Michael Ridpath - Free To Trade

So I gave up. And I had gone out into the world to win at something new. Trading.

I sped towards the pond, passing a couple of middle-aged, wheezing joggers moving at walking pace. A red setter bounded up towards me, ignoring the shouted plea of its owner to heel. He bounced up and down beside me for a few yards before darting off after a terrier yapping at a squirrel in a tree. He leapt over an embracing couple under a tree, who took no notice.

I still needed to run. I ran three or four times a week, usually the three or four miles round the perimeter of Hyde Park, as fast as I could. I needed my fix of adrenalin, the masochistic pleasure of feeling totally exhausted.

I thought of yesterday's Sweden trade. A smile came to my lips as I recalled the sweet feeling of knowing I was right and the market was wrong. Or rather Hamilton and I were right. I had done well for a rookie trader. It had been the first time I had been under pressure, real pressure, and I had come through it well. I had been scared at one point, but I had held my nerve. The fear had been a necessary part of the exhilaration. Just as a runner had to go through the pain to experience the adrenalin rush, so a trader had to feel fear.

I looked forward to what Hamilton would have to say to me when he returned. It had been my first real opportunity to prove myself to him, and I had taken it. I hoped he would appreciate it.

I dodged a gaggle of chattering Arabic women out for an evening stroll in their black yashmaks and gold facemasks, and veered left towards the exit of the park. I lengthened my stride as I ran the last couple of hundred yards to my flat, nagging doubts snapping at my heels.

I pulled the keys to my building out of the pocket of my shorts, my chest heaving, sweat soaking my exhausted muscles. I opened the door, stepped over the debris of unopened junk mail and freesheets, and pulled myself up the stairs to the first floor.

I let myself into my flat, quickly stretched my muscles, and collapsed on the sofa. I stared around me, too tired to move. It was a small, convenient flat. One bedroom, a living room with an alcove kitchen just off it, and a hallway. I kept it tidy; I had to since it was such a small space. The furniture was simple, practical and cheap. On the mantelpiece was a small selection of my most treasured running trophies, and a black and white photograph of my father and mother leaning against a dry-stone wall. They smiled down at me with the lost happiness of twenty years ago.

It wasn't much, but I liked it. A convenient bolthole.

Groaning, I pulled myself up off the sofa, and hobbled on stiffening muscles into the bathroom for a soak.

As soon as I got to work the next day, I grabbed the Wall Street Journal from Karen's desk where it was left every morning. I was surprised to see the newspaper shaking slightly as I looked down the column of stocks for the ticker GYPS.

There it was. Eleven and a quarter dollars. The stock had risen by more than 50 per cent overnight! I turned round to see Debbie coming into the trading room clutching a cup of coffee. She saw the page I was reading.

'Well?' she said.

'Eleven and a quarter,' I said with a grin.

'I don't believe it!' she said, grabbing the paper from me. She let out a whoop, and threw the paper up in the air. Everyone turned round to look.

'I'm rich!' she screamed.

'Not very rich,' I said. 'It's only a few thousand dollars.'

'Oh be quiet, you old misery,' she said. 'I'm going right out to get some champagne. We've got some orange juice in the fridge. Buck's Fizz all round.' I was dubious about this but Gordon and Rob made smacking noises with their lips. Even Jeff rubbed his hands in anticipation. He had his own reason to be happy. Overnight the dollar had finally done what his economic model said it should.

She was back in quarter of an hour clutching an ice-bucket in which nestled a bottle of champagne. I had no idea where she had got it from at that time of the morning. Glasses and orange juice were fetched from the fridge, and within a couple of minutes we were all toasting the Gypsum Company of America.

'We should have this every morning,' said Rob, staring appreciatively at the bubbles rising in his glass.

'Our lord and master would have a fit,' said Gordon.

'No chance,' said Debbie. 'I can't imagine him actually having a fit about anything. It would be more a cold stare and a quick lecture. "De Jong & Co. prides itself on its professionalism, and you, Robert, are not acting in a professional manner,"' she said in a prim Scottish accent, which somehow managed to capture the essence of a typical Hamilton put-down.

Rob laughed. 'Well you had better get rid of that,' he said, pointing to the empty magnum on Debbie's desk.

'Oh, he won't be in till lunchtime,' Debbie said.

'Oh won't I now?' said a quiet measured voice from the door of the trading room. Instantly the room was silent. Jeff turned to his sheets of computer print-outs and Rob, Gordon and Karen all melted back to their desks. It was as though the Upper Fifth had been caught misbehaving by the headmaster.

This was ridiculous. We weren't schoolchildren and Hamilton was not a headmaster.

After a long silence, I raised my glass to Hamilton. 'Welcome back. Cheers.'

Hamilton just looked at me.

Emboldened by my greeting, Debbie approached Hamilton with the bottle and a glass. 'Won't you have one?' she asked.

Hamilton's gaze turned to her. He ignored her offer. 'What are you celebrating?' he asked.

'I have just made a killing!' said Debbie, her enthusiasm undimmed.

'That's good to hear,' said Hamilton. 'What was the trade?'

Debbie laughed. 'Oh no, it's not De Jong that made the killing, it's me. I bought some shares yesterday and they are up 50 per cent today.'

Hamilton stared at Debbie for a few seconds. Then he said in a quiet, reasonable voice, showing no trace of anger, 'Just let me put down my things and let's go into a conference room.'

Debbie shrugged, put down her glass and followed him to his desk, and then out of the trading room.

'Whew,' said Rob, 'I wouldn't like to be in there.'

Ten minutes later Debbie came out. She stared at a fixed point on her desk and walked straight towards it, looking neither left nor right. Her cheeks were slightly reddened. Her mouth was clenched firmly together. There was no sign of tears, but she looked afraid that if she relaxed one muscle in her face, they would break out. She sat down, stared at her screen and began to tap bond yields furiously into her calculator.

Hamilton entered the room and walked through the silence over to his own desk. He took some papers off the pile that was his in-tray and began to read. The tension was only broken by Rob, who answered a call from a broker with an elaborate display of cheerfulness.

After half an hour or so, Hamilton came over to my desk and sat in a chair beside it. Debbie studiously ignored him, punching numbers into her calculator. Although I had worked with Hamilton for six months, I always felt nervous talking to him. It was difficult to have a casual conversation; he seemed to listen to everything I said so carefully that I was always scared of saying something foolish or banal.

He just sat there leafing through the position sheets which outlined all the trades we had done whilst he had been away.

'You were back a little earlier than we expected,' I said, to break the silence.

Hamilton smiled slightly, 'Yes, I got an earlier flight.'

'How was the trip?'

'Good. Very good. De Jong is beginning to build a bit of a name for itself in Japan. There is one insurance company, Fuji Life, that I have high hopes for. They sound as though they might give us some money to manage, and if they do, it will be big.'