Dave Hart Omnibus II

by David Charters

  She’s backing off, looking at me as if I’m the kind of thing she might find on the underneath of her shoe. Maybe she’s right. She shakes her head.

  ‘No, thank you, Mr Hart, but may I quote you on the NHS?’

  Damn. Missed. Anyway, who gives a shit? It was worth a try. Always is. Well, mostly. ‘Sure you can quote me. Go for it.’

  Should I be worried? We live in a fickle age, where the press can kill you. One false move and you’re dead, regardless of whatever went before. Why we ever gave them so much power is beyond me. But for me it’s too late anyway, so why bother? I’ll never be a shining example. The best I can hope for is to be a horrible warning.

  ‘DAVE, WHAT is this NHS nonsense?’

  Paul Ryan is champing at the bit. He could hardly wait for me to take my coat off before bounding into my office, Two Livers in tow, seething with anger.

  I sit back in my super-sized leather power chair and gesture to them to sit down. I ignore him and look at Two Livers.

  ‘Welcome back. How was Paris?’

  She sighs and looks away. ‘Dave, I’ll tell you about Paris later. Are you going to tell us about the NHS?’

  ‘The NHS? What about it?’

  ‘Dave, it’s on the TV and the radio and questions are going to be asked in Parliament. Again. We seem to be the number topic in Parliament these days, and I don’t feel good about that. Is Grossbank really going to bid for the NHS?’

  I reach across to the humidor on the sideboard behind my desk and take out a large Cohiba. ‘We might. Who can say? Anyone want a cigar?’

  They both shake their heads, avoiding my eye.

  Paul takes a deep breath. ‘Dave, I was called at home by the BBC this morning. It’s becoming a habit. First the select committee, now this. They wanted a quote.’

  I chuckle and I can see this really pisses him off. Beside him, Two Livers is looking concerned. I don’t like it when she looks concerned. Adoring is fine. That I can handle. But concerned troubles me.

  ‘So what did you say?’

  ‘I said the only thing I could. I told them it was inappropriate to comment further on Grossbank’s plans at this time.’

  I lean back and roar with laughter, slapping my thigh, then light my cigar and blow a smoke ring across the desk towards him. ‘Well, technically that’s correct. It isn’t appropriate to comment further on our plans at this time. Because we don’t have any!’

  For some reason, while I find this killingly funny, they both stay stony-faced.

  Two Livers sighs and looks serious. ‘Boss, what are we going to do next?’

  I like it when she calls me boss. It’s a sign. She wants us all to be friends, all on the same team again. I give her a broad grin.

  ‘Next? Well, I was thinking about education.’

  ‘Education?’

  ‘Sure. Let’s buy the school system. Why not? And the universities. Most of them are crap. We can strip out costs, close a bunch of them down, sell off the real estate, auction places on the most popular degree courses. We could make a bundle. Think what we could charge for places at Oxford and Cambridge. The richest people in the country are generally the most talented, and it’s their gene pool that should benefit from proper education. It would be in the national interest. Forget all this social mobility bullshit. And after education, we’ll go for the prisons.’

  ‘Prisons? Are you mad?’

  ‘Sure, the prisons. We can offer hotel-style accommodation for those who can afford it, and forced labour for the rest.’ I tap the side of my nose. ‘I smell profit.’

  ‘Boss, you’re nuts. You need a break.’ Ouch. She looks serious now, and purposeful. I like her purposeful in the bedroom, but not the boardroom.

  ‘Guys, whatever happened to your sense of humour? Once upon a time we used to have a laugh.’ They’re both shaking their heads, staring at the floor, the ceiling, the desk, anywhere to avoid looking me in the eye. ‘Look, I’m one step ahead of you. We’re all taking a break.’

  ‘All of us? What do you mean?’

  ‘We’re living in unprecedented times. We need to take stock, to pause, to reflect.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So we’re having an off-site.’

  ‘An off-site?’

  ‘Sure. I’m told Mauritius is nice this time of year. We’ll take all the managing directors. It’ll cheer everyone up. We’ll have a ball. Let’s take the whole island.’

