The dark walls of the executive shower cabin loom over me like the walls of a coffin, dragging me into its blackness. The snow from last night is still singing in my veins as I feebly wipe myself of the sweat with wet paper towels and zip the pencil skirt behind me.
Why did he say I could skip the morning meeting today? Throughout these last two years he would never let me do anything like that. ‘No matter how drunk, stoned, sick or tired you are, at six thirty you must be in the boardroom and take notes on the overnight updates.’
But what about that kiss? It was so … caring … like he meant it … like he’d never kissed me before … maybe he’s finally realized he does love me? My managing director … the jackpot! It’s a dream come true.
The veins above my eyes pulsate harder and harder, the sweat is coming out of my pores all over my body, and I cannot control it anymore. I vomit into the sink, trying not to get my hair or silk blouse dirty.
I promptly run the tap to wash off the green and yellow gunk and clean and dry everything. The dizziness is killing me … but I can’t let myself succumb to it. Strong black tea with sugar would make me feel better and disguise that sour alkaline taste in my mouth … like the tea my mom used to make for me …
Damn, it’s late. People will be returning to their desks from the morning meeting any time now. If I arrive later than them, they will treat me to the walk of shame applause.
I have to rush.
A new wave from my stomach suddenly comes up and I throw up again and again … white bubbles this time. I barely have enough strength to turn on the tap before crashing on the wooden bench … like the one in my mom’s yard back home … the blossoming rose and dahlia … the sweet, winey smell of the boughs and grapevines. My mom strokes my long hair, reading Crime and Punishment out loud: “… You are sometimes extraordinarily, passionately in love with suffering …”
No. I don’t want your tea. I hate it, especially with sugar! I have a prestigious job. I am an investment banker. The scoundrel. The firm believes in me. I can’t jeopardize its integrity. I have to go to the morning meeting …
I quickly get up and put my frizzy blonde hair into a sexy ponytail and hurriedly wash my hands, just like Alex did a few moments ago, and carefully close the big mahogany door so it does not slam.
Only a few steps away there is a bright Victorian-style hall with a shiny elevator, which daily reflects ‘the hottest ass on the trading floor’ right back at me from all sides. It takes me down to the giant open space.
The familiar smell of money is everywhere.
I put on my tried-and-tested professional smile and pass by the senior management’s glass offices, where the smell is the most intense, but all the offices are empty this morning. I let my smile take on a naughty shade as the thoughts of Alex restricting my breathing … covering my mouth and nose, so I could feel his fingers with my gums … inflame a shiver. Our little secret … a soundless elation we never see here on the production line.
Tugging my skirt down, I rapidly proceed to my desk, right in the middle of the beehive.
‘Katya, are you working a half day?’ an intimidating senior German colleague remarks. She theatrically taps on her Cartier, showing me it is 7.15 a.m. ‘Half day, half pay.’ She pronounces every word in sharp staccato, in the manner of a concentration camp guard, with her gelled brown hair scraped into an immaculate bun and angry makeup-free face contributing to the image.
‘Mm, I was here earlier. I just went out to grab a coffee,’ I lie, defending myself against the frigid grouch, who’ll never even get close to the fifth floor showers. She truly deserves her nickname – Virgin Mary.
‘You seem to like a lot of milk with it,’ smirks the slutty Polish blonde next to her. ‘Don’t forget to wipe the mustache off,’ she titters, drinking her cappuccino.
‘You have a bit of …’ I point at the cappuccino foam on her upper lip.
Without saying a word, she rapidly wipes it off and looks very busy reading the morning paper.
The moment I log in to my desk, dozens of clients’ requests are already flashing red lines all over my six screens:
‘Katya, what happened to Yuan?’
‘Where is gold?’
‘Digital option, please.’
‘Where is the Irish Credit Default Swap level?’
‘Order to buy 50mio at 78 if done sell 100 at 90 …’
At the same time my phone vibrates with a message from Alex: ‘Trade the structure we discussed ASAP.’
‘Margin?’ I quickly type back, recalling his intimidating gaze when I don’t specify the matter.
‘Don’t care about the margin. Just trade it. Quick!’ he replies instantly.
I immediately dial the Libyan family office.
‘As-salam ‘alaykum, Ahmad. This is Katya from Lehman Brothers in London. Keyfa halak?’
‘Katya, ‘alaykum as-salam. You learn Arabic now? Very good!’ Ahmad says, chewing something on the other end.
‘Well, I live in London,’ I smirk, ‘went out last night …’
‘You should come to Libya one day. I will introduce you to a very rich sheik. He will like you.’
‘What makes him so rich? Oil?’ I ask, simultaneously selling half a ship’s worth of gold to a Greek bank, making a handsome five per cent mark-up that Alex should be pleased with.
