The Predator

1

The crowded train pulled into Wall Street subway station, and a twenty-two-year-old Chris Szczypiorski fought his way on to the platform, followed by two other young British bankers. Fresh faced, they looked out of place in their suits; they gazed about them with the curious bewilderment of tourists, rather than the determined blank stares of the other commuters on their way to work.

‘I never thought we’d get here in one piece,’ said Chris. ‘I can’t believe what you did back there, Duncan.’

‘I swear, I saw them do it on TV,’ the tall red-haired young man behind him protested in a mild Scottish accent. ‘It’s a tough place, New York.’

‘You know, Duncan,’ drawled Ian, the last member of the trio on to the platform, ‘I wonder if that was Tokyo you saw?’

‘It wasn’t,’ said Duncan. ‘You didn’t see it. How do you know?’

‘I bet it was,’ Ian repeated with confidence, grinning.

Duncan frowned. ‘Oh,’ he said, doubts flooding in.

When they had changed subway trains at Grand Central, Duncan had decided to push the jammed commuters further into the crowded carriage so that there would be room for the three of them. Chris and Ian had had to pull him back, and if the doors hadn’t shut at that moment, Duncan would have been lynched.

‘Anyway, let’s not try that again, shall we?’ Chris said, as he pushed his way through the exit turnstile. ‘I agree with Ian. I’m pretty sure the locals don’t like it.’

They climbed out of the subway station into Wall Street, descending like a narrow ravine down the hill from the blackened façade of Trinity Church at its head. They threaded their way through the hot-dog and pretzel stands, past the classical columns of Federal Hall and the solid entrance to the New York Stock Exchange, until they came to an alley, darkened by the great buildings looming on either side. There, a little way up the street, was a sleek, black block, with the name Bloomfield Weiss written in neat gold letters above the entrance lobby. A line of office workers filed into the building, like ants returning to their nest.

They introduced themselves to the squad of security guards at the front desk and headed up to the twenty-third floor. That was where Bloomfield Weiss housed its world-renowned training programme.

Chris had joined Bloomfield Weiss’s London office six months before, in September of the previous year. He had arrived straight from university, as had most of the nine other graduate trainees. Seven of them had left immediately to go to New York, and they were just coming to the end of their stint on the programme. Chris, Ian Darwent, and Duncan Gemmel had been shipped out in April to join the second programme of the year. Young bankers from Bloomfield Weiss’s offices all over the world would be gathered there to spend five months of their lives on the toughest training programme on the Street.

Although they were very different, the three Brits had developed a kinship during their six months rooting around at the bottom of the London Office food chain. It was in Duncan’s nature to be friendly, but Ian’s attitude surprised Chris. Chris had known of him at university, they were at the same college, but their paths had scarcely crossed there. Ian was an Old Etonian, the son of a junior cabinet minister, who belonged to a string of dining clubs with obscure classical names. He was frequently seen around the college with a different blonde double-barrelled girl on his arm. Chris came from Halifax. Although Ian had spent three years barely acknowledging the very existence of the likes of Chris, he seemed to realize that now they were on the Bloomfield Weiss payroll, all that was in the past. Chris wasn’t about to bear a grudge: they needed each other.

As they disembarked from the elevator on the twenty-third floor they were met by a small blonde-haired woman wearing a severe suit, her hair scraped back in a bun. She didn’t look much older than them, but then she didn’t look like one of them, either.

She held out a hand. ‘Hi. My name’s Abby Hollis. I’m the programme coordinator. And you are?’

They gave her their names.

‘Very good. You’re almost late. Your desks are through there. Drop your stuff, and go through to the classroom. We’re about ready to get started.’

‘Yes, Miss,’ said Chris with a wry glance at Ian and Duncan. Abby Hollis frowned, and turned to the next group emerging from the lift.

The classroom was a large, circular auditorium, with desks rising in five rows from a central space in front of an array of teaching aids: a computer, a large projection screen, a flip chart, and even a twenty-foot rolling blackboard. There were no windows, just the gentle whir of air-conditioning bringing in oxygen from the outside world. Above and below them toiled hundreds of investment bankers turning money into more money. Here, at the core of the building, almost exactly half way up it, were the trainees, protected for now from the dangers and temptations of the billions of dollars swirling around the street outside.

The room was already full of men and women of all shapes and colours. Chris scanned the nameplates. For once, his own name blended in with its exotic neighbours. Szczypiorski was no odder than Ramanathan or Ng or Nemeckova. He took his seat between a tall, fair-haired, obviously American man named Eric Astle and a black woman named Latasha James. Duncan was seated directly behind him, Ian on the other side of the classroom.

‘All right, everybody, listen up!’ announced a gruff voice. They fell silent. A large middle-aged man with black hair gelled back over his balding scalp was occupying the empty space at the front of the class. ‘My name is George Calhoun, and I’m responsible for the training programme here at Bloomfield Weiss. It’s something I’m very proud of.’

He paused. He had their attention.

‘Now as you know, Bloomfield Weiss is the most feared and respected investment bank on Wall Street. How have we achieved this? Why do we lead more equity and bond issues year in and year out than any of our competitors? What makes us the best? Well, one of the answers is right here. This programme.

‘This is the toughest programme on the Street.’ He pronounced it ‘Schtreet’, in what Chris already knew as the true Bloomfield Weiss tough-guy fashion. We’re not just going to teach you all the tools you’ll need — the bond math, the corporate finance, all that good stuff. We’re going to teach you that the guy who tries hardest, who works hardest, who refuses to come second, he’s the winner.’ Calhoun’s voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes glinting. ‘Wall Street is a jungle and you’re all predators. Out there,’ and at this he waved his arm vaguely towards the outside world somewhere beyond the windowless walls, ‘Out there are the prey.’

He paused, took a deep breath and tucked his stomach into his trousers. ‘Now, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is, you’re not all going to make it. We’re introducing a new policy from this programme on. The weakest among you, the bottom quartile, will fall by the wayside. I know you’ve all worked your asses off to get here, fought your way through the best schools, beaten a hundred other candidates for your jobs, but you’re going to be working harder in the next five months than you’ve ever worked in your lives before. And the meanest, the toughest among you, will go on to build Bloomfield Weiss for the future.’

He stopped and looked round the room, checking for his effect on the audience. They were all stunned.

‘Any questions?’

Silence. Chris looked round at his fellow trainees. They seemed as nonplussed as he felt.

Then a lone hand was raised. It belonged to a tall, striking woman with short white hair. Her name card said Lenka Nemeckova.

Calhoun turned with a frown towards the hand, a frown that softened almost into a leer when he saw to whom it belonged.

‘Yes, er, Lenka?’

‘I understand the bad news,’ said the woman in a hoarse East European accent, tinged with American. ‘Now can you give us the good news?’

Calhoun was momentarily confused. The class could see him trying to remember, with all of them, just what the good news was. Chris heard a laugh behind him he recognized as Duncan’s. It rippled round the auditorium, dispersing the tension that had been so carefully nurtured by Calhoun’s speech.

Calhoun was not happy ‘The good news, ma’am, is that you’ll be eating, sleeping and dreaming nothing but Bloomfield Weiss for the next five months.’ He stuck his jaw out towards her, defying her to answer back.

Lenka smiled sweetly. ‘Oh, yes, that will be nice.’

The day was spent describing how much work they would have to do and then giving it to them. The sixty trainees emerged, reeling, at five o’clock, clasping the assignments that would have to be completed over the following week. Abby Hollis met each of them with three hefty books on bond mathematics, economics and capital markets. She also provided canvas bags, with Bloomfield Weiss written on them in discreet lettering. There was too much material for the slim designer briefcases most of the trainees had bought during their first few months in the job.

‘Whew!’ said Duncan, looking shaken. ‘I need a beer.’

That seemed a perfectly good idea to Chris and Ian. Duncan, ever friendly, turned to a pudgy man with a long, pointed nose who was neatly stacking the assignments into his bag. His name was Rudy Moss. ‘Want to come?’

Rudy glanced down at his bulging canvas bag and shook his head pityingly. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, and drifted off.

‘Mind if we join you?’ asked a voice behind Duncan. It was Eric Astle, the American who had sat next to Chris, and with whom he had exchanged a few incredulous glances during the afternoon. With him was a small, dark man, with a thin shadow of bristle over his jaw. Eric introduced him as Alex Lubron.

‘Of course,’ said Duncan. ‘Do you know anywhere to go round here?’

‘There’s Jerry’s,’ said Alex. ‘Come on. We’ll show you,’ and he led the small troop towards the elevator.

They passed Lenka, standing tall and alone, the hubbub of chattering trainees breaking round her, as though nervous of engaging her in conversation.

Duncan hesitated. ‘Fancy a wee one?’ he asked, overdoing his Scottish act.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Would you like to come for a drink with us?’ he said, with a friendly smile. Lenka returned it. ‘Why not?’ she said, gathering up her stuff. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Jesus, can you believe that stuff about the bottom quartile?’ Duncan asked the group crammed round a small table, as a waiter distributed cold beers. Jerry’s was a basement bar round the corner from Bloomfield Weiss. It was heaving with beefy traders reliving their exploits of the day. They can’t be serious. Can they?’

‘They can,’ Chris said.

‘But we’ve worked so hard to get this far, it seems completely stupid to throw anyone out now,’ said Duncan.

‘It is. They won’t. Don’t worry,’ said Ian, lighting up a cigarette. ‘That lower-quartile stuff is just a way of getting rid of people they don’t like. We’ll be OK.’

‘You might be. I’m not so sure about me.’

Ian shrugged, as though Duncan might have a point but it didn’t bother him too much. Ian was polished and self-confident, the cream of the annual milk round. He had dark, fine, dangerously good-looking features. He wore the best suits of the three of them, shirts with cufflinks, and ties that didn’t seem to get stains on them. Unlike Duncan, his shirt tails never hung out. He was the nearest any of them had managed to come to looking and sounding like a real investment banker. The only detail that spoiled the image was his bitten-down fingernails.

‘Can I have one of those?’ Lenka asked Ian, pointing to his cigarette packet.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Of course.’ Ian offered her one and she lit it with obvious pleasure. ‘Anyone else?’

Alex, too, lit up.

‘Your country is barbaric, the way you don’t let people smoke,’ Lenka said. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to get through the day.’

There was a no-smoking policy in the training programme offices. Smoking had not quite been totally stamped out in Bloomfield Weiss. Some traders held out, still managing to smoke fat cigars on the trading floor, but its days were numbered.

‘That’s right,’ said Ian. ‘Don’t the people have a right to bear cigarettes? Or is it machine guns? I never can remember.’

‘We used to,’ said Alex. ‘But Big Government is taking it away from us. What we need is a smoker for President, don’t you think, Eric? Eric’s our political activist. He was single-handedly responsible for getting Bush elected.’

‘Thanks, Alex,’ said Eric. ‘I did work for the Bush campaign when I was in College,’ he explained to the others, ‘stuffing envelopes for the cause.’

‘Oh, it was much more than that,’ said Alex. ‘George has been calling him on a regular basis asking him what he should say to Gorbachev.’

Eric rolled his eyes.

They made an unlikely double act. Eric was tall, upright, with a square jaw, a neat haircut, and a smile that showed the gleam of perfect teeth. Alex was six inches shorter, wiry, with curly hair, and stubble that suggested he hadn’t shaved that morning. His tie was lopsided and the top button of his shirt was undone. His brown eyes twinkled with humour and intelligence under thick dark eyebrows. Chris found himself warming to both of them.

‘I didn’t like the look of that Professor Waldern,’ said Duncan, bringing the conversation back to what was worrying him.

‘Nor me,’ said Chris. A lithe, intense man with a greying beard and bright beady eyes, Waldern had seemed to take real pleasure in outlining how much work they would have to do, and how hard he would be on those of them who failed to do it. He was supposed to be on the faculty of a fancy business school, but it seemed to Chris that he must be spending most of his time teaching bond mathematics and capital markets to Bloomfield Weiss trainees. The pay was probably excellent.

‘He’s supposed to be tough,’ said Eric. ‘They say he can make a grown man cry.’

‘I can believe it,’ said Duncan. He turned to Eric and Alex. ‘You must have a better idea how the programme works. Is it really going to be that bad?’

‘Probably,’ said Eric. ‘Calhoun took over the training programme about six months ago. The scuttle is he wants to change things. Make it more Darwinian. The idea is to weed out the losers before they even start real work. Apparently, the Management Committee discussed it and decided to go with him. I guess we’re the guinea pigs.’

‘I wouldn’t worry too much,’ said Alex. ‘Like everything, it all depends who you know. If there’s a managing director who wants you in his department, no one will can you. Stay cool.’

‘And is there?’ asked Duncan.

‘I was working in mortgage trading for my first six months,’ said Alex. ‘The guys there like me. I’ll be OK.’

This made Duncan even more worried. ‘And you?’ he asked Eric.

‘Oh, I’m not sure where I’ll end up,’ he replied. ‘We’ll just have to see what happens.’

‘You’ll go wherever you want to go,’ said Alex. ‘They love you.’

Eric shrugged. ‘There’s the next five months to get through first.’

None of this was pleasing Duncan. ‘I don’t think there’s anyone in London who gives a toss what happens to me.’

Chris knew the feeling. The three of them had been passed round the office like unwanted lost children, while the other London trainees were doing their stuff in New York. They were the lowest of the low.

‘Oh come on, chaps,’ said Ian, in his best public school accent. ‘Let’s not panic here. That’s what the bastards want us to do. We’re in New York for five months on investment bankers’ salaries. Let’s have some fun.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Lenka. She lifted her glass, which was already nearly empty. ‘Cheers!’

They all raised their glasses to her.

‘Duncan,’ said Lenka. ‘If ever things get really tough, you know what you do?’

‘What?’

‘You come down here and drink beer with us. It’s the Czech way. It works.’

Duncan smiled and drained his glass. ‘You’ve convinced me. Let’s get some more in.’ He physically grabbed a passing waiter, who scowled at him, but took his order for refills.

‘So you’re from Czechoslovakia?’ Chris asked. ‘I didn’t know Bloomfield Weiss had an office in Prague.’

‘Yes, I’m Czech. But I’m a New York hire. Now the Iron Curtain has lifted, the investment banks want Eastern Europeans. And so they asked me if I could tell them all about Eastern Europe. They said they would pay me a lot of money. Actually, I know all about Keats and Shelley, but I didn’t tell them that.’ Her English was fluent and confident, but she had quite a strong accent.

‘You’re an English major?’ Alex asked.

‘I studied English and Russian at the Charles University in Prague. Then I went to graduate school at Yale. But all this structuralist bullshit became too much for me. America’s all about money, and so I thought I’d better find out something about it. I only joined Bloomfield Weiss two weeks ago.’

‘Don’t you have any econ at all?’ asked Alex.

‘I don’t think the kind of economics they teach in my country would impress Bloomfield Weiss very much. But I’ve read a couple of American books on the subject. I’ll be OK.’ She turned to Chris. ‘What about you, Mr Szczypiorski? Are you Polish?’

Chris smiled as she pronounced the unpronounceable so deftly. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘My parents are from there, obviously. But I come from Halifax in the North of England. I’ve only been to Poland once. And I speak Polish with a Yorkshire accent.’

‘Ee by gumski,’ said Duncan.

Chris smiled thinly. Jokes about his accent, or his Polish name, had ceased to amuse him years ago.

