The Money Makers (24 page)

Zack took a spare door key and promised to pop in the next morning to check on her. Don’t treat shock lightly, he advised.

He went home elated. He was in a full flood of feeling for Sarah and he urgently wanted to be naked in bed with her again. For Leighton he had no sympathy. He was a fool and deserved what he got.

Back at his flat, the lights were burning and a woman dressed in bra and knickers was sitting on one of his sofas. On her lap, a ball gown was spread out, midnight blue silk trimmed with velvet and lace. The woman was sewing a sleeve back on.

‘Unless you’ve got my other shoe, you owe me a pair of new shoes,’ she said.

‘You can have a dozen pairs,’ said Zack. ‘Oscar­ winning performance back there. The audience was deeply moved.’

‘What did you put in his booze? He keeled over before I could get him into the trees. I had to drag him the last bit.’

‘Melatonin. The human sleep hormone. It’s totally harmless. My dad used to take it all the time for jet lag.’

‘Well, it worked alright. Just don’t tell me what the charade was all about. Whatever it was, I’ll probably wish I hadn’t done it.’

‘Oh, no. You virtually saved the planet single-handed. Besides what are old friends for?’

They were close to each other now. Close enough to kiss. They kissed.

No woman was equal to Sarah in Zack’s eyes, but while he was waiting for the real thing, he’d take whatever was going. And with his close friend, Annabel Queensferry, their occasional nights of sex had never complicated their long-standing and ever-reliable friendship. They kissed again, and the midnight blue ball gown dropped silently to the floor.

6

One month to go before the trade fair. Sally Dummett had produced her designs. Darren had managed to persuade a reluctant Andrew Walters that the designs could be manufactured, and Jeff Wilmot had been pleasantly surprised to find how low the unit costs would be. George was pleased, and said so.

‘Great stuff, you guys. Anyone would think there’s life in the old firm yet.’

We’re all off to Wem-ber-leee,’ chanted Darren. ‘Can we start making this stuff right away?’

This wasn’t really a question. Walters and Wilmot had initially said no - Walters because of the problems involved in running too many product lines simultaneously and Wilmot because there wasn’t the cash to pay for supplies. But George had started refusing to sign cheques except when he had to, and when there really wasn’t an alternative, it was amazing how often he put the wrong date on the cheque, or Val misaddressed the envelope, or forgot to put a stamp on. Val, normally so efficient, had even managed to make a complete hash of copying the returns needed by the VAT office, so it was weeks before the mess was sorted out and the VAT men could submit their claim. So, since there was almost no cash leaving Gissings and still a trickle of revenue coming in, it turned out that Wilmot was wrong and there was enough money to start production.

As for the technical challenges, Andrew Walters, of course, had a point. Gissings, with its antiquated equipment and incomplete production area, was going to be hard-pressed to replicate the techniques of a modem factory. It was like a Spitfire fighting F-111s. But that was where Darren and Dave came into their own. For every problem Walters raised, Darren and Dave found at least one solution and usually two or three. If Gissings was a Spitfire, then Darren and Dave were mechanics determined to get it airborne. If something was broken, they’d fix it. If they had to use string, they’d use string. If they were out of string, they’d use a shoelace. And if the shoelace was broken, they’d use chewing gum and a prayer. One way or another, they’d get the bugger to fly.

At first, Andrew Walters resisted. What the two young men wanted was bad practice and in some cases was bluntly contrary to health and safety regulations. But George was not Tom Gissing, and he approved every suggestion which Walters didn’t rule out as impossible. And eventually Walters’ pride was piqued. He wouldn’t let Darren and Dave steal the show in front of the boss. So he counterattacked. He had technical qualifications and experience far beyond what the two young men could muster. He took their suggestions and improved them. He peeled off their chewing gum and showed them how to arc weld. He didn’t want the Spitfire to fly. He wanted it to soar.

So when George asked if they were ready to go, he already knew the answer. Solemn nods from Wilmot and Walters. Unconcerned grunts from the ever-scruffy Darren and Dave. A blithe wave from Sally Dummett.

