The Greater Fool Page 7

  But even now I feel my mother’s presence, watching, judging. But I carry on as I always have, certain that even all of this, the vast personal wealth, the business, Reynard House, my houses in Verbiers, Biarritz, the Highlands, the adoration and respect of others, even St Saviours in all its awe-inspiring glory, would likely have left her unimpressed and liable to criticise wherever she could. One could say that more than anyone, my mother shaped me into who I am. Which is not to offer excuses, merely to explain.

  She should be fiercely proud of what I've achieved, the bitch.

  In those old family photos, there she is, scowling, frowning, lips pursed in disapproval, or else simply looking bored. But always beautiful, like the famous musical star that she never became. Quite what attracted her to my father is beyond me.

  Back in the present, the opera house has erupted into applause. I join in, standing up like those around me, and I exchange a smile with Staunton and his wife. I raise my hands above my head and shout “Bravo!” towards the stage, just like someone would if they’d enjoyed the performance.

  Later, I’m sat at home with a rare copy of The Divine Comedy (The Nonesuch Press dual Italian/English edition of 1928, gilt-decorated orange vellum, numbered 12 of 1475) and a delicious 1989 Barolo. How much simpler things must have been back in the day: the clear delineation of the seven deadly sins, the inevitable punishment after death. But now we're guided by an entirely different moral compass. If indeed we're guided at all. A compass with no north, perhaps.

  17

  A thank you card arrives from the Reverend, complete with apposite quote: “Do not get drunk on wine, which leads to debauchery. Instead, be filled with the Spirit. Ephesians 5:18.” A quick call to Victor, and the Reverend's proper gift is arranged for tomorrow afternoon. It would surely take an iron will to refuse it.

  I message Cryx but no reply.

  Mid-afternoon, I reluctantly accept a final offer of £18.125m for Blindley House. It's more than I paid for it years ago, but I'm aggrieved at being forced to sell off the family silver like this. And besides, it'll be worth double that in five years. Roger insists we've been lucky to offload it so quickly and for any sort of profit; I say that it's like harvesting your own internal organs: very short-term financial gain for long-term pain. Roger says we have no choice. He may be right about the practical necessity to offload assets, but the sad truth is that he — and, it seems, most of the financial community — are fundamentally wrong about property prices.

  And so, in times like these, when there's negativity all around, you simply have to ignore the nay-sayers and focus on what really matters: the fundamental attractiveness of Gyges’ assets. And never take your eye off the horizon for the next deal, a bigger deal, a better deal. Which is not to say that the party will never end. It will all end some day, but that day's a long way off; what we see is just some short-term volatility.

  Soon enough we'll have sailed through these unnecessarily choppy waters and have reemerged even stronger, me at the helm, plotting the right course. Excuse the mixed metaphor, but if you don't rock the boat, this is a gravy train that will keep on rolling down the road. But you could argue that history is littered with the corpses of those caught up in the euphoria of financial bubbles, and surely this is no different? Tulip mania, South Sea bubble, railway mania, Poseidon, Asian financial crisis, dotcom, GFC – and many more. I'm not stupid or complacent enough to ignore completely the lessons of history, but things are different this time.

  But late in the day an email arrives from a core investor, Phi-Zeta Capital, a US fund-of-funds. Roger appears in the door of my office as I read through it.

  “Seen the email, boss?”

  “Just reading through it now. Fuck, they’re redeeming too? Fucking hell, one hundred and ten million? How fucking stupid is that?”

  “Well, maybe it’s not that surprising. Seen the other one?”

  “What?”

  “Wessex County Council.”

  “Them too? How much?”

  “Thirty.”

  “Christ. So what does that mean?”

  He laughs, mirthless and empty. He closes my office door behind him and sits in the chair facing my desk. He takes a couple of deep breaths then slowly starts to shake his head. “Look, Reynard, I’m sorry, but I can’t see a way out of this, can you? That’s now over one hundred and eighty million in redemptions we have to find, the broker’s cut us off, so we need to plug that hole too. Let’s call it a round two hundred million to find by the end of the month.”

  “I concede things could be better. But you know, when Cryx changes his mind it could be very different.”

  Roger wrings his hands together. “Am I missing something, boss? Why on earth would he change his mind? He seemed pretty adamant to me.”

  “He’ll come round. Maybe we’ll even be able to increase leverage when he sees sense. We’ll be able to cover the redemptions, and things will rock on just like they’ve always done.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s just not going to happen. Let’s concede defeat, start exploring how we unwind the fund.”

  I slap my desk and Roger recoils, his eyes wide.

  Firmly I say, “No chance. We’ll get through this, we always do. You work for me, you do as I say, or you do nothing at all. Concentrate on the job, carry on selling assets, leave the big decisions to me.”

  “But—”

  “I mean it. Get the fuck out of here.” And meekly he stands, his dated suit hanging off his unimpressive frame, sweat beading on his bald head.

  “This is crazy,” he says, trudging out of my office. He turns as if to say something else but I interject, “Go on Roger, get on with it.”

  I shut the door behind him. I call Cryx, but it goes to voicemail. I message him to call me ASAP.