‘That is quite a name you’ve got there,’ said Alex. ‘What is it... Zizipisky? That’s a mouthful even by American standards.’

Chris didn’t bother to correct the pronunciation. ‘I know. I’ve thought about changing it to Smith or something, but it’s all too complicated.’

‘That’s what we had Ellis Island for,’ said Alex. ‘Throw in a couple of vowels, lose the zees, and you’ve got a name as American as apple pie.’

At university Chris had become so fed up with having to spell his name twice at every bureaucratic opportunity that he had gone as far as gathering the forms required to change it by deed poll. But he had stopped at the moment of filling in the new name: ‘Shipton’ was what he had actually chosen. Szczypiorski was his father’s name and he didn’t have enough of his father left. He would just have to tolerate it. At least he was able to shorten his first name from Krzysztof to Chris easily enough.

‘Who is this bloke, Rudy Moss?’ Duncan asked. ‘Did you see the look he gave me when I suggested going out for a drink? It was as though I’d told him his sister was a lesbian.’

‘He’s an asshole,’ said Alex. ‘There are a bunch of people like that on the programme. He’s just the worst. Don’t take any notice of him.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Duncan.

‘We’ve spent six months with them,’ said Alex. ‘A lot of them are brown-nosers. They think if they kiss the right ass, they’ll get the best job. And it’s not just that, they want to be first to kiss ass. That’s Rudy’s specialty.’

Duncan grimaced.

‘There’s a culture of competition here,’ explained Eric. ‘We’re all supposed to be competing against each other for the best jobs and the best scores on the programme. Guys like Rudy Moss have bought into all that.’

‘But not you?’ said Chris.

‘I guess I’m a team player. I like to work with my peers rather than against them.’

‘So what on earth are you doing at Bloomfield Weiss?’ asked Ian. ‘That hardly seems the company line.’

Eric smiled, and shrugged. ‘Calhoun was right. Bloomfield Weiss is the best on the Street. I’ll go with the best, but I’ll do it my way.’

They all nodded solemnly, apart from Alex, who laughed. ‘Don’t give me that bullshit. “Doing it your way” means coming home blasted at three in the morning, and not getting up till noon the next day.’

‘I like that attitude!’ said Lenka enthusiastically.

Eric grinned. ‘Hey. You’re talking about a Bloomfield Weiss investment banker here.’

Duncan finished his beer. ‘Well, I suppose we’d better be going if we’re going to make a dent in all that work they gave us.’

And so they headed uptown on their different coloured subway lines. Chris, Ian and Duncan made their way back towards the apartment they shared on the Upper East Side, Duncan being very careful this time not to assault a whole carriage full of commuters. But he did spend most of the journey speculating on Lenka’s charms. She had clearly made an impression. Chris could understand Duncan’s point of view, but he was determined to remain faithful to Tamara, his girlfriend back in London. Idle lusting after Lenka wouldn’t help.

The cold night air bit into Chris’s cheeks, and helped clear his brain of some of the jumbled financial concepts he had tried to cram into it over the previous three hours. It was early April, and it was supposed to be spring, but it felt to Chris as though there was a frost in the air. He hunched into his old leather jacket and headed along a cross street towards Fifth Avenue and Central Park. On either side of the street awnings reached out from the warm yellow glow of marble lobbies, where uniformed doormen stared blankly into the night.

Already the work was piling up, and he was finding it hard to make sense of it. He had tried to dust the cobwebs off the maths he had learned at school, but that wasn’t enough. Discounted cash flow, modified duration, internal rate of return, what did they all mean? And how could he possibly figure it all out by Wednesday?

He had done his best to keep quiet when Duncan had spoken anxiously about the training programme. He had his own fears, but he felt it was better to keep them to himself. Ian had perfected the art of confidence, and from what he had seen so far of the world of work, he was sure that that was one of the keys to success. If you didn’t know it, pretend you did, and hope no one found out.

But on the training programme, they would find out. Professor Waldern would find out the next morning when he asked Chris to explain modified duration. Or Calhoun would find out after the exams he had promised them. Duncan was right. It would be a hell of a shame if after all this struggle he was kicked out.

Chris had worked hard to get to New York. Bloody hard. It had started at eleven, when, with long hours of help and encouragement from his mother, he had scraped into the local grammar school. He had struggled through O- and A-levels, and had surprised himself with the grades he had achieved. He had applied for a place at Oxford to read history. He hadn’t wanted to do it, he thought it was a waste of time, but Tony Harris, his history teacher, had persuaded him. Much to his surprise, the Polish boy with the Yorkshire accent was offered a place at Lady Margaret Hall. His mother was overjoyed. She had said that she had always known he could do it, that he had his father’s brains. He knew that wasn’t quite true, but he felt that his father, wherever he was, was proud of him. And that made Chris feel very good.

Oxford, and more work. Then the big problem of finding a job afterwards. The recession was beginning to bite: employers were slashing their budgets for graduate trainees. Some regular employers didn’t even bother recruiting.

The competition was intense. Chris knew little about the companies who visited the university, but he applied to fifteen of them, including Bloomfield Weiss. Most rejected him, many without even offering him an interview. In his darker moments he blamed Szczypiorski for that, although he didn’t have the string of extra-curricular activities, the carefully constructed CV, of someone like Ian Darwent. But at Bloomfield Weiss he went all the way. Eventually they asked him to the firm’s smart offices in Broadgate, in the City, and he was grilled by five different bankers. They all liked him, he could tell. They liked the fact that he came from Halifax, they liked his Polish name, and they liked the determination that they knew breathed within him. When one morning he had gone to the porter’s lodge and found the letter with the words Bloomfield Weiss engraved on it, he had known what it would say. They wanted him. And he wanted them. Although it was the only job offer he received, it was the one he most desired.

Now he was one of sixty overachievers. Sixty men and women who had come top of their class in whatever had been thrown at them. Sixty winners. Winners like Ian Darwent, Eric Astle, Alex Lubron, or the dreadful Rudy Moss. And from those sixty winners, the training programme would squeeze fifteen losers. One of them might well be Duncan. Another might be Chris.

He reached the low wall on Fifth Avenue that bordered Central Park. He looked over it into the gloom and mystery of the park, ringed with the bright lights of Manhattan’s tall buildings. He should go back and get some sleep. There would be a lot to learn the next day. With a sigh he realized that there would be a lot to learn every day for the next five months. Well, he would keep his doubts quiet and his head down, and do his damnedest to make sure he wasn’t one of those fifteen losers.

2

The work was hard. They used the ‘case method’, which had been invented at Harvard Law School and adapted by business schools around the country. It involved reading a ‘case’, which was a detailed account of a realistic problem faced by a business, chosen to illustrate a particular financial concept. This was then discussed in class. The professor would pick on some poor individual to start off the discussion and then bombard him or her with follow-up questions. At its best, this could be a fascinating way of examining the issues. At its worst, it was a series of public humiliations for those involved.

The difficulty wasn’t just getting through the cases the night before. In order to understand them, the trainees had to plough through pages of heavy textbooks. They were expected to grasp at least one complicated concept each night.

Professor Waldern oversaw two of the courses in the early months of the programme: Capital Markets and Bond Math. These also happened to be the two most important subjects. A good understanding of bond mathematics was vital if you were going to trade or sell the things later on. Waldern was an excellent teacher: he could make the most mundane financial principles seem interesting and exciting. He would tease out glimpses of the solution of a case from different members of the class, and then, under his guidance, the concepts would seem to fall into place. Chris found his sessions intellectually stimulating and exhausting.

But Waldern was also a bully. Duncan was petrified from the outset that he would be called upon to start the class off, and indeed it happened, on the third day. Chris knew that Duncan had spent hours on the case the night before, about an airline deciding whether it should borrow through a fixed-rate bond issue, or a floating-rate loan. But Duncan just hadn’t understood it. He started off waffling, repeating the introduction to the case itself, and Waldern sensed blood. He spent twenty minutes proving to Duncan, himself and the rest of the class, that Duncan had not grasped the most basic principles of how a fixed-rate bond worked. Needless to say, Duncan was a wreck. Some of the trainees, such as Rudy Moss, tittered at the spectacle. Chris was furious. He tried to call out some of the answers, but Waldern was having none of it.

Professor Waldern wasn’t the only tough guy on the programme. Abby Hollis was a little Hitler. She was always to be seen scurrying around before and after class, nagging people left and right.

Lenka’s distrust of Abby turned to contempt after an incident in the second week of the programme. Lenka dressed dramatically. She eschewed the boxy suits of most of the American women; she wore stylish dresses, short skirts, tight blouses, cashmere sweaters and elegant silk scarves. She looked more like a Parisienne than a New Yorker. The men on the programme all loved this, of course, but many of the women were intimidated, and Chris overheard some of them speculating on how she could have amassed such a wardrobe on a trainee’s salary.

One morning she was chatting to Chris and Duncan in the hallway by the classroom when Abby approached. Lenka was wearing a trouser suit. It was an inoffensive light grey, and perhaps the most conservative outfit she had yet tried.

‘Lenka, a word,’ Abby said, taking her by the arm.

Abby murmured something to her that Chris and Duncan couldn’t quite hear. But they could hear Lenka’s response: ‘My clothes are inappropriate! What do you mean, they’re inappropriate?’

Abby glanced at Chris and Duncan. ‘I feel you ought to know that it’s just not appropriate to wear pants at Bloomfield Weiss,’ she said.

Lenka snorted. ‘That’s absurd! Look at Chris and Duncan. They’re wearing pants. Most of the people on the training programme wear pants. Sidney Stahl, our Chairman, wears pants. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Abby. Her face had turned red, but having gone this far she wasn’t about to back down. ‘It’s inappropriate for women to wear pants.’

‘So it’s OK for men, but not for women, is that it? And whose idea is that? I bet it was a woman’s.’

‘I don’t know whose idea it was,’ said Abby. ‘But women just don’t wear pants around here.’

‘Well, they do now,’ said Lenka, and marched off into the classroom.

During the break she joined Chris and the others at the coffee machine. ‘I can’t believe that woman,’ she said. ‘And did you see the suit she was wearing, and that horrible little ruffled blouse. That should be banned.’

‘You know she was one of us last year,’ said Alex.

‘What do you mean?’

‘She was a trainee, just like us. Apparently, she didn’t do too well. She couldn’t get an assignment after the programme so she ended up as programme coordinator. The theory is that she has to prove herself to George Calhoun to escape from here and get a proper job.’

‘Oh, God,’ groaned Duncan. ‘What if that happened to me? I couldn’t face it.’

They were all silent for a moment, thinking of the fate that would befall those among them who didn’t make it out of the bottom quartile.

‘It’s OK for most of these guys,’ said Alex. ‘They’ve all got MBAs; they’ve done a lot of this stuff before. But I’ve got to admit I’m finding it pretty tough.’

‘You’re telling me,’ said Duncan.

‘There’s just so much of it,’ said Chris, glad that Alex had admitted what he hadn’t been prepared to. ‘I mean, the second you understand one concept, they throw another two at you.’

‘Look, do you guys want to come back with us this evening? Maybe if we help each other out we can crack this.’ Alex glanced at Eric who nodded his encouragement.

‘Sounds good to me,’ said Chris.

‘I’m up for it,’ said Duncan.

‘So am I,’ said Ian.

‘Do you allow in women wearing pants?’ asked Lenka.

‘Not usually,’ said Alex. ‘But in your case, we can make an exception.’

Eric and Alex’s apartment was a long way up the West Side. It was large, but in bad repair. Apparently it was rent-controlled, and therefore not in the landlord’s interests to look after. The furniture was basic and there was plenty of student clutter about the place. But what struck them all as they entered were the walls.

Four or five large canvases hung about the room, each one depicting petrochemical plants or oil refineries at different times of day and night. Pipes, gantries, cylinders, towers and chimneys were displayed at odd angles, forming intricate geometric networks. Orange glows, bright red flares and piercing white halogen lights added to the mystery of the massive chemical processes taking place within. The overall effects were unexpectedly beautiful.

‘These are amazing,’ said Lenka. ‘Who did them?’

‘I did,’ said Alex.

‘You?’ Lenka turned to him, her reappraisal obvious. ‘I didn’t realize you were a painter.’

‘I spent a couple of years after college trying to make it as a professional artist. I had a couple of exhibitions, sold some paintings, but I could barely make enough to live on. I didn’t like the idea of a life of poverty. So here I am.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Lenka said.

Alex shrugged. ‘That’s why we’re all here, aren’t we?’ There was a defensive edge to his voice: Lenka had obviously touched on a sore point.

‘I’m sorry, I guess you’re right. But it’s an odd subject. Why these?’

‘I come from New Jersey,’ said Alex. ‘We have a lot of oil refineries. When I was a kid I used to stare out of the car window at them as we drove by. I was fascinated. Then later, at college, I thought, why not paint them? It became a kind of obsession.’

‘They’re stunning,’ Lenka said. She moved round the room. ‘Don’t tell me this is New Jersey?’

She was standing in front of a dramatic picture of an installation rising out of the sand, throwing its flare into a wide desert sky. The contrast of the hostile rugged terrain with the dramatically engineered structures, and the variations in the natural and man-made light, produced an effect that was startling in its beauty.

‘That’s the Industrial City of Jubail in Saudi Arabia,’ Alex said. ‘A chemical company saw my work and sponsored me to go over there. I sold every painting I did there, apart from this one.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Lenka.

‘I wish I’d kept more of them.’

‘In the meantime, I feel like I’m living in a goddamn factory,’ said Eric. ‘What’s wrong with sunflowers, for Christ’s sake?’

‘Bourgeois philistine,’ muttered Alex.

‘I like them,’ said Duncan. ‘Have you ever painted a brewery?’

‘Not yet,’ said Alex. ‘But I take it that means you’d like a beer?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

So that evening, and several evenings a week over the following months, the six of them studied together, usually meeting at Eric and Alex’s apartment. It quickly became clear who knew how much. Eric seemed to take in everything that was thrown at him, and to understand it instantly. For Duncan, it was all a struggle. Alex and Chris got there in the end, Chris with more work than Alex. Ian acted as though he understood everything, and indeed he was quick to grasp the principles. But when it came to the nitty-gritty of number work, he was hopeless. This was a secret he somehow managed to keep from everyone in the class outside the study group, who did their best to cover for him. Lenka seemed to have almost as good an understanding as Eric, although she had a tendency to throw in off-the-wall solutions to what seemed to the rest of them to be simple problems. The group helped each other out and, with the exception of Duncan on that third day, they got by.

Alex wasn’t alone among the trainees in having an unusual background. While there were a number of white male Anglo-Saxon MBAs, Bloomfield Weiss was careful not to recruit exclusively from that pool. There were women as well as men, Indians, Africans and Japanese. Quite a few were about Chris’s age, twenty-two, but most were a couple of years older: some were in their thirties. Amongst the Americans was a professional gambler, a woman who had started and sold her own mail-order business in designer computer accessories, and a professional football player with a limp. Amongst the foreigners was an ex-submariner from the French navy, a super-cool Japanese man who liked to be called Tex and wore his shades at every opportunity, a Saudi who knew he was unsackable and hence did nothing, and an older Italian woman who struggled to understand the English spoken rapidly around her, and did her best to keep up with the course while looking after her three-year-old daughter.