‘Good. Then we’ll get started tomorrow. But now there’s something else I want to talk about. Or rather, Sally, you should tell us about it.’

‘Oh, yes, George,’ sighed the designer. Sometimes she felt as though George was the first person who truly appreciated her talent and she liked to tell her friends how much she adored him. She meant nothing by it of course, but Val’s sharp eyes noticed how Sally always wore make-up if she was meeting George, and her perfumes became more obtrusive. Val pursed her lips as Dummett continued.

‘I wanted to tell you all about some product ideas I’ve been working on over the past couple of weeks. I call them Bright and Beautiful, because - well, because that’s what they are. I got the idea from an Italian designer range, whose cheapest item costs £700. But I think we can produce our own cheap version and really carve out a slice of the market for ourselves. I think -’

‘Let’s see your drawings, Sally,’ said George.

‘Of course, George. Here they are.’ She emptied her portfolio on the table. In all, there were about fifteen pen-and-ink sketches of different items of furniture: tables, chairs, cupboards, stools, chests, credenzas, and shelves. The shape of the furniture itself was nice enough though nothing out of the ordinary, but the colours were, indeed, bright and beautiful: yellow, red, blue, green. All bright playground colours.

‘The idea is brightness, of course, and practicality. These pieces are designed to be completely modular. If you want a bigger table, you just clip a bit on, you don’t have to go out and buy a whole new one. Everything is designed to fit into everything else, you can build whatever you want, like a giant multi-coloured Lego kit. Schools will love them. I’m sure there’ll be loads of offices who want to cheer things up and who like the flexibility. Children’s homework rooms, home offices ­ the possibilities are endless.’

The others round the table- Walters, Wilmot, Darren and Dave - picked at the drawings half-heartedly. George and Val, who had seen them before, stayed put. There was no doubting that the products looked fantastic on paper. The question was whether there was any hope of making them.

‘Some of these frames are metalwork, are they, Sally?’

‘We can’t do that,’ said Walters. ‘We can’t deal with materials other than wood.’

‘And then there’s the paintwork,’ said Darren, for once agreeing with his boss.

‘Well, absolutely. Our paintshop has trouble dealing with varnish these days, let alone the quantity of paint in this stuff. It’s just not realistic.’

George sat silent for a while. Then he turned to Wilmot.

‘Tell me how your cash flow projections look for next year, assuming we don’t add a whole new product range. Give us your optimistic estimates.’

‘Well, on the optimistic estimates, things look OK. We might be making as much as fifty or sixty thousand after interest.’

‘So where would the debt be in twelve months’ time?’

‘With a bit of luck, say four hundred and seventy-five thousand. But I think we should say four nine-five to be on the safe side. Maybe five hundred.’

‘Half a million quid,’ said George. ‘We’ll be sitting here with a factory that’s a whole year older and a debt that’s inched down when it needs to tumble. We need a smash-hit product and, though I love the work you’ve all done over the past six weeks, it’s not a smash-hit. It’s a good solid basis for survival, that’s all.’

Silence greeted his words. The bright and brilliant furniture stared up from the drawings littering the table. George looked directly at Darren and asked him, ‘Are you telling me it’s literally impossible to make this stuff at a reasonable price?’

‘Ah, no, I mean nothing’s absolutely impossible, but, I mean -’

‘So, it’s possible, then. Right, Darren? Right, Andrew?’ The word impossible didn’t exist in Darren’s admittedly limited vocabulary, and Andrew Walters refused to appear less capable than Darren in front of George. Both men shrugged unhappily and shook their heads but they didn’t actually say no.

‘Good,’ said George. ‘Then let’s get started.’

7

In the lecture theatres of West Point or Sandhurst, you may study the art of war. You will learn at the feet of Hannibal and Napoleon, Caesar and Eisenhower, Marlborough and Grant. You will learn how to beat Wellington at Waterloo and how to have turned Gettysburg for the South. But unless you can stand beneath a hostile sky and feel your courage hold amid the bursting shells, you’re no use to your fellow soldiers, you’re as useless as pantyhose.

