LITMIR.BIZ

       Summer 1998

      1

      As morning broke over London four young people awoke to face the day.

      First was Matthew, who, as on so many mornings, awoke to find himself in a bed not his own. Beside him there slept an attractive girl, naked. He brushed her hair away from her face. Alison? Amanda? No, Amelia. He’d met her at a party the night before and they’d left together. She was pretty but mediocre in bed, he remembered. No, that was unfair. It was Matthew who’d been off form. The will had got to him, as had Zack’s aggressive response. Amelia had been just fine, and her skin looked lovely in the morning light. Matthew tweaked the duvet up over her bare shoulder and crept out of bed.

      He dressed silently in front of the mirror. His light fluffy hair needed to be damped and combed, but he didn’t want to run the bathroom taps in case he woke the sleeper. He patted his hair ineffectually into place. He looked like a stubbly choirboy with untidy hair. Matthew grimaced at his reflection but it didn’t help. It just made him look like a sulky choirboy.

      He crept downstairs and found a bit of paper and a pen. He searched a bit further and found an envelope in the dustbin addressed to Miss Amelia Somebody-or-other. Good. Amelia, then, not Amanda.

      ‘Dear Amelia,’ he wrote. ‘Thank you for a wonderful night last night. I thought you were absolutely terrific. Sorry I had to rush off this morning – urgent business elsewhere, and I didn’t want to wake you. All the very best, Matthew.’

      He was practised in such notes and had stopped signing off with ‘love from’ or ‘we must get together again’. His one-night stands were mostly with partners who were no more looking for true love than he was, but on occasion he had been caught out and the word ‘love’ had come back to haunt him. So now he aimed to be generous, warm-hearted but final. As far as he could remember, Amelia wouldn’t have a problem with that, but in any case she didn’t have his phone number. He closed the front door quietly and walked across the park towards his Chelsea flat.

      Once there, he showered properly and dressed again with care. He was a good-looking chap, Matthew, and fussy as a showgirl over his appearance. He got himself some coffee, a pad of paper and a pen. Across the top of the page he wrote in block capitals: ‘Plan: One million pounds in three years.’ He underlined it.

      Then he paused. He wasn’t going to list all the things he was missing, he believed in a positive approach. Underneath his heading he wrote, ‘Assets: temporary job on Madison trading floor.’ Then he was stuck. He had no money, no qualifications, and his job was already half-lost. He thought for a long time.

      At school he had always been Zack’s younger brother. Zack had seldom appeared to work, but ended up with a string of A grades and a scholarship to Oxford. Matthew had worked hard, his exam results were peppered with B grades and worse, and his teachers thought him lucky to have won his place at Cambridge. Never once had Zack made things easier by showing humility or understanding. Matthew had a point to prove, and prove it he would.

      His coffee went cold. He got himself another and thought some more. Eventually, he picked up his pen again and wrote: ‘Plan A: Get a permanent job at Madison. Become the best trader ever to hit the trading floor. Get a million pounds in bonuses – after tax!! Comment: very hard to achieve but worth a try.’

      Then shaking his head, he continued: ‘Plan B: Get a permanent job at Madison. Become a very skilful trader. Get some big bonuses. Then –’ But he broke off. He knew what he had in mind but it would be foolish to put it into writing. It was going to be a challenging three years.

      2

      Just as Matthew was throwing away his sheet of paper, his elder brother Zack was at the office getting one out. He’d been happy enough to fling down a challenge to his brothers yesterday, but this morning it didn’t seem so smart. A week earlier Zack had told his senior audit partner to shove his head somewhere it would neither reach nor fit, there to entertain himself by auditing his kidneys. Predictably, the partner had stormed off, put in a request for Zack’s dismissal, and the firm’s disciplinary machinery ground into action. The final review meeting was tomorrow and it was a near certainty that Zack would get the sack.

      Accountants don’t become millionaires. They may, of course, if they work hard, do well, and save prudently, but not in three years. Not aged twenty-six. On the other hand, ex-philosophy students with no job, no references, and no capital aren’t exactly in the millionaire bracket themselves. Zack needed a job – a proper job – but to do that he needed not to be fired. Scowling and gritting his teeth, he wrote out a grovelling letter of apology. Zack blamed ‘my extreme grief following the death of my father’ and begged ‘to be given a second chance to show my deep commitment to the firm’.

      Zack tucked the letter into an envelope, addressed it, then pretended to spit on it. Along with tact, modesty, patience, kindness and a few other virtues, the art of apology was one Zack had yet to master. He dumped the envelope into the internal mail system and snapped at a secretary to check it was collected and delivered. That was that. No more to be done on that front.

      Meantime, there was a larger problem to be solved. How was Zack to make his million? Right now he couldn’t say, but there was only one place to try: the City of London, one of the world’s great financial centres, and home to more banks than any other city in the world. But how to gain entry? His accountancy firm would give him a terrible reference, and he had nothing else to show except a failed doctorate and a useless philosophy degree. Good banks don’t hire losers.

      Zack scowled again, adding to the natural intensity of his narrow face. Matthew was the best looking of the three brothers, but many women found Zack’s darkly brooding looks irresistible. Matthew was always baffled that Zack didn’t appear to notice, let alone take proper advantage, his only serious romance to date being a long and stormy one with a girl at college. Zack picked up the phone and dialled an Oxford number.

      ‘Ichabod Bell speaking.’

      ‘Ichabod, it’s Zack. Zack Gradley.’

      ‘Zack, my boy, nice to hear from you.’ Zack’s old philosophy tutor was genuinely enthusiastic. ‘What can I do for you? Are you coming back to finish your doctorate? I can’t believe you’re going to be a godforsaken accountant all your life.’

      ‘No, actually, I wanted to ask a favour.’ And Zack explained what was on his mind.

      Ichabod Bell thought for a moment in silence, then said, ‘Come to dinner in two weeks. College High Table. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Jolly good. Saturday, in two weeks, then. Seven thirty for eight. Look forward to it.’

      ‘Who am I meeting?’

      ‘Oh, you’ll love him. Give you a chance to catch up on all your rowing gossip. Glittering mornings on the water, the thrill of the race, all that stuff.’

      ‘Ichabod, you know perfectly well I’ve never sat in a rowing boat in my life.’

      ‘Nonsense, Zack, you’ve been a lifelong fan of the sport. Nobody quite like you for memorising race statistics and all that rubbish. Just come to dinner.’

      And he rang off. Zack had no idea what Bell was planning. All he knew was that he had two weeks to become expert in the noble sport of rowing.

      3

      George

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