Everyone was treated equally, whatever their background, everyone except for Latasha James, the black American woman who sat next to Chris. Professors, even Waldern, were careful to deal with her with respect and politeness at all times. This drove Latasha crazy. The firm wanted to place her in the Municipal Finance department, where she could sell Bloomfield Weiss to black civic leaders. She just wanted to be treated like everyone else.

Eric and Alex were proved right; there was lots of brown-nosing. The sixty trainees, who cowered behind their desks when Waldern was teaching, suddenly leapt into action whenever one of the managing directors came to talk to them. These people were in charge of the different departments of the firm, and they gave talks between the more formal classes, explaining what their departments did. They were the ones who would be hiring the trainees out of the programme. They were the people to impress. The sight of sixty young investment bankers all trying to make an impression on one human being at the same time was sickening. Chris knew he should join in, but couldn’t quite bring himself to. Ian asked the odd question, in his laconic, casual style, which had the virtue of being memorable. Eric restricted himself to single immensely perceptive questions directed to managing directors in the key departments of the firm. Duncan blabbered occasionally. Lenka didn’t have to thrust herself forward; they asked her questions. It was pitiful to see so many different middle-aged men pick her out, supposedly at random, to emphasize a point they wanted to make.

The worst of course, was Rudy Moss. Rudy, on a bad day, could make the rest of the class retch. The worst day was when Sidney Stahl came to talk to them.

Stahl had just acceded to the post of Chairman of Bloomfield Weiss. He was a tiny man, with a gruff voice, bright red braces and a huge cigar, which he cheerfully smoked while talking to the group. Chris found him inspiring. He was clearly a doer; he had little time for bullshit. When he said that he didn’t care who you were or where you came from as long as you made money for the firm, Chris believed him. He had just finished his speech about how Bloomfield Weiss could only remain the best firm on the Street if it was the most nimble, when he asked for questions. Chris groaned inwardly as Rudy Moss put up his hand.

‘Mr Stahl, Rudy Moss.’

‘What have you got, Rudy?’

‘Yes, Mr Stahl. I was listening to what you were saying and wondering what skill set provides the core competencies that give us the edge against so many new entrants?’

Stahl just looked at him, taking a long pull on his cigar. Rudy smiled hopefully. Stahl smoked. Rudy reddened slightly. Stahl didn’t move. Sixty trainees squirmed.

Rudy cracked first. ‘I mean, the oligopoly among the major bulge-bracket firms is breaking down, barriers to entry in our business are lower, and we’re going to have to survive by relying on our core competencies. I was just wondering what you would say those are?’

Stahl’s eyes gleamed. So did the end of his cigar.

‘Son, I’ll tell you how we’ll survive. Most of you kids are gonna make me money. A lotta money. I’ll keep you. Some of you kids are gonna bullshit me. You’re outta here. Now, which are you gonna be, Rudy?’

Smiles broke out all round. ‘I’ll make you money, sir,’ squeaked Rudy.

‘Good. Now, any more questions?’

Funnily enough, there weren’t any.

3

The Bond Math exam was in the fourth week of the programme. It was one of the most important tests of the whole course — George Calhoun had made sure they all understood that. Chris worked until nine o’clock revising for it, but by then he felt his tired brain had had enough. He felt like calling Tamara in London, but he had woken her up once before at two in the morning and it wasn’t a good idea. He decided to ask the other two out for a quick beer at the Irish bar on First Avenue that they had taken to frequenting. He needed to unwind before bed.

He knocked on Duncan’s door. No reply. He knocked again.

‘Come in.’

Duncan was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling. His desk looked like a bombsite, covered in notes and open textbooks.

‘You’re not doing any good here,’ Chris said. ‘Let’s get a beer.’

‘I... no, I mean... Oh, Jesus...’ Duncan stuttered, and to Chris’s amazement, he began to sob.

‘What’s up, Duncan?’

‘What do you bloody well think is up? It’s this fucking exam.’

‘It’s only a test.’

‘It’s not a test. It’s my whole career. It will all be over tomorrow. They’ll ship me back to London and I’ll be behind a till at Barclays.’

Chris sat on his bed. Duncan’s cheeks were red. His hands covered his eyes, but a single tear escaped and ran down his cheek.

‘No you won’t,’ Chris said gently. ‘You’ve done the work. You’ll pass the exam.’

‘Bollocks, Chris. I don’t know a bloody thing. My mind’s a total blank.’ He sobbed again and sniffed. ‘I’ve never failed an exam before.’

‘And you won’t now,’ Chris said. ‘Look, you’ve got this totally out of proportion. All they’re trying to do is check whether you know how to work out bond and option prices. It’s no big deal. The bastards are just trying to pile on the pressure to see whether you’ll crack.’

Well, I’m cracking,’ sniffed Duncan.

‘Of course you’re not,’ said Chris. ‘Now sit at this desk and we’ll go through everything you don’t understand until you get it right.’

They sat there for over two hours, as Chris tried to explain concepts that had only dawned on him the week before. He was patient, and his calmness did eventually work its way through to Duncan. By midnight Duncan could finally price a simple option. That would have to be enough.

As he left Duncan, Chris was exhausted. He was heading for bed when he heard music coming from the door to Ian’s room. He put his head in. Ian was sitting in an armchair, a half-empty bottle of whisky beside him, smoking a cigarette and listening to UB40.

‘I’ve just been with Duncan,’ Chris said. ‘He’s panicking about tomorrow.’

‘That boy worries too much,’ said Ian.

‘He has a point, though. I took him through a lot of the option theory. He’ll be lucky to pass.’

Ian shrugged. ‘Some people will fail tomorrow, and there’s really nothing you or I can do to help them.’

Chris stared at Ian. That wasn’t true. He wanted Duncan to make it, and he had done his best to help him. He hoped it would be enough.

‘Will you be all right?’ Chris asked. It would be hard for Ian to hide his innumeracy in a test devoted to bond calculations.

Ian looked up and smiled thinly. ‘Me? Oh, I’ll be fine.’ He refilled his glass with whisky and stared at the wall somewhere to the right of Chris’s head. Chris left him to it.

Duncan passed, and so did Ian, but only by the narrowest of margins. To his surprise, Chris did rather well. But the big excitement was the exposure of two trainees cheating. Abby Hollis caught Roger Masden showing his paper to Denny Engel, the ex-football player. They were both marched out of the classroom, and no one saw them that afternoon. Neither did they appear the next day. Before class, George Calhoun gave the rest of the trainees a lecture about Bloomfield Weiss’s high standards and how they would all be expected to meet them. He warned everyone to pay close attention to the ethics course that would be taught the following month. He didn’t once mention Roger and Denny by name.

But everyone else did. The fate of the two trainees was the sole topic of conversation all day, taking some of the pressure off the four poor unfortunates who had failed the exam.

‘There go the first two,’ said Duncan at lunch in the cafeteria.

‘It’s pathetic,’ said Ian. ‘Complete hypocrisy. Bloomfield Weiss should be the last people to complain about cheating. They’re notorious for it. I saw them ripping off their customers left and right when I was in London.’

‘They’re overreacting,’ said Alex. ‘It must have something to do with the Phoenix Prosperity investigation last year.’

The year before, Dick Waigel, an employee of Bloomfield Weiss, had been arrested and charged with operating a complicated scam involving offshore trusts and a bankrupt Savings and Loan in Arizona. The press had been bad.

‘And remember those guys in equity sales who were caught supplying cocaine to their customers?’ said Duncan. ‘Let’s face it, our employer does not have the purest of reputations.’

‘Which is why Calhoun is making such a fuss,’ said Eric. ‘It’s all part of his strategy of making the programme much tougher than it needs to be. By demanding high standards and putting pressure on us, he’ll make the firm a better place.’

‘That may be true,’ said Alex. ‘But I hear it’s pissing some people off.’

‘Good,’ said Duncan.

‘Why?’ Chris asked Alex.

‘The firm spent a lot of money hiring those two guys. Roger’s smart, and you can bet there are some people on the trading floor who’ll be disappointed not to have a pro footballer buddy to go drinking with. Bloomfield Weiss is full of guys who’d have done the same in their situation. They’d fit right in. It was dumb to fire them.’

‘All you have to do is explain that to Calhoun,’ said Duncan.

As they made their way back to class, Duncan pulled Chris to one side. ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the help. I would never have passed if you hadn’t picked me up the night before.’

Chris smiled. ‘You’d do the same for me, mate.’

Spring did arrive eventually. One day they were wrapped up in their new city overcoats, leaning against a bitter wind that whipped round the tall buildings, and the next the sun was out, the trees were bursting with blossom, and the park turned green. The tempo of the programme slowed after the Bond Math exam and they were even given a couple of afternoons off. A number of non-Americans started a Saturday soccer game on the large lawn in the centre of the park. The three Brits were regular participants. Duncan was a good sportsman, well coordinated, and even in a pick-up game a tireless runner. It was a noisy event, Faisal, the Saudi, and a couple of Brazilians made sure of that, and it was fun. Eric and Alex also played, as did Lenka and Latasha James. Latasha was good; she had played soccer at college. Lenka wasn’t, but no one complained. The men were queuing up to pass her the ball and then tackle her.

After one game, Lenka and Latasha persuaded Duncan, Chris, Ian and Alex to join them for a trip to Zabar’s, a delicatessen on the West Side. They bought several carrier bags of goodies: breads, pâtés, cheeses and an exotic fruit salad. Lenka became quite excited by the food she recognized from home and insisted that they load up with some Hungarian salami and pickles: lots and lots of pickles. She was also fascinated by Zabar’s collection of dried mushrooms; she claimed that all Czechs were mushroom experts and she had spent most of her childhood scrambling through forests looking for them. Eventually the others pulled her away, stopped off in a wine shop round the corner to pick up some bottles and sauntered back towards the park. They walked slowly, enjoying the spring sunshine and watching the joggers, roller-bladers, cyclists, lovers and loonies that thronged New York’s playground. As they passed under the statue of King Jagiello riding his horse and waving two swords over his head, Lenka paused.

‘Isn’t it nice to see one of your kings in the middle of the big city?’ she asked Chris. ‘It’s as though he has ridden here directly from the Middle Ages.’

‘One of my kings?’ said Chris.

‘Oh, come on. The man who beat the Teutonic Order at the Battle of Tannenberg? Don’t tell me you have no Polish left in you at all?’

Chris smiled. ‘You’re right. My grandfather would be standing here saluting him. But my father would be looking the other way. I suppose I just take the easy way out and pretend I’m English.’

‘I thought Poles were the most nationalistic people on the planet,’ said Lenka.

‘My grandfather is,’ said Chris. ‘That’s my mother’s father. He escaped to England in nineteen thirty-nine. He was a fighter pilot, a hero. He fought in the Battle of Britain. He’d give his life for Poland, as he has told me on many occasions. But my father didn’t believe in any of that. He was a socialist. Not a communist, but a true socialist. He believed that nationalism divided people. He didn’t like kings. I’m sure he wouldn’t have approved of this one.’

‘What was he doing in Britain if he was a socialist?’

‘He hated Stalinism. And Britain didn’t seem a bad place to go. It was nineteen sixty-six and the Labour Party had just won the election. He thought Harold Wilson was a better socialist than the Soviet apparatchiks in Warsaw. He was a chess player, an international master. He defected at a chess tournament in Bournemouth. He had cousins in Yorkshire, he moved up there, met my mother, and here I am.’

‘I bet her father didn’t think much of him.’

‘You’re absolutely right.’ The rift between Chris’s mother’s family and his father had upset him as a boy. In fact, the whole Polish community in Halifax seemed suspicious of his father. Although he had defected, he was from the new regime, and therefore not quite to be trusted. He didn’t even go to church on Sunday. Even though he was young, Chris had felt this mistrust and had resented it.

‘You talk about your father in the past tense?’

Chris sighed. ‘He died when I was ten.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It was a long time ago.’

‘I’m still sorry.’ She smiled. ‘Well, I think it’s wonderful that there’s a Slav hero here. Maybe they’ll put up a statue to Vaclav Havel one day.’

‘Now that would be good.’

They found an empty patch of ground near the small boat pond. They broke open the wine, ate, drank, and whiled away the afternoon. Lenka had bought far too many pickles for them all to eat, so Duncan and Alex started throwing them at her, and soon a pickle fight began. It was all quite childish, and Chris didn’t have the energy to join in, but it was good to see everyone forgetting about being investment bankers for a while. Chris lay down on the grass and stared up at the blue sky, edged with the tall buildings of Fifth Avenue. He felt the pressures of the programme lifting away from him. It was actually quite nice in New York, he decided.

The wine made him sleepy, and he closed his eyes. He was disturbed by a drop of water on his face. Then another. The sun was still shining, but an inky black cloud had placed itself over their corner of the park. It opened, and they scurried around, gathering up the remains of the picnic. Latasha, Eric and Alex managed to jump into the only empty cab on Fifth Avenue, but Chris, Ian, Duncan and Lenka hurried back to the shelter of their apartment, Duncan shielding Lenka from the downpour with his coat.

When they arrived, soaked through, Chris made some tea. Lenka had a shower first, and borrowed some of Duncan’s dry clothes to change into. Then Chris and Ian took their turns in the shower. Somehow, in all the toing and froing, Duncan and Lenka slipped away by themselves to go off for a drink somewhere.

Chris and Ian exchanged glances as the door slammed behind them.

‘What do you think?’ said Chris.

‘No way,’ said Ian. ‘She’s out of his league.’

‘He’s quite good-looking,’ Chris said, ‘in that giant puppy kind of way.’

Duncan wasn’t classically handsome, but he had a large, freckled face with curly red hair, blue eyes, and a winning smile that seemed to say, ‘be my friend’. Chris had seen it working on some of the women at Bloomfield Weiss in London. He could imagine Lenka preferring it to, say, the clean-cut good looks of Eric.

‘She’s much older than him. She’s got to be twenty-five at least,’ protested Ian.

‘That’s not much older,’ said Chris. ‘You fancy her, don’t you?’

Ian shrugged. ‘Not really,’ he tried to say casually. ‘She looks OK, I suppose.’

Chris laughed. ‘Poor woman. To have the whole class drooling over her.’

‘She loves it,’ said Ian.

‘You’re probably right.’

Duncan returned to the apartment at about half past eleven that evening. Chris and Ian just happened to be still awake.

‘Well?’ said Chris.

Duncan pulled a beer out of the fridge and leapt on to the sofa, resting his legs on the armrest. ‘She’s gorgeous,’ he said, grinning.

‘And?’ Chris asked.

Duncan opened his beer and took a swig. ‘We’ll see.’

4

‘Carla, have you been listening to anything I have been saying over the last two weeks?’

‘Yes, Mr Professor, I have.’

Waldern was in a bad mood. He had laid into Ian at the start of the class, but Ian had stood up to him well. So Waldern had turned on Carla Morelli, an easier victim.

‘Then you should be able to tell me what a repo is.’

‘OK, OK,’ Carla said. She swallowed. The rest of the class waited. Waldern’s beard was thrust forward, his eyes boring into her. There was silence for several seconds.

Carla mumbled something.

Waldern put his hand up to his ear. ‘I can’t hear you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Carla, her voice cracking. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice louder. ‘A repo is when the client gives a bond he does not have to Bloomfield Weiss.’

‘Gives a bond he does not have? What does that mean?’ Waldern said, looking round the class in incredulity. ‘How can you give someone something you don’t have? And in finance no one gives anybody anything. They buy, sell, lend, borrow.’ He was pacing up and down now, enjoying himself. ‘Market participants make money, they invest money, they never give it away.’

