‘Good morning, can I speak to Miss Kuznetsova?’ says a confident female voice with an Italian accent on the other end of the phone.
‘Yes, how can I help?’ I answer, just getting back into the apartment after the morning jog.
‘Good morning, Miss Kuznetsova, my name is Cara, I’m a head-hunter. I’ve got an amazing opportunity at a major bank, selling financial products to Russian high net worth individuals. Is this something you’d be interested in?’
‘I could look into it,’ I answer professionally, holding myself back from getting overexcited.
‘Great. They are looking to hire someone as soon as possible. Your profile fits the description well. Could you meet their head of sales tomorrow?’
‘I could accommodate,’ I say, trying not to seem too keen.
‘Good. I’ll send you the details shortly, no?’ she says, elongating the consonants and opening the vowels.
‘Fantastico,’ I answer with the same intonation.
‘You speak Italian?’ she asks in a much friendlier manner.
‘Si, ho fatto il mio master in Bocconi. I state the obvious for someone who should have read my CV but still enjoy the conversation, as we seem to know quite a few of the same people – Italians in the City.
‘Magnifico! Me too. Senti, your profile seems to be exactly what Bruno is looking for. I’ll try to arrange for you two to meet over lunch,’ she suggests.
‘That would be amazing!’ I exclaim.
‘Bene, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Grazie, Cara,’ I say spiritedly, thanking the gods for this opportunity, and praying for it to go well tomorrow.
In a couple of hours an email duly arrives, confirming the lunch with Bruno Füssli, the head of sales and trading at the Swiss Bank, at the Four Seasons restaurant.
I skip the evening gym session to prepare for the interview, studying the bank’s financials, current market conditions, revising the composition of derivatives structures …
Bruno, a tall, athletic, clean-shaven fortysomething, bold, dignified, and dressed in an expensive suit, turns out to be uninterested in any of that. With a distinct Swiss–German accent he leisurely orders a bottle of Gavi di Gavi to complement our poisson plat du chef.
‘How much money did you make this year?’ he asks, sharply turning his gaze from the long rods of white and yellow flowers in tall designer vases, which decorate the spacious bright white interior of the restaurant. Now that I am the focus of his cunning blue eyes, I can’t help noticing his exquisitely-shaped eyebrows.
Instinctively, I straighten up, checking my hair is still held in a neat bun: ‘About twelve million dollars.’ I give him a figure high enough for him to take me seriously. There is no way he could check this figure anyway.
He tries to ask the next question, but luckily at this very moment our dishes arrive. ‘En Guete,’ I drop the obligatory Swiss-German phrase to wish my companion a good meal, hoping to steer the conversation onto another topic.
‘Have you been to Switzerland?’ he asks conveniently, putting the napkin on his lap.
‘Yes,’ I cheerfully exclaim. ‘I did a cycling trip from Milan … about two hundred kilometers.’
‘That’s exactly where I’m from.’ He leans backwards on the comfy white chair.
‘You speak Rumantsch there, right?’ I ask, recalling the strange-sounding language spoken between the Italian and German parts of Switzerland, that no one could understand.
‘Yes,’ he says, pleased. ‘So, do you do much business with Russia?’
‘Yes, a lot,’ I say, leaning back in my seat too, feeling the sweat on my silk blouse sticking to my spine.
‘Do you lend money to the top guys?’ he asks – the most painful question a high street bank can ask.
‘Well, it depends,’ I answer, trying not to sound too negative.
‘On what?’ he says, methodically cutting his fish.
‘If there is a derivative imbedded into a loan.’
‘For sure, that’s way more profitable.’
‘And the Russians can’t appreciate it anyway,’ I smirk.
‘How difficult is it to pass due diligence on them?’ he asks seriously, leaning towards me, so I can smell his sharp fragrance.
‘Well, I guess it depends how deep you let your compliance dig,’ I riposte. ‘There aren’t too many Russian clients, who didn’t, say, bankrupt factories or snap up assets and then sell them at shares-for-loan auctions to those who could get a loan from the collapsed Soviet banking system or from special-purpose banks.’
‘Special-purpose banks?’
‘In the early nineties, government spending was checked manually once a quarter, all the banks were still state-owned, and there were no computers …’
‘So they issued a fake payment instruction and cashed in?’ he quickly guesses.
‘Correct,’ I say, impressed how quickly a Swiss man could understand it, although it is easy to relate to special purpose vehicles nowadays using a similar mechanism. ‘As Lenin said, “the greatest wealth is made when a country is collapsing or building up,”’ I quote, trying to be witty.
