guy.
As it happens, Otto phoned last night, and ended up blabbing about a tricky situation he’s got himself into with regards to his girlfriend, who is pregnant, and his flat, which is about to be repossessed. The two things are connected, because Molly Mackie – a pretty red-haired girl whom Serge dated once – is a dancer in a small grant-funded troupe. Her income, combined with Otto’s meagre postgrad studentship, enabled them to secure a mortgage on a two-roomed flat above a hairdresser’s in Mill Road. But now Molly’s pregnant she’s had to quit just as their mortgage interest rates have gone up, and they find themselves facing homelessness.
‘Jeez, I should have known better than to get involved with these money dudes,’ said Otto, in the quasi-Californian accent which he’d acquired during his gap year and never shaken off.
And Serge had said, foolishly as it turned out, ‘Don’t stress, kid. I’m solvent. I can tide you over.’
The thing is, he got his bank statement this morning, and what he can’t understand is how the seven of them managed to run up a bill of £13,107.01 on Maroushka’s birthday bash. And what he also can’t understand is why it all came off
his
credit card. He remembers volunteering his card at the beginning of the evening, in fact he was quite insistent. She was watching, with that indecipherable half-smile, and yes, okay, it’s a bit sad to equate dick size with bank balance, and probably she wasn’t thinking that at all, but the trouble is you can never be sure what women are thinking when they look at you that way. Anyway it’s a convention, surely, that the guys share the cost at the end of the evening? He vaguely remembers there was a flurry of cards and banknotes at some point, and some banknotes came his way and he stuffed them in his trouser pockets. He remembers the maître d’ was a bit unfriendly. Something about broken crystals, for God’s sake. He remembers he banged his head and blacked out. He remembers throwing up in the toilets. He remembers also throwing up in the taxi. The taxi driver was a bit unfriendly too, understandably, so he had to tip him well. Today he checked his trouser pockets after the bank statement came; there was the credit card receipt but no itemised bill, and all the cash he found was four screwed-up fifties.
On the ninth floor of the FATCA tower, he lets himself out of the lift, wondering how he’s going to broach this delicate subject. Most of the quants are at their desks. Tim the Finn has disappeared somewhere, but he must have been in already because the potent smell of his aftershave still lingers around the Securitisation area. The two French guys, grads of the École des Hautes Études Commerciales, were knocking it back that night. Now they’re in conference with a futures analyst, trying to cobble together a cocoa deal that’ll assign the main risk of any downturn to the farmers. He’ll catch them later. Joachim Dietzel (everyone calls him the Hamburger, because he comes from Hamburg – subtle, eh?) is sitting at his desk poring over a martingale representation. Lucian Barton and Toby O’Toole (nicknamed Lucie and Tootie), the two ex-UCL physicists and the biggest boozers on the desk, are staring into their monitors. Lucie is pink and freckled, with an awful ginger mullet, which he obviously thinks is cool. Tootie has pale-grey eyes with strangely enlarged pupils, an unpleasant nasal voice and acne scars.
‘You remember that bash for Maroushka’s birthday?’ Serge leans casually against Lucie’s desk. ‘Did you know the bill came to more than thirteen k?’
Lucie shrugs. ‘Maybe they made a mistake at the restaurant.’
Tootie’s lip curls. ‘Don’t tell me you’re feeling monetarily challenged, Freebie.’
‘I just wondered, since there were seven of us …’
‘Why don’t you ask
her
? She’s the one who ordered the Château d’Yquem.’
Tootie nods towards the door, which opens at that moment
As it happens, Otto phoned last night, and ended up blabbing about a tricky situation he’s got himself into with regards to his girlfriend, who is pregnant, and his flat, which is about to be repossessed. The two things are connected, because Molly Mackie – a pretty red-haired girl whom Serge dated once – is a dancer in a small grant-funded troupe. Her income, combined with Otto’s meagre postgrad studentship, enabled them to secure a mortgage on a two-roomed flat above a hairdresser’s in Mill Road. But now Molly’s pregnant she’s had to quit just as their mortgage interest rates have gone up, and they find themselves facing homelessness.
‘Jeez, I should have known better than to get involved with these money dudes,’ said Otto, in the quasi-Californian accent which he’d acquired during his gap year and never shaken off.
And Serge had said, foolishly as it turned out, ‘Don’t stress, kid. I’m solvent. I can tide you over.’
The thing is, he got his bank statement this morning, and what he can’t understand is how the seven of them managed to run up a bill of £13,107.01 on Maroushka’s birthday bash. And what he also can’t understand is why it all came off
his
credit card. He remembers volunteering his card at the beginning of the evening, in fact he was quite insistent. She was watching, with that indecipherable half-smile, and yes, okay, it’s a bit sad to equate dick size with bank balance, and probably she wasn’t thinking that at all, but the trouble is you can never be sure what women are thinking when they look at you that way. Anyway it’s a convention, surely, that the guys share the cost at the end of the evening? He vaguely remembers there was a flurry of cards and banknotes at some point, and some banknotes came his way and he stuffed them in his trouser pockets. He remembers the maître d’ was a bit unfriendly. Something about broken crystals, for God’s sake. He remembers he banged his head and blacked out. He remembers throwing up in the toilets. He remembers also throwing up in the taxi. The taxi driver was a bit unfriendly too, understandably, so he had to tip him well. Today he checked his trouser pockets after the bank statement came; there was the credit card receipt but no itemised bill, and all the cash he found was four screwed-up fifties.
On the ninth floor of the FATCA tower, he lets himself out of the lift, wondering how he’s going to broach this delicate subject. Most of the quants are at their desks. Tim the Finn has disappeared somewhere, but he must have been in already because the potent smell of his aftershave still lingers around the Securitisation area. The two French guys, grads of the École des Hautes Études Commerciales, were knocking it back that night. Now they’re in conference with a futures analyst, trying to cobble together a cocoa deal that’ll assign the main risk of any downturn to the farmers. He’ll catch them later. Joachim Dietzel (everyone calls him the Hamburger, because he comes from Hamburg – subtle, eh?) is sitting at his desk poring over a martingale representation. Lucian Barton and Toby O’Toole (nicknamed Lucie and Tootie), the two ex-UCL physicists and the biggest boozers on the desk, are staring into their monitors. Lucie is pink and freckled, with an awful ginger mullet, which he obviously thinks is cool. Tootie has pale-grey eyes with strangely enlarged pupils, an unpleasant nasal voice and acne scars.
‘You remember that bash for Maroushka’s birthday?’ Serge leans casually against Lucie’s desk. ‘Did you know the bill came to more than thirteen k?’
Lucie shrugs. ‘Maybe they made a mistake at the restaurant.’
Tootie’s lip curls. ‘Don’t tell me you’re feeling monetarily challenged, Freebie.’
‘I just wondered, since there were seven of us …’
‘Why don’t you ask
her
? She’s the one who ordered the Château d’Yquem.’
Tootie nods towards the door, which opens at that moment
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