The Greater Fool Read online

  “Brave suggestion,” I mutter but do so anyway; something malevolent has lodged itself in my guts, and that pain is back. I emerge from the gents feeling somewhat fresher and ready for the battle.

  “Shall we?” I ask Lucija and Roger, who wears his usual dark suit, white shirt, and navy tie, as if heading off to an undertaker's convention.

  I stride purposefully into the meeting room. “Gentlemen, good morning! My favourite brokers in the whole world! How are you both?” Lucija assiduously takes meeting notes and records in the contact management system all their personal info (spouse and child names, hobbies, holidays, medical conditions, dietary needs, etc).

  “How was Iceland?” I ask the more senior of the two, whose name is Edward, I notice on the briefing notes in front of me.

  “Incredible! A wonderful, wonderful place. My girlfriend and I would highly recommend it.” He proceeds to talk about some of the sites, such as the Golden Triangle, the Blue Lagoon, something-foss, and something about the taste of puffins.

  “Wonderful, great to hear it,” I say. “Shall we get down to business, gentlemen?”

  They both lean forward.

  In my office with Roger, after the meeting.

  “Stop talking, Roger. Stop, stop, stop! Let's rewind a bit, shall we? Let's establish some basic facts.”

  “But I've just told—”

  “Wait! Just answer my questions. First one: how serious is it?”

  “Very.”

  “Are we fucked?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Fuck. How can we survive?”

  “Shift some real estate, PDQ.”

  “And it could be game over if we don't?”

  A nod, then, quietly, “And even if we do, it could be game over anyway. If we offload a lot of property quickly, it’s going to put even more downward pressure on pricing, so we’ll have to write down the value of the existing portfolio even more. We could see a massive drawdown.”

  “Shit. Fucking hell, Roger, why didn't you see this coming? It's your job to sort the money, right?”

  “With respect, boss, I've sent you numerous emails warning what was likely to happen.”

  “Why didn't you just talk to me? Did I read these so-called emails?”

  “How should I know?” He's a small man, grey and weak and expendable.

  “You need to sort this out, Roger, it's what I pay you for.”

  “No dice, unfortunately. Word gets around. It's an incestuous business as you know, and no other counterparty’s going to expose themselves to our level of risk now. Assuming Ed doesn’t magically change his mind — and he seems pretty convinced — we have to offload assets fast, build up cash reserves, bring our leverage down to a sensible level, and hope other investors don’t get the jitters and redeem. And maybe hope for divine intervention.”

  Time for action. I call for a double-espresso from Lucija and tell Roger to print out full portfolio details. I close the door and take stock: pregabalin, cocodamol, vodka. But all the coke's gone; I'll message Leo. Three missed calls from Akemi.

  On Roger’s printout I highlight the assets to offload, and hand it back to him at his desk.

  Roger says, “With respect, we’re not really in a position to be choosy. We need to take what we can get for whatever we can sell. We have to be realistic.”

  “Do as you’re told, got it? For fuck’s sake, help me out here, Rog.” Then, more quietly, I say, “Roger, please? You’re meant to be on my side.”

  The idiocy of Edward Cryx's decision is that it threatens the long-term viability of Gyges Holdings. By forcing us to offload assets, we're likely to have to accept below market-value offers, which will crystallise losses. And all because Cryx’s economist colleagues see trouble ahead. No one has a crystal ball, least of all economists.

  One pays some attention to official data, of course, but not too much. Take prime central London property, for example. The RICS data says one thing, the Land Registry data says another, Savills something else, but each paints only a broad-brushed picture, the roughest of sketches. As always, the devil's in the detail; what really matters is sentiment amongst my key market, the ultra-wealthy. Perhaps there is a slight moderation in appetite, but still, London remains fundamentally attractive. She's beautiful in her own unique way, has timeless allure, she's safe and, critically, she'll double your money in five, maybe ten years, with virtually no risk. Interest rates are close to zero, if not negative, bond yields are minuscule, and the stock market remains volatile, so where better to invest than in London property? Join the disorderly queue of African despots, Colombian drug lords, Russian oligarchs, or worst of all, American businessmen; we get all sorts, but it's not my job to moralise, however odious these people are. They all want a piece of the London pie, and who can blame them?

