‘Listen, Miss MacKay …’ True to form, he has a dreadful regional accent – Brummie, I think, though they all sound equally ignorant to me – and a belligerent, whining tone to go with it. ‘Your firm committed to selling this business for me for one and a half billion pounds. Watch my lips. One and a half. Not one. There is a difference, Miss MacKay. And for me it’s quite significant. Do you understand?’ He says this last bit as if he’s talking to a simpleton. How dare he? Useless fucking reptile.
Two Livers tries again. ‘Mr Telford, if you’d just take a moment and listen to what we have to say, things will become a lot clearer.’
‘Listen? I’m done with listening. You said one and a half. Now you’re saying one. That’s all there is to listen to.’ He waves his hands theatrically and turns to the smugly sneering dorks on either side of him, who smile ingratiatingly. He still hasn’t introduced them, but whoever they are, they ought to know better than to come into my firm and act like complete wankers in front of me, the boss of bosses at one of the biggest, most powerful firms in the world.
I turn to Two Livers and she looks me squarely in the eye. I know. She knows. Even the kids probably know. We’ve blown this piece of business. The question is what to do next – prolong the agony or not.
‘Miss MacKay?’ I raise a quizzical eyebrow. The decision is hers.
‘Yes.’
Yes. Ah, for a moment the old magic is there. I’ve missed it these past weeks. How is it that a single word can carry so much resonance? She doesn’t say ‘Yes?’ She turns it into a simple affirmative, an acceptance between equals, between lovers. Yes, Dave, you can take me to bed. Right now. And I’ll do anything you want. Absolutely anything at all. A single word can launch a thousand possibilities, and every man in the room, from the kids to the toad Telford, has his tongue hanging out on the table.
I clear my throat and turn to one of the dorks. I can see Two Livers is intrigued. What am I going to do? The kids look on, fascinated. I’m fascinated too. Even I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do, but the knowledge that the possibilities are boundless is exhilarating.
‘Who are you?’ Before he can answer, I hold up my hand. ‘No, don’t answer that. I’m not interested. In fact it’s best that I don’t know. I tend to be vindictive, and the City is a small place. Silly, really. Guess I must have been bullied as a kid.’ He does a gratifying guppy impression, glances across at his colleague and says nothing. I turn to Attila the Brum. ‘Were you ever bullied, Mr Telford?’
‘What do you mean by that?’ He’s putting on one of those ‘I’m not impressed by this hotshot’ looks, which little people from the regions sometimes do in the face of their social and intellectual superiors.
‘What I mean is that you seem pretty keen on throwing your weight around, shooting from the hip without bothering to listen, as if somehow you can get your own way by sheer force of will. Might work in the steel industry, but it doesn’t cut the mustard down here. This is the City of London. The finest brains on the planet work here. This firm – my firm – has more brainpower than NASA. And if we say something can’t be done, you should listen.’ He’s looking thoughtful now, wondering whether to carry on being aggressive or start to pay attention. He decides to listen, at least for now. ‘These people beside you are probably telling you to fire Grossbank and hire them instead. They’ll do a better job for you, get you closer to the price you’re seeking. They’ll cover their arses by saying that our crashing around the market, talking to possible buyers in an amateurish way, has spoilt the market for you, and that’s what comes from hiring second-raters. And then they’ll come back with an offer for the business of – guess what? – a billion. Because in these markets, that’s what it’s worth. And by then more time will have passed, you’ll be in even greater need of the cash from the sale, and you’ll take the lower price. It’s called bait and switch, and these guys are good at it. If you really want to run with them, and they’re talking one point five against one from Grossbank, get them to hard underwrite the midpoint between the two valuations. Get them to commit their firm’s own capital to guarantee one and a quarter. Let’s see how real these guys are.’
‘Just a second.’ It’s the other dork, the one I haven’t yet humiliated. ‘We are a reputable –’
‘SHUT UP!’ I slam my hand down hard on the table and lean across menacingly towards him. ‘Or you will be leaving.’ I point towards the plate-glass windows with their panoramic view across the City far below. ‘That way.’
He has a ‘you cannot be serious’ look on his face, but he shuts up.