  You’d think they’d at least manage a smile or some acknowledgement of my thoughtfulness, but instead they get up and head for the door, just as Maria calls through on the intercom.

  ‘Mr Hart, I have the secretary of state for health on line four.’

  I stare at the phone, puzzled.

  ‘Who?’

  IN BUSINESS, as in life, authenticity is vital. Always try to be true to yourself. I do. I genuinely am shallow, selfish, lazy, self-indulgent and greedy.

  And the strangest thing is that, from time to time, good comes of it, which is why I mustn’t change. My press profile has bounced back. Today’s papers have announced that the government has rejected out of hand the notion of privatising the NHS, and that much of what Grossbank Holdings proposed to do with the health service is either already in hand or shortly will be, under long-standing government plans. Numbers of administrators will be reduced and a substantial pay review is planned for the new year, focusing directly on those involved in front-line patient care. The press weren’t born yesterday, and they’re saying this is bullshit: it’s only because Grossbank – Dave Hart – acted as a catalyst and forced their hand.

  At the same time my nonchalance in partying while other firms are visibly drowning has flowed through to the Grossbank share price, which is up fifteen per cent, the only bank stock to rally after the bloodbath of the past week.

  So I feel a kind of obligation to keep partying. If I have to make the ultimate sacrifice, so be it – my people will eventually come to love me, even if they don’t understand me, and God is on my side. All will be for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Eventually. But, in the meantime, why am I so bored?

  It’s late afternoon and I’m in my office, puffing on a cigar, a glass of Scotch by my side, about to take a call from a journalist who has got wind of the upcoming Grossbank global banking off-site in Mauritius. Under my desk, Melissa has her top off and her head is bobbing up and down rapidly in my lap, doing a Woody Woodpecker impression. Most men would be happy under these circumstances, but somehow it’s not enough. In fact the whole Melissa thing is starting to bore me. What is it about meaningless sexual gratification that I find so unsatisfying?

  I can feel it isn’t going to work. I’ve been virtually mainlining Viagra lately, but even that doesn’t have the effect it used to, although I have noticed that people’s eyes and teeth have a vaguely bluish tinge, and Grossbank seems to have gone over to pale blue paper as well. Maybe I need an optician. I gently ease Melissa away, give her a peck on the forehead and tell her to get dressed.

  ‘Dave …’ Oh God, here we go.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Dave, I’m troubled.’

  I take a sip of Scotch. ‘Is that right? What’s troubling you?’

  ‘Dave, people don’t believe in what I do.’

  ‘What? This whole diversity bullshit? Who doesn’t believe in it? Give me their names and I’ll fire them. Unless they’re big producers, of course.’

  ‘Dave, that’s just it. This whole thing that I do, it’s just a sham.’

  For once I’m at a loss for words. Of course it’s a sham. Everyone knows that, but nobody says so. We hire diversity coordinators the way we sponsor charities or allow employees to donate a day a month to volunteering. It’s part of the cost of doing business, maintaining an impression of corporate good citizenship, but no one actually believes in it. Where there is real diversity, it’s driven by competition, not kindness. Looking out at the trading floor, the equity derivatives desk is staffed almost entirely by Indians and Chin
ese with PhDs from top US universities and hardly a white face in sight. I hire these guys because they’re damned smart, work like sons of bitches and take no prisoners. Should I dilute the mix by imposing some token white men, maybe to fetch coffee or run errands?

  ‘But, Melissa, you’re special to me.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ There are tears in her eyes now. Oh shit. I hate tears. ‘Dave, I thought I might be special once upon a time. But there’s only one special person in your life.’

  I look her in the eye, wondering quite how transparent I’ve been with my feelings. ‘You mean Two Livers?’

  ‘No! You, you selfish bastard.’

  Bastard? She called me a bastard. That hardly seems fair.

  She opens her handbag and throws an envelope on my desk. ‘I’m out of here.’

