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‘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.’
She looked away, not wanting to let Matthew see her quivering eyes.
‘I haven’t many options, have I? Besides, it’s how most girls my age get by.’
Matthew raised his arm, offering her a cuddle, but she gently pushed it away. She’d cry if he cuddled her and she wasn’t here to cry. Once inside, Josephine took a tumbler of gin and tonic with a sigh of relief. She stretched out her legs on Zack’s gleaming glass coffee table, uncomfortable beneath her brother’s dark unemotional scrutiny.
‘M & S, huh?’
‘That’s right.’
Zack just nodded. Josie saw his eyes pass the information to his brain, which stored the fact as just another item to be memorised and filed. He cut to the chase.
‘Well, Josie, are you going to reveal why you’ve got us together or shall we guess?’
‘I don’t think it should be all that hard to guess,’ she said, keeping her voice steady and reasonable. ‘Mummy’s shocked, she’s depressed. Even after a month, she’s showing no sign of improvement. I think we need to do something.’
‘She needs to get out,’ said Zack. ‘Get a job.’
‘She can’t. She can’t type any more, and secretarial work is all she’ll do.’
‘Oh, come on. We all know she could type if she wanted. She could do anything if she just pulled herself together.’
‘Zack! She’s in a bad way. She’s finding things hard.’
‘What are you suggesting? We take it in turns to sing her lullabies?’
Josie’s temper began to rise despite herself, despite her foreknowledge that Zack would be difficult.
‘I’m saying that she needs help. From all of us. Now.’
Zack snorted and threw himself back in his chair, leaving it to Matthew to ask more gently, ‘What? What did you have in mind?’
‘Mum had relied on the will to make her comfortable. Dad failed her, but we don’t have to. We can all get jobs. I’m hoping to find work as soon as I finish my course. We can all put as much as we can towards a regular income for Mum, maybe club together to get her somewhere decent to live. She’s never liked it where she is now.’
‘She’s perfectly capable of going out to work herself,’ snapped Zack.
‘How would you know? When did you last see her?’
Matthew once again sought to make peace.
‘Have you thought about taking her to the doctor’s? Trying her out on antidepressants? She probably just needs snapping out of it.’
‘I have taken her to the doctor’s, yes,’ said Josie, still taut. ‘He spent three minutes with her, then wrote out a prescription for Prozac, which stopped her from getting to sleep, then gave her nightmares. If you want her to see another doctor, then it’s a private specialist she needs, paid for by us.’
Matthew lapsed into silence. He didn’t like the thought of leaving his mum without help, but he didn’t like the idea of offering his money before Zack had offered any of his. Zack lay slumped in his chair, swilling his whisky round his tumbler, then sat forward, alert again.
‘No,’ he said.
‘No? What do you mean, no?’
‘No, Josie. I’ve got three years to make a million pounds. I’m not going to work my knackers off only to miss the target by a few quid at the end, because Mum was too lazy to go out to work for herself.’
‘It’s not laziness!’
‘What else do you call it? The moment you start giving in to these sort of people, they learn to do less and less.’
‘These sort of people, Zack? She’s –’
‘And there’s no need to worry about money. In three years’ time, we’ll see to her properly. Either one of us wins Dad’s money, in which case he’ll see her right. Or none of us wins, in which case we’ll certainly have enough between us to look after her. It’s not a problem.’ Zack looked at Matthew for his agreement, which he gave with a nod. ‘I’m sure George would agree too. Stop worrying.’
‘She needs help now.’
‘Josie, you’re out of the will anyway. You may as well use your salary to look after Mum. It’s not as though she eats much or spends anything on clothes and stuff. We’ll pay you back in three years. If there’s a shortfall, you can always mortgage the house. Christ, in three years we just won’t have any problems. We’ll send you back to school for a start, and chuck that Miss Moneypenny outfit of yours in the incinerator.’
