The Money Makers (5 page)

The Banca di Roma guy almost audibly relaxed. He asked a couple more questions about last night’s number and then a whole lot more about how to exit his position, which was in fact very large. Luigi talked him through it and promised to stay in touch through the day. Then a call came in on another line and Luigi hung up to take it.

Matthew spent the day doing what he could to sift out the nuggets which mattered from the flood of information which roared through the bank. As he picked them out, he made sure that his increasingly frenzied team of traders got them quickly and clearly. He worked so intently that it had got to eleven thirty without him going out for the coffees. When Luigi noticed, he picked his half-eaten bagel from the dustbin and threw it accurately at Matthew’s head.

‘You’re still only here for the coffees.’

At five thirty that afternoon the market fell quiet. The frenzy which had raged across London for nine hours had moved on to New York New York would pass the baton to Chicago and San Francisco. Then the West Coast would hand the baton on to Tokyo and just a little later to Hong Kong and Singapore. The Asians kept long and lonely watch as the sun rolled over the endless miles until once again European traders woke up to play the everlasting game.

Matthew helped his traders tidy up after the day, making sure each trade was properly documented with a complete and legible trading note. Thanks to his help, Matthew’s team finished its paperwork fifteen minutes after the close of the market. All around other traders were cursing and fidgeting as they grappled with the unwelcome slips of paper.

Luigi had to rush off to a dinner date, or so he said.

The crude comments thrown at him by Anders and Cristina suggested that anything he wanted to do in the hour and a half before dinner time was likely to be done lying down, and not by himself. Matthew grabbed Luigi before he left.

‘I’d like to ask you a question. Why didn’t you stiff the Banca di Roma guy earlier on today? I could see he’d have let you if you’d wanted to.’

‘Matteo, Matteo,’ said Luigi, patting his cheek, ‘if he wanted to get out of his position quickly, he would have tried to spread his trades among as many banks as possible. We’d all have stiffed him, but he’d have felt better about it that way. As it was, he trusted me. I did maybe sixty percent of his trades today at a rate which was fair to me and fair to him. He is grateful to me because he was scared this morning and I didn’t shit on him when I could have done. The Banca di Roma does a lot of business, and right now they love me. Signor Matteo, you can make a lot of money by stiffing people, but you only make it once. Give your clients a good service and they come back.’

Luigi started to walk off to his ‘dinner date’, then turned and added with a wink, And you never know. If you stiff even your best clients perhaps once a year, they are probably too stupid to notice.’

7

lchabod Bell greeted Zack with a glass of sherry.

‘Decided to drop all that tripe about money, I take it. Damned if I can name a single ancient Greek millionaire, but I can think of a good few philosophers whose credit is still good today. Anyway, blast you, you’re nowhere near good enough to make the grade. You want to be an accountant, right? I forget. No, silly me. Too exciting. An actuary. Much better. Less stressful. Very reliable pension arrangements. How’s your rowing?’

‘I’ve studied nothing else for two weeks. Am I allowed to know why?’

lchabod ignored him.

‘Gong’s already sounded. Let’s go in to dinner. Mind you taste the wine. Tonight’s a fund-raiser and the Dean’s serving only the best.’

Upstairs in the dining hall, panelled in six-hundred­ year-old oak, Zack found his place in between a history lecturer he had liked when a student, and a Sir Robert Grossman, whose name rang a bell but nothing more. Once everyone was seated, the chaplain rose.

‘Surgete,’
he said in Latin, indicating with his hands that the company should rise for grace.

Everybody did so except for Ichabod, a fierce atheist. A long Latin grace followed. Zack took the opportunity, as did most others, to squint downwards at the menu card on his plate. Trout, beef, chocolate mousse, cheese. The ingredients would be good enough, but Zack knew that the college kitchens were of the traditional British school. The chef’s idea of a luxurious gravy was to stir a bit of wine in with the stock granules. Vegetables would be boiled into surrender, the beef roasted into submission. At least the wine would be first-rate.