‘Unfortunately, they don’t collapse often enough,’ he quips back at me, checking the time on his Swiss diamond watch. ‘So what kinds of things do you trade?’
‘Well, everything, really: cash equity, FX, rates, commodities, derivatives, structured notes …’
‘We do a few things on that front too,’ he says more enthusiastically. ‘Our head of trading in Moscow, Valeria Kirillova, is a good friend of one of the top guys at a big fund; they went to school together or something. But we might need some help with presentation, compliance and legal approvals etc. There are some really good margins there,’ he reasons.
‘I can help,’ I say eagerly, switching to hard sell mode. ‘I’ve prepared quite a few compliance cases for all sorts of structured notes: range-bound, performance tracking, inflation protection … They usually get approved fairly quickly … obviously, revenue is never less than ten per cent.’
‘It does feel like there is business to pursue in Russia,’ he says, musingly. ‘The sales team in Moscow really needs someone proactive and enthusiastic over there … Someone London-trained.’ He almost says ‘like you’, making me gleam with a broad smile. ‘We offer a very competitive relocation package.’
‘A relocation package?’ I ask, confounded.
‘They didn’t tell you that the role is in Moscow?’ he asks.
‘Mm … no.’
‘Well, we think it is best to cover Russian clients out of Russia, as you would be so much closer to them. Of course you’ll be traveling regularly to London, but based in Moscow. You’ll also be getting the benefits of thirteen per cent tax, an expat contract, and a corporate apartment,’ he says slowly.
‘Er … this is a bit unexpected.’ I take a sip of the fruity wine. ‘It does sound like a good offer, though,’ I say, realizing this job will get me right into the inner circles of the oligarchy. I could end up marrying one of them … But this is in freaking Moscow – the ignorant man’s world, with hot models on every corner.
‘We are interviewing a few other candidates, but need to know now if you would be willing to move to Moscow,’ he says, pressurizing me with his gaze.
‘Hmmm, I guess so … OK … yes,’ I respond, hearing Alex’s voice in my head: ‘At the end of the day, what matters is how much money you make.’
‘Good,’ Bruno says, calling for the bill. ‘You’ll need to meet my colleagues and our global head of sales and trading sometime within the next couple of days. It’s a formal process. HR will be in touch with you shortly to arrange everything.’ He pays and we quickly head to the exit, passing a tray with delicious-smelling and looking desserts … tiramisu, mmmm … Richard would never approve of it – too much sugar … I have just realized I have been craving it for so long.
Just as I am talking myself out of getting some champagne truffles to prematurely celebrate my success with Bruno, Gabi’s message catches me.
‘Katya, come to Brompton tonight. Meet my new bf’s loaded friends. We have a table. It’s been a WHILE!’
As I read it, I automatically turn to the supermarket and get a pack of the tastiest chocolates in the world, timidly getting in line with a bunch of impatient bankers grabbing their lunches. You could almost be embarrassed at seeing the intimate choices people have made, all laid out in public – being added up, casually tossed in bags, then to be inserted, absorbed and expelled. Just a few days ago I was one of them, getting a mayo salad, potato chips and a Diet Coke.
With a rampant jealousy I watch them pay with corporate cards – the gateway to business-class travel, to the world’s best places and finest restaurants.
‘OK. I’ll be there,’ I respond to Gabi, feeling it is time to get back to the lifestyle I want.
Covertly, I eat the truffles just before going to the gym, when Richard cannot see me.
The email confirmation of tomorrow’s HR interview arrives just before we start doing our abs, stimulating the intensity of the crunches.
After the training we scamper back home to prepare for our respective nights out.
‘So where are you taking her?’ I ask Richard as I come out of the bathroom. I’m already dressed in a tight hot dress, with my wet hair wrapped up in a towel.
‘Casino Royale,’ he says good-humoredly.
‘Good action,’ I say, fixing my push-up. ‘But the script and the dialogue …’ I frown.
‘Bond is never a good place for meaningful dialogue … just cocktail tips,’ he says, putting on his regular jumper over the usual white T-shirt and jeans, dressed entirely for comfort on a city bike.
‘As if you need cocktail tips … you never drink,’ I josh, drying my hair with a towel, and putting in the expensive but amazing-smelling argan oil.
‘Well, hopefully my date will get inspired,’ he grins, coiffing his thick, dark hair.
‘It’s always the same – dirty martini. You don’t have to waste fifteen pounds on tickets,’ I banter.
‘It gives a whole generation of Brits strange ideas about Russian women,’ he winks.