Josephine was furious. Angry and upset. She put her drink down on the table, hands shaking badly. She stood up.
‘For your information, this Miss Moneypenny outfit is what I expect to wear when I start to earn my living. And if you think I’m going to mortgage Mum’s home on the off chance that one of you three babies wins the Lottery in the next three years then you must be nuts. And if you think that it’s OK, now that she really needs you, to ignore her completely, then you’re totally out of line.’
Zack made no answer, but contempt was written on his face in lines of white.
‘Matthew, tell him.’ Josie appealed to her brother.
Matthew sat like a five-year-old, hoping that by keeping silent he could stay out of trouble. He didn’t have Zack’s abrasive selfishness, but he didn’t have his sister’s warm-hearted sense of justice either. He swallowed, but shook his head.
‘For God’s sake, you two. She’s not just some batty old cow. She’s your mother.’
Zack sat forward and opened his mouth. The others knew what Zack was thinking. He was thinking of saying that she was a batty old cow as well as his mother. Josephine was ready to throw her tumbler at him if he said it, but Matthew beat them both to the draw, interjecting quickly: ‘Josie, of course she’s our mum. But Zack’s right, you know. It makes no sense at all for us to devote our time or money to looking after her right now, when that could mean that we lose Gradley Plant Hire and all the money held in trust. Everybody is better off if we make sure that Dad’s money comes into the family instead of going to some godawful charity.’
‘So you’ll cooperate will you? Pool the money you make at the end of three years and divide up Dad’s money into quarters?’
It was a question addressed to both of them, but Matthew deferred to Zack, and Zack’s silence was implacable.
‘And now? What happens now?’ persisted Josie.
‘Well, I can see it’s going to be tight for the next three years,’ Matthew answered. ‘It’ll be hard for all of us. But we need to think of the future. And Zack’s right, you don’t want to be a secretary for the rest of your life. You will need a way out of that, you know.’
‘I’ll need a way out of that,’ repeated Josephine distantly. ‘So the answer’s no? You won’t help? Nothing?’
‘Of course we’ll do what we can.’ Matthew looked at Zack, who was adding to his whisky and looking away. ‘But realistically it won’t be much. But we’ll do what we can.’
‘I see.’
Josephine put down her drink. Her hands had stopped shaking. She picked up a heavy bronze statuette on a polished granite base from the glass coffee table in front of her. She turned it over in her hands. The statue was of a racing car. It had been a gift from Bernard Gradley to Zack, who had never liked it, but had never thrown it away either. She looked at it. It reminded her of her father’s campaign to win allegiance with money, and of his failure to do so. Love buys love, money buys money.
She held out the statuette and dropped it. It fell heavily and landed in the dead centre of the table, shattering the glass. Two diagonal cracks running from corner to corner split it into four pieces. Half the glass slid from its mounting and crashed on to the thickly carpeted floor. The remaining bits of glass stayed sticking out, suspended. The statuette lay on the floor surrounded by debris.
‘So sorry,’ she said, and left.
9
Where was George and what was he up to? Those were questions he was asking himself right now. He was somewhere in Cornwall, he knew that much. His car was parked in a lay-by off the A30 somewhere close to Bodmin Moor. It was late evening in mid-August and George watched as the last blue light surrendered to the gathering stars.
Somewhere in the car was an insect which George wouldn’t find until it bit him. He wound his seat back as far as it would go. It wasn’t far. A Lotus Esprit is not designed for men of stocky build to camp out in, as George had by now proved many times over. But his first attempt outside in a tent had been a disaster, with a summer storm leaving him soaked and desperate and since then he had preferred the car’s cramped interior to any tent, no matter how spacious.
He closed his eyes with a sort of fantasy idea that closing his eyes would send him to sleep. It didn’t. His legs sent him a message which he mostly ignored, but it had to do with bucket seats, feather beds, and their relative merits. Somewhere outside the car, an animal screamed. George remembered seeing video footage of a puma loose on Bodmin Moor, apparently still not caught. But they couldn’t attack Lotuses, could they? He wound up the window, just in case.