If the training programme was West Point, then the two months following was the march into battle. For those months, Matthew was assigned to shadow a senior trader on Madison’s corporate bond desk in New York. His ‘big brother’ was a tough old New Yorker, Saul Rosenthal, senior enough to have an office and trader enough that he never used it, preferring to sit at his trading station in the middle of the floor. Rosenthal knew the market with bitter intimacy. He spoke as though he were an ill-treated mistress, the market his faithless lover. There was no one better to learn from.

Rosenthal didn’t make it easy. Mostly he forgot Matthew’s existence and just got on with whatever he was doing. That was fine. Since Rosenthal kept up a permanent sarcastic commentary on the day’s events, Matthew just listened and learned. Every now and then he asked a question. Every now and then he got an answer.

He followed Rosenthal wherever he went and introduced himself to whoever Rosenthal chose to talk to. Most of his future colleagues welcomed him warmly, offering help and advice. Matthew shook innumerable hands and memorised names. So assiduously did he shadow his new boss, that a couple of times Matthew followed him to the john. After all, peeing didn’t stop him talking.

Work was a relief, but it was aspirin to an amputee. Matthew missed Sophie constantly and desperately, each day unwrapping new layers of misery. He had no contact number for her and no address. He didn’t know what he’d have said if he’d reached her. Sometimes in his dreams, he defended himself. Mostly he begged her forgiveness and asked her desperately to return. She never would. How could she? She was gone for ever and he knew it.

And in the midst of all his pain, one terrible miscalculation injured him almost more than anything. The senior traders who’d watched the final trading game had been impressed. The most senior of them all, Maria Hernandez, apparently insisted to Dan Kramer that all those with ‘exceptional trading skills’ should be given a job. The Lion of Wall Street had agreed without hesitation. ‘Our shareholders like to know we can be decisive when necessary, but we don’t need to go overboard. Recruit the best, then retain ‘em, right?’

And so it was. Matthew, Scott Petersen, Karen Onsley, Heinz Schiffer, and Fujimoto Takako were each offered jobs. Diego Burelli and Adam Campbell took up their posts, as expected, in Buenos Aires and London. Princess Fareshti AI Shahrani, who ranked next to last in the class, was invited to take up a client marketing post in the Middle East. Her value to the firm had never depended on exam results.

For Madison, there was only one regret: it had wanted to offer Sophie Clemenceau a job as well. As Hernandez put it, ‘One bad trade doesn’t make you a bad trader and, one lousy trade aside, Sophie’s record was outstanding.’ Unfortunately it proved impossible to contact her and, after a week, the bank stopped trying. Matthew was left nursing the knowledge that his betrayal had been unnecessary, his cruelty a pointless waste of time.

In the grip of his suffering, Matthew flung himself at work. The US bond markets have a million investors, each with their own set of concerns. A thousand variables affect how investors see things, and there are thousands upon thousands of bonds to allow them to express their views. So for Matthew to know how any given investor would value any given bond at any given time, he just had to get to grips with a few million million permutations.

Boredom was the least of his agonies.

8

As promised, Zack called on Sarah the morning after the ball. He had let himself in with her spare key and prepared a breakfast of croissants, fresh orange juice, bacon, eggs, buttered toast and coffee. He waited until he heard her wake up, then tapped gently at her door and went in. She’d had a terrible night and was pleased to see him. Though she could only nibble at the breakfast Zack had put together, she was grateful for it, and watched Zack devour her leavings. They kept the curtains drawn and the phone off the hook.

They didn’t talk much, but what they did say was final.

‘Is there any doubt, Zack? Any doubt about what he did?’

‘He was drunk. I’m sure he wouldn’t have behaved like that sober.’

‘That makes it worse not better.’ She paused as her tears overflowed once more. ‘We were engaged, Zack. We were going to be married.’

Zack held her hand and was quiet.