Carla reddened. Chris felt sorry for her. Lenka had told him how Carla was finding things very tough. She had had to fire the nanny who was looking after her child, and was at her wits’ end trying to find a replacement. She only understood fifty per cent of what was said in class, and needed to refer constantly to a dictionary when going through the evening’s reading.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I try again. A repo is when the client sells a bond he does not have short—’

‘No, no, no, no, no!’ Waldern’s lips pursed in frustration. ‘Now I’ll ask you my question again. Have you been listening to a word I have been saying over the last two weeks?’

‘I have, Mr Professor,’ said Carla, her lip trembling. ‘But for me it is difficult. My English is not so good.’

‘I will not accept that,’ said Waldern. ‘This is an American bank. If you want to be a professional here, you have to speak English well enough to understand the concepts. It’s a precondition of coming on the training programme. Now, what is a repo?’

Carla sniffed. She opened her mouth. A tear ran down her cheek.

‘A repo is a sale and repurchase agreement,’ said a voice from the other side of the room. The class turned round to look. It was Lenka. ‘One counterparty sells a bond to another counterparty, and agrees to buy it back at a specified future date at a specified price.’

Waldern glowered at Lenka. ‘I was asking Carla here. Please don’t interrupt me.’ He turned back to Carla, whose cheeks were glistening with tears. ‘Now, Carla, why would anyone want to enter into a repo?’

Before Carla could speak, Lenka had answered. ‘It’s a cheap way of borrowing money to finance a holding of bonds. The repo rate is usually lower than money-market rates.’

Waldern spun round. ‘I asked you not to interrupt me. I want Carla here to answer my questions.’

‘You can see she’s in no fit state to answer your questions. So I’ll do it for her,’ said Lenka. ‘What else would you like to know?’

‘I am trying to make a point,’ Waldern muttered through gritted teeth. ‘The point that I expect my students to listen to what I say in class.’

‘You’re trying to make the point that you have absolute power in this classroom and Carla has none.’ This comment came from the back of the class. It was Alex. The class went absolutely still.

Waldern’s face reddened, and he opened his mouth as though to shout, but he thought better of it and closed it again. ‘I decide what happens in this class. And I will not tolerate any questioning of my authority.’

‘That’s clear,’ said Alex. ‘But if you use your power to bully rather than to teach, then your authority loses its legitimacy.’

The accuracy of the statement pierced all of those sitting in the room.

Waldern took a deep breath. ‘Lenka. Alex. Come with me now.’

There was a pause as Lenka and Alex glanced at each other, and then they both stood up and followed Waldern out of the room. As the door closed behind them, the class erupted.

Lenka and Alex were allowed back into the class for the afternoon session, which was a talk by the precious metals group. But they were supposed to see George Calhoun in his office at five fifteen.

The others waited for them in Jerry’s.

‘That was a brave thing they did,’ said Duncan.

‘It was stupid,’ said Ian.

‘No it wasn’t,’ said Chris. ‘Someone had to stand up to Waldern. What he was doing to Carla was unforgivable. They treat us like children, but we’re not. We’re professional people, for God’s sake. It was right that Alex pointed that out.’

‘That was standard Bloomfield Weiss stuff,’ said Ian. ‘Carla’s got to get used to it some time. May as well be now. If she can’t hack it, then she’s better off out of it. Sooner rather than later.’

‘No,’ Chris shook his head. He felt the heat rising to his cheeks. ‘Waldern’s supposed to be teaching us, not insulting us. Alex was right: when he treats people like that, he loses all respect. He’s certainly lost mine.’

‘Then why didn’t you say anything?’ Ian asked.

Chris was silent. He should have said something. He should have supported Lenka and Alex. But he hadn’t. He thought of telling Ian he was too stunned to speak, but he held back. He knew that wasn’t quite true.

‘You didn’t say anything because you didn’t want to risk your job,’ said Ian with a gloating smile.

‘That’s bollocks!’ Chris snapped. But he knew Ian was right. Ian’s smile broadened. ‘You’re a cynical bastard.’

Ian shook his head. ‘I just don’t want to lose my job, the same as you.’

The truth of this remark hurt Chris. He turned to Eric. ‘What do you think, Eric? Should we have said anything?’

Eric paused. ‘Waldern was wrong to do what he did, but challenging him directly like that in class was never going to change the way he behaves. Calhoun will always back up Waldern. He has to.’

‘So Alex should have kept his mouth shut?’ Chris asked.

Eric shrugged. ‘The rest of us did.’

‘Well, I wish I had said something now,’ said Chris.

Duncan raised an arm and waved. ‘Here they are.’

Lenka and Alex saw Duncan’s arm, and threaded their way through the crowd to the table where the others were sitting. They both looked tense.

‘How did it go?’ Duncan asked.

‘We got a grade-A bawling out,’ said Alex. ‘Especially me. But we keep our jobs.’

‘How did you manage that?’ asked Chris.

‘Tom Risman was coming out of Calhoun’s office as we were going in.’

‘The MD of mortgage trading?’ Chris asked.

‘That’s right,’ Alex said. ‘Calhoun said that Risman wanted me to stay. But I got a severe warning. “Any more of that and you’re outta here.”’ He did a passable imitation of Calhoun’s voice.

‘And what about you?’ Chris asked Lenka.

‘I told him we were right and Waldern was wrong,’ she said. ‘I said it was him they should be getting rid of, not us. He told me to shut up and get out.’

‘I think Calhoun was after me,’ said Alex. ‘Waldern made a big deal of the way I had questioned his authority.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’re both still here,’ said Duncan, raising his beer bottle. ‘Let me get you one.’ He turned to look for a waiter.

‘It’s lucky Tom Risman found out about what happened, or I wouldn’t be,’ Alex said. ‘How was that, by the way?’ He looked round the table. Eric was smiling quietly. ‘Was it you?’

Eric nodded. ‘Risman said he’s always hated Waldern. He was glad to help.’

‘Thanks, buddy,’ said Alex. ‘Now, where’s that beer?’

Newark Airport was crowded. It was Friday evening, and everyone wanted to be somewhere else for the weekend. Chris had escaped the instant class had finished, and had fought his way there by subway and bus. He needn’t have rushed. He had been waiting three-quarters of an hour and she still hadn’t come through customs. Her flight was half an hour late and she was presumably still waiting for her baggage.

‘Chris!’

Somehow he had missed her. She dropped her bag and gave him a warm hug.

‘Tamara! It’s great to see you.’

She kissed him quickly on the lips and nestled into his chest. He ran his hands through her blonde hair. It was great to see her again.

They broke apart and headed for the exit.

‘Hey, where are you going?’ she said.

‘The buses are this way.’

‘And the taxis are that way.’

‘The bus is easy enough.’

‘Oh, Chris, you’re so mean. I’ll pay,’ and she marched towards the queue for the taxis.

Chris followed, and they were soon crawling towards the Holland Tunnel and Manhattan.

‘Well, what are we doing tonight?’ Tamara asked.

‘I thought we could go out for dinner. And then we could go on to a party.’

‘A party! That sounds fun. I can meet all your nice new friends. Oh, but will that dreadful Duncan be there?’

‘He’s not dreadful. And yes, he will be there. You know we share an apartment, so you’ll just have to put up with him. Ian Darwent will be there, too, though. You like him, don’t you?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s yummy. I suppose there will be lots of Americans?’

‘New York is in America, Tamara,’ said Chris, smiling. ‘I expect there will be one or two.’

Tamara sighed. ‘They’re not all bad, I suppose. I shall just have to be patient with them.’

‘You’ll like Eric and Alex, the guys having the party.’

‘Good. Now, come here.’ She snuggled up to him, and ran her hand inside his shirt and over his chest. ‘This is going to be a very nice weekend.’

The taxi battled across Manhattan and eventually reached Chris’s apartment. The fare was huge, and somehow Chris ended up paying it.

They talked a lot at dinner, Chris about the training programme and Tamara about her wide circle of acquaintances in London. They had known each other at Oxford, but had only got together after the exams in the final year. Tamara was thin, blonde and sophisticated. Chris had always fancied her, but had never thought he had a chance. He was surprised when they had ended up in bed together after a party in the last week of term, and even more surprised that she still wanted to see him after they had both moved on to London: he to Bloomfield Weiss and she to Gurney Kroheim, a very British merchant bank. The relationship had developed over the following six months, although not quite to the point where they had moved in together. But she was enthusiastic about visiting him in New York, and for that he was grateful.

They arrived back at the apartment at about eleven. Loud music was coming from Ian’s room. He had been out when Tamara and Chris had changed earlier in the evening, so Tamara hadn’t yet seen him. She barged straight into his bedroom without knocking, Chris following. Chris wasn’t too worried that she would interrupt Ian changing. It wouldn’t bother Ian and it would give Tamara a minor thrill.

Ian was fully clothed, but he was surprised. He was bending over a small mirror on the desk, on which was arranged a thin line of white powder. He turned towards the intruders and his face reddened instantly.

‘Ooh, Ian, just getting ready for the party, are we?’

Ian looked from Chris to Tamara. ‘Um...’ was all he could say.

‘Hello, darling,’ said Tamara, clearly enjoying his discomfort. She presented her cheek to him for a kiss, licked the tip of her finger, dipped it in the powder and rubbed it on her gums. ‘Yum. Can I have some more?’

‘Er... hi, Tamara. Yeah, yeah, sure,’ said Ian, glancing at Chris uncertainly.

Tamara laughed. ‘Come on, Chris. I’m sure Ian can spare some for you, too.’

Chris stared, unsure how to react. After a couple of seconds, he turned and left the room. He shut himself in his own bedroom and looked out of his window at the busy street twelve floors below.

He was angry. He didn’t take drugs and he assumed that his friends didn’t take any either, especially his girlfriend. What was Tamara thinking of? Taking drugs was what stupid people did. Ian was a surprise, but understandable if Chris thought about it. But how could Tamara be so stupid?

The trouble was, he was the one who felt stupid, and that made him angrier still. Of course he knew people took drugs. Occasionally, at university, he had seen people slipping away together for that purpose. And, from reading the press, the financial world was full of it. But he had always avoided drugs, or to be more accurate, drugs had always avoided him. And that was what made him feel stupid. He was an unsophisticated Polish hick. What else did he expect before a party in New York City of all places?

Get a grip, he told himself. Stay cool. He took a few deep breaths and left the bedroom. Tamara emerged from Ian’s room giggling. She stopped when she saw Chris.

‘Oh, Chris, you look so shocked.’

‘I didn’t know you took drugs, Tamara.’

‘I don’t. Not really. Just every now and then. I’m hardly a junkie, Chris, am I?’

Chris shrugged. He couldn’t help it, but he looked for signs that the drug was having an effect. Tamara’s eyes looked normal; in fact they looked exactly the same as they had a few minutes ago. Of course they did: he was being stupid again.

‘You’re so uptight,’ she said. ‘You should try some.’

Chris shook his head.

She pulled him down to her and kissed him long and deep. ‘Better?’ she said, when they broke away. ‘Look, I wouldn’t have done it if I knew you were going to get so upset. Let’s go, shall we? Are you ready, Ian?’

They took a taxi over to the Upper West Side. Chris sat in silence as Tamara talked animatedly to Ian, who charmed her back. When they arrived, the party was in full swing. Eric greeted them at the door. A girl was with him, whom Eric introduced as Megan. Chris was curious. This was the mysterious girlfriend who lived in Washington, or somewhere, and whom Chris had not yet met. Not surprisingly, she was attractive, but not in the striking way he might have expected of Eric’s girlfriend. She had long frizzy black hair, a pale intelligent face, freckles, a snub nose and bright blue eyes. She looked very young, barely eighteen, but there was something about her that seemed wise beyond her years. Chris instantly liked her.

He introduced Tamara, and after a little small talk, Eric sent them into the crowd, telling them the beer was in the bath.

‘Now, he’s nice,’ said Tamara as they made their way through the crowd to the bathroom.

‘He’s taken,’ said Chris. ‘That woman is his girlfriend, I think.’

‘Oh, really? I assumed she was a younger sister.’

‘ ’Fraid not.’

‘No need to be jealous, Chris,’ said Tamara, squeezing his hand. ‘I’m quite happy with what I’ve got.’

Chris smiled. She was clearly trying to make amends; he didn’t want to ruin the weekend by being surly.

‘Besides, I don’t like his taste in art,’ Tamara said, frowning at Alex’s painting of the petrochemical plant in the desert.

‘I do,’ said Chris.

‘Oh, Chris, you’re so industrial.’

They found the beer. It was indeed in the bath, which was full of ice.

‘How very quaint,’ said Tamara. ‘This must be an old American custom.’

‘And a very practical one,’ said Alex, who had emerged from the crush of bodies. ‘But I know you Brits like your beer warm. I can put yours in the oven if you like?’

Tamara smiled thinly. ‘I think I’d like some white wine,’ she said in her most cutting voice. Chris winced.

‘Sure, there’s some in the kitchen. I’m Alex Lubron, by the way.’

‘How do you do?’ said Tamara, looking over his head.

‘This is Tamara,’ said Chris.

‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ said Alex, with a smile.

‘Mm,’ said Tamara.

Alex paused and narrowed his eyes. ‘All right. Enjoy yourselves.’ He turned away from Chris and Tamara to Tetsundo Suzuki, who had just arrived. ‘Hey, Tex, how’s it hanging?’ he cried, giving the Japanese trainee a high five.

‘Who was that little man?’ said Tamara with a shudder.

‘Alex is a friend of mine,’ Chris said. ‘He painted the picture you didn’t like.’

Tamara caught the tone in his voice. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but that stuff about English people liking warm beer is such a cliché. Now, can you get me a glass of wine?’

Chris didn’t enjoy the party. He had wanted to show his new friends off to Tamara, but now he felt awkward at every introduction. After half an hour, she mellowed under the effects of alcohol and the drug she had taken, and was probably having a better time than he was. He tried to forget about the cocaine, but he found he couldn’t.

‘Hey, Chris, there you are!’ Lenka’s hoarse voice rose above the din.

She and Duncan fought their way towards Chris and Tamara. Lenka put her arm round Chris and kissed him. She was pretty drunk. ‘So, this is Tamara? Hello, Tamara. Welcome to New York.’

She smiled down at Tamara, who was at least nine inches shorter.

‘Hello,’ said Tamara, coldly.

‘You’ve come to relax Chris. He needs relaxing, don’t you, Chris?’ Lenka said, squeezing him. ‘He works too hard, you know.’

‘I’m sure he does,’ said Tamara. ‘You American bankers are all so serious about work. I prefer the British approach. We don’t go in for all this financial analysis stuff. But we get by.’

‘It’s useful,’ said Duncan, earnestly. ‘I think the merchant banks should have their own training programmes. I don’t see how they can survive in the modern world without them. At some point it’s what you know as well as who you know that counts.’

Tamara’s cheeks went ever so slightly pink. Chris recognized the symptoms, and winced.

That’s not quite fair, Duncan,’ she said. ‘Gurney Kroheim have some very good people.’

‘Oh, I’m sure they have,’ said Duncan. ‘I just think those people would benefit from some formal training.’

‘Just as you have,’ said Tamara, with a glint in her eye.

‘Yes,’ said Duncan, suspiciously.

‘You don’t think the Bloomfield Weiss training programme’s too tough, then?’