‘Really? Like what?’ I ask, curious.
‘Well, that you are always armed and deadly, which, I suppose, you do nothing to disprove,’ he says, putting his loafers on.
‘Me?’ I ask genuinely astonished, and somehow wanting to be perceived as small, cottony and harmless, in need of care and protection.
‘Behave tonight. You’ve got an important HR interview tomorrow,’ he says.
‘I’ll try not to come back too early in case you bring the girl home,’ I wink back.
‘Don’t worry about that. Come anytime you want. I can always go to hers …’
When he leaves I feel calmer … as though I can finally let down my guard and stop pretending to be a cool, mighty amazon. I stall in the middle of the room, detangling my hair, when a message from Gabi arrives: ‘Babe, u r on the list. So excited to finally see u;-)’
‘Me 2! Finally!!!’ I text back and start to blow dry my hair.
In about an hour a taxi brings me to 92 Old Brompton Road.
‘Ciao, Franco,’ I say, saluting the suited and booted doorman.
‘Ciao, Katya. Bel vestito.’ He compliments me on my hot black dress, checking the other chicks in the line without emotion. ‘Joining Gabriella tonight?’
‘Who else?’ I radiantly smile.
‘She’s in there with some handsome guys.’ He lets me in after signing me in as a member’s guest.
I walk down to the small, dark, stuffy basement, singing along to a familiar tune and moving to its beat.
I can’t help the joyful smile that appears on my face, as I anticipate the long-awaited night of hedonism. The usual bottles of vodka and Dom Perignon are on the table, where my petite blonde Bulgarian friend in her tight gold dress is surrounded by a bunch of tall, dark-haired bearded guys.
‘Oh my God!’ Gabi screams, taking a step towards me. ‘Katya! Finally! You look amazing! I told you, you should have stopped screwing Alex a long time ago,’ she shouts, almost embarrassing me, but I’m so happy to see her that I easily forgive her. ‘So how’ve you been?’
‘You know, looking for a job … I should really be preparing for my interview tomorrow morning,’ I say self-consciously.
‘Oh, c’mon, you deserve a bit of fun!’ she says with her characteristic blend of American and Eastern European accents.
‘I need to get the job first …’ I can’t stop sounding like a downer.
‘You can always join me in the brokerage business! I’ll talk to my boss,’ she enthusiastically suggests.
‘That would be great. As long as he’d help me with a visa extension …’
‘Oh my God, you should totally see the new Chanel handbag that Omar gave me!’ she interrupts, and grabs the classic coral pink purse from the couch, waving it in front of me. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you. I met him at that party at Kensington Palace … it was full of high-profile guys. Such a shame you didn’t come.’ She takes my hand and walks me into the forest of arrogant-looking men, clouded in excessive fragrance.
‘Omar, this is my friend Katya.’ She introduces me to a tall, reserved man with thick lips.
Suddenly some Arabic song starts, inspiring half of the club, including Omar’s friends, to start singing along. He grabs Gabi’s neck, pulls her towards him and they snog, his black beard getting entangled with her platinum blonde hair in a sweaty mix.
Left alone, I turn around and ask a tall, well-built guy with fearsome eyebrows and chest hair overflowing the collar of his white shirt, ‘What is this song about?’
‘It means, “What are you, that you could behave like this?”,’ he says indifferently, looking away, prompting me to do the same. In a couple of moments he asks abruptly, ‘Where are you from?’ with a strong accent like Ahmad’s.
‘Ukraine … I’m an investment banker,’ I quickly add, so he does not perceive me as a whore, like many of my comrades on the London nightlife scene. ‘What do you do in London?’ I shout through the music.
‘This,’ he says, spreading his arms to show me the club, checking out the hot waitress and snapping his fingers for her to come over. ‘Here for Ramadan.’ He pours vodka into his glass, without offering me one. What a jerk. I do not know what ‘hidden gem’ Gabi has found in these guys but they are seriously rude. I am a hot girl capable of getting any guy I want, and don’t have to talk to idiots.
I step back and slowly walk to the bar, wiggling my hips, to draw attention to my tight behind.
A guy dressed as a cowboy grabs me by the waist and asks me what I would like to drink.
‘Champagne,’ I smile.
‘You are Russian, you should drink vodka,’ he yawps.
‘Oh … hmm, OK … vodka tonic please,’ I smile.
At some point, while I’m politely listening to the guy - whose accent I can’t make head or tail of - Gabi approaches me and promiscuously strokes my neck. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I steal this lovely lady from you,’ she says impishly.