‘Metals. He likes to buy lithium. If you find a good price he will marry you! You never work again!’ he exclaims cheerfully.
‘And join his harem?’ I snigger, catching Virgin Mary’s censorious gaze.
‘No, no, habibi! You will be his princess!’ he says eloquently.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I say, making a mental note.
‘Good … so will you give me very good price for my structure today?’ he asks, rolling his Rs.
‘Yes, I will give you a very good price,’ I say, echoing him, updating the pricer with the live market feeds. ‘Two point three million dollars, you’ll pay … upfront,’ I quote, trying to make two hundred grand.
‘Katya, habibi, another bank price is two million dollars,’ he argues, obviously bluffing as this is clearly below the fair value of the structure.
‘Ahmad, habibi, you should appreciate it is a leveraged product with complicated documentation and fees to pay to all the vehicles involved in this transaction,’ I politely explain.
‘Woman, you do not know what you are talking about!’ he shouts. ‘We did these structures with Alex many time. All the vehicles are ready!’ Ahmad’s hissy fit is making me want to hang up immediately and rush to the bathroom.
I take a deep breath and refresh the price, which has increased by fifty grand now. ‘OK, let’s meet in the middle, two million one hundred fifty thousand dollars you pay.’
‘Done!’ Ahmad exclaims.
‘OK.’ I hit the button, which straight away executes all the parts of the structure on the market. ‘You’ll pay the premium to our account in Cyprus as usual,’ I say, booking the deal.
‘Yes, habibi, and you pay me back to my account in Cayman Islands under the swap we book separately, as usual,’ says Ahmad, satisfied, puffing on a shisha pipe with the sound of seagulls in the background.
‘OK.’ I wipe my sweaty hands on my skirt and briefly put them on my neck to warm up, before starting to book the deals to various systems to avoid any ‘regulatory hassle’. Even our own internal systems cannot link these deals. The only person who knows these are connected is the one booking them. Me.
‘All agreed, Kat. Send me the confirmation as soon as you can, I need a good one, one with the Sharia disclaimer. The rules are getting stricter here.’
‘Doing it now,’ I say, copy-pasting the disclaimer straight away into the term sheet.
‘And don’t forget to put “Allah knows best” in bold on every page,’ he instructs.
‘Of course,’ I say, doing it, whilst picking up a request from the Roman Catholic church of Slovenia for a swaption in Serbian dinar … Gosh, how the hell am I supposed to quote it? Who is the trader for it? How much mark-up to price in?
I ask Virgin Mary and she shouts back the code of the function in the system to price it.
The new red flashing line, ‘Px +’, appears on the screen.
‘5.5–6 %,’ I quote, wide enough in case the market moves violently against me. And yet it boosts my adrenalin levels through the roof, as every decimal would lose or gain me ten grand.
‘Again plz,’ a new flashing line appears.
‘What shall I show him?’ I shout to Virgin Mary, torn between the other requests and Ahmad chasing his confirmation.
‘Careful, that church would rip off your arms and legs,’ she shouts back in her metallic voice.
‘I know that,’ I concede, rapidly re-pricing the swaption, but the figures erratically jump all over the place, making me stall.
For a moment I pause at the sight of a faint reflection of a worn-out face that looks at me from behind the flashing numbers. A gloomy, frantic ghost, disguised by the irritating monitors I could just smash if I wanted to.
Suddenly, I hear a shout from the red-faced trader a few yards away from me, whose book warehouses the first leg of Ahmad’s deal. ‘Katya, for fuck’s sake, get your head out of your ass!’
‘I’m sorry …’ I stammer, short of breath, blushing, hands shaking, still trying to quote the impatient Slovenian church: ‘4.7–4.9 … 4.1–4.3 …’
‘It messes up our entire onshore balance,’ the trader yells, coming over to me like an overheated kettle. ‘The discrete payments are booked to the slush fund. This is the A, B, C, D! Sort it out. Now!’
‘Sorry … I didn’t know,’ I sob. ‘5.6–5.8 …’
‘Now!’ he yells, making me jump.
‘OK.’ I rebook the deal, forgetting about the church.
‘Katya, your phone is ringing,’ the Polish kurva yaps.
‘I’m busy,’ I shout anxiously.
‘They say it’s urgent,’ she shouts back as I’m getting drawn into more red flashing chats and unfinished bookings … and this is all I have … all I know how to do … and it is not the worst place to be.
I take a deep breath: ‘Lehman,’ I say.
‘Ms. Kuznetsova?’ a professional female voice asks.
‘Yes. How can I help?’