‘Well, no,’ said Duncan, uncertainly. ‘I mean, it is difficult, but I can handle it.’

‘That’s not what I heard.’

‘What do you mean?’ Duncan looked from Tamara to Chris, who shifted uncomfortably.

‘Just that a system which pushes some of its trainees so hard that they crack under the pressure seems less than ideal to me. But I’m sure you’ll pull through.’

Duncan was about to say something, but then bit his lip. He knew Tamara didn’t like him, and he wasn’t drunk enough to pick a fight. Lenka was, though.

‘How can you be so rude to my friend?’ she said.

‘I’m not being rude,’ said Tamara. ‘At least, not intentionally. Duncan started it. I was just carrying on the discussion.’

Lenka swayed. ‘Chris. This woman is awful. I can’t believe you can have such a horrible girlfriend as this.’

Chris, who had been watching this exchange with dread, knew that the time had come to intervene.

‘Lenka,’ he said firmly. ‘I know you’ve had a lot to drink. But you shouldn’t say things like that.’

‘I should,’ said Lenka. ‘Because it’s true. You’re a very nice person, Chris. You deserve someone much better.’

‘Chris!’ gasped Tamara, shocked. ‘Make her apologize.’

The bodies surrounding Tamara and Lenka were all quiet now, all watching Chris.

‘Lenka, I’m sure you didn’t mean what you just said. Can you please apologize?’

‘No way,’ said Lenka, staring at Tamara.

‘Here,’ said Duncan, pulling at her arm. ‘Come here. Let’s get some air.’

Lenka hesitated, and then allowed herself to be pulled back by Duncan. The crowd watched in silence as they left the room, and then exploded with chatter.

‘We’re going,’ said Tamara, firmly.

‘Let’s just say goodbye to Eric and Alex,’ said Chris.

‘No. We’re going now.’

So they left. As they spilled out on to the quiet street, they saw the figures of Lenka and Duncan disappearing round the corner. Chris hailed a cab, and they rode back to the apartment in silence.

‘Bye, Chris. It was fun. I’ll miss you.’

They were standing outside the gate to Departures at Newark Airport. It was Sunday evening; the weekend was over.

‘Thanks for coming all this way,’ Chris said.

‘It was worth it.’

‘Do you think you’ll be able to come again?’

‘I’d like to,’ said Tamara. ‘Perhaps the bank holiday at the end of May. If I can get a cheap ticket.’

‘They’ll probably put the fares up that weekend,’ said Chris. ‘To take advantage of people like us.’

‘I’ll try, anyway,’ Tamara said. Chris pulled her tightly to him, they kissed, and then he let her go. He watched her as she stood in the queue to go through the metal detector. She turned as she set off down the long corridor towards her gate and waved. He waved back, and she was gone.

Chris took the bus back to the Port Authority. It was dark outside, and the orange lights of New Jersey’s oil refineries glowed through the windows of the bus. The twin towers of the World Trade Center peeked over the twisted braids of a turnpike interchange. It reminded Chris of one of Alex’s paintings.

Although it had started off disastrously, it hadn’t been a bad weekend. Tamara had realized she had upset Chris and had done her best to make up for it. They had spent Saturday and Sunday away from the apartment. The weather had been glorious: they’d walked through the Park, visited the Frick and the Museum of Modern Art, and also spent an hour or two in Bloomingdale’s and Lord and Taylor. The sex had been great, too. But the sour aftertaste of Friday night remained in Chris’s mouth.

Tamara could be rude; everyone knew that. But she was usually funny as well. She had a wit that could be cutting, but she didn’t really mean the things she said. Or at least that was what Chris had assumed. But she should have been nicer to his friends; she could have made an effort.

And they were his friends. He liked Duncan. And although he hadn’t known Alex and Lenka for more than a few weeks, he liked them, too. Of course, he had known Tamara much longer, and he knew he had been right to defend her against Lenka. But he hadn’t liked to choose between these new friends and his girlfriend, and he resented Tamara for making him do it.

He remembered Lenka’s words, that Tamara was not good enough for him, and smiled. He was sure Lenka believed it, but he knew she was wrong. He was lucky to have someone like Tamara. She was attractive, she was fun, she had class. And she was good in bed. Chris was not as experienced as he would have liked to be in that regard, but he knew sex with Tamara was great. He hoped she would come over to New York again.

When he arrived back at the apartment, Duncan was waiting for him. Chris hadn’t seen him since Friday evening, and for the first time he wondered how Duncan had managed to avoid him so successfully all weekend.

‘Fancy a wee bevy?’ Duncan said nervously.

Chris smiled. ‘OK.’

They went to the Irish bar around the corner. They avoided anything but very small talk until the Guinness was on the table in front of them.

Duncan took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Chris.

‘I shouldn’t have mouthed off that stuff about British merchant banks. It was stupid. I knew it would wind up Tamara.’

‘And it did.’

Duncan coughed. ‘Yes, it did.’ He drank some more of his beer. ‘Look, I know Tamara doesn’t like me, and I don’t suspect she ever will, but you’ve been a good mate to me, especially here, and I don’t want to mess that up.’

Chris smiled. ‘Don’t worry about it, Duncan. Tamara can be awkward sometimes. I’m sorry you had to take that shit from her. I shouldn’t have told her about the Bond Math exam.’

‘The sad thing was, what she said was true,’ said Duncan. ‘I can’t hack the training programme.’

‘Now, no whining, Duncan. Anyway, where were you all weekend?’

Duncan sipped his beer. He tried to suppress a grin, but he failed. In the end, he gave up.

‘You didn’t?’ asked Chris.

‘I did.’

‘What, after the party?’

‘Yep.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yep.’

‘Don’t look so smug,’ said Chris. ‘I want details. I want details.’

‘Well, after we left, Lenka was pretty upset. In fact, we both were. So we just walked in silence for a while. Then we started talking about you and about Tamara. And then we were talking about other things.’ Duncan paused, a faint smile on his lips. ‘We got to Columbus Circle and started looking for a cab, and then I said I’d walk her back to her apartment.’

‘In the Village?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But that’s miles!’

‘Yes. But it didn’t seem like it. I mean, it seemed to take for ever, but we didn’t get tired or anything. It was very romantic. Then we got to her street and she asked me up to her apartment. She said I couldn’t just turn round and walk all the way back.’

‘And then?’

‘And then...’ Duncan smiled.

‘You have to tell me.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘OK, I suppose you don’t,’ admitted Chris. ‘But presumably you spent the weekend at her place?’

‘It seemed safer there than in our apartment.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Didn’t you notice I wasn’t there?’

‘No, I suppose I didn’t. I just thought you were skulking in your room, or something.’ Chris took a gulp of beer. Duncan and Lenka. He liked that. ‘Congratulations,’ he said.

‘Thank you. We’d better keep it quiet from the others on the programme, though. You never know what Calhoun would think.’

‘Sod him,’ said Chris. ‘But all right, I’ll keep it quiet. Ian’s got to find out, though. And Alex and Eric.’

‘If they do, they do,’ said Duncan. ‘Oh, by the way, Lenka says she’s sorry. About what she said to Tamara.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘She says she stands by what she said, she just shouldn’t have said it.’

Chris smiled. ‘Tell her that’s OK, too.’

5

Summer came. It was hot in New York in June and July, so hot that it was unpleasant to venture outside. The Brits were not dressed for it: their Marks and Spencer wool suits were the wrong clothing for the climate. The humidity was so bad that after walking more than a block they would find themselves drenched in sweat. The classroom was deliciously cool, but the subway was a sweltering hell. The air-conditioning on the Lexington line wasn’t up to a carriage full of sweaty commuters. Sometimes Chris, Duncan and Ian would bail out at Forty-Second Street and grab a cold beer in a nearby bar, before returning below ground for the second leg. Of course, Lenka managed to stay cool at all times, in outfits that Abby Hollis eyed suspiciously, but couldn’t quite bring herself to comment on.

The work kept coming. In addition to Waldern’s Capital Markets, which seemed to be a never-ending subject, they were given courses in Corporate Finance, Accounting, International Economics, Credit Analysis and Ethics. They were spoken to by people across the length and breadth of Bloomfield Weiss, from Tokyo to Chicago, from Global Custody to Equity Derivatives. The pace came in fits and starts, but the pressure never let up, George Calhoun saw to that.

Much to his surprise, Chris found that he actually enjoyed the course. As the concepts became clearer to him, and linked together to form a coherent whole, his interest grew. He particularly liked listening to the traders talking. These were popular sessions with the trainees: if Bloomfield Weiss was anything, it was a trading house. The staking of billions of dollars, the big men with big mouths, the macho language of violent sexual acts and physical disfigurement, all attracted a certain type of trainee. But that wasn’t what appealed to Chris. He was fascinated by the shifting relationships of markets, how supply and demand fed through to price movement, and how risk capital was managed so that losses were cut and profits allowed to run. He was less interested in the tall tales of Cash Callaghan, a top salesman from the London office, who bragged about ‘whippin’ and drivin’ those bonds’, and more interested in the quiet deliberations of Seymour Tanner, a twenty-nine-year-old star of the Proprietary Desk, who was rumoured to have made the firm two hundred million dollars the year before. For the first time, Chris was beginning to feel at home at Bloomfield Weiss. There was a job there that he could do, if they would let him do it.

George Calhoun was eager to crank up the competition. He wanted to fire up his trainees, make them hungry, give them something to aim for. So he put up a table of rankings, from one to sixty, or rather fifty-eight, following the departure of Denny Engel and Roger Masden. The rankings were based on the amalgamated scores from the various tests that were given out during the course. To add a bit of spice, he had drawn a big red line between number forty-five and number forty-six, the infamous bottom quartile. And he also announced that the top three trainees would receive a bonus at the end of the programme.

At number one spot was Rudy Moss. At number two, Eric Astle. And at number three, much to Calhoun’s fury, was Lenka. At the other end, Duncan was hovering around fifty; in other words in the bottom quartile, but within striking distance of escaping it. After his poor showing in the Bond Math exam Ian was at forty-two, but rising strongly. Alex was two places higher at forty, and Chris, to his surprise was at twenty-five. Despite the disparity in abilities, or perhaps because of it, the study group continued to work together. Eric and Lenka’s success was a source of pride for them all, and they all wanted to ensure that Duncan and Alex ended the course above the cut-off line.

There was one course, though, that Chris didn’t enjoy. Ethics. Ian called it Corporate Hypocrisy, and the name stuck. It was a cynical attempt to deal with the repercussions that Bloomfield Weiss had suffered both from the Phoenix Prosperity scandal and the prosecution of the drug-dealing salesmen. The contrast between Martin Krohl, who took the Ethics course, and the succession of managing directors who described in great detail how they ripped the faces off their clients would have been funny, if it was not so seriously pursued. Ian came top in the exam, which wasn’t really a surprise. He was an intelligent man, Ethics had not a number in sight, and Ian’s innate cynicism was perfectly suited to the subject as taught at Bloomfield Weiss. Lenka failed. She explained that she had needed to ‘clarify’ some of her answers and she suspected that Krohl hadn’t liked that. The irony of Ian coming top and Lenka coming near the bottom of a Bloomfield Weiss Ethics exam was not lost on Chris and Duncan, who both felt slightly ashamed at how well they had done.

Duncan and Lenka’s relationship prospered. They were very professional about it. There was no hint of anything in class or in front of the other trainees. Even when they were with Eric, Alex, Chris and Ian, they behaved more like good friends than a couple. They would often sit next to each other in a bar or restaurant, and there was a lot of good-natured teasing, but there was none of the all-exclusive inward-looking intimacy with which a couple can sometimes disrupt a group of friends.

But they did spend a lot of time together. Duncan usually stayed with Lenka in the Village, often arriving back after midnight, or at weekends, not at all. They went away for the Memorial Day weekend together, to Cape Cod. Duncan wasn’t getting much sleep, but he was thriving on it. He was happy, and the self-pity about his work, which had begun to irritate Chris and Ian, disappeared. Lenka, too, seemed happy with life, although for her this seemed a much more usual state of affairs. Ian would occasionally wonder what on earth she saw in Duncan, but even he couldn’t complain at Duncan’s good spirits.

Besides, Ian was enjoying himself. He would often venture out alone around nine or ten in the evening. Occasionally Chris would be startled on the way to the bathroom the following morning by a strange woman. During the course of the summer, he saw four or five of these. Most were American, but one of them was an au pair from France. She was the only one who Chris saw more than once. They were all attractive.

Chris wasn’t surprised that Ian’s success with women, which had been marked at Oxford, was even more apparent in New York. He made full use of his accent, and for some reason that Chris couldn’t fathom, women seemed to find his arrogance attractive rather than off-putting. None of those who came back with him in the middle of the night thought they were at the beginning of a beautiful relationship. But, Chris reasoned, perhaps that was why they were there in the first place. Ian’s success was all the more remarkable because the AIDS scare was still very much alive in New York at that time. Ian thought the risk to heterosexuals was overrated and presumably his new friends agreed with him. Duncan became extra careful with the washing up.

Alex was struggling. His mother was ill. Very ill. She had leukaemia, and it was getting worse. He had kept it quiet from everyone apart from Eric, but when her condition changed from stable to deteriorating, Alex felt he had to spend as much time with her as he could. She was entombed in a hospital near her home in New Brunswick. He went there every weekend and often after class in the evening. He took as much time off as he could but, not surprisingly, Calhoun was unsympathetic. Alex pushed it as far as he dared, but eventually Calhoun made it clear that one more day off, and Alex was out.

Alex’s father had died three years before, and his brother had taken off around the world soon afterwards. He was now working as crew on a sailing boat in Australia. To Alex’s disgust, his brother said he wouldn’t be able to make it back to the States to see his mother. So the burden of responsibility fell on Alex, who took it hard. She was in pain whenever she wasn’t pumped up with drugs, and Alex felt her pain. It was difficult flogging out there so often to see someone who could barely speak and who was obviously in such agony. He hated being with her and he hated being away from her. Lenka accompanied him on a couple of these visits and that seemed to cheer him up. But his work suffered, and he slipped to take Duncan’s place in that fourth quartile.

Tamara made it over to America one more time. She came for the Fourth of July weekend. This time, she flew direct to Washington, and Chris took the Amtrak to meet her there. They had a great weekend. They saw the fireworks on Capitol Hill, listened to the 1812 Overture, and explored the sweltering city and its restaurants. Chris felt much more relaxed: Tamara was able to make unkind comments about Americans without anyone he knew hearing her, and he didn’t have to worry about her insulting his friends.

Duncan’s happiness didn’t last the summer. It was shattered on a hot and humid Saturday night, two weeks before the end of the programme. Chris was sleeping fitfully, entangled in a single sheet on his bed, when he was awakened by the crash of the apartment door slamming. He glanced at the alarm clock. One fifteen a.m. He heard a grunt. Duncan. He rolled over. Duncan was usually quiet when he came back from Lenka’s. As he surfaced from sleep, Chris realized something else was odd: Duncan usually stayed at Lenka’s on Saturdays. There was no reason for him to come back to their apartment in the middle of the night.

A loud bang. Duncan swearing. Another grunt. A crash of a chair falling over. This did not sound good. Chris crawled out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown. Duncan was in the hallway, swaying. His face was white in the bright hallway light.

‘Are you OK, Duncan?’

Duncan blew out his cheeks and focused on Chris. ‘I’ve just had a wee drink,’ he said slowly. ‘Going to bed. Don’t feel too good.’