‘Howdy!’ The “cowboy” exclaims in a creepy voice. ‘I can do this rodeo, yoo-hoo.’ He thrusts his hips as if he was already having sex. ‘Y’all Russian girls are so awesome.’ He touches his crotch.
‘We’ll be right back.’ Gabi quickly leads me to the lavatory.
‘You cannot go into the cubicle together.’ A toilet attendant tries to stop us but Gabi gives her a fiver and she lets us in. She takes out a card-sized mirror and makes a couple of fat lines, while I roll up a twenty-pound note.
I hesitate for a moment … it’s been a while … you just don’t refuse Cuba’s finest.
The sharp-edged snowdrops burn my self-restrained nostrils, freezing my gums, my soul … frozen like it has always been … sitting on the toilet, leaning on the wall, drifting away … closing my eyes to all Gabi’s talk of how amazing Omar is.
‘Let’s do body shots!’ She jolts me out of my stupor. ‘Those guys are from good families, you should totally hook up with one of them,’ she excitedly shouts, getting out of the loo.
Graciously we step onto the table and show off our sexiest moves, touching each other.
Gabi salaciously puts a lemon slice in her mouth, while I put some charlie on the edge of my palm. I lick it off, down the shot of vodka, and take the lemon out of Gabi’s mouth, progressing into a passionate kiss, as the crowd whistles and cheers around us.
We continue dancing and kissing each other, pretending we don’t see anyone. Soon she puts a new slice of lemon into my mouth and sniffs charlie straight from the little plastic bag. Then she takes the lemon out of my mouth, segueing into yet another passionate kiss … we’re touching each other’s pushed up breasts, and rubbing against each other’s hot bodies.
At some point Omar grabs Gabi’s arm and harshly pulls her down from the table. She barely manages to balance on her massive stilettos.
‘What the hell are you doing? Are you completely out of your mind?’ she yells at him.
‘You dishonor me in front of my friends,’ he yells back.
‘I always do this, this is how we met!’ Gabi argues.
‘You behave like a prostitute.’ He slaps her in the face in front of everybody.
She steps back, holding her cheek, gazing at him with abhorrence. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Gabi sobs, hastily walking out of the club.
In the cab she cries, sniffing off the remains of the plastic bag. ‘What an asshole,’ she whines. ‘I hate him. This will cost him another handbag,’ she weeps, emotionally throwing the coral pink Chanel on the floor.
We arrive at the Mayfair club for the after-party, but just when we get to the front door Gabi manages to fall off her heels on the dirty red carpet, slippery from the drizzle.
With Gabi swearing and crying over her spoiled look, we get back into a cab to go home.
‘Try to have a good rest,’ I suggest, dropping her off in front of her doorstep. ‘The night brings counsel.’
‘Whatever,’ she rages. ‘I’ll never forgive that asshole!’ She totters through the doorway, hiccuping.
The drive back to the empty, scary East feels like leaving a fairy tale in a carriage turning into a pumpkin.
I quietly enter Richard’s apartment without switching the lights on, not wanting to wake him up, especially if he is not alone.
Trying to find my way in complete darkness, I bump into a chair by the door. Richard must have moved it there to lift more stuff up to the mezzanine above the front door.
Suddenly, I slip in my heels and crash into the IKEA closet.
Richard, squinting sleepily, comes out of the kitchen.
‘Katya, are you OK?’ he says, bending down toward me on the floor where I sit in pain, holding my left ankle.
‘It hurts,’ I whine, not having enough strength to control my tears, or the coordination to strike a more graceful pose.
‘Take off your shoes,’ he says, examining my foot, gently touching it in various places with his hands … such caring hands … each stroke magically takes away some of the pain, substituting it with warmth … melting the snow that has been dancing in me for the last couple of hours.
My short skirt is pulled up way above my panties and, as Richard examines my foot, I stretch out the other leg, so he can see my crotch.
I move my face towards his, resisting the pain in my leg, and kiss him. For a second I close my eyes and feel the closeness of his body, his iron muscles … and his care. He was so nice to me … I must be grateful … and pay him back.
Richard abruptly pushes back, gets up and walks off, pulling the closet back up on the way, leaving me sitting there in dismay, wondering what has just happened.
A moment later, he brings me a bag of ice. ‘It’s just a little sprain. You should be fine tomorrow. Try to get some rest. You have an important day tomorrow,’ he says, closing the door to the kitchen.
Beaten and sobered up, I slowly shamble to my bed as my foot goes numb, as though all of the bones have been removed.
