re trying to keep it quiet for a while.'
'So you decided not to tell me?'
'Well, we didn’t really tell anyone.'
'Does Fergal know?'
'Yeah, Imogen told him first.'
'Rob?'
'Well he’s going out with Imogen’s sister.'
Miles nodded his head and Al found himself scrambling around for the words to explain himself. Miles was so difficult to read. Was he annoyed that he had been kept out of the loop? It was impossible to tell. Al stuttered nervously as he continued: 'It wasn’t like we were trying to keep it from you. We just decided to tell as few people as possible.'
'But you told the other guys.'
'I should have told you. You’re a mate. You know you are.'
Miles nodded and smiled. 'It’s fine, don’t worry.'
Fergal returned from the toilets and the subject wasn’t raised again. But as Al made his way back to Fulham that night on the tube, his conversation with Miles kept replaying in his mind. What unsettled him was the guilt that Miles had made him feel. Whether this was intentional on Miles’s part or not was impossible to tell. It made Al ponder how little he knew his friend. Miles was born and raised in New York and had a peculiarly close bond with his grandfather but beyond that, Al knew very little else. Whereas he and Fergal were often talking about incidents from their childhood – funny moments, scrapes they had got themselves into – the same could not be said of Miles. It wasn’t as though he was cold; he joined in with the after hours drinking sessions in the Golden Hind and displ
ayed a charm and sense of humour that had endeared him to Al and Fergal. But there was something else – Al couldn’t put his finger on it – something dark and lonely at the heart of his character, some sort of closed door, a secret that Al couldn’t fathom. Their conversation that night had made him feel bad, like he had possibly offended his friend but more than that, it had made him realise how much more Miles knew about him than he knew about Miles.
JGB 10Y yields: 3.31%
Al was well-versed in the meeting of girlfriends’ parents. Tradition dictated that fathers were always more frosty and difficult than mothers, recognising in their daughter’s new suitor their own former desires and lusts. But he needn’t have worried. Tobias Green, a cosmetic surgeon with a practice on Harley Street was charming as he opened the door to their Hampstead townhouse. He ushered Al inside with a friendly 'Hello, come in,' and a dry, warm hand. Al was more nervous than he might normally have been after Imogen had told him that Tobias was a man of great principle, a man who shunned the lucrative assignments that most people in his line of work sought, namely commissions from actors and celebrities in the pursuit of facial perfection. His work had taken him all over the world treating mostly children from the poorest backgrounds who were born with facial disfigurements or had been injured in war zones. Imogen talked about her father a lot; Al could tell there was a close bond between them. But it was clear that Imogen suspected that her father felt her choice of career was wrong. For him, the banking industry was at best, a necessary evil, and at worst, an insidious parasite. Standing in his hallway, however, a corduroy suit and denim shirt clothing his tall slim build and a smile on his face, he exuded nothing but warmth.
'You must be Al.'
'That’s right. You must be Mr Green.'
'Please, call me Tobias. Imogen’s in the back parlour with Molly.' Tobias set off down the hallway. 'Molly, as you’re no doubt aware, is the golden Labrador.' Al nodded; he’d heard all about Molly from Imogen. She was a particularly beloved family pet that Imogen thought of as very much her own dog. 'She’s not been well – as I’m sure you’ve also heard – but it looks like she’s on the mend now. You know what it’s like, especially in this country, pets must always come first.'
Al followed Tobias through the kitchen at the end of the hallway and into a small utility room where, next to a washing machine and tumble drier, was a large dog basket lined with a soft blanket on which an old Golden Labrador was being stroked by Imogen who turned and smiled at Al then stood up and kissed him on the cheek.
'Thanks Dad.'
'Al seems all right to me, Imo.' It was a phrase open to many interpretations depending on the tone of its delivery but the way that Tobias said it was so genial and it was a delivered with such an affectionate smile and pat on the shoulder that Al couldn’t help but take it as a compliment.
'So I hear you work together in the City?'
'That’s right.'
'I don’t know,' said Tobias smiling. 'You try to give your children all the best in life, you work hard, and then what happens? They go and throw it all away and gamble for a living.' Tobias and Imogen chuckled, this was clearly a joke they had shared many times before. 'I’ll leave you to it.'
'He’s joking but in a funny kind of way, he means it too,' said Imogen as her father made his way back into the kitchen. 'He thinks that George and I squandered the opportunity to do something proper, worthwhile. Anyway ...' Imogen turned towards Molly whose tail was lashing the washing machine as she looked up excitedly at Al. 'This is Molly, the most important member of the Green household.' Al crouched down to the dog and stroked her soft pate. 'She needs a tablet in an hour or so. You can help me with that. It’s her heart.'
Al knew only too well that Molly had a bad heart. In many ways, Al knew more about Molly’s well-being than he did about Imogen’s parents. Imogen was devoted to the dog and her face lit up when she spoke of her – and she spoke of her a lot.
Al found himself assuming the same voice that he had done with his own dog, Murphy, an Irish terrier, a family pet from when he was a child.
'Who’s a good girl, eh? Good girl.'
