The Greater Fool Read online

  “Are you sure? It's not what you normally ask.”

  “Please? And come and sit down.” She's sat at the Matthew Hilton dining table with her bowed head between clenched fists. I pull on some briefs and a T-shirt and sit next to her.

  “Okay?” I say.

  “No, Reynard, not okay. I am sorry I put up with this for too long. Obvious you care only for yourself and I am just a pussy and tits to you. Maybe there is something wrong with you, but I need some emotion and a connection. Did you even notice I was not here for two weeks? Did you think you would ever see me again? I could not stay away. Amazing, when I was gone, I even thought that I might love you. Big mistake.”

  “Well, that's your prerogative, but I am who I am. I have to concentrate on my work.”

  She's staring straight at me. The faintest shake of the head, more like a twitch, and she says, sotto voce, “Is that it? Is that all you can say?”

  She stands, and I see light reflecting in those beautiful eyes, where tears are pooling, I notice.

  “Goodbye, Reynard.”

  And she's gone, leaving only her alluringly evocative fragrance, that witches' brew of Chanel, Lancôme, and the tang of our lovemaking.

  In adversity you find out who your real friends are, and right now I'm utterly alone.

  12

  Edward Cryx agrees to meet for an informal drink at The Randy Goat (his choice). Sufficiently expensive to keep the hoi polloi away, it’s still busy, mainly with eurotrash: slip-ons sans socks, three-quarter-length slimfit chinos, jackets worn over T-shirts. Not my style at all. Cryx is already sat in a booth, bottle of lager in one hand, iPhone in the other. I get myself a long vodka and tonic and join him.

  “Thanks for meeting me, Ed, it’s much appreciated.”

  “My pleasure, Reynard, always happy to. And off the record, I do feel bad about the steps we’ve had to take. I know it puts you in a difficult position.”

  “In what sense?”

  He looks blank. “In the sense that presumably this creates some funding difficulties?”

  “Why do you think that?”

  Cryx tilts his head to one side and smiles. “Perhaps we didn’t make ourselves clear in the meeting? The bank is removing its funding, Gyges must clear its existing debt within twenty-eight days.”

  “Or what?”

  “Well, over to the lawyers.”

  “Wrong.”

  “No, that’s precisely right.”

  “No, what I mean is you’ve missed the bigger point. The crux of it is that you removing the funding has knock-on effects to investors. They’re the ones who really lose out.”

  “That’s unfortunate, but it’s the nature of investing, there’s inherent risk. Without being too personal about it, Gyges has played fast and loose for too long and ended up with a pretty funky and illiquid portfolio. This market reversal has caught you out.”

  “Au contraire. What you’re currently seeing is a moderation of demand, a temporary pause for breath before the next sprint upwards. We should be having fun, not shooting ourselves in the foot.”

  “The bank fundamentally disagrees. It’s risk-off time. Greater Fool Theory breaks down after a while, and eventually there are no more fools to buy assets at ever higher prices. The bubble’s burst and the party’s over.”

  I take a healthy mouthful of V&T. “Edward, I’m sorry and all that, but you’re very much mistaken. If it was a bubble, you’d have seen euphoria but there was none.”

  “With the greatest respect, that’s simply not true.” He swigs from his bottle then says, “Look, Reynard, if you cut your cloth accordingly, Gyges could come through this. Between the two of us, you’d benefit from some expert advice. We can get one of our senior restructuring guys to spend some time with you, help you through this difficult time.”

  I drain the V&T. “Another?”

  Cryx looks at his bottle. “Er, okay, just one. I need to head off after that.”

  Back at the table with fresh drinks, I say, “Look, Edward, I don’t need some advice, I don’t need restructuring, I just need you not to cut us off. Easy as that, no skin off your nose.”

  “Sorry, Reynard, it’s just not that simple, you know. And you know our view on property prices. Gyges could get horribly caught out if they continue to slide.”