‘Meanwhile, we will not be able to sit idle.’ I stare across the table at Telford.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Where did you get that accent?’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. Don’t answer. What I mean, Mr Telford, is that if we withdraw from this assignment, we will feel obliged to make an announcement to the market.’
‘An announcement? You can’t do that – whatever happened to client confidentiality?’
‘Whatever did? But we’ll be announcing nothing about this potential deal, which as you say is confidential. We’ll be announcing that we’re resigning as your financial adviser, and that after detailed analysis we’re cutting all credit lines to your company, withdrawing loan and overdraft facilities, in fact that we’re unwilling to have any credit exposure whatsoever towards you. And at the same time our totally independent equity research analysts – whose bonus I pay – will downgrade your stock to a Sell. The market will be able to draw its own conclusions.’
‘You wouldn’t.’ He’s giving me a weird look, like I’m some kind of monster or something.
‘Wanna bet?’
The second dork bravely decides to try to salvage the situation. ‘Mr Hart, that’s simply not realistic. You just can’t push around equity analysts like that any more. You really should know better. There are all kinds of conflicts of interest-’
I leap to my feet, knocking over my chair behind me, and lean forward as if I’m about to climb on to the table to attack him. On cue, my left cheek starts twitching and spittle flies as I stab him in the chest with my index finger.
‘There is no such thing as a conflict of interest in this firm.’ I straighten up and step back from the table, breathing deeply. ‘There is only a community of interest. Conflicts are like ghosts. As soon as you stop believing in them they go away. But you …’ I turn back to Telford. ‘You had better believe me. You want my advice? Take the billion. Take it now.’
He’s pushed his chair back from the table, as if to protect himself from the whacko nut job on the other side. He’s shaking his head from side to side, probably wondering if it’s all a bad dream, as I sweep from the room.
‘SO HE took the billion?’
I’m sitting in my office with Two Livers and the kids from her corporate finance team. We’re all smoking cigars – Two Livers blows even better smoke rings than I do – and drinking fine malt whisky.
‘No. Stormed out in a rage – never been so insulted in his life.’
‘Good. He’s a wanker, and we should operate a no-wanker policy. Make a note for the next management committee, will you?’
‘But then he came back.’
‘He came back? How long did it take?’
‘About an hour. He called and asked how firm our buyer is. We went over to his office – he refused to come here again in case he met you – and signed at one o’clock.’
We clink glasses and smile in deep satisfaction. Sometimes it pays to be nuts. I turn to the two kids, both in their mid twenties, bright young things with futures.
‘Better to be lucky than smart. You guys got lucky today.’ I smile at Two Livers. ‘You’re lucky because your boss here is the best, and her luck rubs off on all of us. Now take the afternoon off and go and celebrate. Hit the corporate Amex. Send the expenses to me for sign-off, and if you don’t impress me with a big number you’re fired. Get dru
nk, get laid, do some drugs. The firm’s paying.’
They look at me as if they think I’m joking, and when I don’t laugh they turn to Two Livers.
‘Do as the man says. It doesn’t happen often, so go for it.’
When they’ve left I put down my cigar and turn to Two Livers.
‘Wasn’t that just great in there today? You and me – just like we used to be.’
She turns away. I can’t stand this.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Dave, there’s something I need to tell you.’ There’s a coldness, a distance in her voice that’s killing me.
‘Of course. Anything.’
‘Dave – it’s about the dreams. At least to begin with I thought they were dreams. I’ve been to a shrink. Several, in fact. And I’ve been taking medication. I’ve tried everything. But they won’t go away.’
‘What sort of dreams?’
‘Dreams about being back there – in the desert. Dragging you on a stretcher across endless wastes, in the burning heat, pulling you behind me.’
‘You … pulling me?’
‘That’s right. And before you try to reinterpret them the way you did before, let me stop you. I’ve seen three shrinks now, and they all say the same thing. These aren’t dreams, Dave. They’re memories. I’m remembering what actually happened.’
Shit.
‘I … I …’ I’m not sure what to say.
‘Don’t.’ She cuts me off with a single word.