He was smashed out of his brain. Chris didn’t like the way Duncan’s chest was heaving, as though he were trying to keep something down.

‘Let’s go to the bathroom, Duncan,’ said Chris, grabbing hold of him.

‘No. Bed,’ said Duncan, but he allowed himself to be led away by Chris. As soon as he saw the lavatory bowl, he lunged at it. Chris held on to him as he emptied his stomach.

He heard Ian behind him. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Stupid bugger. I hope he’s going to clear that up.’

‘I don’t think he’ll be able to.’

‘Well, I’m not doing it,’ said Ian, and he retreated to his room, shutting the door firmly.

Chris cleaned up the lavatory, and Duncan. He pulled off most of his clothes and laid him on his bed. Duncan fell asleep instantly.

Late the next morning, Chris looked into Duncan’s room. He was lying on his back with his eyes open. The room stank of old alcohol.

‘How are you feeling?’ Chris asked.

‘Horrible,’ said Duncan in a cracked voice. ‘You couldn’t get me some water, could you, Chris?’

Chris returned with a large glassful, which Duncan drank. ‘God, my head hurts.’

‘I’ve never seen you that drunk before,’ said Chris.

Duncan shook his head. ‘I don’t even remember coming back here. Did you help me get into bed?’

Chris nodded.

‘Thanks.’ Duncan ran his tongue round his mouth. ‘Yuk. I threw up last night, didn’t I?’

‘You did. What happened?’

‘We had a row.’

‘You and Lenka?’

‘Yes.’

Chris waited. He knew Duncan would tell him.

Duncan sighed and winced. ‘This headache is horrible. It’s over, Chris.’

‘No! Are you sure?’

‘Am I sure? Of course I’m sure.’

‘Why? What happened?’

Duncan paused. ‘It’s my fault. I pushed her too hard.’

‘About what?’

He sighed. ‘I suggested we live together. The programme finishes in two weeks, and I couldn’t face the thought of going back to London and leaving her here. I realized that she’s the most important thing in my life. My career at Bloomfield Weiss is screwed, that’s obvious. So I told her I’d quit and live with her in New York. It should be easy enough to find another job on Wall Street. Or else she could live with me in London. Or we could both go to Czechoslovakia. I didn’t care. I just didn’t want to leave her.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘Nothing at first. She went quiet, as though she was thinking. But I knew right away that I’d blown it.’ Duncan paused, and winced again, whether from his head, or the memory of his conversation the night before, Chris couldn’t tell. ‘Then she said she’d been thinking about the end of the programme too. She said she liked me, but she didn’t want the kind of commitment that went with living with someone. She said it would be better for both of us if we split up now.’

‘Oh, dear.’

‘You’re telling me. Then I lost it. I told her I loved her. I do love her, Chris. And I thought that if I told her that, and really meant it, she’d have to say she loved me. But she didn’t. She just went completely still. She didn’t say what she thought about me. She just said that it’d be best if we didn’t see each other any more.’

Duncan took a sip of his water.

‘I couldn’t bear the thought of that. I only have two more weeks in New York; I want to be with Lenka for that whole time. So I told her we should keep seeing each other and forget about the future for now. But she wouldn’t have any of it. I kept telling her, but she wouldn’t listen. In the end she more or less threw me out.’

‘And you went drinking?’

‘I couldn’t believe what had happened. I still can’t. We have something very special, she and I. She’s the most marvellous person I’ve ever met. I’m not going to meet anyone else like her again, am I?’ He looked at Chris, demanding an answer.

‘Lenka is unique,’ said Chris carefully.

‘Of course she is,’ said Duncan. ‘One moment, I think we’re going to live our lives together, and the next...’

‘It must have been tough.’

‘It was. It is. Oh, God.’ To Chris’s embarrassment, tears began to run down Duncan’s face. Chris had no idea what to say. Lenka knew her own mind, and if she had called it off, it was off. Duncan would just have to get over it. But that would be no easy matter, Chris knew.

‘When you feel up to it, we’ll go for a walk in the park. We can talk about it,’ said Chris.

‘That would be good,’ said Duncan. ‘I’ll be up in a minute.’

Chris went through to the living room. Ian was reading the Sunday New York Times.

‘What’s up with him?’ Ian said, his eyes on the paper.

‘Lenka chucked him.’

‘I knew she was out of his league.’ He put down the paper and groaned. ‘I’m not sure I can face the moaning. It’s going to be pretty bad.’

It was pretty bad. Duncan was inconsolable. He didn’t sleep. He drank Ian’s whisky late into the night, and when he’d finished that, went out and bought some of his own. He called Lenka at odd times during the day and night, until she stopped answering the phone. He was an embarrassment in class, conspicuously moping in front of her, and refusing to tell anyone what was wrong. Some of the other trainees were worried and asked Chris and Ian what was the matter with him. Chris and Ian felt they had to deny any knowledge of Duncan’s problems, something Ian found easier to do than Chris.

Chris tried to be as sympathetic as he could, but even he was exasperated by Duncan. The programme was hotting up. The final exam would be a four-hour test on Capital Markets, and everyone knew that Waldern wouldn’t make it easy. The whole class revised hard, with the exception of Duncan. This worried Chris. Duncan was in forty-first position, only five above the dreaded bottom quartile, and the Capital Markets exam had a large weighting. When Chris and Ian were sweating away in the evening, Duncan was either out in a bar somewhere or, even worse, in his room with a bottle of whisky.

The study group still met regularly at Eric and Alex’s apartment, but Duncan never showed. Although the others were worried about him, they were glad to avoid his poor humour. Lenka still came. She seemed a little more subdued than normal, but otherwise she seemed to be in much better shape than Duncan.

Chris was leaving a session early, the Thursday evening following the break up, when Lenka rushed out to catch him up. They walked down Columbus Avenue together.

‘How’s Duncan?’ she asked.

‘Not good.’

‘Oh.’ They walked on in silence. Then Lenka spoke. ‘I like him, you know. And I’m worried about him. You will look after him, won’t you?’

‘I’m trying,’ said Chris. ‘But it’s difficult.’

‘The problem is that if I try to be nice to him myself, it only encourages him. I need him to know that it’s finished. We must make a clean break. Otherwise, he’ll be hurt much more later on. Do you understand?’

‘I think so.’ Chris didn’t want to take sides, so he was trying to be as non-committal as possible. But he thought that Lenka was probably right; with Duncan, a ‘maybe’ would be fatal.

‘I didn’t mislead him, you know,’ said Lenka. ‘We were just having fun. I didn’t think it was particularly serious; I thought we both understood that. Then, when he said he wanted to give up his job to live with me, I realized he saw our relationship very differently from me. So I ended it. It would have been wrong to let it go on.’

‘Couldn’t you see Duncan was head over heels in love with you?’

Lenka sighed. ‘No. I always have this problem with men. I start a relationship with a nice man, we have fun, and then one day they go serious on me. I thought that Duncan would be different; after all, the training programme is finite. It should have had a built-in break-up date. But Duncan won’t accept that.’

‘So what’s wrong with a serious relationship, anyway?’

‘I had one. In Prague. We were engaged to be married. He was a medical student, and I loved him. But after the Velvet Revolution, when I had the opportunity to get out of our boring country and see the world, he wouldn’t let me.’

‘Wouldn’t let you? How could he stop you?’

‘He had a fixed idea of our relationship. Czech women get married much younger than Western European or American women. His idea was that we would get married, he would qualify as a doctor, and I would follow him wherever the job took him. Just like my mother did with my father. You know he is a doctor?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Well, I thought I had two choices. I could experience the new life of the West, or I could be a boring Czech wife and mother at twenty-five. It was a difficult decision, I did love Karel, but in the end there was only one choice that was the right one for me. Go to the United States.’

‘And since then?’

‘The last thing I need now is a serious relationship.’

‘Why?’ asked Chris. That’s all a lot of people are looking for.’

Lenka thought carefully before answering. ‘I guess I don’t know who I really am, or who I want to be. It’s hard for you to imagine what Czechoslovakia was like under the Communists. America is so different; and most of the differences I like. I know I’m changing, but I don’t quite know how. I won’t become an American, even if I live here for a while. I will always be Czech, and one day I will go back to my country and do something for it, perhaps using the skills I’m learning here.’

‘I see.’

‘So, I’m totally unsuited to a long-term commitment with Duncan or anyone else for that matter. For one thing, Duncan wouldn’t know who it was he was committed to.’ Lenka bit her lip. ‘I know I’ve hurt Duncan, and I didn’t mean to. But I hurt Karel, and myself, so much more. I don’t want to do that again.’

‘I understand,’ said Chris.

‘Do you?’ asked Lenka, looking at him closely. ‘Do you really?’

‘I think so.’

‘Can you make Duncan understand that?’

Chris paused. ‘I don’t know. Probably not. Duncan is not very rational at the moment.’

‘You can say that again. I tried to talk to him again a couple of nights ago and I still got nowhere. But this can’t go on. He’s acting as if we’re married and I’ve run off with another man. He calls me at any time in the day or night, he makes a fool of himself in front of me in class. He follows me. He sends me letters I never read. He whispers things to me about how his life isn’t worth living. I have to make him realize it’s over.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ Chris said.

‘Thank you,’ said Lenka. ‘Because I’ve had enough. Someone has to get the message through to him.’

Chris decided to try to talk to Duncan about Lenka the next day. They had lunch together in the cafeteria on the twelfth floor, and Chris suggested a quick walk down to Battery Park. They left their jackets behind and strolled the couple of blocks to the park. It was another hot, humid day. Tourists drifted lazily amongst the souvenir sellers and the office workers eating their sandwiches. Only the seagulls were active, investigating every piece of picnic debris as it hit the ground. The city dust hung hot and heavy in the air. Out in the harbour the Statue of Liberty pointed upwards into the shimmering haze.

‘I spoke to Lenka yesterday,’ Chris began.

‘Oh, yes?’ Duncan’s interest quickened.

‘She says there’s no chance of you two getting back together. She says she doesn’t want a committed relationship with anyone.’

The glimmer of hope in Duncan’s eye disappeared instantly, to be replaced with bitterness. ‘So what?’

His response confused Chris. ‘So, there isn’t much point in chasing her.’

‘I know that’s what she says,’ said Duncan, sounding frustrated. ‘That’s the whole point. But she’s wrong, and I have to show her that. If I stop chasing her, that’s hardly going to work, is it? I need to show her how much I love her, and make her admit to herself that she loves me. I know she does, whatever she says. I just know it.’ He glared at Chris, defying him to say otherwise.

‘Did she tell you about the guy she was engaged to in Czechoslovakia? About how she broke away from him? She didn’t want to be tied down then, and she doesn’t want to be tied down now.’

‘That was different,’ said Duncan. ‘He wanted her to give up everything for him. I want to give up everything for her.’

Chris held his tongue. He had known it would be useless to attempt to persuade Duncan. He shouldn’t have even tried. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw two figures he recognized. They were walking towards Chris and Duncan from the direction of the War Memorial, deep in conversation. Lenka and Alex.

‘All right, do what you want,’ said Chris, grabbing hold of Duncan’s arm. ‘Let’s go back to the office.’

But Duncan had seen them too.

‘Jesus. Look over there.’

‘Duncan,’ Chris said, tugging his sleeve.

Duncan shook him off. ‘I can’t believe it. Look what they’re doing.’

‘They’re talking, that’s all. They’re friends. They’re our friends.’

‘Yes, but look at the way they’re talking,’ said Duncan as he walked rapidly towards them.

Lenka saw him. She frowned, and stopped still, facing him.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Duncan.

‘Talking to Alex,’ said Lenka quietly.

‘How can you do that? Why can’t you talk to me?’

‘Duncan.’ Chris had a hold of his sleeve and was pulling him backwards.

Lenka exploded. ‘I can talk to whoever I want to, Duncan. I can walk with whoever I want to. I can sleep with whoever I want to.’ She took a step towards Duncan and jabbed a finger in his chest. ‘I used to like you, Duncan. We had a good time together. But I don’t have to put up with all this shit. You can’t tell me what to do, do you understand me? We’re finished, Duncan. Finished!’

Duncan was so taken aback by this outburst that he was speechless. Chris finally managed to pull him away. Duncan looked over his shoulder. ‘Bitch!’ he cried.

‘Bastard!’ came the reply from Lenka. Chris and Alex exchanged glances, and then Chris pushed Duncan firmly back in the direction of Bloomfield Weiss.

During a break in class that afternoon, Chris grabbed Lenka. She still looked angry.

‘That was pretty unpleasant,’ he said.

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And is he going to give up?’

‘No.’

Lenka sighed. ‘I thought so. But do you see what I mean when I say he acts like he owns me? The fact is, he doesn’t, and I have to make him see that. I do like him, despite all this stupidity, but if the only way he can get it through his skull that we’re finished is by me calling him a bastard, then that’s the way it’s going to be.’

‘He’s jealous. He thinks there’s something between you and Alex.’

‘Maybe that’s a good thing. At least then he’ll realize it’s over.’ Lenka saw the doubt in Chris’s face. ‘Have you got any other ideas?’

With that she stalked off back to the classroom.

6

The week before the final exam was hell. Everyone was tense. They all knew that Waldern would set a tough one. It was a four-hour paper on Capital Markets, although Waldern promised he would throw in strands of everything else they had learned on the course as well. So they had to revise everything. Fear of coming in the bottom quartile had grabbed the majority of the trainees. The rest were worried about coming top. Rudy Moss was still in first position, with Eric second. Latasha James was third; Lenka had slipped to tenth after her disastrous Ethics exam. Duncan was just above the cut-off line, Alex just below it. Even Chris, at twenty-six, felt that the bottom quartile was in his reach if he panicked. So, as Ian put it, he panicked about panicking.

Alex worked hard, with a lot of help from Lenka. The others were all determined that he would make it. They had more or less given up hope on Duncan, though. Chris tried everything: encouragement, scolding, nagging, sarcasm, but to no effect. Duncan was bent on self-destruction.

The exam was a bastard. It was about a fictitious US cable television company with dodgy accounts that wanted to issue junk bonds to finance an acquisition in France. Chris had to admit that it was clever: you needed to understand accounting, credit, cross-border mergers and acquisitions, and of course, capital markets to structure the deal and describe how it might be sold. The case took three-quarters of an hour just to read.

Chris slogged through it, and after three hours he had the bulk of it cracked. His head buzzed with fatigue and adrenaline. One more hour. He would make it. He reached the end of a page, and sat up and stretched. The classroom was silent except for the rustle of paper and the scratching of pens. Abby Hollis was staring dully at the class from her position in the centre.

He was just about to get back to work when Eric, who was sitting next to him, gathered up his papers and marched down the aisle to Abby Hollis. He’d finished already! Abby looked as surprised as Chris and began a murmured conversation with Eric.

Chris heard a whisper from behind. He stiffened.

‘Chris.’

It was Duncan, who was sitting right behind him.

‘Chris. Nod if you can hear me.’

Chris’s eyes darted to Abby, whose head was bent next to Eric’s.

He nodded.

‘Let me see your paper.’

Chris remained motionless.

‘Push it to one side.’

Chris didn’t move.

‘Oh, come on Chris. I need the help. Please.’

Chris felt a rush of anger. He was going to pass this exam now. He knew it. And he had worked hard to pass it. Why should he let Duncan have a look at his paper? Duncan knew that Denny and Roger had been kicked out for doing just that. If Duncan was in a mess, it was entirely his own fault.

