Shadow Banking

by C. M. Albright

  If some English ex-public schoolboy had made that observation she would have put him back in his box. Francois said it with such warmth and with such a smile that she could only smile back and say, ‘What do I look like?’

  ‘You look good.’ Another line that if it had been spoken by some Nigel or Jeremy would have damned with faint praise, a peculiar talent of the British male. The way Francois said it made it sound like the most intense compliment she had ever received from a man. She couldn’t help herself. She was such a cliché, finding herself seduced by a dollop of Gallic charm. But at the same time, she couldn’t help but savour the celebrity moment. This was Francois Remercy for God’s sake. He was a leading fashion photographer and he was sitting across the table from her, looking at her and telling her that she looked good. If ever there was a moment that she would replay over and over in her mind, this was it.

  After the meal, Francois hailed a cab and accompanied her to Hampstead. When she offered to split the fare with him, he said, ‘My treat,’ and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said.

  Imogen was conscious of smiling a lot. She had made an effort to limit her smiling but it was so damned hard to. She gave up and beamed at him as he waved to her from the cab as it pulled away.

  She thought he’d never call but he did. He called almost straight away from his mobile phone and said, ‘I’m going to a dinner party for a friend’s birthday tomorrow night. I’d really like it if you came with me.’ Imogen was meant to be seeing George and Rob the following night. Her hesitation elicited a question: ‘You’re doing something?’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘I’ll send a car for you at 8.30? Is that good?’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I’ll see you then.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Bye.’

  As easy as that. Here was this beautiful Frenchman with his glittering career and he wanted to take her out. Saying no was a physical impossibility. But what about Miles? The sex they had was all-consuming, intense. She loved him for that, if nothing else. But there was a coldness to Miles; it was almost as though he was enjoying his own body as much as he was enjoying hers. She was really no more than a mirror in which he could enjoy watching himself having sex. She also worried that she was still in love with Al and still wounded by the thought that perhaps she had done the wrong thing. Why did everything have to be so complicated? Yet if complications all looked and behaved like Francois, she couldn’t begrudge them.

  Despite thoughts of her meeting with Francois the following evening, she couldn’t allow herself to get too excited. There was something that she had been putting off for too long now. She took the pregnancy kit from her bag and went to the bathroom.

  USD/HKD: 7.7475

  AUD/USD: 0

  Miles wore his new Gucci suit for the meeting at Nobu with Nick Stevens and two people who he was hoping would play a big part in his life after Trenchart Colville. Karl Johanssen was a former superstar trader, as was Antonia – Toni – Velasco. Nick made the introductions as they sat down. Karl was a pink faced Swede who was very pleased with himself – and rightly so considering his reputation. Toni was beautiful and smart and her short dark hair lent her a predatory air. Miles was instantly attracted.

  While they ordered a selection of Sashimi, including the Yellowtail with Jalapeno ordered specifically by Toni, Karl ran through what they were planning. His current employer, Bank Berne, for whom he had been a stellar prop trader for the past seven years was going to seed his fund with money of their own and assist with the raising of additional assets. Karl made no attempt to lend an air of conspiracy to what he was saying by leaning across the table but his voice became softer and Miles found himself leaning forward in his seat to hear over the excited voices of three Spice Girls on the next table.

  ‘We’re launching with 200 million dollars of capital from BB and 200 from external sources. 2% flat management fee and 20% profits above a 5% watermark.’’When are you hoping to launch?’ Miles was looking at Karl as he asked the question but it was Toni who answered, her dark eyes staring unblinking at Miles.

  ‘July 1st.’

  ‘We’re very pleased that Nick has chosen to join us,’ said Karl turning to Nick who nodded and kept his eyes down on the tablecloth until they flicked up at Miles as Karl said, ‘And we want you to do the same.’

  ‘So the portfolio managers – if I was to say yes – would be the four of us?’

