The Greater Fool Read online

  The Greater Fool

  A Novel

  Joseph Hannay

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by BFR Press

  Copyright © Joseph Hannay, 2017

  The moral right of Joseph Hannay to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photo-copying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, businesses, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses or actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Edited by Allister Thompson

  Cover design by Les Solot

  Created with Vellum

  To B, C, and E. For everything.

  “Big results require big ambitions.”

  Heraclitus (c. 535 - c. 475 B.C.)

  “Hubris is one of the great renewable resources.”

  P.J. O’Rourke (b. 1947)

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  About the Author

  Prologue

  It was more than five years ago, but it still crackles with the immediacy of the present.

  Through the loudspeaker came an amplified cough and the opening of an envelope. “Ladies and gentlemen, the award for Best UK Real Estate Fund goes to a consistently strong performer which has outperformed the market every single year since inception, with a compounded annual growth rate in excess of 20%. Ladies and gentlemen, the winner is, of course…” The tuxedoed white-haired gentleman smiled with what he presumably thought was charm but as far as I was concerned was unnecessary procrastination. The grand, domed ballroom of the New Habsburg Hotel on Park Lane fell silent.

  “…Gyges Holdings.” The room erupted into applause, and I strode towards the stage. Occupants of other tables watched me in what could only be heartfelt admiration — or jealousy, or lust. On stage, I shook hands with the old gent, took the crystal goblet, and leaned over the lectern.

  “This is an incredible honour. It represents recognition of years of strong performance, validation of Gyges’ unique investment methodology, and, if I may be so bold, proof that men can reach the top without the helping hand of privilege. There are too many people for me to thank individually, but you know who you are. Special thanks to my investors, without whom none of this would have been possible. I can see some of you out there in outfits almost as expensive as mine, and I know you’re happy for me — after all, I’ve made you even richer than you were before, if that were possible.”

  I paused for laughter, which duly arrived. “But seriously, you know what makes this even more rewarding than the money? The fact that Gyges has created wealth out of nothing for society — for local and national government, for the ordinary man in the street. Gyges helps the least fortunate in society, and that can only be a good thing.”

  A smattering of “hear hear”s and some applause.

  I raised my hand. Silence. “I’m almost done. Just one more thing to say to those who didn’t invest in Gyges. Listen, I’m not a vindictive man: you’re still welcome to come on board, it’s not too late! Thank you.”

  More laughter, then a crescendo of applause, a standing ovation from a couple of tables, and a few high-fives and backslaps as I made my way back to my seat. Akemi pecked me on the cheek and took my hand between hers. As I savoured a mouthful of excellent Gevrey-Chambertin, there was a sudden dawning of truth: I’ve made it. Finally, I was receiving the recognition I’d been working so hard for, and nothing could ever take that away.

  But then a second realisation, which swept away the first: it’s just not enough. There must be more to life than this.

  1

  Now, I’m not the man I was. Still fit and athletic, thrillingly handsome, a man to make you watch your wife, but nonetheless I'm in profound pain. Aside from a twitching anus, jagged migraine, and that familiar ache under the ribs, my entire body's dogged by an unrelenting hurt, like constant pressure on an exposed nerve. There's some relief from the holy trinity — pregabalin, vodka, cocodamol – then I've two espressos and take a shower under the most intense Monsoon setting, so powerful that my skin hurts. Feeling somewhat revived, I stroll across Grosvenor Square towards the neo-Georgian facade of my office.

  Roger and Lucija are already there when I arrive, along with most of the back-office team. I wish them all a good morning, Lucija brings me the usual double espresso with that seductive smile of hers, and Roger asks to see me. He closes the door of my office behind him.

  “What can I do for you, Rog?”

  “Did you read the emails I sent you, Boss?”

  “What do you think? But would you like to discuss the key points?”

  “Key point number one: we could be in trouble if we're not careful. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, I think our exposure’s way too high. There are a lot of worried people out there. Funding’s tighter, the banks are getting nervous, investors are getting nervous. We could have some of our investors redeeming. Consensus is that real estate is starting to look horribly overvalued, and you could see things fall apart very quickly if we don’t take action now.”

  “It’s just some unfounded jitters like we've seen before. It’s just the nature of financial markets, right? Sometimes there’s volatility, and then the nervousness settles down. Let's just ride it out like we always have.”