  When things are looking at their worst, that's the time to strike, I reiterate once again. And, superficially at least, things look pretty bad. Hundreds of millions of holes in Gyges Holding's balance sheet, a potentially catastrophic shortfall to account for. But I’ll find a way.

  18

  Uncle Ish is in town and agrees to meet me at his offices near Cadogan Square. His equine PA welcomes me, takes my Givenchy overcoat, and directs me to Ish's corner office (although I could've simply followed my nose).

  He rises from his desk chair. “I think I know what this is about. Sit down, young man,” he says, and motions towards a well-worn leather club chair. It sighs quietly as I flop down.

  Ish pours two glasses of Glenfiddich, hands one to me, then sits behind his desk as he asks, “So what do you want?”

  “What makes you think I want something?”

  He shakes his head and smiles. “You're my nephew, remember? I know exactly what you're like.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “Ha. Yes, that might well be true. But you didn't come here for the Scotch, did you? Are you in trouble?”

  “I wouldn't say that.”

  “Not what I've heard.”

  “You shouldn't believe everything you hear.”

  “That's true enough, although there's enough talk to get me concerned. But if you're not under any pressure, maybe it's time for me to reduce my investment in Gyges.”

  I drain my Glenfiddich and wince. “Don't be hasty, Unc. And I'll be honest, there have been a small number of redemptions, and we’re deleveraging. Nothing we can't handle, though.”

  He stands, refills my glass, and returns to his desk chair. “I'm very pleased to hear it, nephew. So what can I do for you?”

  “I'm here to offer you an opportunity.”

  “Go on.”

  “How would you like an opportunity to double your money in five years, but at low risk.”

  “Sounds good to me – tell me more! Oh, hang on, it's not an 'opportunity',” — he mimes quotation marks with his index fingers, “to invest more in Gyges Holdings, is it?”

  “Well, funny you should say that, but yes, it is. It's a wonderful opportunity.”
<
br />   “What a surprise. Well, you've got cojones, I'll give you that, but that's all. Sorry and all that, but it’s too risky. I've a lot still invested in Gyges, probably too much. You know, I've often thought about reducing my exposure to you, but for the sake of your father's memory, I've stuck with you. You can't question my loyalty. In fact, you'd probably have gone by the wayside a long time ago if not for me.”

  “Bollocks! In case you've forgotten, you still owe me for losing me my inheritance. You misled my father, made him spunk it all away on dotcom stocks.” I finish my glass, rise from my chair, and help myself to more Glenfiddich. The chair sighs once again as I sit.

  Ish says, “That's bollocks on stilts. I advised your father to diversify but he didn't listen and put all his eggs in one basket. I did diversify, and it turned out to be the right thing to do. And don't you ever forget that I helped get Gyges off the ground, and that without me there's no way you'd have got other investors on board. You'd have strutted around for a bit, played at being a big boy, probably squandered whatever you had, and ended up begging me for a handout. Which, when I come to think of it, is what you're doing now.”

  “I've never begged anyone for anything. Keep it. I don't need your dirty money.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine. But you're missing a massive opportunity, Unc. When things are looking bad, that's exactly the time to pile in. There's massive upside here. Maybe you'll realise that in a year or two.”

  “Maybe, but I'll take the chance. So how big is the hole you're in?”

  “It's not a hole.”

  “Whatever. Semantics. How much do you need to get back to where you need to be?”

  “About two hundred million.” I finish my Glenfiddich and hold out my glass.

  “Oh dear! Even I would struggle to cover that. I can't help you, Reynard, but I'll put some feelers out. There are some pretty bullish guys out there, perhaps one of them fancies a wild punt.”

  “This isn't a punt. It's a great opportunity for someone with big balls.”

  “Hmm. Well, good luck with finding someone with a sufficiently capacious sack. As I said, I'll ask around for you, but don't hold your breath. If you want my personal opinion?”

  “Well, actually—”

  “Whether you want it or not, you need to take serious steps now, or you're done for. Suspend redemptions for six months, sell some assets quick to cover the existing redemptions, deleverage, mark down the portfolio to reflect market values, scale down the fund to something more manageable. If you're lucky, it's possible you'll make it through, but if you don't do it right, you'll be responsible for good people losing a lot of money. You owe it to them to manage this well. Open up, talk to your investors. You owe everything to them, and they'll want what's best.” Finally he reaches over and refills my glass.

  Ish continues, “Why not think about showing investors that you're making some personal sacrifices. It might generate some goodwill. And for God's sake, listen to Roger, he talks a lot of sense. In my experience, he's generally right about the big things. You need to show some humility and learn from others.”

  I stand, take a final gulp of Glenfiddich, and stare down at Ish. “Thanks for your advice, Unc.” And I head towards the door.

  “No need to be sarcastic, young man. And Reynard?”

  “Yes?”

  “You need to watch how much you're drinking. No crapulent person ever made good decisions.”

  “What about Churchill?”

  “You're not him.”

  He rises from his desk chair to shake my hand, but I'm gone.