  ‘Correct,’ said Toni, her harsh scrutiny softening into a half-smile. ‘The plan is to get off to a steady start and grow assets fairly quickly in six to twelve months time when we’ve got a track record. We plan to be very macro focused with strong fixed income and FX bias. But you know all this.’ Toni leant back in her chair. They wanted a decision. There was no point drawing this out any longer.

  ‘Well, after speaking with Nick, I’ve given this a great deal of thought and I’d be crazy to pass up this opportunity.’ Miles registered the expressions of relief and pleasure on the faces of his fellow diners.

  ‘That’s great news,’ said Karl.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Nick Stevens holding out his hand for what Miles felt was a slightly embarrassing and rather pointless display of affection. Karl ordered a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal while Toni proceeded to tell him about their new Mayfair offices. They were pleased and Miles was pleased that they were pleased.

  ‘To the future,’ said Karl as they raised their glasses. Miles would drink to that.

  Dow Jones Index: 6510

  USD/CHF: 1.416

  ‘Imogen, you’ve got to start thinking about your exit strategy.’ Imogen could tell that Rob had said the words more forcefully than he intended and after a deep breath and a sip of red wine, his tone was gentler: ‘I just don’t see any point in you hanging around at Trenchart Colville, not now.’

  As their future chief bridesmaid, Imogen was meant to be visiting Rob and George to talk about their wedding preparations but inevitably, the conversation had turned to business matters. All loyalty that Rob might have once felt for Trenchart Colville had long gone now that he had moved to Bank of the South. In the world of investment banking, loyalty was at best only skin deep. Imogen had hoped that Rob might possibly sort out something for her there but the invitation hadn’t come and she knew better than to ask.

  ‘Now they’re in bed with the Hong Kongers, you don’t want to be seen as left-overs from the olden days, do you?’

  Imogen shook her head.

  ‘Think about it.’

  Georgina said to Rob, ‘You’re going to be late.’

  Rob looked at his watch and muttered, ‘Shit.’ He was meant to be meeting his brother in the pub fifteen minutes ago. He quickly kissed Imogen and George and told them he’d see them later.

  When he had gone, George poured them both another glass of wine and sat down opposite her sister at the kitchen table.

  ‘What’s the matter, Imo?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘It’s Miles.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘We’re erm ...’ She took another swig of wine to give her courage. She dreaded that look of disappointment on George’s face and the inevitable, ‘Oh Imogen.’

  ‘You’re what? Spit it out girl.’

  ‘We’re … I’m … pregnant.’

  ‘Oh Imogen.’

  The arm around her shoulder pulled her closer.

  ‘Does Miles know?’

  ‘No, you know how ambitious and ordered he is about everything. I suppose I’m just frightened about how he’s going to take it.’

  ‘Imogen, there’s something I need to tell you.’ She had not expected this. The ‘Oh Imogen’ was a given but not the serious expression and the air that what she was about to tell her carried all the import and drama of what Imogen had just told her.

  ‘I think Miles has been playing away from home.’

  Imogen
felt sick. She felt exactly as she had felt when Georgina had told her that her boyfriend at school, Ed, had been seeing someone else. The only difference between the two experiences was that when George told her that Ed was cheating on her, she felt surprise. She felt no surprise that Miles had been disloyal. Not that it made her feel much better about things.

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘I went out with some people from work last Friday night. One of them was my boss Philippa Lawrenson …’

  ‘It’s her, right?’

  ‘We went out to dinner with a client at Quaglino’s. The wine was flowing, we ended up pretty smashed. At one point we were both in the bathroom and suddenly she started telling me about the fact that she was having it off with some super hot young American banker from Trenchart Colville. My ears pricked up obviously as I’m guessing that Miles is the only American employee in the whole firm.’

  ‘What’s she look like?’

  ‘As Rob would say, she’s a BBU.’

  ‘What the fuck’s a BBU?’

  ‘A big blonde unit.’

  ‘Attractive?’