‘Come on Chris. Let’s see the first page.’

Slowly and deliberately, Chris picked up his pen and hunched over his paper. Duncan could fend for himself. He had an exam to finish.

‘Chris! You bastard!’

This time Duncan’s whispering was too loud. Abby heard, and snapped her head towards Duncan. Chris dropped his eyes to his own paper.

‘Fucker,’ hissed Duncan a few seconds later, when Abby had turned her attention back to Eric.

George Calhoun was waiting for them as they trooped out of the exam, shattered. He told all the US-hired trainees to take a quick blood and urine test for their medical insurance. Chris, Duncan and Ian were too tired to notice. They just wanted to get out of the building as quickly as possible.

‘Coming to Jerry’s?’ said Ian to Chris.

‘Yes, definitely.’ Chris turned to Duncan. ‘You want to come?’

Duncan was pale and near tears. He ignored Chris and headed for the elevator.

Ian raised his eyebrows. ‘What was that about?’

Chris sighed wearily. ‘Forget it. Let’s get a beer.’

It was early, and Jerry’s was almost empty. But sitting there, guarding a table and a pitcher of beer, was Eric.

‘How come you left early?’ asked Chris.

‘I’d finished. I couldn’t stand it in there any more. So I came down here and got an early beer.’

‘That’s sickening.’

‘Never mind,’ said Ian. ‘Just pour me one.’ He loosened his tie and downed his beer in one. Eric poured him another one.

‘So how did you do?’ asked Chris.

Eric smiled. ‘Let’s not ask those questions. It’s finished. It’s all over. Let’s just get drunk.’

So they did.

The end of the programme was an anticlimax. There were four days of agony while they waited for the Capital Markets papers to be marked and the Americans to be given their job assignments. Chris was amazed that Waldern could mark so many lengthy papers so quickly: Ian’s theory was that he got his graduate students to do it.

After his initial anger at Chris, Duncan forgave him. He knew he had messed up; he admitted that it was his own fault that he hadn’t been properly prepared. But the guilt still weighed on Chris. It wasn’t that he felt he should have helped Duncan; Duncan had no right to expect Chris to cheat for him, and he knew it. What troubled Chris was his motivation for ignoring Duncan in the exam. The Bloomfield Weiss philosophy of look after yourself and leave your colleagues to sort out their own problems had finally got through to him. He had wanted to do nothing to jeopardize his own chances of passing; in his darkest moments, he thought that he had wanted Duncan to fail. This bothered him. Bloomfield Weiss was changing him, and having seen dozens of successful Bloomfield Weiss investment bankers, he wasn’t sure he liked that.

Alex was unusually subdued. He wandered around with a grim expression on his face and hardly spoke to any of the others. They assumed that he knew he had done badly, but didn’t want to talk about it, and so they left him alone.

The exam results were added to the results of all the other tests during the programme to make a grand total. This was pinned up on the wall outside the classroom at ten o’clock on the Thursday morning of the last week. The trainees crowded round Abby Hollis to look. Eric had made first place, Rudy Moss second, and Latasha James third. Lenka was fourth. To his great satisfaction, Chris squeezed into the first quartile at fourteenth. Ian was thirty-second and Alex just scraped above the cut-off at forty-second. Duncan had failed resoundingly at fifty-seventh. Only one person was below him, Faisal, who didn’t care.

An hour later, there was another list to look at: job assignments for the American trainees. Eric had been given the job he had asked for in Mergers and Acquisitions. Although in theory Alex was safe, he had no job assigned to him. He seemed to take this badly; the strain of the programme and his mother’s illness appeared finally to be getting to him. Rudy Moss got the assignment he wanted in the Asset Management Division, but, despite her high place in the programme, Latasha ended up in Municipal Finance. The trainees from the foreign offices would have to wait until they returned home to discover what jobs they had been given, or in cases like Duncan’s and Carla’s, for official confirmation that they had been given none.

The rest of the day was taken up with meetings, form filling, and further presentations by insignificant departments. The gossip and chatter was incessant. Most people were happy to scrape through. Those that had failed had different responses. Some took it stoically, some tried to joke about it, some, like Duncan, looked angry, and some, like Carla, just wept quietly. No one knew what to say to these unfortunates. The likes of Rudy Moss ignored them. They were history at Bloomfield Weiss, they were failures, they had zero networking value. Why waste time on them?

The fragile sense of community that had formed among the sixty young bankers over the previous five months was falling apart, as each looked forward to new lives either inside or outside Bloomfield Weiss. There was no farewell party, only snatched conversations as people made arrangements, the Americans to find out about their new jobs, and the foreigners to make their way home.

Eric and Alex had originally planned another party of their own for all the trainees. But, as the end approached and the programme disintegrated around them, they changed their minds. They decided to invite the three Brits and Lenka to join them on Eric’s father’s boat, which was moored on the North Shore of Long Island. Everyone thought this a great idea, even Duncan. So, after the last class of the programme, they all took the commuter train out to Oyster Bay, full of excitement for the evening ahead, an evening that would change their lives for ever.

7

The boat cut slowly through the sheltered waters of the bay, expertly guided by Eric. It was a sleek white sports fishing craft, about thirty feet long, with a cockpit aft, a raised bridge and a foredeck. Eric steered towards the sun, slowly sinking behind the wooded ridge of Mill Neck. The evening was lovely, the freshest for weeks. There had been a storm the night before that had cleared the muck and humidity out of the air, leaving a clear sky with little puffs of cloud and a gentle breeze. The end of the sweltering summer was near; September was only a week away.

The tensions of the training programme were gone, as everyone tucked into the alcoholic supplies they had brought with them. There were coolers of beer, and Lenka and Alex had managed to bring the ingredients for margaritas. Everyone had changed into jeans and T-shirts, and left their suits down below. Even Duncan was relaxed, and while he and Lenka didn’t talk to each other, they didn’t actually scowl at each other, either.

Chris took three bottles of beer up from the cockpit to the bridge, where Eric was at the wheel. Megan was sitting next to him, wearing faded jeans and an old blue sweater, her dark hair blowing over her face.

Chris opened the bottles and passed them round. Megan made room for him to sit with them. It was a peaceful evening. Cormorants darted low over the grey water, streaked with reds and orange from the setting sun. This finger of Oyster Bay stretched a couple of miles inland; on all sides were quiet low hills covered with trees, and secluded mansions with the occasional dock reaching out into the bay. Boats big and small were moored all around, from tiny fishing vessels to ocean-going yachts.

‘This was a great idea,’ Chris said.

‘I hope so,’ said Eric. ‘I like it out here.’

‘Do you do this with your father?’

‘I used to, a lot. Less so now. I’m busy. He’s busy. You know how it is.’

‘Where do your parents live? In one of those?’ Chris gestured towards one of the many enormous houses nestling along the shoreline.

Eric laughed. ‘No. They have a small place in town. Oyster Bay used to be where all the tradesmen who served the big estates lived. It still feels a bit like that.’

Chris was surprised. He had assumed that Eric’s father was one of the gilded rich. ‘Will you move back here one day?’ he asked.

Eric shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’d like to, maybe, when I’m older.’

‘In one of these?’

‘Here, I’ll show you where I’d really like to live. It’s just around this corner.’

They motored on for a couple of minutes, and Eric brought the boat in quite close to the shore. There stood a modern white house, with curved elegant lines and large windows. In front of it lurked a pool, and a lawn that dropped down to the water. It wasn’t quite to Chris’s taste, but it was certainly startling.

‘Too modern for you, huh?’ said Eric, watching Chris’s reaction.

‘I know nothing about architecture.’

‘It was designed by Richard Meier.’ That meant nothing to Chris, and Eric saw it. ‘Well, anyway, I like it,’ he said.

Chris looked at the mansions all around him, built far enough apart that each was secluded from the other, but close enough that every stretch of water was spoken for. ‘Who lives in these places?’

‘Pop stars, mafia dons, investment bankers.’

For the first time it hit Chris that, for some, investment banking was not just a passport to a good salary, it was the key to serious wealth. He couldn’t quite believe he would ever live anywhere like that house, but he could believe Eric would. He realized that he was standing next to someone who would one day be a very rich man.

‘Are you serious about politics, Eric or was the Bush campaign just a one-off?’

Eric glanced at Chris and smiled. ‘I’m serious.’

‘But you can’t be a politician and an investment banker at the same time, surely?’

‘That’s not my plan. We do have professional politicians in the States. They go to law school and then spend their time knocking around Washington getting to know people. But I have a different strategy.’

‘What’s that?’

‘These days you need money to get to the top in politics. And it’ll only get worse. Campaign spending is rising and rising. So I figure I’ll make a ton of money first, and then go into politics. Bloomfield Weiss seems a good place to start.’

‘Makes sense.’ And it did, for Eric. Trust him to have it all worked out. Chris found it impossible to make plans more advanced than being grateful he had a job at Bloomfield Weiss and doing his best to keep it.

Eric turned the boat around and drove it back along the channel, the way they had come. Lenka’s raucous laugh floated up from the cockpit beneath them. ‘Can you take over, Megan?’ he asked. ‘I’d better go down and see the others.’

Megan took the wheel and Eric climbed down the ladder to the group below, who were quickly getting drunk. Chris stayed on the bridge.

‘Are you an expert pilot?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Megan smiled. ‘Eric and I have been out here a few times together. I can do the easy stuff.’

‘How long have you known him?’

‘Four years. We were at college together at Amherst. We’ve been going out for the last couple of years.’ She saw the look of surprise on Chris’s face. ‘You thought I was still in high school, didn’t you?’

‘Oh, no, no,’ Chris said.

‘You’re blushing,’ Megan said. ‘You’re a lousy liar.’

It was true. Chris could feel the heat in his face. ‘All right, I admit it,’ he said. ‘You don’t look twenty-two, or whatever you must be. But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe, one day it will be. Right now, it’s a pain in the ass. Nobody takes me seriously. And people like you wonder why Eric’s going out with a schoolgirl.’

‘Oh, no, I can see why Eric would want to go out with you,’ said Chris, without thinking.

Megan glanced at him quickly to check whether this was just a smooth remark, but then she smiled. ‘You’re blushing again.’

Chris took a swig of his beer to hide his confusion. He really did find her quite attractive. She had a softness and a kind of calm composure about her that made him want to talk to her more.

‘Eric’s very ambitious, isn’t he?’ he said.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘He did brilliantly on the training programme. The way he always seemed to understand everything instantly on the course was amazing. I think he will go far.’

‘I’m sure he will,’ said Megan.

‘But he manages to be a nice guy with it,’ said Chris. ‘He spent a lot of time on the course helping the rest of us out. He didn’t need to do that.’

‘But it didn’t harm his career, did it?’ Megan said.

‘It could have done.’

‘But it didn’t?’

‘No, it didn’t.’

Megan looked ahead as she guided the boat round a buoy. ‘Sorry. That was unfair of me. Eric is very kind, and generous. But he’d never let anyone get in the way of his ambition.’

Chris raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you think he really will go into politics?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Megan, still concentrating on steering the boat.

‘Do you think he’ll get anywhere?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said again.

A thought struck Chris. ‘Not all the way? Not President?’

Megan smiled, as though Chris had just discovered a secret. ‘What Eric wants to do, he usually ends up doing. Never underestimate him.’

‘Wow.’ She couldn’t be serious. But someone had to be President, and Eric had as good a chance as anyone of being that person.

‘Don’t tell him I told you that,’ said Megan.

‘You didn’t tell me anything,’ said Chris. ‘But you sound...’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t know. Unhappy with it.’

‘I like Eric. Very much. In fact I...’ She paused. Chris knew very well that she wanted to say that she loved him, but couldn’t, at least not to a stranger. ‘I like him,’ she said again. ‘But, please don’t take offence, I’m not wild about investment banking. Eric has real talent, and I wish he’d use it for something more useful.’

‘Going into politics can be useful. If he’s honest. Which Eric is.’

‘Possibly. The trouble is that Eric’s a Republican, and I’m not.’

‘Oh.’

Megan sighed. ‘Anyway. Things are going quite well at the moment. He likes what he’s doing, and I like what I’m doing, and although we don’t get to see each other as much as we’d like, it’s great when we do.’

It was beginning to get dark. Lights seemed to emerge all around them from buoys, boats and the houses on the shoreline. Megan switched the boat’s own lights on.

‘You look too nice to be an investment banker,’ she said.

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘It sounds awful. Eric told me how they decided to fire the bottom quarter of the programme. And actually discouraging teamwork makes no sense to me.’

‘Bloomfield Weiss is a bit over the top,’ Chris said. ‘And, if I’m honest with myself, I try to ignore all that stuff. It’s a tough place. But I think I can handle it, and that gives me some pride.’

‘But don’t investment bankers just speculate with other people’s money and pay themselves obscene salaries with the profits?’

‘It’s not quite that simple.’ Megan gave him a look like she’d heard that before. Which she probably had, from Eric. ‘No, really. Investment banks provide the world with capital. The world needs capital to create wealth and jobs.’

‘So all those Wall Streeters are fighting world poverty every day?’

‘Not exactly.’ Part of Chris saw her point of view. His father would certainly have agreed with her. But if he was to do well at Bloomfield Weiss, and he did want to do well, then he would have to ignore that kind of thinking. Anyway, he didn’t want to argue with her. ‘What do you do? You live in Washington, don’t you?’

‘I’m at graduate school at Georgetown. Studying medieval European history. And before you say it, I know that’s not going to save the Third World, either.’

‘You like it, though?’

‘It’s fascinating. It truly is. But it’s one of those infuriating situations: the more I read about it, the less I feel I understand it. We can try to know the world as it was a thousand years ago, but we’ll never quite manage to understand it completely.’

Megan told Chris all about Charlemagne and his court of scholars and sycophants, and he listened. He had studied history himself, but had avoided the Middle Ages as too alien to the world he understood. Megan made it sound real. And Chris just liked to talk to her.

As they approached the mouth of the bay, Eric came up again to take over. He warned everyone that it would get a bit choppy once they were out in the exposed water of the Sound, and it did. The aftermath of the previous night’s storm still disturbed the sea. Eric opened the throttles and the boat speeded up, heading for the lights of Connecticut on the other side of the Sound, lurching up and down in response to the power of the engines and the movement of the waves.

It was now dark, but there were lights in all directions: white, red, green, flashing, constant, moving, still, solitary and in groups. Eric could obviously make sense of them all. The moon was up, three-quarters full, transforming the dull grey of the sea to silver and leaving the shoreline in black silhouette. The odd cloud drifted across, causing a cloak of a deeper darkness to descend fleetingly over the water.

Chris climbed down the steps to the cockpit, where the others were all quite drunk. While he had only got through a single beer since they had set off, Lenka, Duncan, Ian and Alex had downed several margaritas. Although there was plenty of laughter in the air, Chris could feel the tension. It was too loud, the insults that were traded were too direct, there was an hysterical edge to it.

It didn’t take long before it all boiled over.

Inevitably, it was a squabble between Lenka and Duncan that did it. Duncan was looking around him into the darkness. ‘This reminds me a little of Cape Cod, don’t you think, Lenka?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, her voice slurred. ‘It’s nothing like Cape Cod.’

‘Yes, it is,’ said Duncan. ‘It’s just like it.’