  Oh dear. She flounces out of the office, hips rolling in a way that reminds me why I hired her in the first place. Maybe if I call her back now I can bend her over the desk one last time? Maybe not. I reach across and open the envelope. It’s a lawsuit. Damn. I should have seen it coming. Sexual harassment, sexual discrimination, the usual thing. I’ve had so many over the years that I normally send them straight to the in-house legal counsel with a scribbled note to write the cheque. Only this time there’s nothing normal about the number. It’s fifty million pounds. That even gets my attention.

  At the worst possible time, the phone rings. It’s Maria, putting through the idiot from the Daily Post. I take a large gulp of Scotch and have a big puff on my cigar. If you’re sitting in the chairman’s office of one of the largest financial services firms in the world, drinking Scotch and smoking a cigar, things can’t be too bad. At least that’s what I tell myself.

  ‘It’s James Drummond, Mr Hart, and thank you so much for your time today.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Mr … what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Drummond, Mr Hart, James Drummond.’

  ‘Whatever. What do you want?’ I know this sounds abrupt, but why be nice to journos? They only want to fuck you anyway.

  ‘Mr Hart, I wanted to conduct an on-the-record interview about Grossbank’s response to the global banking crisis.’ Is that what they’re calling it now? A global crisis? I really must catch up on the news. ‘And I specifically wanted to ask about the senior management off-site you’re planning.’

  ‘You mean the Mauritius trip?’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Hart. I understand you have a very substantial budget to take the firm’s highest earners to a top resort in Mauritius at a time when other firms are committing themselves to new austerity measures.’

  Jesus Christ, these little people piss me off. What is it with their small-minded, mean, unimaginative, negative approach to life? Do they only get off on envy or what?

  ‘First, Mr Desmond-’

  ‘Drummond.’

  ‘Whatever. First, let me make clear that at Grossbank we do not believe in austerity measures.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘Nope. They’re for losers. We’re winners. Others may be drowning but we’re having a ball. And that’s what we’ll be doing in Mauritius. Having a ball.’

  ‘How much will you be spending, Mr Hart? Word on the street is you have a ten-million-dollar-budget.’

  ‘I have no idea what the budget is. I leave things like budgets to my people to sort out. Ten sounds a little light. Plus we’re taking wives and girlfriends too. That’ll add to the cost. And I’m thinking about hiring the Stones to perform for us.’

  ‘The Stones? You mean the Rolling Stones?’

  ‘No. The other ones. Anyway, better make it twenty.’ We weren’t actually planning to take wives and girlfriends – they cramp your style when you’re away from home with colleagues – and I’m not keen on the Stones myself, but this guy’s pissing me off and needs to be put in his place, so I just changed the plan.

  ‘Mr Hart, that sounds like pure bull-market extravagance.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s the kind of extravagance that only the best firm in the business can indulge in, the firm that sits at the top of the food chain, the firm that every other firm wants to be. That’s us. We’re Grossbank and we can do anything. Now, thank you for your time, Mr Hammond.’

  ‘It’s Drummond, and if I could just ask one more-’

  I hang up. Fucking loser. Waste of time even talking to them.

  I stare at Melissa’s letter on the desk. Fifty million. Damn. I underestimated that girl.

  ‘I DID not have sexual relations with that woman.’

  I’m sitting with Paul Ryan, Two Livers and Charles Butler, the head of HR at Grossbank London. Charles is late fifties, tired and ragged around the edges, but a Grossbank lifer who owes his job to me. He still has to pay for his kids’ education, probably still has a mortgage, and there’s a cold wind blowing round the City of London right now. So he’d better keep me happy.

  Paul can’t wait to respond, no doubt looking to set the tone for the meeting.

  ‘I think I’ve heard that somewhere before.’

  The words are said in a tone that drips with sarcasm. Where’s the love, Paul? Where’s the respect?

  Two Livers looks more concerned, which I also don’t appreciate. I feel as if I’m being treated like a senile elderly relative who can’t be trusted to get things right by himself. What happened to the adoration? Where’s the hero worship? I saved your life, girl, don’t rat on me now.