  ‘In a kind of plastic way. Anyway, she told me that she’d been seeing Miles once a week for months. They meet up at Claridge’s where she takes a room every Friday night. And I don’t think they’re there for the conversation.’

  Imogen’s apparent composure up until now had obviously made her sister give her more of the unvarnished truth than she might otherwise have done. She tried to keep the tears back but it all became too much for her, the pregnancy, the wreck of a career and now Miles. She slapped the tears away from her cheeks angrily and took a deep breath: ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The clinic.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should speak to Miles first?’

  ‘No. He’s the last person I want to speak to. No one will ever know anything about this. Just you and me. Will you come with me?’

  ‘Imogen, you need to take your time, you need to think this through.’

  The ferocity of Imogen’s reply shocked them both as she shouted through gritted teeth: ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘Of course, you’re my sister, I’d do anything for you. You know that.’

  US Treasury 10Y yields: 6.88%

  DEM/FRF: 3.3695

  Fergal sat in the booth in the VIP area of the Metropolitan in Bethnal Green with Keith Peake, Rhys Griffiths AKA ‘the little fella’, and the heads of trading from DBHK who had flown in that morning from Hong Kong to meet the new members of their team. During the meeting earlier in the Trenchart Colville boardroom, it had been confirmed that they would all be joining the Asian bank from the 1st of September. It had been a great day, smiles all round, as the soon-to-be colleagues got to know each other. It was Fergal’s idea to take the Asians out to the Metropolitan Club in Bethnal Green after dinner at La Gavroche. But they were not impressed with the quality of the floor show. Anthony Cheung, a handsome Anglo-Chinese in his late thirties and DBHK’s chief dealer gestured to the young woman soaping her chest in the shower cubicle in front of them: ‘This is terrible,’ he said. ‘You have to believe me Fergal when I tell you that in the Far East we know how to put on a proper filth show.’

  ‘Well, Tony, this is probably the best that London has to offer in that department I’m afraid but I’m looking forward to getting over to Hong Kong to witness what you fellas have got to offer.’

  ‘Terrible,’ muttered Tony under his breath again before saying, ‘Tell me Fergal, why do your colleagues call you Basher?’ Fergal looked from Tony to Keith who nudged the Little Fella and the pair of them failed to contain their laughter.

  ‘It’s a long story, Tony. I’d gone down to the south coast with some friends of mine and one thing led to another. But anyway, you don’t want to hear it from me. My little Welsh friend here can tell the story much better than I can.’ Fergal looked at the Little Fella and shaking his head in mock disgust at his flagrant betrayal said, ‘Over to you Rhys.’

  USD/KRW: 892.55

  UK Gilt 5Y yields: 7.26%

  Al felt shattered. He had been in the Hartmann Milner offices close to Leadenhall Market for over five hours and so far he had met and talked to eighteen different members of staff including traders, sales people, senior management from other divisions, even research analysts. Working in pairs or threes, they had fired questions at him. After the first couple of sessions, he found it increasingly hard to remember if he was repeating himself. But as time went on, he developed a kill-or-be-killed frame of mind, becoming more aggressive, dominating the discussions and driving the direction of the interviews. Not that it felt as though these were interviews in the usual sense of the word. These were mental clashes. They were testing him, checking him out. Al had heard about the final process at Hartmann Milner, how onerous and hard it was. He had been alone in that same windowless room for what felt like a lifetime. It wasn’t as though this was even his first or second interview. This was the sixth time he had been in their offices.

  At five o’clock, in walked Vittorio Nesta, the charismatic head of the leveraged sales group, a stocky muscular Italian with a grey crew cut – he could have been in the Mafia – and Richard Mainstaff, the urbane and immaculately turned out head of sales. Vittorio sat down and put his hands on the table – no notes, no paperwork.

  ‘Well, Al, the feedback has been universally good,’ he said with an accent that was pure Little Italy. ‘While we have to compile everybody’s thoughts, I think it’s worth having a preliminary discussion about potential compensation.’