  “Actually, Ed, what’s happening is that you’re ensuring that Gyges does gets caught out. And, frankly, it’s immoral because you are personally making sure that investors will lose out, big time.”

  Edward coughs and glances at his iPhone. “This has nothing to do with morality, it’s business. Nothing more or less. Maybe there are people who would be more sympathetic and would throw you a line, but the fact is it’s my decision, and the risk is too great.”

  The V&T is distinctly inferior to the first one; it might even be Smirnoff. I say, “If you’re concerned, why not just parcel up the debt, sell it on? I thought that’s what you guys did when you get the colly-wobbles?”

  A broad smile from Cryx. “CDOs? No chance! 2008, remember that?”

  I smile back winningly. “Look, you’re a nice guy. I like you. We’re very similar, you and I. I feel a real simpatico, even if we don’t see eye-to-eye on certain things. Cheers!”

  I raise my glass, and Cryx slowly clinks his bottle against it.

  Still smiling, I say, “How’s the divorce going?”

  Cryx looks puzzled. “The divorce? Didn’t think we’d talked about it before. But yes, almost sorted, lawyers are having a field day. Rachel’s got my balls in a vice. Lucky my girlfriend’s got a flat, otherwise I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “You mentioned it in a previous meeting. Rachel bleeding you dry, is she?”

  “Seems that way. Thank god we don’t have kids, or she’d completely clean me out.”

  “Must be hard, especially with property prices the way they are. You can’t beat owning your own place, especially if the mortgage is paid off.”

  Cryx shakes his head. “Pipe dream now, unfortunately. The bank pays me well, but I’m barely keeping my head above water.”

  “Seems a shame, a super-bright chap like you. What you need is a benevolent somebody with very deep pockets. You know, someone who could help you out in exchange for some sort of favour.”

  I drain my V&T with a wince and stand. I extend my hand to Cryx, and he hastily shakes it. I rest my other hand on his shoulder and say, “Think about it, Ed. Quid pro quo. Deep down, you know it’s the smart thing to do. Message me, okay?”

  13

  Saturday morning, I head to the gym in the basement. I'm in great shape – ask anyone. Twenty minutes on the Wattbike, bench press 90kg, then weighted dips and a series of uphill rows, abdominal crunches, and press-ups to tone the pecs and abs. In the shower, that pain is even stronger than before; I should ask Lucija to arrange a check-up.

  Cooling down, I drink water out on my balcony. I'm no prude, clearly, but I'm also no amoral libertine. I see the value of fidelity when there are children involved; it's invariably they who suffer when a relationship breaks down. But outside of that, why shouldn't two (or ideally, three or four) consenting adults enjoy each other? And that's what I tell myself as I see Akemi and a blonde girl walking hand-in-hand through the square's gardens. Through my binoculars, their animated faces suggest they're relishing each other's company. And happy, if you know what that means.

  They leave the gardens and disappear from view. Through my binoculars I scan the apartments that face mine. Directly opposite live a widow and her comely teenage daughter, but there's no sign of either, or indeed any sign of life behind the other windows. But then it's mid-morning: there'll be more to see when the sun goes down and the lights go on.

  Roger emails, asking to meet this afternoon. I respond in the negative and then head off to the Bacchus Club for some serious contemplation. The club is discreet, carefully concealed from the common man. Its exterior (nondescript Victorian townhouse off Pall Mall) belies its opulent interior.

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sp; A nod from Boris, the colossal doorman. Not his real name, but he seems happy enough with its simplicity, not a botched attempt to pronounce the Polish unpronounceable. The library bar’s surprisingly full. Refugees from family duties, mainly, but also the odd civil service homosexual and a couple of Tory MPs, both of whom I know well and who nod as I pass. Henry the barman pours me a stiff vodka tonic (Grey Goose is fine), and after exchanging pleasantries with six or seven fellow Bacchians, I take a quiet table in the corner.