‘This is Louise calling from HR. Could you come down now to meeting room number eleven on the ground floor?’
‘I would, but I’m right in the middle of a trade, and a booking … I cannot leave the desk without my mentor.’
‘Ms. Kuznetsova, your mentor is here and it’s been agreed your colleagues will cover for you.’
‘Really?’ I wonder if this is finally the promotion he promised me last year. Is this why he gave me that kiss?
‘We are waiting for you downstairs in boardroom eleven,’ Louise continues.
‘OK. I’ll be right there,’ I say, transferring the requests, including the church, to Virgin Mary with a satisfied smile, before rushing excitedly to the first floor.
The boardroom is boring, with large floor-to-ceiling windows, incomprehensible modern art on the wall, and a large wooden table.
Two proper blondes in similar Hugo Boss suits are sitting in the middle of the long conference table. They lazily stand up as I walk in. One of them is very tall and one is very short. Alex stays seated on the other side of the table. His dark hair is now carefully coiffed over his bald patch and his dark brown eyes under rich eyebrows are glued to his BlackBerry while he tugs at the wedding ring on his finger.
‘Ms. Kuznetsova, thanks for coming in,’ says the tall blonde politely. ‘I am Louise, and this is Nicole Chapel, our head of HR.’ Both give me a lousy handshake.
‘Obviously you know Mr Rigopoulos.’ She points at Alex, who folds his collar into his jacket, which duly hides his hairy, flabby body.
‘Yes,’ I say, suddenly feeling very dizzy again. The stomach cramps return with a new intensity. I slowly take a seat on a white leather chair, suppressing the pain.
‘As you might be aware from our earlier emails, today is the end of the collective consultation period,’ she says, smiling.
‘What consultation?’ I ask alertly, crossing my arms and legs, and almost bending over trying to ease the cramps.
‘It means that you have been advised that your employment is at risk, and as a natural development, is terminated.’ Her words cut through my stomach-ache, stabbing me right in the heart.
‘You are no longer required to come to the office,’ the short blonde continues. ‘Your emails, data access, cell phone, and building entry pass will be discontinued with immediate effect.’
I instantly look at Alex’s face obscured by the dark stubble beard; I still have the red marks all over my chest and chin, screaming an unspoken question: ‘What the hell is she talking about?’
My eyes are getting wet against my will. My body temperature rises and my arteries are pulsating … Cold sweat covers my whole body. The warm water from the glass in front of me only makes me sicker.
‘We are offering you a very competitive package as a part of the firm’s policy to thank you for your services,’ the short one says. ‘The compensation package is your three monthly salaries from the notice period. We will support your visa status for the entire duration of the consultation period.’ Her acidic voice keeps dripping on my sores.
I stare at Alex in disbelief. Why is he not sorting it out? Standing up for me … as he always does … he is the only one who ever did.
It feels surreal, like a bad dream. It can’t be happening.
‘Babe, I am sorry,’ Alex finally says with a croaky voice, shocking both blondes by failing to comply with the rules on “use of language” stipulated in the office code of conduct. ‘I really tried to protect you, but they decided that the business you do is too risky for the bank.’
‘What risk?’ I ask emotionally, suddenly feeling my nipples aching from his pinches.
‘The counter party risk,’ he lisps with a Greek accent, avoiding looking me straight in the eye. ‘Your clients’ source of wealth and the way they manage it is not sustainable.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I ask.
‘Listen, it’s not because you did something wrong,’ he says in a much tougher tone, as if he was telling me off for something. His lips become thin and the corners of his mouth drop. ‘The market has already reached its peak and is on its way down. We are entering some serious mess and the worst is yet to come. Maybe we all will lose our jobs.’ He spreads his arms apart, looking all in a hurry, the way he always does when he needs to end a conversation. If we were talking on the phone, he’d say his battery was about to die, even if he was calling from a landline.
Suddenly, before I realize, shameless tears are uncontrollably filling my eyes, scalding my cheeks. The tears I could never show on the trading floor. I am still trying to resist them, trying to distract myself. Where are the damn tissues?
‘Ms. Kuznetsova, you will find all the necessary information in this packet,’ Louise continues with a two-faced smile. ‘You are not required to return to your desk. Your belongings will be sent to your home address by courier. Someone is waiting for you at the front with your handbag and your jacket.’ She stands up, making it clear the conversation is over. ‘We would like to take this opportunity to say how sorry we are and thank you for all your hard work. We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.’ She reaches forward to give me a formal handshake.
Stunned, I stare at Alex with a million questions in my head but the gag reflex forces me out. ‘Good bye,’ I say disconcertedly and, holding my stomach, rush to the loo.
So it was a farewell kiss …