Mark groaned as he recalled Monday morning. Like most Mondays, it had started with him sitting in the back of a black taxi, working his way methodically through overnight emails. He was firing off replies as the cab sped down the Embankment, past early morning joggers puffing out their weekend extravagances, and the straggling reluctant commuters bundled into thick winter padding, heading for the shelter of the comparatively warm tube stations. The taxi arrived at its destination without so much as a grunt passing between driver and passenger, and Mark joined the silent army filing throughthe doors, all keen to reclaim their foothold on the financial opportunities beyond the security turnpikes.
Using his electronic security pass for a second time gained Mark entrance to the Mergers and Acquisitions department and the haven of his own office. His lair was spotless, just as he had left it, reluctantly, late on Friday evening. He remembered the stilted conversation with Paul about shooting – had that man been inwardly gloating, knowing Mark’s fate? Then preparing for the call, the knock on the door ... but it wasn’t the director with his second coffee. It was Stephanie from the Human Resources department. He liked Stephanie; she was from Essex too.
‘Not now, Steph, I’ve got a call. I thought you were the director; she’s gone AWOL. Buzz off, and I’ll call you when I’ve got a moment, probably won’t be until this afternoon.’
‘I’m sorry, Mark, but I need you to accompany me to Boardroom 3.’
Mark was good at hiding emotions, but not that good. His head shot forward, his mouth gaping wide, his eyes large gawping at Steph like a child at a movie star. He closed his mouth, but discovered he couldn’t swallow. Was he being sacked? Mark Ellis, Managing Director, and biggest fee-earner in the department, a casualty of the January cull? He couldn’t be. Not with his track record!
As an M&A banker, Mark was trained to remain calm during a crisis, to think clearly through all options. Lawyers, accountants, financial PR advisors, even the client, could panic, but that luxury was never an option for the lead banker. He inhaled, counted to six, then exhaled slowly, unobtrusively. It wasn’t working. He could almost hear his heart thumping like an ancient boiler. His throat constricted as tendrils of fear shot through him. It was a few minutes before he found his voice.
‘You can’t do this. You’ve got fuck all grounds to sack me. I’llsee you in court.’
He stood up and kicked his chair which rolled backwards towards the window. Steph stepped closer, bringing with her the cloying sent of jasmine, which made Mark’s stomach churn.
‘You’re not being sacked, Mark. A few positions are being made redundant. Yours is one of them.’
‘Piss off. That’s just a legal fucking loophole.’
Mark was cursing himself for squandering his opportunity. He had become too comfortable, too confident ... he’d forgotten that ability is not the driver of success in the top echelons of an investment bank. That’s why he’d been tipped off about Paul’s promotion: he was being warned to move to a competitor while there was still time! His former boss had probably engineered those calls from head-hunters, recorded on message slips which Mark tossed in the bin with misplaced arrogance.
Colour was returning to Mark’s face. He concentrated on what Steph was saying – she did this every year, she probably wasn’t enjoying it any more than he was.
She spoke kindly, ‘I know this is a shock for you. I’ll take your phone and laptop off you when we get upstairs – they’re bank property. You probably don’t have a personal phone. Why would you? No one in M&A has any personal time.’ She drilled him with her eyes as she added, ‘If asked, I’ll deny this, but you might want to jot down a few phone numbers while I speak to a few more ...’ She licked her lips.
‘A few more ... ?’ Mark repeated, lips drawn back in a look of disdain. ‘People,’ muttered Steph.
‘People,’ he said sarcastically, rolling the word around as if testing it out. ‘I think technically we’re still employees, aren’t we? Just.’
Steph withdrew, leaving behind that hint of jasmine as a reminder of her visit. Would the smell of jasmine forever remind him of that humiliating day? He screwed his eyes shut, freeinghimself of the memory and focused his gaze on Emily. She leaned closer, resting her arms on the table. She shook her head, whispering, ‘Henry dumped you? I can’t believe he would do that.’
Mark tutted loudly. ‘No, of course not. Henry would never do that. We are – well, more accurately, wewere– close. I think that was the problem.’
Mark pulled the drinks trolley closer and retrieved the champagne, refilling their glasses, and glaring at the wine waiter who stepped forward to claim the bottle.
‘Henry lost out in a power struggle he was never equipped to win. His wife insisted they relocate back to Sydney, and that enabled my archenemy, Paul, to bag pole position. I was ambushed.’
She spluttered into her drink. ‘Paul fired you?’
‘Yes. I know you like him cos he was in the same regiment as your father, but the man’s a fucking piece of upper-class shit.’ She frowned, running a hand round the back of her neck. ‘He’s always hated me. Why are you frowning?’
There was a moment’s silence, then Emily said, ‘This could be awkward. He’s friends with Mary and Charles.’
It’s more than effing awkward, thought Mark, scowling at her. ‘Unlike you and Mary, I’m not taken in by his smarmy manners and regimental tie.’
Cocking her head to one side, she asked meekly, ‘Was it just you and him in his office?’
Mark downed his champagne. ‘Paul didn’t do it. He’s not brave enough to do his own dirty work, so HR did it for him.’
Her questions were dragging him back to Monday. Was it less than a week since Steph had relieved him of his phone and laptop? He closed his eyes, trying to blank out the memory of one of the worst days of his life. He recalled the way his heart pounded, his breathing so fast and noisy it felt likehe’d just returned from a brisk jog. At least he’d remembered how to swallow again. He didn’t utter a word as, one by one, his electronic gadgets – symbols that marked him out as a successful banker – were claimed by Steph before she showed him into a small meeting room which he’d often used himself as a breakout space to negotiate those last few crucial sticking points with his opposite number.
Only this time, it wasn’t a top-notch rival banker sitting opposite him. Instead, one of the bank’s in-house legal flunkies sat casually shuffling a wad of envelopes as if they were a deck of cards, marking off names, destroying lives with a swift tick, as casually as Mark checked off routine items on his bank statement. This backroom functionary had never met a client, far less battled to win a pitch. He had never nurtured a deal through its sometimes-tumultuous life to land a fee.
‘This is for you, Mr Ellis,’ said the lawyer.
Mark didn’t acknowledge the envelope being thrust his way. He pressed his lips shut and kept his eyes trained on the man opposite. For a few moments the only sound was the soft drumming of Mark’s fingers on the edge of the table, then the lawyer spoke.
‘It has some important information about ...’ There was a pause.