  But for every argument there's the counterargument. Punch and counterpunch, not least when it comes to economists. Ask one hundred economists the same question and you'll get a hundred different answers — all of them wrong. No one out there knows any better than I do what will happen in the future. In the future, we'll find out who was right. After all, the past is strewn with prophets of doom: Pope Innocent III; Isaac Newton; Martin Luther; Sun Myung Moon. Although a disparate group, they have one key thing in common: they were all wrong.

  But I do concede that nothing goes on forever. The trick is to time it right and get out at the top. It's analogous to self-asphyxiation for sexual gratification: leave it as late as possible for the greatest payoff. The biggest of orgasms and the highest return comes with perfect timing, but we're surely not there yet; not even close. And yet, still the blinkered Edward Cryx insists the opposite and pulls the plug. Just like that.

  But Gyges is too good and too important to fail, and others will realise that soon enough.

  Don’t shed a tear for me. I’ve got enough salted away to keep me in Ukrainian underwear models and Kobe beef for life, but investors will bear the brunt of this. Government, pension funds, charities, all guaranteed losses on their investments. Which ultimately means that the man in the street, the disabled, the famine-stricken, the terminally ill, the weak, they're all threatened by Cryx’s stupid decision. A shortfall in pensions, a cut in public services, longer hospital waiting lists, fewer resources to treat abused children, the mentally ill, the downtrodden, and the broken.

  I blame that cunt Edward, negligently swanning off to Iceland with his girlfriend when he should be making sensible decisions, not fucking it up for everyone else. He probably has no idea of the implications of what he’s just done. He’ll learn, I’ll make sure of that.

  10

  The law of unintended consequences is in evidence everywhere. It's in the nature of complex systems that one might not fully understand the implications of even the smallest of decisions. The butterfly effect means that one could do something apparently quite sensible and well thought out, intending only the smallest of impacts, but the ripples are amplified, and suddenly the impact is wide-ranging. I suspect that Cryx's decision is one such superficially small but ultimately catastrophic action. One sees such phenomena in evidence throughout the business world, and indeed in one's private life. The smallest of actions can have significant consequences; my own marriage is one example.

  Of course, it's a shame how that all ended; after some decent times it was rather unseemly. A dark, heavy summer evening, oppressive humidity; you could feel the passion rising. We were in J.'s parents' large holiday home on the edge of Exmoor for a couple of weeks. Her parents were away in Mustique, while J. herself was away at a conference for a couple of days — some academics' jolly in a new town. So that left me alone with the staff: the gardener, the cook, and the maid, Maria (late teens, Portuguese, a little chubby, but demonstrative and passionate).

  Maria instigated it, of course. I went for a run around the estate, showered (with the door open to let the steam out) and, turning as I dried my hair, fou
nd her there watching, her hand over her mouth, dark brown eyes wide and unblinking.

  I carried on towelling myself down as she watched, immobile.

  “Maria?”

  “Sim?”

  The strongest memory is the sound of my balls slapping against her spherical brown peaches, her whimpers as I drove deeper and deeper. Then the sound of footsteps and J.'s shriek. The unfortunate timing as Maria then came noisily, her wild spasms bringing on my own orgasm, even as I tried to withdraw.

  Later, heads bowed over the kitchen table, J.'s untouched salad niçoise, my own cleared plate. An excellent Albarino. I sat replete and satisfied and waited for J.'s wails to subside.

  “We're married, Reynard. Doesn't that mean anything to you?”

  “Of course, it means everything.”

  “Then what the hell were you doing shagging the maid?”

  “She forced herself on me.”

  “Bollocks — it looked pretty voluntary to me. I obviously can't trust you to keep your hands to yourself.”