  Some planning is required. But planning depends on what will happen in the future, and the future's particularly difficult to predict. But happily, much of this isn't rocket science; in my game, the rule of thumb is invariably good enough. I would much rather be roughly right than exactly wrong. If there's a big profit margin in an asset, then whether that margin is x% or x+5% doesn't really matter. We're in the realm of high stakes and high reward here, not running a corner shop where the price at which you buy in your frozen peas matters greatly.

  I do recognise that perhaps things are not quite what they were. Certainly the market statistics suggest that might be the case. But buy the right assets and the rest takes care of itself. For some, trouble may be ahead: I certainly wouldn't want to be doing residential construction at the moment, for example. All those new flats coming on the market — how short-sighted is that? Like any asset’s price, London property is governed by the laws of supply and demand. The more constrained the supply, and assuming the demand is there, there's upward pressure on prices. So why increase the supply?

  Three V&Ts later, I'm visited by clarity. What did Sun Tzu say? “Never venture, never win.” There's no alternative other than to press on. No one ever won the race by changing horses in midstream. Gyges has a wonderful portfolio, it’s uniquely positioned, and it just needs Cryx to turn the taps back on, which he surely will do, one way or another.

  A friend (if that's what he is), a Swiss equity fund manager called Klaus, has a “soirée” this evening. I've attended one before, and it took me days to recover. But I'll pop in for an hour or two, given that it's just round the corner. And a bit of light relief could do me good, once I've fortified myself with a little more vodka and pregabalin.

  En route, Leo, reliable procurer of the best coke, meets me in the toilets of The Spider's Web and gives me enough to last me a week or so — happy days. I stroll towards Klaus’s with a heightened sense of well-being.

  A bouncer opens the door of Klaus's townhouse, checks my name on his list, and nods me in. An Amazonian brunette in PVC towers above me in six-inch heels; she removes my Givenchy overcoat as her twin offers me champagne, which I take with a charming smile. Klaus stands at the foot of the stairs, holding champagne in one hand and a glistening purple dildo in the other.

  “François! Glad you could make it!”

  “Er, thanks for inviting me.”

  Klaus starts pointing with the dildo. “Let me orient you: dancing in the parlour, nibbles in the dining room, ask any of the waitresses for any drink you like, ask Jimbo over there for anything more, um, chemical, and anyone with a red wristband is there for your enjoyment. Usual etiquette, of course.”

  “Of course. Prost!”

  “Santé!” And he heads upstairs, apparently using the dildo as a navigation aid.

  Much later, I find Akemi, wearing a red wristband, spread-eagled on a rug (possibly Talish), being eaten by a blonde so I pop my cock into Akemi's mouth, which she takes hungrily, but it's not Akemi's mouth, so I take it out and put it instead between the peaches of some ebony princess, and it feels great at first, but soon I'm bored, so instead there's this Asian in a loincloth with amazing abs, and although the tits are too round to be real, I like sucking them very much and I want to cum, but I can't, and then I'm unbelievably tired, and I have to rest my head there.

  14

  I wake early, alone, with a strong sense of disequilibrium, only partly restored by pregabalin, three espressos, and a reluctant shit: pencil-thin and jet black. I message Edward Cryx, but still no reply. I can imagine him holed up in his girlfriend’s poky little flat and wrestling with his conscience. A banker with conscience? Yes, I do believe Cryx is a principled man, and my little proposition, however vague, presents him with a dilemma. But everyone goes into banking not because it’s a vocation, but for the cold, hard cash, that most primal of urges, so surely he will arrive at the correct decision?

  I go for a walk through the quiet streets, ending up once again outside St Saviour's; it seems to draw me in every time. Despite the impression of poverty that this crumbling facade gives, the Church of England in totality sits on a big pile of money, something like £4-5bn in assets. Perhaps we shouldn't be surprised: it's sustained itself over the centuries by extracting money from the rich and poor alike, in return offering salvation and the promise of eternal life. A fair exchange, you could argue, but promises butter no parsnips; the church has (as far as I know) never actually met its side of the deal. Think carefully about that the next time you receive a begging letter from your local church to repair its roof; £4-5bn buys a lot of scaffold monkeys and roof tiles.