As he slumped back into his seat, the insect found George, and slap around though he did, George failed to find the insect. He struggled for the light switch, found it, and swatted round aimlessly for a minute or two, using the copy of the Financial Times which lay rolled up beside him.
As the light was on and the paper in his hand, George looked again at the familiar page. A section of classified ads, all but a few of them with blue lines through them. He’d carry on with the rest tomorrow, then it would be time for the next paper and the next set of ads, and so it would be until his last dribble of cash ran out, leaving him stranded in his Lotus Esprit, too poor to afford a gallon of petrol.
Zack and Matthew might laugh about his billionaire friends, but George knew the rules of the international jet set better than they did. If you wanted to be part of it, you either had to pay your way or be young enough and pretty enough to sleep your way. George hadn’t the cash or the body for it. As soon as people found out his wallet was empty, he’d be dumped faster than last season’s clothes. He’d sooner do the dumping himself.
He threw the paper down. On his answering machine at the flat, there had been three messages from his sister and one from Kiki. He missed them both.
He turned off the light again and tried to sleep.
10
Matthew emerged on to the floor of the deserted trading room. Except for the red digital wall-clocks and the flicker of screens, the room was in darkness. Matthew turned on an Anglepoise lamp over his desk. He liked the dark and the hour of silence before the cleaners arrived at five am. He fetched a cup of black coffee and got to work.
In the five weeks since he had really got started, Matthew had his routine well developed. By the time Luigi came in with fresh coffee at seven, Matthew would have prepared five neat piles of painstakingly referenced and highlighted bundles of research. At first the piles had been a welcome luxury. They had since become little short of essential: the Saint Matthew Gospel, as Luigi put it.
The fictional lira which marked Matthew’s progress with Luigi had nudged up to nearly one dollar. In practice, Matthew knew, Luigi would vote in favour of Madison’s offering him a full-time job to start once he had completed his degree. But that wouldn’t do. He had three years to make a million, and he wasn’t going to spend one of them studying economics. Matthew needed a job and he needed it now.
Later that day, Matthew was to have an interview with Brian McAllister. The son of a Glaswegian truck driver, McAllister ruled the trading floor with quiet voice and omniscient eye. By reputation, he knew each trader’s market better than they did themselves. He was willing, as most traders were, to take large risks in search of profit. Less commonly, he was also willing to refrain from risk whenever he judged the conditions were wrong. Many people had made bigger profits than Brian McAllister, but none had made smaller losses.
McAllister’s judgement would decide Matthew’s fate, and there was no court of appeal.
Just after nine, Luigi came by his desk. ‘Matteo, where does ze lira stand today?’
Matthew pretended to check his screen. ‘Hey, Luigi, what d’you know? The lira equals one dollar exactly.’
‘And how is the Italian deficit, please?’
Matthew touched some buttons on his keyboard. A new screen flashed up. ‘Well, look at that. Rupert Murdoch’s just bought the Italian government for a zillion dollars and the deficit’s been eliminated.’
Luigi grinned. ‘Seriously, Matteo, Big Mac will ask me why you suddenly work, when before you were the most goddamn lazy prick I have ever seen. How do we know which one we’re buying?’
‘My dad died six weeks ago,’ said Matthew, who had said nothing about it earlier. ‘About five weeks ago, I realised I needed to look after myself now. So I did.’
Luigi nodded seriously. His trader’s eyes scanned Matthew’s face, looking for the truth behind his words. ‘I’m sorry, Matteo, I didn’t know.’
Luigi walked off to find Big Mac, as McAllister was known behind his back, never to his face.