  “I don't think you should say that. Mistakes were made, and it won't happen again.”

  “You could at least sound sorry. Look at me.”

  I raised my head, stared into the regular, not unattractive features, the auburn hair scraped back, the barest hint of make-up. The red eyes, the flushed cheeks, the mottled neck. A deeply unflattering grey jumper, presumably her father's, with leather elbow patches and a dubious-looking stain across the front. I looked deeper into her eyes, but saw nothing there.

  She shivered. “This house is so bloody cold.” She stood, removed our plates, and took them to the sink. With her back to me she said, “I don't know how we carry on, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  She threw the plates into the sink. “You shit. You complete shit.” I stood, ostensibly to comfort her. She pushed past me, slamming the kitchen door on her way out.

  As I drained another glass of Albarino, I reflected on what had happened to me and balked somewhat at the mess of it all. How J. was partly blameless, to the extent that anyone really is, but how unfortunate circumstances overcame us both.

  Later that week, I moved out of our London flat. Maria called me endlessly; I had to change my number. Things move on.

  To J.'s credit, the divorce was classy: clinical, swift and very generous — her wealthy father was keen for her to sever ties quickly and irrecoverably. Suddenly, I had the funds to really make an impact on the world. Gyges Holdings was born.

  11

  The world turns too slowly this morning. In the absence of Jeeves with his miraculous hangover cure, I'm stuck with the old faithful: hair of the dog, an orgasm (self-induced or otherwise), perhaps a line or two of whatever's left over from the night before. Sadly, the cupboard is bare this morning, so a fistful of prescription drugs, a swift solus handjob, and a large shot of vodka will have to do.

  In the office, Roger looks like shit: dark bags around his eyes, grey-skinned, unshaven. “Offloaded our stake in the Birmingham shopping centre and a handful of building plots,” he says.

  “Great. Good prices?”

  “Good enough to sell, but twenty-odd percent below book value.”

  “Christ. Okay, needs must, but you need to negotiate harder. Offers for any prime central London property yet?”

  “No luck yet, Reynard, but I’ll let you know.”

  An Amazon package arrives: two books from Ish. Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl and The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho. Neither looks that interesting.

  Lucija wears a tight white top and charcoal pinstripe suit trousers and asks me to sponsor her triathlon in aid of Indian slum-dwellers or something. I do, of course. Because how can it be fair that I've made so much money while there are those who have so little? Kids in slums, rooting through rubbish heaps in search of anything of value. Kids who live in sewers, their parents are dead or have abandoned them. They have nothing. But something keeps them going – that basic human fight for survival. Fight, fight, fight, do as well as you can, make your life the best it can be. Because no one else is going to do it for you.

  There's no fairness and no justice. But why should there be? Read Darwin. Or, more realistically, read a summary of Darwin, and it'll be clear why there's inequality. It may be unpalatable, but it's true. Always has been, always will be. Life's unfair, because nature's unfair. It's not a war of equals. The eagle kills the owl that kills the rat that kills the mouse that kills the, er, cheese. We can't all be eagles. We can't all soar; some are destined to sniff around on the floor for scraps.

  Inequality's simply in the nature of things. It is what it is. But that's not to say that I don't give freely to deserving causes. Already this week I've accepted an invitation to another charity auction and committed to attending a night at the opera in aid of some important research into some childhood diseases.

  It's important that I do my bit for charity. Philanthropy is de rigeur. I'm lucky to have been born me; I know that. And how helpful it is to be seen as beneficent; it pays for itself many times over, even if you ignore the tax advantages. When my philanthropy’s witnessed by institutional investors with very deep pockets, everyone’s a winner.

  By mid-morning Roger’s fussing is unbearable, so I tell him I'll spend the rest of the day out of the office working on a plan, but that he should let me know immediately of any developments. The smart thing now is surely to run for cover and keep my head down for a while as he gets some assets sold. I'm insistent that we need not trouble our investors with tales of woe; confidence is everything, and we should not be spreading disquiet.