  “I think it's more than jitters, as I explained in my emails.” He looks gravely serious — even more so than usual.

  I ask, “Are we in imminent danger?”

  He sighs and leans forward, a small, bald man, grey-skinned, somewhat dismal, but loyal and competent. “A few big redemptions and we could be. Please, Reynard, we need to offload some assets now, build up cash reserves and reduce our leverage. In my opinion, the last thing we should be doing is getting any new projects up and running, like that church of yours.”

  “In your opinion. Thanks and everything, but you're wrong. What we're looking at is normal ebb and flow. It's like the tide – it goes out and it comes back in again. If it's gone out, it means it's coming in next,
and there's big money to be made.”

  “My concern is that if the tide goes completely out, everyone will see we're not wearing any swimming trunks.”

  “I don't mind people seeing my genitals.”

  He says nothing, as is his wont. Then finally: “I'm simply explaining to you what the situation is. We need to shift some assets otherwise things are uncomfortably tight, and we're in real danger of getting caught out. You know what it’s like — these things can really snowball once they get going.”

  “Have faith, Rog,” and I usher him out of my office and close the door behind him.

  Roger can’t be right about this. He has his strengths – loyalty, diligence, a black belt in process and compliance to financial regulation – but he writes tedious emails. He is also fatally risk-averse; if he were in charge, he'd liquidate the entire portfolio and keep it in cash. Having now trudged through his recent emails, I haven't changed my mind; if anything, I'm even more certain of the best way forward. You have to take risks. Stop the pussy-footing around. You don't get anywhere by pulling up the drawbridge and waiting for the war to be over. The war goes on forever, and you have to fight to win. It’s my duty to deploy investors’ funds in the best possible way; I have to do what I consider to be right. And I’ve consistently proved over the last fifteen years that I tend to get the big decisions spot-on. Gyges’ stellar performance numbers are all the proof that’s needed.

  Yes, the music will probably stop at some point, but why miss out on all the dancing before then? But I'm not completely myopic. I've read widely and deeply on asset bubbles and come to the conclusion that there are always signs that a bubble is about to burst. Right now there are no signs.

  One must make hay when the sun shines and ignore incorrect forecasts of rain. There are always voices saying, “The end is nigh.” If I had a pound for every time I'd heard someone predicting the end, I'd have a lot of money. Which I have already, of course, accumulated thanks to a sustained belief that the end is not nigh, and a willingness to bear the burden of great responsibility.

  After trawling through a succession of stultifying emails, to clear my head I go for a walk through New Bond Street, then Old Bond Street, that glorious procession of Hermès, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Dior, Patek Philippe, etc. Timeless brands, some of them, others more exposed to the vicissitudes of fashion. Along here it's unusual for none of the buildings to be undergoing refurbishment, that constant process of cosmetic enhancement – a race towards unattainable perfection. One-upmanship ad absurdum, but entirely necessary, of course. Because why wouldn't you want the best?

  Cities are an expression of wealth, not an accumulation – or a flowering – of art or culture. Old Bond Street was born out of money, not because someone wrote a good story, or a nice tune, or painted a landscape. We can thank Sir Thomas Bond for all this, not John Bunyan or Samuel Pepys. It's money that puts bread on the table, not poetry.

  I arrive at the Church of St Saviour’s. Built in the 1720s, St Saviour's still dominates its quiet little corner of Mayfair. In front (east) is a daunting six-column Corinthian temple portico, the grandest of entrances that leads on to a comfortable but relatively understated interior. To the north, two tiers of windows; to the south and west, plainer walls that face an alley. A short bell tower rises to the west.

  It’s a majestic building, utterly wasted on the dwindling congregation, and in need of structural repair. A fundraising effort has not gone well, not helped by rumours of misappropriation of funds. St Saviour's future is in the balance; surely the best solution for everyone would be for the C of E to sell it for redevelopment. To me. It will surely be another glittering jewel in Gyges’ already glorious crown, the cherry on the icing on a most magnificent multi-storey cake.

  2

  I’m back home after a long day. My flat overlooks one of those grand London squares that you’ve probably walked past. Perhaps you've gazed up at the elegant stucco, the Greek Doric colonnade and the balustraded balconies, noticed the tall, padlocked gates around the gardens, and briefly wondered about the lives of people who live there.