  He was in. It took all his acting skills to retain his deadpan expression and remain seated rather than jumping to his feet and punching the air. But he’d worked in the City long enough to know the ways of the poker game, maintaining the same deadpan expression as those worn by Vittorio and Richard.

  ‘We’ll pay you a base salary of seventy thousand pounds and we’ll guarantee you a bonus of fifty, of which twenty-five per cent is paid in our deferred stock compensation plan. I realise that it’s less than what you were paid at Trenchart Colville last year but it’s a floor and we’d expect you to be getting paid far in excess of that if you perform as we feel you should, or, in fact, will need you to. Now, I bet you could do with a drink?’

  ‘I could murder one.’ Al allowed himself – and them – a smile. It was all over and he knew, barring some extraordinary turn of events, the job was his if he wanted it. Of course he wanted it. And they, of course, knew he would accept.

  They went to a wine bar over the road from the bank and waiting for them was Chad Mueller, the global head of Foreign Exchange, another American, and Howie Drake, who reminded Al of Colonel Kilgore in Apocalypse Now with his random observations on life: ‘Sharks feed when the blood’s in the water.’ All three of them had already interviewed him earlier in the day. Chad remained standing with Al while the others sat at the table. He fixed Al with a piercing stare and said, ‘So, you got any concerns?’

  ‘No, none that I can think of.’

  ‘Nothing stopping you then?’

  ‘No.’

  Chad smiled and held out his hand. Al shook it and the others looked across, smiled and nodded – there was clearly no question in their minds that Al would say anything other than yes – and then resumed their conversation. Chad ordered champagne and the conversation turned to Tiger Woods and his recent rise to number one in the Official World Golf rankings. He enjoyed talking about something other than banking. Al took a sip of champagne and looked at his new colleagues. It felt good to be part of this elite club.

  Nasdaq: 1329

  USD/DEM: 1.719

  Imogen sat in the living room of her flat in Chelsea. She waited. She knew he wouldn’t be late. He was nothing if not punctual. Sometimes annoyingly so. He was such a golden boy and since that night at George’s when she had found out the truth about him and Philippa Lawrenson, she could see their relationship far more dispassionately. She wouldn’t cry over Miles. Not
any more than she had done already. This was the line in the sand. He had wanted to keep their relationship secret much more steadfastly than she had. Miles was the star trader; Imogen was in the corner with the dunce’s hat. It wasn’t as bad as that. She was being hard on herself but it was clear now that Miles hadn’t wanted to get his shine tarnished by being associated with someone who wasn’t quite on his level in the world of banking. At 7:30 on the dot, the intercom buzzed. Imogen stood up and went to it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  She pressed the buzzer and heard the front door click as he came in. Came in for the last time. She went and sat on the sofa and listened to his footsteps on the stairs, then on the carpet as he approached her. He bent over the back of the sofa and kissed her on the cheek. His lips felt dry and cold.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘It was good. I got my start date at Galbraith. Toni’s already setting up meetings. I’ve got to go to New York on the 14th of July, wondered if you’d like to join me out there for the following weekend?’

  ‘Are other halves invited?’

  ‘No but that won’t matter.’

  ‘They wouldn’t get to see me socially anyway, right? Probably wouldn’t even know I was there.’

  Miles was usually very sensitive to people’s moods, he had to be, it was part of his job. But on this occasion, he had misread the signs. Or maybe there were no signs. Maybe Imogen had been with Miles long enough that being the secret girlfriend was a part that she played too well.

  As Miles walked around the sofa and sat down next to her, it appeared that his lust had meant that his sensitive mood-reading apparatus was well and truly switched off. No sooner had he sat down than he was starting to take his clothes off. Not hers – she could take her own off. Imogen smiled at him, she didn’t want him to be put off at this stage, this was too good an opportunity to miss. She wanted him to feel as naked and vulnerable as he had made her feel. She even let him kiss her as he slipped his suit off.