Imogen joined in the Molly adoration for a moment before she said, 'Come on, we’d better get you introduced to Mum before they go out.' Imogen’s parents were on their way to the opera with Rob and Georgina. Imogen and Al had been drafted in to take care of Molly during her first few delicate days of recuperation after her heart surgery.
Mrs Green, Yvonne, or Von as she liked to be called, was a statuesque woman in her early sixties. A former ballerina turned choreographer, she was responsible for her daughters’ love of dancing, not to mention their looks. She swept down the stairs towards Al and kissed him on both cheeks as though he were a long lost friend.
'So nice to meet you at last, Al.'
'It’s a pleasure to meet you too Mrs Green.'
'Von, please.'
'Von.'
'Now make yourselves at home and don’t forget to give Molly her tablet in about twenty minutes.'
'Don’t worry,' said Imogen.
Von joined Tobias by the front door. He had changed into an evening suit and the two of them looked as though they might have been models for a manufacturer of high end fashions for the over sixties.
'You’re sure you’ll be all right now?'
'Go on Mum, or you’ll be late.'
'Bye darling, bye Al.'
'Help yourself to a drink Al,' said Tobias. 'There’s a good selection of malt whiskies in the cabinet. Imo will show you where they are.'
'Thanks, Mr … Thanks Tobias.'
As the front door was pulled shut, Imogen slid her hand into Al’s and said, 'Come on, I’ll give you a guided tour.'
Judged on its fairly narrow terraced frontage, the size of the house was deceptive. There were four floors, connected by an ornate Georgian banister rail that coiled its way through the house like a golden snake. The décor was understated, traditional, expensive. It made Al feel like an interloper, as though he didn’t belong. Imogen and George’s bedrooms were preserved almost as shrines to their younger selves. Their dolls and teddy bears were propped up on the pillows at the heads of their respective beds. Al had taken Imogen’s offer of a guided tour as a veiled invitation to join her in her bedroom and while the thought of doing so was appealing, as he stood there looking at the pictures of her as a girl that lined the walls, it somehow didn’t feel right. When Imogen kissed him, he pulled away and pretended to be absorbed in trying to work out which of the hundreds of smiling faces standing shoulder to shoulder in one of the school photographs was the young Imogen.
As the tour came to an end in the long high-ceilinged living room with its abstract oils lining the walls, Al felt less self-conscious and allowed Imogen to pull him down onto the sofa and kiss him on the lips. But he wanted to take his time. So he made a point of sliding out from beneath her and putting on the video that he had picked up from the rental shop earlier. Four Weddings and a Funeral. They had both seen it before and while Al would have preferred Pulp Fiction, he was hoping that whichever film they got, he would not be watching much of it – as was proving to be the case. As soon as he sat back down and started to fast forward the video through the adverts to the start of the film, Imogen pulled his head around to kiss him again. He had spent the whole day thinking about this moment, thinking about Imogen’s eager lips pressed against his own and he was determined to prolong the experience. Tobias and Von wouldn’t be back for hours. The setting for what they were about to do – where Imogen’s parents sat down to watch television every night – made their actions more illicit and all the more intoxicating for that. Their clothes came off gradually; the expectation was heightened with every article that they shed. By the time the flickering light from the TV lent a shimmering glow to Imogen’s naked body, Al thought that he had probably never felt so turned on in his life. But feelings this good were not to be squandered by impatience and he moved slowly, teasing Imogen with his restraint, restraint
that required supreme self-control. But the time came, as he knew it must, when all control would be cast aside and they would revert to their primeval nature. They moved together with the fluid exactitude that only lovers who have made love a hundred times or more can achieve. When the time came that they had reached their final position, Al found himself kneeling on the sofa while Imogen ground her buttocks against his hips. There was no turning back, the mercury was reaching the top of the glass and Al surrendered to his body’s most primitive carnal desires. All mental processes other than those involved with the enjoyment of the moment were shut down. He watched Imogen as she moved against him, her hair brushing to and fro against her arched back and he savoured the view.
Neither of them heard the front door open. They didn’t hear the footsteps in the hallway, the very same hallway in which Al had smiled his best, most reassuring smile less than an hour before when he had played the part of the man that his girlfriend’s parents might be proud of. They didn’t hear the handle turning on the door. They didn’t hear any of this. They were elsewhere, lost in frenzied communion with their pleasure centres. As Al reached orgasm, he looked at Imogen and right at the moment when he wanted to feel her body moving against his more than anything else in the world, she was retreating away from him down the sofa and instead of the sight of her arched back to savour whilst he came, her hands were scrabbling around for throws, drapes, cushions and discarded clothes to cover her naked flesh. Al watched her head turn towards the door and followed her line of sight.
Standing in the doorway were Tobias and Yvonne, Mr and Mrs Green, not at the Coliseum, not watching The Magic Flute, not doing much other than standing and watching their daughter trying to hide her nudity while said daughter’s new boyfriend knelt naked on their sofa behind her, soiling the loose cushions.
As Von’s lower jaw dropped into an imitation of Munch’s scream, Tobias reached for the door handle and slammed the door shut. But any privacy that this might have provided for Al and Imogen was too little too late.
Shadow Banking Page 11