  Back in the flat. What did Pascal say? “All of man's ills are caused by his inability to sit alone in his room.” But what of value was ever created by men staying at home? The slow tick of the clock, the lack of stimulation, the immobility of objects, the stultifying stasis; it's no less than torture.

  In my exquisite collection of watches is a Zenith El Primero Chronomaster (2012, skeleton dial, titanium case). Nice enough, but lacking the cachet of, say, a Patek Philippe or a Vacheron Constantin, and bringing little new to the party. But even something as banal as a Zenith is still a fascinating piece of engineering. I take it out of its box, wind it, then place it face down on the coffee table. In the utility room — where I rarely venture — I find a toolkit. I take a flathead screwdriver and try to ease the back off the watch, but it won't allow me enough purchase. The watch's case is less resilient than expected; soon there's a series of fine scratches across its surface. I find another, smaller screwdriver, which slides neatly into the case's recess, but which is too small to permit me enough leverage. A couple of sharp taps on the handle of the screwdriver with a hammer has the case loosened, which I then prise away. Inside, the guts of the watch: its entire mechanism on display, but exactly how it works is unclear. I take the screwdriver again and move it towards the largest of a series of cogs. As the head of the screwdriver hovers over the teeth of the wheel, the watch stops. I hurriedly take the cover and try to replace it, but it won't sit properly; the flimsy metal has somehow warped. A tap with the hammer soon has the cover sited correctly, but there's a rattling noise from the underside. I flip the watch over – there's a hairline crack across the glass, and the second hand dangles limply like a pensioner's penis. I carefully place the watch back in its box and make a mental note to ask Lucija to get it fixed.

  I hear a key turning in the lock, and the front door swings open. Akemi saunters in as if nothing’s changed. My most regular bedmate, I’ve explored every inch of her, but now her beauty still takes me by surprise. The indigo-black of her long hair, the finely sculptured shoulders, the graceful limbs. A sly sideways glance, her oriental eyes accentuated and further exoticised by artfully applied mascara. The look of a cat. Around her neck is an Amulet de Cartier necklace, yellow gold, lapis lazuli, diamond. Exquisite and expensive. I should know; I bought it.

  Heiress to a large Kyoto-based industrial conglomerate, concert violinist, and ex-model, sh
e’s no need to come back, but still, here she is, back for more fun (presumably). Most of my contemporaries have embraced the domestic life, have spawned little chips off the old block, have carved themselves a niche in the grown-up world. Lives of domestic stability. Akemi’s profile is framed by the picture window, the gentlest of smiles playing across her lips, one perfect leg revealed by a Haider Ackermann asymmetric dress. More fool my contemporaries.

  Nothing so complicated as formalised domestic stability between me and Akemi. A man and a woman, each blessed with a fantastic body, a strong sex drive, and few hang-ups. An entirely functional and eminently satisfactory arrangement.

  We tumble hungrily into bed.

  Afterwards, she says, “You should try getting close to someone. It might do you good.”

  “I'm close to lots of people. Like you. I'm not sure how we could be closer — I was actually inside you ten minutes ago.”

  “Emotionally closer, I mean. For all that nice physical stuff, I never get the feeling you are here at all. What do I mean to you?”

  “You're Akemi.”

  She's quiet, as if waiting for more, but there is no more. “And?” she asks.

  “And you're great. Beautiful and fun and free.”

  “I am not free. I am stuck with you.” And she elbows me hard in the ribs.

  “What the fuck was that for?”

  She throws the duvet off and heads towards the bathroom. The door slams.

  I fix myself an espresso in the kitchen and partially open the balcony doors, feeling the cool breeze caress my balls. Life's good.

  Akemi emerges from the bathroom with her hair tied up. I ask her if she's okay, but she doesn't hear me, concentrating instead on dressing.

  “Reynard, put on some clothes, please.”