With anyone else, I’d bluff, argue, persuade, cajole, bluster and bullshit for England. I could hold out for hours, days if necessary. But this is Two Livers. She’s superior to me in every way imaginable, and I have no chance whatsoever. A horrible, pregnant silence fills the room, smothering me as my life implodes and I stare at the floor, unable even to look her in the eye.
‘Ten million.’
She looks at me with contempt. Aaaaaargh. That really hurts.
‘Twenty?’
More contempt.
‘How much? Name it. It’s yours.’
More silence, then with a cool, detached glance in my direction – which simply kills me – she shakes her head, disappointed. It’s over. She’s crossed to the other side. We’ll never be the same again. I’m faced not with hatred, but indifference. My bubble’s burst.
‘I’ll take twice whatever Melissa gets, subject to a minimum of twenty-five, sterling, all cash, no paper. We’ll call it my bonus for exceptional performance. I can wait until the bonus round if that gives you the cover you need. But after payday, I’ll leave. No strings, good leaver status on my unvested paper and a glowing reference if I ever need it.’
She gets up and walks to the door, suddenly transformed into an impenetrable ice maiden. I can’t bear to let her go. What should I do? Run after her? I’m not a running-after type, and besides, she’s made up her mind. So I might as well tell it like it is. If all else fails, tell the truth.
‘Before you go …’
She turns in the doorway, her eyes hard as she stares at me.
‘It isn’t easy for me to say, but I really do care, you know. I always have.’
‘About yourself? Sure. I never doubted that, Dave.’
The door closes behind her and I bury my head in my hands.
SO INSTEAD of going in to face the legal storm troopers from Zelig, Collingwood, Wong fortified with the advice and input of one of the greatest female minds in investment banking, I find myself going in puffy-eyed, humbled, beaten and dejected, mentally absent from the pre-meet briefing as I contemplate going up to the roof of the building and throwing myself off.
Luckily my legal team from Wildman, Savage are anything but humble, beaten and dejected. They act like they’ve been eating red meat all morning and want some more now – which they’re going to find by biting chunks of it out of the other side.
There are two lawyers on the other side, one of the founding partners, Hugh Collingwood, mid fifties, tall, lean, fit-looking with patrician grey hair and an air of quiet confidence, and a young male associate who says nothing but scribbles furiously in a leather-bound notebook. Melissa is with them – I thought she wouldn’t be able to resist – and is wearing a long, plain black skirt, possibly Armani though I can’t be sure, and a white blouse which buttons up to the neck. She has a white gold cross around her neck, which I’ve never seen before. All in all, she looks conservative, serious-minded and sensible. Just for old times’ sake I’d like to bend her over my knee one more time and spank her for this outrageous sexual harassment claim, but on reflection it’s best not to think about things like that right now.
My lawyer is Sam Goodwin, a partner who looks like a swarthy, feral thug with a bodybuilder’s physique. His muscles bulge through his suit, and he looks like he’s been sewn into it especially for the occasion. Charles Butler has worked with him before, and even he seems intimidated by him, making sure to sit at the end of the room as far from Sam as possible.
He has with him a thick-set, beefy female associate who must weigh the better part of two hundred pounds, has bad hair on her head as well as on her upper lip, thick glasses and can probably bench-press more than her boss. She’s a thug too, no doubt brought here to intimidate Melissa in all those subtle little ways that only women understand, analysing her, seeing through her and despising her all at the same time. She curls her lip nicely when Melissa enters the conference room.
After the intros, the coffee-pouring ceremony and the polite, civilised bullshit that oils the wheels of discourse between people who desperately want to kill each other but aren’t allowed to, we settle down to business.
Hugh Collingwood explains. ‘Mr Hart, we have a very serious case here.’
I look at my watch but say nothing.
‘Miss Myers has been keeping a diary-’
Before I have a chance to respond, Sam cuts in. ‘No? A diary? Really? And don’t tell me it’s filled in with lots of different coloured pens, so it looks totally authentic – go on, surprise us.’
Way to go, Sam the man! He’s a killer, and he’s setting the tone nicely for what will clearly be an amicable, non-confrontational and productive all-parties session – without prejudice on either side.
Hugh Collingwood sighs patiently, as if dealing with an infant. ‘Mr Goodwin, if you’d just let me finish …?’