  If the church were a business, it would surely have diversified and changed strategic direction decades ago. Even now there are numerous opportunities to generate other revenue streams, but still it perseveres with the God stuff.

  But even in its dilapidated state under this flat grey sky, St Saviour's is still glorious, a fitting monument to an omnipotent and beneficent God, had He existed. A glorious building – and the most glorious of opportunities. What stronger statement of a man's supremacy than buying the house of God and refurbishing it, transforming it into something rather more luxurious (and useful)?

  I push the door open. Holy Communion's under way, so I quietly slide into an unoccupied pew at the back. The congregation's tiny; barely ten or fifteen people. At the pulpit is a friend of mine, the Reverend Anthony Thwaites. Expensively educated at one of the major public schools (puts my parochial alma mater to shame) and then Cambridge, later rescued from academic life by the call of God. He's a man of culture and refinement, possessed of a keen sense of humour (if a little too fond of practical jokes). I can rightly claim to have got to know him reasonably well over numerous lunches and dinners — all, of course, with the aim of being the preferred buyer when the church finally offloads St Saviour's. He has so far been incorruptible and utterly unimpeachable; I'm yet to uncover his fatal flaw. The persistent rumours (source not publicly known) about the misappropriation of monies donated to the roof fund don't help his position, but I need more leverage; an alternative approach is needed.

  He intones, “He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end. We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son, who with the Father and the Son is worshipped and glorified, who has spoken through the prophets. We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church. We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.”

  The congregation, heads bowed in ovine compliance, murmur “Amen”; all is solemn, earnest. There’s stillness and silence, an unsaid promise of greater things, the hint of salvation in the calm still air. But then, to my consternation, there’s an unheralded gurgling from my guts followed by a sudden expulsion of air from the rear. The air forces itself out from between my clenched buttocks, which only serves to amplify it; the echoes resonate under the vaulted ceiling. In my panic I find myself standing noisily and looking behind me.

  A mixture of tuts, murmuring, and stifled laughter across the church, then a “Do shut up!” from somewhere.

  The Reverend peers out from his pulpit and says with poorly concealed amusement, “Is that Reynard? Sit down, please.” Eventually the congregation settles down, and the Rev continues with the service.

  Later, I’m with the Reverend in his spartan office, secreted behind and below the altar.


  “Reynard, what was all that about? Are you okay?”

  “I'm so sorry – I've been having a rough time of it.”

  The Reverend nods with well-practised understanding. “Yes, I did see something in the FT.”

  “Don't believe everything you see. Look, I really am sorry, Anthony. Let's have lunch soon, but I'll also send you a present.”

  “That really isn't necessary, you know.”

  “But I insist. When are you going to be around?”

  “Intriguing! I usually have Tuesday afternoons at home.”

  “Great. Please make sure you're in on Tuesday at two, then.”

  He rubs his hands together. “How exciting! More seriously, can I help, Reynard? As a friend? You don’t seem yourself, perhaps you need some help?”

  “No, I don't think so, but thanks anyway. And sorry again. Friends?”

  He smiles broadly. “Friends. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And thanks in advance for the present.”

  We shake hands. On Tuesday afternoon we'll see just how holy he really is.

  15

  Monday, back in the office, feeling delicate and a little feverish. The pregabalin’s not quite hitting the spot, so I tell Lucija, svelte in a Cavalli jumpsuit, to arrange a meal with David Bligh.

  Roger arrives late at the office after a medical appointment. Taking me to one side, he says something about changing antiepileptic medication. I tell him I understand, but frankly he should be 100% focused on his job at such a critical time. He’s made no more progress on shifting assets; it seems that all we’ve attracted so far is insultingly low bids for Gyges’ crown jewels. I instruct him to reject all the bids and to make it clear that we’ll consider serious offers only.

  Late morning, Roger and Lucija ask to see me. I usher them into my office and close the door.