The first two courses passed in agreeable banter with the history lecturer, who brought Zack up-to-date on college politics and scandal. As the plates were being cleared, Zack turned to the man on his left, Grossman, who had also turned.

‘Well, young man, are you enjoying the wine?’

Zack hated nothing more than a patronising old fool, but tonight he was on his best behaviour.

‘The wine’s great,’ he said. Then, a snippet from his two weeks’ research suddenly falling like a silver penny into his lap, he added: ‘Do I remember you used to row for the college eight?’

Grossman was instantly transfixed.

‘Yes, indeed! Captained it, actually. We had a damn good season and damn near went Head of the River. You’re a rower are you? Best sport in the world, I always say. Clever of you to remember my name. Still, I suppose I did have quite a reputation in my day.’

Rowing was the great love of Grossman’s life. At Oxford he’d been a bit too dumb to make it academically and a bit too ugly to have much luck romantically. In a bright and talented world, Grossman felt marooned. Then he discovered rowing. Rowing gave him friends and an activity at which he excelled. In his memory at least, his time at Oxford had been a succession of bright mornings and golden afternoons, racing triumphs and disasters, drinking feats, puking and songs.

Zack left his previous conversation partner dangling as Grossman rattled away like a racing commentator. He and Zack talked rowing right through to the end of dinner, comparing techniques, race statistics, competitors, anecdotes. Zack boasted a photographic memory, and his research bore up easily under the barrage. Pudding, cheese, wines and port passed in an increasingly alcoholic haze. Rowers, it seemed, were heavy drinkers.

When the time came to move downstairs for the cigars and more drinks, the Dean appeared silently at Grossman’s elbow. Time for a chat about leaking roofs and vacant fellowships. Grossman understood the hint, and, firing a few last sentences at Zack, walked off in the Dean’s wake. Zack grabbed Ichabod as they went downstairs.

‘OK I’ve talked rowing for two hours without a break and I still don’t know why. Who is Grossman, anyway? And I warn you, I’m three quarters dead with boredom.’

Ichabod grinned. ‘I knew you’d love him.’

Back in the senior common room they helped them­ selves to cigars and more alcohol. Zack’s head was spinning. He was glugging down wines worth twenty pounds a glass, enjoying them but not tasting them.

‘Grossman is your future employer,’ said Ichabod.

‘Deputy Chief Executive at Coburg’s, the merchant bank. A fading light there, but still a big hitter. Worst rowing bore I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a few. I’ll never understand how second-raters get to the top in business. It must be surprisingly easy.’

Zack looked at the gentle don in his corduroy jacket. Bell’s financial acumen stretched no further than remembering (most of the time) where he’d left his wallet. It was hard to picture him as an international mogul. The pair chatted a little longer. Then the Dean came into the common room with Grossman in tow. The Dean looked serious, while Grossman beamed in delight. The Dean had the happy gift of being able to take a very large cheque from people and leave them feeling like they’d won the lottery.

Ichabod left Zack and walked over to Grossman. Zack felt two pairs of eyes on him and he buried himself in conversation with his historian friend. Later, as dons and guests began to disperse into the warm summer night, Ichabod and Grossman, who was obviously the worse for drink, approached Zack.

‘You’re heading off to London, aren’t you, Zack? Perhaps Sir Robert could give you a lift?’

Grossman and Zack compared addresses and found they lived only three blocks from each other. The deal was swiftly done and Zack soon found himself sliding out of Oxford in the banker’s chauffeur-driven BMW. If possible, Grossman drunk was more boring than Grossman merely tipsy, and Zack had to endure another barrage of anecdotes, most of them missing a punch line and many of which he’d already heard at dinner. At one point, Zack managed, as it were, to put his oar in, mentioning that he was looking for a job in corporate finance, preferably with a good British bank.

Grossman looked at the younger man.

‘Corporate finance, eh? You’re the sort of fellow we’re always on the lookout for. I’m at Coburg’s, you know. Deputy Chief Executive.’

Zack tried to look surprised.

‘Coburg’s? Really? I’ve always so admired the bank. I was hoping ...’