  ‘Dave – wasn’t it Melissa who was tied up on your bed that night when I came round?’ The others are staring at me, waiting for the answer. ‘Do you remember the evening? You had a bottle of maple syrup?’

  Wow, where did that one come from? I clear my throat and look them, each in turn, squarely in the eye. ‘There was an occasion, yes, when she was tied up on my bed, but only loosely, and with silk ties. Hermès. The best. I would never tie an employee tightly to my bed. And before you ask, yes, she was naked. The maple syrup I don’t remember. But we did not have sex.’ That part at least is true.

  Paul clears his throat and he looks as if he’s trying not to laugh – how disrespectful is that? ‘And wasn’t it Melissa who was, er … servicing you in a conference room the night the whole rogue trader thing broke?’

  Bastard. This is war. Or maybe revolution. Maybe this is what it feels like to be on the receiving end of a palace coup. I choose my words carefully and try to speak in a dignified, unhurried tone. ‘Yes, it is true that I was in a conference room with Melissa that night. We were discussing best practice for the treatment of women in the workplace.’

  ‘She was giving you a blow job! I walked right in on you. And it’s not as if it’s the first time.’

  ‘She was not giving me a blow job. You’re mistaken. She had dropped her contact lens and was trying to retrieve it from the floor. From where you were standing you may have gained an erroneous impression.’

  They sigh and shake their heads and stare at the floor.

  ‘OK, I did have sex with her.’

  Paul looks up with an ‘I told you so’ expression on his face. ‘So? Did it end badly?’

  I shrug. ‘Not from my perspective.’ He groans and stares out the window. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what this is really about.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Paul looks surprisingly aggressive. Be careful, pal. Don’t overplay your hand too soon. You’re taking on the very biggest beast in this particular jungle, and yes, I am carnivorous.

  ‘It’s because I told that journalist we’re taking wives and girlfriends to Mauritius, and now everyone on the trading floor is pissed off at me. Their wives and girlfriends read it in the paper and now they want to come.’

  ‘I won’t dignify that with a response.’ Bingo. Got him in one. I obviously got this one wrong – the people on the trading floor were over the moon when they first heard about Mauritius, not least because of what it implied about the bonus round at a time when other firms are struggling, and they were probably looking forward to whatever it is that inve
stment bankers do when they go on off-sites. Then I blew all the goodwill with the stupid remarks about wives coming too.

  ‘Mr Hart …’ It’s Charles Butler, and he’d better be damned careful. The other two I need. Or I thought I did anyway. But this guy is expendable. One wrong word and he’s toast. ‘I think we need to engage with the other side. Meet Miss Myers’ lawyers, explore what scope there is for compromise.’

  ‘Compromise is the enemy of achievement.’ I love that line, and I always try to get it in somewhere. But this time they just groan. ‘Fine, write her a cheque if that’ll keep it quiet, but not fifty million. Please – the way things are going, I might not make fifty million myself this year.’

  They have a strange look on their faces. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they think I might make a lot less than fifty this year.

  IN THE car going home I had a strange call from Al Marrapodi. Al runs Schleppenheim. He’s based in New York, and we have what passes in investment banking circles for a long-distance friendship, which is to say that when we visit each other’s towns we get laid together. Well, not exactly together, but in adjoining rooms at his place or mine. We have similar tastes, and when he recommends a girl I’m rarely disappointed. I like to think he’d say the same about me.

  When he calls I assume he’s going to tell me he’s coming to London and ask me if I have time to meet up. But that isn’t it at all.

  ‘Dave … how is Grossbank doing in these markets?’

  ‘We’re fine, Al. You know the mighty Hun – too big to fail.’

  He doesn’t laugh, and actually sounds nervous on the phone. Nervous? When talking to a competitor? Things must be bad.

  ‘Dave, things are not great on Wall Street. In fact, I’d say they’re worse than I’ve ever known them.’

  ‘So what? We’ll both be fine. All the players will be. It’s the little guys who get toasted when times are hard. We’ll be the ones scooping them up when they fall.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Dave. Not this time. Word on the street is that one of the big firms is going to go under.’