  So much for familial loyalty. You know who you can count on in a crisis. Yourself – and no one else. I've never felt more isolated and abandoned. But such is the nature of leadership, of being set apart. It is what it is. Without me, there would be no Gyges Holdings. Not many could bear such a burden, but as Sun Tzu said in The Art of War, “You have to believe in yourself.” Which I do of course, because if you can’t believe in yourself, how can you expect anyone else to?

  By lunchtime, it seems there's no alternative. We send out an email to all investors:

  Dear Investors

  In light of continued market uncertainty, it is necessary to take decisive action. It is Gyges Holdings' duty to protect the long-term viability of the business — and the interests of all investors — from short-term volatility, and so, with immediate effect, redemptions will be suspended until further notice. Gyges Holdings does not expect this suspension to be permanent, but it is nonetheless necessary due to the current disconnect between business fundamentals and the irrational behaviour of some market participants.

  We reiterate that Gyges Holdings runs a world-class portfolio and is uniquely well placed for the future.

  Rest assured that Gyges Holdings does not take this step lightly, and appreciates your understanding and support.

  The Gyges Holdings Team

  19

  A little tired this morning, perhaps, but soon revived by some dynamite espressos. So far the tramadol doesn’t seem to be doing anything, so I keep up with the pregabalin and cocodamol.

  I email Roger and Lucija to tell them I’ll be out of the office this morning.

  Victor calls. “The Rev took the bait. Hooker, line, and sink.”

  “What bait did you use?”

  “A twenty-year-old Asian chap we call Aaron, rather popular with establishment chaps. Very pretty. Big eyes. He claimed to be a theology student, got himself invited in, spilt a glass of water on his shirt, had to remove it, and things took their natural course. My chap says that the Rev had quite an appetite.”

  “Love it! Can't beat the old glass of water trick. Did he manage to get any photos?”

  “Better than that, old chap. A video – with sound, all recorded on his phone.”

  “Praise the Lord! Stick it on a memory card and get it sent round here now, will you?”

  “Will do. I'll send you an invoice too – you're somewhat in arrears, old chap.”

  “Sure.”

  When the SD card arrives, I'm delighted to see the high-resolution footage of the Reverend enthusiastically enjoying himself between the buttocks of the Asian youth, who is indeed very pretty. It's no concern of mine how people get their kicks, but in the wrong hands this video could be very damaging indeed.

  I walk through heavy rain to St Saviour's and doze through Holy Communion. The congregation numbers just three people, including me. I wake to find my head resting against the pew in front, in my mouth the taste of hymn book and wood polish. The Reverend stands over me in an otherwise empty church, rain hammering against the stained glass, candles guttering on the altar.

  “Been at the whisky, Reynard?” The gentlest of smiles across that rotund, poorly defined face. He helps me to my feet and I'm oddly unsteady, so he guides me gently through to his office. He places a mug of sweet milky tea in front of me and slides over an opened pack of chocolate digestives. “Help yourself. Manna from heaven, these,” he says, holding a biscuit up in front of him.

  Some indeterminate period of time later, he says, “How are you feeling now, Reynard?” Cold tea untouched in front of me, half a digestive on my lap.

  “All good, thanks, Rev. Been working a bit too hard, perhaps.”

  He nods sagely. “Yes, I did wonder. Can I get you some more tea?”

  “No, I'm okay, thank you. Not sure why I came here, actually.”

  “And here was me thinking you came here for salvation! Ever the optimist, eh?”

  “I don't see how a man of the cloth could be anything other than blindly optimistic.”

  “That's probably not far from the truth. Thanks for the whisky, by the way. Not necessary, of course, but appreciated nonetheless.”

  “You're more than welcome.”

  The Rev leans forward and fixes me with an earnest look. “Reynard, do you think you should try to rest? Everyone needs downtime.”

  “'And on the seventh day He rested.' But He rested because He
'd finished his work. I'm not done yet.”

  “I read something about your company. Is it true that you're, erm, having some, erm, funding difficulties?”

  “There are some misleading articles out there. I know that we'll pull on through, although it's not helped by some investors bottling it. Including your employers, actually.”

  “Really? Yes, well, they move in mysterious ways. Actually, that leads me neatly on to something else. I was going to call you later in the week, but now's as good a time as any. They've decided to close me down. Put the church up for sale. I thought you'd be interested, given our many discussions about the possibility of that happening.”

  “Interested? Damn right I'm interested. You know I want this place. Needs some remodelling, obviously, but I can restore it to greatness.” We both look around the poky subterranean office, with its polystyrene ceiling tiles, fluorescent lighting, and green carpet tiles.

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” says the Reverend. “I'm sure you’d be very sensitive to the building's history and use your judgement wisely. For example, no one will miss this room.”

  “Yep – all part of the design process. One has to do what's right for a building, and I'll make sure that I do. What's the timeline for the sale?”

  “Closure looks likely towards the end of the summer. We can't afford the ongoing repairs, and you can forget about the structural work. The restoration fund just hasn't contributed as we'd hoped, so a quick sale would be in everyone's interest.”

  I love it. Rubbing my hands, I say, “Great! So where do I sign?”

  “Ah, bless you! If only it were so simple. The Diocesan Mission and Pastoral Committee is appointing an agent, and then they'll coordinate the sale.”