‘But it’s dark, Duncan. You can’t see anything. And there aren’t really any beaches. And there are all these giant mansions everywhere. Even the sea looks different.’

‘No, no it doesn’t. Remember that place in Chatham we stayed in? That B&B where we lay in bed all Sunday morning just looking out of the window at the sea? You can’t pretend you don’t remember that. You were there, Lenka.’

Lenka exploded. ‘Will you shut up!’ she shouted. ‘It’s over. Don’t you get it, Duncan? It’s over. You can’t keep talking about it as though we’re still together.’

‘But we had a great time that weekend. You can’t wipe that from your memory.’

‘I can and I will!’ said Lenka, a touch of cruelty in her voice.

Duncan just looked at her. Then he grabbed a bottle of beer and crept round the bridge to the foredeck.

‘Careful, Duncan!’ shouted Eric from above. The boat was bucketing around in the waves, and it would have been easy for Duncan to lose his footing.

Ian, Chris, Alex and Lenka all sat in awkward silence in the cockpit. Lenka had gone too far. She probably knew that, but she was defying any of them to say so.

After a minute or so, Chris grabbed a couple of bottles. ‘I’ll take these up for Eric and Megan,’ he said.

‘I’ll come up with you,’ said Ian.

They all crowded on to the bridge. Duncan was sitting on the foredeck in front of them, drinking his beer, staring at the lights of Connecticut, which were getting closer.

‘Duncan and Lenka have a fight?’ asked Eric.

‘Yes,’ said Chris.

‘I could see it coming.’

‘You shouldn’t have invited him,’ said Ian. ‘He was bound to cause trouble.’

‘We had to,’ said Eric. ‘We couldn’t leave him out.’

‘Besides,’ Chris added. ‘It was Lenka who was out of order there. She’s pissed.’

‘So is Alex,’ said Ian. ‘What’s up with him, anyway? He’s been moody ever since the exam.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Eric. ‘His mom, maybe.’

‘Or his job,’ said Chris. ‘Does he know why he wasn’t assigned anything? He did well enough in the exam and I thought the mortgage guys were looking out for him. Do you know why, Eric? Have they just forgotten about him?’

Eric shrugged. ‘He doesn’t know what’s going on. His mother’s not doing very well. I guess it’s all finally gotten to him.’

‘Look,’ said Ian, in an urgent whisper. He was pointing down into the cockpit behind them. Lenka and Alex were locked in a deep alcoholic embrace.

‘Oh, shit,’ said Chris.

They all turned towards Duncan. He had stood up, and was making his way unsteadily aft. He paused, and tossed the empty beer bottle into the sea. He couldn’t yet see what was happening in the cockpit; the bridge was in the way.

‘Lenka!’ shouted Chris.

Lenka didn’t look up, but just raised a single finger.

Chris turned to Duncan. ‘Duncan! Wait!’

Duncan looked up and wobbled as a wave hit the boat, almost falling in. ‘I need another beer!’ he growled, and continued on his way. Then he saw Lenka and Alex. ‘Hey!’ he shouted and scrambled down into the cockpit. ‘Hey!’

He grabbed Lenka’s shoulder and pulled her back, away from Alex.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she cried, pushing him in the chest.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Duncan shouted, pushing her back.

‘Leave her alone,’ said Alex straightening up. He shoved Duncan away from Lenka.

Duncan took a step back and swung. Alex was too drunk and too slow to react. The blow caught him cleanly on the chin. Alex staggered. Duncan hit him again. This time Alex went crashing back against the railing, just as the boat pitched on a wave. He tipped backwards and disappeared over the side.

Chris found it difficult to piece together exactly what happened next. He could remember Lenka screaming, Duncan staring open-mouthed at the point where Alex had been standing, Eric bounding down from the bridge and diving over the side of the boat.

Then Ian tumbled down after him and threw his own shoes off. ‘Don’t!’ cried Megan as he, too, jumped into the water. The boat was still speeding forward through the waves. Megan, who had been at the wheel, was slow to react, but now cut the throttle. A cloud passed over the moon. Chris could just make out Ian splashing in the water, but there was no sign of the other two.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Duncan, as he struggled to take his own shoes off.

‘Stop him!’ shouted Megan. ‘For God’s sake Chris, keep him in the boat!’

Lenka was screaming at Duncan in a mixture of Czech and English. Chris jumped down into the cockpit to try to catch him, but he was too late. ‘I’ve got to get him. I’ve got to get him out,’ mumbled Duncan, as he went over the side.

Lenka threw herself into Chris’s arms, sobbing hysterically. He tried to push her to one side, but she wouldn’t let go of him. So he slapped her hard across the face. She looked at him in shock, and he pushed her down on to a seat in the cockpit.

Megan was turning the boat around. ‘Chris! Come up here!’

Chris scrambled up to the bridge, but even there, several feet higher up, he couldn’t see any of them. Both he and Megan scanned the dark churning water in front of them. Out here, in the middle of the Sound, the wind was stronger. Tufts of spume flashed off the crests of waves, as though a hundred tiny swimmers surrounded the boat. With the moon behind a cloud, it was suddenly very dark. They seemed to be about half way between Long Island and Connecticut, and although they were surrounded by the lights of boats, none was close enough to help.

Megan held the throttle right back and motored slowly back to where she thought they had been when Alex had fallen in. But with the turn, and the wind, and the current, it was difficult to be sure exactly where that was. There were four of them in the water, and Chris and Megan couldn’t see a single one.

‘There!’ said Chris. ‘Over to the right!’

It was Duncan, splashing clumsily. Megan steered the boat over towards him. Chris leapt down to the cockpit and grabbed the lifebelt. Duncan had seen them and was waving. It was quite difficult to manoeuvre close to him, and it was a precious minute or so before Chris had tossed the belt to him and he had grabbed it. Chris pulled hard, dragging him through the water, and hauled him in. He left him, cold and gasping, in the bottom of the boat, and dashed up to the bridge to look for the others.

‘I think there’s someone over there,’ said Megan, and she pushed the throttle forward, accelerating towards something bobbing in the water.

It was Eric. Within five minutes, he too was in the bottom of the boat, panting and shivering.

‘Did you find him?’ he asked, between breaths.

‘No,’ said Chris. ‘Ian jumped in, too. We’ve got to find both of them.’

By this time, Lenka had got a grip on herself, and she was up with Megan on the bridge. Chris and Eric joined them. They drove the boat around in ever-increasing circles from the point where they had picked up Eric.

‘Is Ian a good swimmer?’ asked Megan.

‘I think so,’ said Chris. He remembered Ian used to go to a pool after work in London sometimes. ‘What about Alex?’

‘No idea,’ said Eric.

‘Did you see him?’ Chris asked.

Eric was still gasping for breath, but shook his head. His teeth were chattering. ‘Jesus, it’s cold in there.’

The circles became wider, until Chris wasn’t sure they were still anywhere near where Alex had fallen in.

‘The coastguard!’ exclaimed Megan. ‘Shouldn’t we call the coastguard?’

‘Haven’t you done that yet?’ asked Eric.

‘No,’ Megan stammered. ‘I didn’t think of it.’

‘Channel sixteen,’ said Eric. ‘Here, I’ll do it.’ He grabbed the mike for the radio that was just by the wheel and put out a Mayday call. He looked around him. ‘There’s nothing else near to us,’ he said.

‘How long will they be?’

‘I don’t know. Ten minutes? Half an hour? No idea.’

‘There!’ shouted Lenka, pointing ahead and slightly to the right of the boat.

Chris peered into the gloom, and could just see an arm waving. Megan steered towards it. Just as they approached, the cloud at last drifted away from the moon. It was Ian. He was moving feebly, but still floating. They tossed the belt towards him, and he barely had the strength left to swim the few yards to grab it. Chris and Lenka hauled him into the boat. He was exhausted.

‘I saw you pick up Eric,’ he mumbled. ‘And I tried to wave and shout. But you didn’t see me.’

‘We’ve got you now,’ said Chris.

They continued the search with increasing desperation. There was no sign of Alex. About ten minutes after Eric’s Mayday call, a fast police boat sped towards them. After quickly ascertaining that someone was still in the water, the police told Megan to take the boat back to shore so that she could get the others warm and dry. Megan argued that they should stay and continue the search, but the police insisted. They said an ambulance would be waiting for them at Oyster Bay.

Ian and Eric changed into their dry suits, which were still below. Duncan refused. They all huddled together on the bridge in silence, as the boat hurtled back to shore, with Megan at the helm. Now that the frantic activity had finished, the same thought bore in on all of them. Alex was gone.

Duncan was slumped in a damp crumpled heap on the floor of the bridge. Lenka had her head in her hands next to him. Ian looked exhausted, staring vacantly into space. Chris felt stunned, in shock, unable to believe what he had seen over the previous half hour. It had all been a dreadful mistake. It must be possible to get Alex back, it simply must. Now that the coastguard were there, the authorities, the adults, they’d find him. Chris couldn’t quite believe that he was an adult, that this wasn’t a children’s game, that he had witnessed one man knock another into the sea, and that that other, his friend, was probably now dead.

‘They’re going to ask us how Alex fell in,’ said Eric.

‘I’ll tell them,’ sobbed Duncan. ‘I’ll tell them I hit him.’

‘No, it was my fault,’ said Lenka. ‘I made you do it. I wanted you to get angry with me. With him.’

Duncan shook his head. ‘I killed him,’ said Duncan. ‘I killed him.’

‘They still might find him,’ said Chris, feebly. But no one believed that. Even Chris didn’t even believe that.

‘This could be very serious for Duncan,’ said Eric.

‘I know it could,’ said Duncan. ‘I deserve it.’

‘I don’t think you do,’ said Eric. ‘You were provoked. You didn’t mean to kill him.’

‘I said it was my fault!’ said Lenka. ‘And I’ll tell them that.’

Chris saw what Eric was thinking. ‘There’s no need for anyone to get into trouble. We all know it was an accident. All we need to say was that Alex was drunk and he fell in.’

‘But I punched him,’ said Duncan.

‘You know that and I know that,’ said Chris. ‘But we also know you didn’t mean to kill him. For whatever reason, you were provoked. But if we tell the police, they might arrest you for manslaughter, or murder or something.’

‘He could be charged with second degree murder, I think,’ said Eric. ‘Whatever the charge, it would be serious.’

‘I can’t believe you can talk like this,’ Duncan said. ‘Alex is dead! Don’t you understand that? Alex is dead.’

Lenka had stopped crying. She moved closer to Duncan. ‘Alex might be dead. But Chris and Eric are right. This could ruin your whole life.’ She touched his arm. ‘I don’t want to be responsible for that, too.’

They were silent, crouched together in the crowded bridge.

Eric spoke. ‘What do you say? We have to decide in the next couple of minutes. Chris?’

‘I say it was an accident. Alex was on the foredeck, he came back for another beer, he slipped and fell in.’

‘Lenka?’

‘I think so, too.’

‘Duncan? It’s your life.’

‘It was Alex’s life.’

‘Yes, but it’s yours we’re talking about now.’

He bit his lip and nodded. ‘OK.’

‘Ian?’

Ian was still in a trance. He didn’t move, just stared up at the sky.

‘Ian? If we’re going to use this story, we all need to go along with it.’

Ian’s stare snapped to Eric. Chris suddenly wondered how selfish Ian was. Would he risk lying to the police to help Duncan? It looked as though this was something Ian was trying to decide for himself. Eventually he nodded. ‘All right.’

‘We’re all agreed, then.’

‘No, we’re not.’

It was Megan.

Eric turned to her in surprise. ‘Do you have a problem?’

‘Sure, I have a problem. We should tell them the truth.’

‘But you don’t think Duncan pushed Alex in on purpose?’

‘No. But that’s not up to me to decide. That’s up to the police.’

The boat was approaching Oyster Bay. They could see the flashing lights of at least two vehicles waiting at the waterfront.

Eric spoke to Megan softly, as she cut back the throttle. ‘I know you hate to lie. I can’t force you to lie. But this is a friend of mine. Can you do this for me?’

They all watched her. It was clear in Chris’s mind that it was best to claim that Alex had fallen in by accident. He didn’t like to lie to the police, but there was nothing to be gained by telling the truth apart from throwing Duncan into the jaws of the American criminal justice system. The result would be impossible to predict. As it was, he knew Duncan would suffer for the rest of his life for what had happened. Lenka probably would, too. Chris respected Megan for taking the honest line, but he hoped she would change her mind. As Eric had said, Duncan was their friend.

Megan watched Eric, took a deep breath, and nodded. ‘OK. But I’m not making anything up. I’ll just say I didn’t see any of it.’

‘That will do fine,’ said Eric. ‘Now, let me steer the boat into the dock.’

The first blow had hurt Alex. The second damaged something in his brain, some mechanism of the nervous system that kept him upright and balanced. He felt his legs buckling underneath him, as he was forced back by the power of Duncan’s punch. He felt his thighs touch the railing, and he tried to lean forward, but whether because he was drunk or because the boat was lurching at the most impossible of angles, he couldn’t manage it. He felt his body spill backwards, and a second later he was underwater.

The water was very cold, and it seemed to squeeze the breath out of him, but somehow he managed to retain something in his lungs. It was dark, and the weight of his clothes was pulling him down, so he couldn’t tell which way was up. He kicked his legs in panic and waved his arms. His lungs hurt, but somehow he managed to keep his mouth closed and the water out. Then, somehow, his face emerged into the open air and he took a large gulp, just as a wave broke over him. The seawater stung his lungs and made him choke. He kicked frantically with his legs and managed to keep his face above water long enough to cough and splutter the water clear of his airway. He took another gulp of air, and was submerged briefly under another wave.

He could just keep himself above the water if he worked hard with his arms and his legs. His clothes were so heavy, and it was so cold. He looked around him, and caught a glimpse of the bridge of the boat speeding away through the waves. He raised his arm to catch their attention, and promptly sank, swallowing more water. More choking.

He was in big trouble; he knew it. He wasn’t a strong swimmer, and he knew he was drunk. The boat was impossible to see in the waves.

Alex didn’t want to die. He was too young. He had so much more he wanted to do with his life. He wasn’t going to die.

He struck out towards the direction he had last seen the boat. He tried to keep his strokes steady, but it was difficult. He was swimming too fast, tiring himself. Slow down. Swim slowly. As long as he was afloat, they would find him. Already they would have turned back. They’d be with him in a second.

He saw something dead ahead! Someone was swimming towards him. Alex raised a hand, shouted, pulled harder.

The swimmer came closer. Thank God, thought Alex. ‘Here!’ he shouted. ‘I’m over here!’

He grabbed the arms as they reached out towards him. He tried to hold on to the sleeve. He wanted to cling on and never let go. He couldn’t believe it! He was safe!

Suddenly he felt strong hands on his head, pushing him downwards. He was so surprised he failed to take a breath before he went under. What the hell was happening? He was too weak. He couldn’t fight. He reached out to grab the swimmer, to pull him down with him, but already his lungs were filling with water. He could feel himself slipping into the darkness, into the embrace of the cold, cold sea.

Alex’s body was found the following morning, dashed against some rocks a few miles further along the coast near Eatons Neck. Chris, Ian and Duncan were delayed in New York for a week to talk to the police and attend Alex’s funeral. Questions were asked, lies were told. Then the Brits flew back to London, Eric and Lenka went on to their jobs at Bloomfield Weiss, and Megan returned to Washington.

But Alex was still dead. And the memory of how he had died would stay with all of them.