Luigi’s conversation lasted perhaps five minutes. Given the number of demands on McAllister’s time, that counted as a long interview. Matthew drummed nervously on his desk and felt inside his jacket pocket to reassure himself that a certain document was still there. Luigi returned, and one by one Anders, Cristina, and Jean-François went to speak with McAllister. Matthew believed they would support him. Each of them had said to him privately that his support over the last weeks had really given them an edge in the free-for-all of the market. Their trading profits still depended on their daily judgements, but Matthew had helped them and they were grateful.
Jean-François came back. He patted Matthew on the back. ‘Allez,’ he said, and gave a wink of support.
Matthew walked over to McAllister’s office. McAllister had taken advantage of the thirty second gap between Jean-François’s departure and Matthew’s arrival to take a call from his counterpart in the Paris office. The phone call blared from a speaker on McAllister’s desk. The subject of the conversation appeared to be how the French bond markets would react to a European summit being held the following day.
McAllister saw Matthew come in and signed him to sit. Privacy was unheard of on the trading floor. Conversations were yelled across the room. Phone calls were recorded. Pierre d’Avignon, on the phone to McAllister, wouldn’t raise an eyebrow if he knew that somebody else had just come in to sit in on his call. D’Avignon asked McAllister a question, something to do with the European summit.
‘An interesting question,’ said McAllister, in his strong Scots accent. ‘I’ll get our analyst here to do some research on that point and we’ll get back to you tomorrow.’
‘OK, but it needs to be tomorrow first thing, before the markets open.’
‘Aye. First thing tomorrow.’
‘And put one of your best guys on this, eh, Brian?’ said d’Avignon. ‘We’ve got five hundred million dollars’ worth of bonds on our books at the moment, and we don’t want to make a mess.’
‘Don’t worry. You’ll have the best.’
D’Avignon hung up. McAllister looked at Matthew.
‘Got that?’
‘You want me to do the research?’
McAllister nodded.
‘Yes. No problem,’ croaked Matthew. He knew virtually nothing about the European summit which d’Avignon was on about, but if he screwed up, he could wave his job goodbye. His mouth turned dry.
‘Good. We’ll talk about your job after your conversation with d’Avignon tomorrow morning.’
Matthew was dismissed, but he continued to hold McAllister’s gaze. The Scotsman’s eyes were pale blue and piercing. It was like gazing into the eyes of God.
‘Thank you,’ said Matthew. ‘There’s just one thing I’d like to ask you.’ He paused. McAllister said nothing, waiting. God, he was intimidating. ‘I don’t want to finish my degree. The last few weeks have made me realise that I love trading. I don’t believe that completing my degree will make me a better trader. I want to work hard and I want to start now. I like Madison and I’d like to work here if I possibly can.’
Matthew paused to review the effect of his words, but McAllister’s face was as empty as granite. Matthew decided he might as well play his only trump card and drew a letter from his pocket. He gave it to the Scotsman.
‘I’ve been offered a job by Coburg’s. I don’t want to work there. I want to work here. I know as well as you do that Madison is going to wipe the floor with Coburg’s, and I want to be part of that. But above all I want to trade and I want to start now. And if that means I need to start at a second-rate firm, then I will.’
McAllister barely glanced at the photocopied letter in front of him. Matthew had pinched the letter from Zack’s flat the evening Josie smashed his coffee table. Except for a couple of initials and the name of the department, he’d hardly needed to alter it. ‘Dear Mr Gradley, We are pleased to be able to offer you a job as Assistant Manager in our Global Markets Department. We are keen that you should start with us directly, and I would ask you to confirm your start date with us as soon as possible.’ The letter continued with banalities. Matthew had photocopied the doctored original, then inspected it under a magnifying glass. He was confident that the changes were virtually undetectable.
McAllister tapped the letter lightly with his finger to indicate that Matthew should take it back.
‘Don’t write off Coburg’s,’ he said softly. ‘They’ve been around for more than two hundred years, twice as long as we have. We’ll be doing well to last that long ourselves.’
The interview was over.
