Ish is an anomaly — not of the god’s-eye-view sort, but not especially interested in money either, other than what she needs to pay for her apartment, which she bought off the plans during the boom at a price she now admits may have been extravagant even for an investment banker.
‘Any word from the Uncanny Valley?’ she asks me now.
‘You are sitting here beside me, you know there is no word.’
‘Oh, right.’ A moment later she pipes up again. ‘Hey, Claude?’
‘If this is again a question about the book, the answer is “I don’t know.” ’
‘It’s not about the book, it’s about the movie of the book.’
‘…’
‘Well, if they make a film of it, will I get a say in who plays me? I mean, I don’t want them to pick some old boot?’
The morning drags on with no response from Rachael. Shortly before noon, however, a shadow looms up behind me.
‘Crazy Frog, what the cock are you telling custies about Tarmalat?’
‘I am telling them that Tarmalat is carrying heavy exposure to Greek sovereign debt,’ I reply, ‘and there’s no way they’re going to hit their target.’
‘I’m trying to sell them Tarmalat, you fucking dunce!’ The muscles in his neck, which are extensive, bunch out like the mast lines of a ship at full sail. ‘I’ve got two hundred of the cunts going at twelve and a quarter.’
‘My source says their income’s down nearly 30 per cent on this same period last year. A write-down of Greek debt can cost them a hundred million. Your customers will thank you for sparing them.’
‘That’s not going to get us commission, is it?’ He scowls. ‘Fucking Greek pricks,’ he mutters. ‘Why couldn’t they stick to … what is it Greeks are good at again?’
‘Um, inventing democracy?’ Ish suggests.
‘They’ve been dining out on that one for a long time,’ Howie retorts.
Howie Hogan does not look like a genius. Twenty-five, and hitting the gym hard every day, he still has a childish doughiness to his features, giving him the appearance of one of those overfed, unimaginative rich boys who see the world as a kind of third-rate in-flight movie, to which they will pay attention only until they reach their real destination. This is, in fact, exactly what he is. But he is also BOT’s star trader. Beside mathematical acuity, sharp reflexes, and an ability to get people to buy things they don’t want, Howie is gifted with almost total emotional dissociation. Other traders freak out, crack up, crash and burn; Howie’s only reaction, win or lose, is to smirk. I am fairly sure he smirks in his sleep. What is he doing here? He should be in London, at one of the bulge brackets, making ten times what he does at BOT; but some indiscretion in his past — details of which none of us has ever been able to establish — means he must get to the top the hard way.
Having chastised me for undermining sell-side, he would normally have lumbered off by now; instead he’s still hovering. ‘What’s this fucking bullshit I’m hearing?’ he says at last.
‘Close & Coulthard’s merger has been held up by the CMA,’ I say. ‘I IM’d you.’
‘No, about someone writing your autobiography.’
‘Oh, that.’
The smirk flickers. ‘Who the fuck would want to write a book about you?’ Howie says.
‘An author,’ I say expressionlessly.
‘For your information, he thinks Claude would make the perfect Everyman,’ Ish pitches in.
Howie laughs. ‘Everyman!’ he repeats. ‘Who’s that, the world’s most boring superhero?’
‘Isn’t there a harassment hearing you need to be at?’ Ish says.
‘Look out, supervillains! Everyman’s super-spreadsheet has the power to bore you to death!’ Howie struts away, still cackling. ‘Claude in a book! Who said the French have no sense of humour?’
‘Don’t mind him, Claude, he’s just jealous,’ Ish says.
‘Do people say the French have no sense of humour?’ I ask her.
‘Of course not,’ she says, patting my hand.
I return to my work, but this brief conversation has been enough to reawaken my fears. Howie is right. I don’t have a story; I don’t have time to have a story; I have organized my life here precisely in order not to have a story. Why would I want someone following me around, weighing me up, finding me lacking? I take out my wallet, unfurl the scrap of paper on which Paul scrawled his number, but before I can call him and pass on my regrets, Jurgen approaches from the direction of the meeting rooms.
‘Claude! Good news!’ He grins at me with excitement. ‘Rachael has given the okay for your book project.’
‘Oh,’ I say, surprised.
‘You must call your author right away!’ he exhorts me.
‘I will,’ I say.
‘Right away,’ he repeats.
‘Yes,’ I say.
He stands there, waiting. Without even wanting to, I see him as an outsider might: take in his pocket protector, his hideous tie, his strange plasticated hair that never seems to grow any longer. Is he happy? Lonely? Bored? Do any of these terms even apply?
‘First I have a small errand to do,’ I say. I go to the lift and hit the button for the ground floor. As I descend, I turn the decision over in my mind. He’s not writing a book about me, I remind myself. He’s shadowing me for research purposes. I am a highly successful employee at a highly successful bank. There is no reason to fear that he will find my life boring or empty.
The lift doors open. The security guards glance over, then away again almost immediately. Outside, the air is perfectly still. Workers clip back and forth in the windows of the buildings around me, a silent image of productivity. Yet across the river, the grey shell of Royal Irish Bank is populated only by seagulls, and just last week a German bank two floors below us imploded; we watched from above as the erstwhile employees filed out through the double doors — blinking in the light, clinging to cardboard boxes full of mouse mats and ficuses, casting up their eyes at the bright opaque windows as if to a land that was lost to them …
Paul answers on the second ring.
‘It’s me,’ I say. ‘Claude.’
There is a curious echo to the line, as if someone is listening in, and I have the strangest sense he already knows what I am going to say … but the sound of his voice is warm and human, not the voice of a god or an omniscient overseer. ‘How are you, buddy?’
‘I am well, thank you. I’m calling to tell you that my boss has given the green light for your project.’
‘Fantastic!’ His delight sounds genuine, which produces a proportionally opposite effect in me, as I consider the fall for which he is setting himself up.
‘So what exactly do you need me to do now?’ I say.
‘Like I told you, Claude, I don’t need you to do anything. Just be yourself.’
‘All right.’
‘I promise, it won’t be intrusive. You’ll barely notice I’m there.’
‘Very good.’
‘You don’t sound too excited.’
‘No, no, I am,’ I say; but then, impetuously, add, ‘It is not very dramatic, you know.’
‘What’s that?’
‘What we do in the bank, it is quite complex and technical. If you are looking for colourful characters, for exciting things to happen, it may seem rather … I do not know if it will give you what you need.’
Laughter comes back down the line. ‘Don’t you worry about that. I’m the artist, okay? It’s my job to go in there and find the gold, wherever it’s hidden.’
‘You think there will be gold?’ I say.
‘I’m sure of it, Claude. I’m sure of it.’
To me, of course, it is unquestionably dramatic; to me, to anyone working in banking, the last two years have been like the Fall of Rome, the French Revolution, the South Sea Bubble and the moon landing, all rolled into one.