Sam waves graciously and settles back in his chair. Beside me his female gorilla is staring at Melissa, not blinking, not moving or twitching, hardly breathing. Even I’m starting to find her scary. Her face looks to have become paler. I thought she’d at least go through the motions of taking notes, but her book is closed on the table in front of her. Melissa seems to be squirming in her seat, avoiding my glance but drawn inevitably back to the psycho lesbian bitch killer beside me.
Hugh Collingwood resumes. ‘Miss Myers’ diary is an extraordinary chronicle of the systematic abuse of one human being by another such as I have never seen in thirty years of legal practice.’
Sam and I both do eye-rolling impressions, but Hugh ploughs on.
‘Let me read you some extracts.’
He makes a big show of getting a large ring-bound volume of photocopied diary pages from his assistant, leafs through them and then seems to alight on a particularly choice example.
‘December tenth. Dave made me go down on him again in his office.’ He turns to Melissa and touches her reassuringly on the arm. ‘I hope you understand, Miss Myers, and this isn’t too painful for you.’ She shakes her head, afraid to look up and speak in case she has to catch the eye of the female wrestler beside me. Hugh resumes. ‘I tried to say no, but he said I’d be toast if I didn’t.’
I glance across at Melissa, who’s got a tissue up to her face to wipe her eyes at the painful memory. Yeah, right.
‘I was under his desk when Charles Butler, my boss in HR, came in to join Dave on a conference call with Frankfurt.’ My boss in HR! As if you’d write that in your own personal diary, unless it was intended as Exhibit A i
n a tribunal. Hugh pauses to look meaningfully at Charles, who squirms in his seat and blushes, but says nothing.
Hugh resumes. ‘At first Charles didn’t notice, but after a bit Dave started breathing heavily and getting excited, and when he finished, he tapped me on the shoulder to get up. Charles looked astonished, but said nothing. I’ve never felt so cheap, so humiliated in my life. I’m not sure how I can carry on. The stress and the pressure are unbearable, but I feel trapped.’ He looks up at me, expecting me to show remorse.
‘So – what’s the big deal? She was a volunteer. And Charles didn’t mind. We do this sort of thing all the time at Grossbank. At least I do.’ Sam holds his hand up to shut me up, and on reflection I bite my lip.
Hugh’s enjoying the moment and carries on. ‘December seventeenth. The Christmas party. Dave told me he wanted to have sex with me in his office before the party. And then during the party. And again afterwards. Twice. I know he was with other women between times, some of them prostitutes and others employees of the bank. I think he had sex with five different women, some of them more than once. I feel cheap, soiled, used. I don’t know what to do. No one will listen to me. This man controls my life and I’m in utter despair.’ Hugh looks up expectantly to see our reaction. ‘I don’t think that would play too well in the press now, would it, Mr Hart?’
In fact I’m preening myself and make a show of counting on my fingers as if struggling to recollect the exact names and numbers. I hold up six fingers, frown and look at Melissa, puzzled. ‘Are you sure it was five?’
She looks away and says nothing. I shrug and nudge Sam. ‘OK, let’s call it five – impressed, or what?’ He half nods, but I get the feeling I’m not making his job any easier. I turn back to Hugh. ‘Why shouldn’t I have sex with a number of different women? I’m a single man. They were all, as far as I know, single, and we all had a good time.’ I look across to Melissa. ‘Well, I certainly did.’
Hugh sighs, as if he’s reluctantly been forced by me to cross a boundary he would otherwise have stopped short of. ‘January fourth. Dave called me from his flat at midday to go round. He said he’d had an allergic reaction to prescription medicine and was feeling unwell. When I got there he was wasted. At first he could barely stand. Two girls were unconscious in his bedroom, lying naked on the bed. I recognised one as a graduate trainee from last year’s entry. There were empty bottles, pills, powder everywhere. I asked if he wanted me to call a doctor, but he said no and that I was his hangover cure. He took some more pills and seemed to recover, then he made me undress and have sex with him in the shower. Afterwards he called a cab to take me back to the office. He accompanied me downstairs, but stopped the lift between floors and made me have sex again. I felt humiliated and degraded.’ He looks up. ‘Shall I go on, Mr Hart?’
Dave Hart Omnibus II Page 11
