Alice Adams - Invincible Summer

The lift doors glided open at the thirty-second floor and at 6.52 a.m. Eva stepped out and walked along the aisle past the banks of flickering screens. There were three seats in her new section and only one was occupied, with the ample form of a gently steaming derivatives trader. As she drew closer she realized the steam was actually rising from the enormous mug of coffee he was clutching, but even so the alcohol fumes rolling off his body seemed to render the air around him as watery as the inch of air above the tarmac on a very hot road.

Eva knew exactly who he was: Paul Costanzo, one of the two other members of her new team, whose legendary reputation in the market preceded him mostly in the form of tales of his night-time exploits. On his desk she could see a framed photo of a younger version of him in a yellow-and-black striped blazer, looking for all the world like a disgruntled bumblebee. This was no doubt an intentional reminder to those around him that he had been working in the financial markets since the days of the old open-outcry exchanges where garishly jacketed traders had screamed orders for runners to fill with paper tickets, before electronic trading had ushered in a quieter and more efficient era.

Eva drew to a halt by his desk, plastered a friendly but businesslike smile onto her face, and stuck out a hand. ‘Hi. I’m Eva Andrews.’

The dishevelled bulk turned slowly towards her. ‘Oh. Right,’ he said, ignoring her outstretched hand and reaching for his coffee instead. ‘No one told me the new minion was arriving today.’ He peered at her through bleary eyes. ‘Let alone one of the female persuasion.’

Eva glared at him, annoyance overriding expedience. ‘Is that going to be a problem for you?’

‘No need to get feisty now.’ He perked up a little, apparently cheered by the hint of combat. ‘It’s no problem for me. I’m a feminist, you see.’ Then, catching her sceptical look, added, ‘You got a problem with that?’

She smiled despite herself. ‘Not me, fella.’

‘Good. So. Let’s do the introductions properly. I’m Big Paul, so called to distinguish me from Little Paul, that short-arse three desks over, who, incidentally, will have a fucking coronary if you actually call him Little Paul to his face. Yeah, that’s you I’m talking about, small fry,’ he called out to the man shooting a filthy look at him from across the aisle. Ignoring this, he continued, ‘You presumably already met our boss Robert in the interview. He’s not in yet. As you may be able to tell from my, ahem, beleaguered demeanour, we had a heavy night at the Rhino with Icap last night and my best guess is that he’s still balls-deep in a stripper. So I suppose that leaves me to do your induction.’ He ran a hand across his oily brow and took another swig of coffee. ‘Do you want the HR-approved version, or the unvarnished truth?’

Eva eyed him with trepidation. ‘I guess I’d better have the truth.’

‘Right answer. See, I’m a good guy who’s been around for a long time and probably the only one here who’s going to tell you the things you really need to know. The first rule is: do not shag the traders. It’s almost a sport to see who can sleep with the female jubs, that’s what you are, right, the desk junior, but don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s going to lead to the blossoming of great romance because it’s not. That includes Robert too, by the way. He’s bound to have a pop at you sooner or later. Be firm but civil and he’ll respect you for it. There’s no such thing as sleeping your way to the top here. Only money talks in this place.’

‘I’ll do my best to restrain myself,’ said Eva drily.

‘What else? Aside from that, Robert’s a great boss because he’s a mercenary, a total fucking pirate, and he knows how to corner a decent share of the pie for his team come bonus time. He got so pissed off about his last bonus that he threw his toys out the pram and they added an extra half a million onto it. Can you believe that? An extra half a million. That’s sterling, not dollars, mind.’ Big Paul’s eyes held a distant, wondering look for a moment, then refocused on her with a shrewder glint. ‘Still, don’t go getting any ideas. You’re not going to be wearing Prada and turning left when you board a plane for a while yet. For the next couple of years you’ll work yourself into the ground, thank the Lord for every day you don’t get fired and feel pathetically grateful for whatever crumbs you get thrown from the bonus pool. Though obviously, however big your bonus is, you should always act like you’re pissed off because you were expecting more,’ he added.

‘Right. Because other people take you at your own valuation?’

‘Exactly. Value yourself highly and fight your own corner, because no one else is going to do it for you. Now, what else do you need to know?’

‘Well, it would probably help if you talked me through the desk’s trading books?’

‘Yeah. But that’s not going to happen till I’ve had at least another three cups of coffee. Did they send you on the Capital Markets course yet?’

‘Yes, a month ago.’

‘Where did you come?’

‘In my group? Top.’ Eva delivered this information blandly, secretly gleeful but figuring it was even more impressive to appear casual about it.

‘Ah, brains as well as beauty. Good. But that’s not all it takes to do well in this game. It helps of course, but it’s about relationships too. You won’t be in front of clients for a while, but you’re going to want to put yourself about the market a bit, get to know the brokers. They take us out a couple of times a week, all top-notch places.’ He peered at her again through bloodshot eyes. ‘Nobu and Chinawhites will probably be more up your street than the Premier League and SophistiCats. Brokers have vast expense accounts to lavish on us because they want our business, so don’t hold back. But, remember, they may act like your new best friend but you’re not their only client and they’d sell their grandmothers for a chunk of commission, so don’t drink too much and be indiscreet. That’s rule number two: brokers are not your friends.’

Eva stifled a sigh. She was well aware that the City was more geared towards barely suppressed competition than companionship. The year since she’d arrived in London had been busy but tinged with a sort of loneliness, and she felt a quiet sense of shame that in a city where any night of the week the streets were lined with crowds of people clearly having the time of their lives, she had struggled to properly connect with anyone. If only her old friends had been around, but Sylvie and Lucien were still travelling in India and sending only sporadic and barely legible missives ( Hi, we are in Kerala something something sorry this letter is written on Rizla papers stuck together, it’s all we had something something beach party blah blah. . ), and a strange gulf had opened up between her and Benedict in the time since the holiday in Corfu. The intimacy of the trip, the one-on-one time without the others, the kiss that almost-but-didn’t-quite happen, had raised the unanswerable question of what they really were to each other and then left it hanging, palpable in the air between them.

The silly thing was that she really missed him; she looked forward to his calls with a surprising intensity but whenever she put the phone down she always seemed to be left feeling despondent, like they each wanted something from the other that they weren’t quite getting. There was nothing to be done about it, of course. She wasn’t an idiot; she wasn’t in the market for a long-distance relationship with one of her best friends. But she couldn’t help wishing that things would just go back to normal.

‘I reckon the best place to start is for someone to talk you through the pricing models,’ Big Paul was saying. ‘Stefan can do that. He’s your predecessor and he’s just moved onto the Swaps desk. That’s him, Swiss guy, over there by the yucca plant.’ He gestured towards a man who appeared to be sitting at a desk wearing a wetsuit and flippers.