‘Hoping to join, eh? Well, come in for an interview. I’m sure you’ll do well.’ Grossman said, slurring his words. ‘I’m a sharp judge of character, y’know, and I’ve had my eye on you this evening.’ Zack had watched Grossman drink the best part of three bottles of wine at dinner, not to mention sherry before and port after, and had listened to him talk virtually non-stop. What Grossman was like when he didn’t have his eye on someone, Zack couldn’t imagine. ‘Besides,’ added Grossman, ‘that man Bell with the funny name -’

‘Ichabod. Ichabod Bell.’

‘Quite right. Itchy-dog Bell. Fellow told me you were one of his best ever students. I wasn’t surprised. Not a bit. I could tell you had a good head on you. Anyway, come in to Coburg’s for an interview. I’ll tell ’em to look out for you.’

And so he did. When Zack called Coburg’s, the man from personnel said, Ah, yes, Grossman’s friend,’ and scheduled a day of interviews for Zack then and there. The interviews were strange, dream-like affairs. The interviewers went through the motions, but both sides knew that the important thing had already been decided. Two weeks following dinner with Grossman, Zack received an offer of employment. The post paid twenty-seven thousand pounds per annum plus a January bonus. Peanuts, of course. Less than the rent on his flat. But that wasn’t the point.

The point was he’d done it. He’d been admitted. He was a season ticket holder to the City of London, the enchanted forest where money really does grow on trees.

8

‘D’you know what Josie wants to talk about?’ asked Matthew.

‘Not me,’ said Zack. ‘Probably just wants to escape Mum for the evening. I’d go nuts in that horrible little house with Mum crying away all the time.’

‘Poor Mum. She certainly took the will terribly hard. I should visit her, but I’m working all hours at the moment.’

‘Mmm,’ said Zack, who was in between finishing at his accountancy firm and starting at Coburg’s. Despite his leisure time, he hadn’t called on his ailing mother. A silence began to grow, filled only by the rumble of traffic from Camden High Street. ‘Where’s George, d’you know?’ he said, changing the subject.

‘No, no one knows. Josie left loads of messages at his flat, but he’s either not there or not responding.’

‘I wonder what he’s up to. He’s going to have a bit of a job financing his lifestyle now.’

That was true enough. George’s playboy life had been paid for by huge dollops of cash from their father. No more cash, no more jet-setting.

‘You never know,’ said Matthew. ‘He’s probably persuaded a billionaire friend of his to give him a couple of million to tide him over. He was always good at getting cash out of Dad. Better than us.’

Zack shrugged. ‘I don’t think we need worry. George would get through a million in a matter of months.’

Both men laughed. They weren’t worried about George getting his million. Zack was the cleverest of the brothers, Matthew the most determined. George wasn’t smart and he hated work. Both brothers had always vaguely resented the ease with which George had taken cash from their father, but now it was payback time. Zack knew that Matthew was his only serious rival, and he was Matthew’s. The two men looked at each other warily. They were tense, defensive, nervous.

When the doorbell rang, Zack stood up quickly.

‘That’ll be her now. If you get the door, I’ll get her a drink.’

Matthew opened the door and found a stranger. It was Josephine alright, but as he’d never seen her. She wore a navy blue skirt with a white cotton blouse. A single gold chain was her only jewellery. Her long, dark, naturally curly hair was pulled back and pinned up. A few weeks before, Josephine had been a slim, pretty, lively girl with a passion for dance and parties. Today, she was professional, competent, unobtrusive. For maybe the first time, her mouth was tucked down, not up, at the comers.

‘Jesus Christ, Josie,’ murmured Matthew. ‘So soon?’

‘Yes, I was lucky. I got a last minute place at the Cavendish Secretarial School and I’ve been there a week now. It’s going OK.’

‘And this stuff - from M & S, I suppose?’

‘Yes. I’d never realised how much £500 could buy. I’m all set up now as you see.’

She gave a half-twirl as though to show off a party frock, but her heart wasn’t in it.

‘It’s not right, Josie. It’s not right.’