  It's exquisitely furnished, as you might expect. Persian and Turkish rugs and only the best pieces of furniture from the most discerning dealers and auction houses. A number of early twentieth century lithographs and drawings by Léger, Klimt, Nash, Sutherland. All the genuine article, of course. The pinnacle of good taste, never lapsing into the populist luxury space, you know, all those reproduction Eames chairs and industrial lighting. I'm no snob — just discerning.

  A living room, a dining room, a serviceable kitchen, four bedrooms, three bathrooms (two ensuite), a study, and a balcony. In total, over four thousand square feet. More than enough for me alone, but plenty of room for entertaining. The beauty of living alone is that all the stuff is yours. You don't have to step over – or trip over – someone else's shit. You keep control of how things look and how things are in your own home. Because if you can't even have control over that, what hope is there for you?

  But time passes slowly, especially with Akemi not here. I've not seen nor heard from her for weeks now. Although it's not unusual for her to travel, usually to perform in some concert, it's rare for her to go silent for so long. Although she's a free spirit, usually she returns every week, even when not in heat (although she invariably is), and at the very least will respond to texts. And the truth is I miss her long, pliant body, the milking action of her tight pussy, the purity of her face (even if she's starting to show her age). She’s never more beautiful than when asleep.

  The oddest sensation then: a sharp pang of, I suppose, longing. But this was not the usual sensation below the belt — rather, it was somewhat higher up, somewhere around the navel. I call Akemi’s mobile, but once again it goes straight to voicemail. I don't leave a message.

  But there are many beautiful women out there, of many different types. Tonight I'm having dinner with 'Yasmin'; I know this isn't her real name, but that's irrelevant. Magnificent photos. She's described as 1.75m, 32-24-34, blonde Swedish ballet dancer. Sounds good to me.

  I exercise naked in front of the mirror – an intense Berserker workout. I'm still winning, even compared with guys far younger than me. What I see in the mirror is well-defined muscle tone, enviable height, good alignment, and symmetrical features, clear gaze and firm grip.

  I fight a strong urge to masturbate, then I shower. I dress: a textured Armani blazer, white shirt, Zegna slip-ons. A short walk to Origami, my favourite Japanese restaurant. I’m greeted by the maître d', who ushers me to my usual table. He brings a bottle of their most expensive mineral water, sourced from an ancient glacier, and a V&T. There's a new waitress: a tiny Asian number, all compact firm body, page-boy haircut, doll-like face. She smiles back shyly as I flash her a winning smile.

  Yasmin's fifteen minutes late, so I don't prolong dinner any longer than I have to, although she's charming.

  Later at home, bored with her somewhat anodyne beauty, despite her excellent fellatio technique, I yearn for some variety. I get her to lube a strap-on and take me from behind. She clearly knows what she's doing, and it looks great in the mirror. I then take her in the same way, sans strap-on, naturellement. She is tight, initially resistant, but soon impaled and helpless. It feels almost impossibly good, but still there's something missing. Whatever it is, it can't be found. Even in the warmth of that lithe young body thrashing below me, moaning to be released into ecstasy, there's merely the most temporary of relief. When it's over and we've cleaned ourselves up, lying there slumbering in the residual heat, her blonde hair draped across my chest, there’s only emptiness.

  According to the OED, ‘love’ is:

  A feeling or disposition of deep affection or fondness for someone, typically arising from a recognition of attractive qualities, from natural affinity, or from sympathy and manifesting itself in concern for the other's welfare and pleasure in his or her presence (distinguished from sexual love at sense 4a); great liking, strong emotional attachmen
t; (similarly) a feeling or disposition of benevolent attachment experienced towards a group or category of people, and (by extension) towards one's country or another impersonal object of affection. With of, for, to, towards.

  One of the biggest myths of all is that money can’t buy you love. I look at other chaps in my position, with their beautiful wives groomed like show ponies, and see that those relationships are no different to mine with my girls. The contracts are different — locked into marriage vs. a series of more informal arrangements — but in all cases, money changes hands in return for attention and sex. No difference: fundamentally the same.

  3

  Arrive at the office at 10.00 a.m., bolstered by a double dose of pregabalin and cocodamol. Roger — grey, fretful — stands to greet me.

  “Where've you been, Reynard? I've been trying to get hold of you.”

  “I'm here now. Where's Lucija?”

  “What? She's running an errand for me, will be in later. More importantly, the press want to get hold of you.”