The metal bars of the mattress punish every part of my body, piercing my heart. I want to cry from desperation but refrain from making a sound, scared to wake him up again.
Nobody wants me here … I need to get out of this place as soon as possible … get this job in Moscow … and the relocation package. This is the only way.
Quietly, I take my laptop to get the updates for my interview in six hours’ time … It opens up Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot, which I could never start reading …
She enjoyed her own pain by this egoism of suffering, if I may so express it. This aggravation of suffering and this rebelling in it I could understand; it is the enjoyment of man, of the insulted and injured, oppressed by destiny, and smarting under the sense of its injustice …
At 7 a.m. Richard wakes me up. I quickly get up, make up my bed and sit still on its edge with my legs crossed and arms folded, waiting for the verdict.
‘How’s your leg?’ he asks, making porridge as if nothing has happened.
‘It’s OK,’ I say, hobbling to the bathroom.
‘I’ve got a bandage you might want to use. It’ll be easier to walk.’ He speaks in his usual cheerful manner, but I know there is something wrong. He just wants to make sure I can walk fine so he does not feel guilty kicking me out.
‘Thank you,’ I say, noiselessly brushing my teeth, trying to get rid of the unpleasant aftertaste, a mix of vodka and blow coming up my throat.
He looks at me for a few moments. ‘Look, about last night … it’s not that I don’t find you attractive or anything. It’s quite the contrary, actually.’ He sounds somewhat bashful. ‘But you were drunk and all vulnerable; it just would have been wrong. Do you understand?’ he asks attentively.
I nod. ‘So, when do you want me out?’ I ask shyly.
‘I don’t want you out!’ He raises his voice like a strict schoolteacher. ‘It doesn’t change anything. We’re friends. You can stay as long as you like.’
‘OK,’ I say quietly, convinced our relationship is never going to be the same again.
‘I know I’m amazing, girls cannot resist me,’ he banters, coming over and putting the bandage on my foot. ‘It doesn’t mean, however, you won’t need to clean up all this mess,’ he says, hinting at the clothes and shelves strewn all over the floor.
‘I don’t know what you were on last night, but you are a lot more attractive sober,’ he says jauntily, making me smile.
‘How was your date?’ I ask, stretching my leg.
‘She’s a nice girl … well, maybe too nice … a bit boring actually, no spice whatsoever … she has no intention of changing the world, unlike my lovely roommate,’ he winks, and puts a bowl of porridge in front of me on the table.
‘I don’t have any intention of changing the world …’ I say, confused.
‘Well, you want to change yourself, that’s a start … even if you don’t realize it yet.’ He smiles cryptically. ‘By the way, Hugo Chavez is in Moscow today to discuss the construction of new oil plants on the Venezuelan coast. If you get a question on business opportunities in Russia, you could say you’ll be selling lots of the high-margin Venezuelan currency to your oil-dependent clients who are investing in the project. Actually, I might write a big article about it on the weekend,’ he says, putting his sneakers on to go for a jog.
‘Not sure the UK investors of the Russian Oil Company will get too excited about that,’ I say, slowly starting my breakfast.
‘Yep, you can help them to buy their sterling back.’ Richard fixes his backpack on.
‘Thank you for the tip. I might use it at the interview,’ I say timidly.
‘It’s OK,’ he smiles. ‘In the theater, they say, ‘break a leg’. You’ve practically done that already, so you’ll be fine,’ he winks.
After he leaves I get up, make myself a cup of strong coffee and take a couple of painkillers to stop the endless pain in my head … and my foot.
Subprime crisis … Oil … Russia … Venezuela … Richard … refusing a hot girl, just because it is not right? Who does that?
I put on a crisp, white blouse, knee length skirt and flat shoes and take a taxi to the Swiss Bank office to save my poor foot from the hassle of the tube.
The interview is held in a big white boardroom, identical to the one at Lehman. Two efficient blonde females with fake smiles and a balding high-profile MD shake my hand, prompting anxiety, extensive perspiration and a strange sense of déjà vu on my part.
I take a few deep breaths and tell the MD pretty much the same that I have already told Bruno, with textbook confidence and a can-do attitude, straight spine, eager gaze, and low tone. I pause before the important words: ‘… Vast business opportunities … enhanced profit on structured notes … twenty million dollar revenue projection.’ A greedy smile on the MD’s face suggests he likes what he hears.
The mystery of human existence lies in finding something to live for.
Fighting exhaustion and an increasingly pounding headache, I squeeze out the remains of my strength to keep face until the last question and the final handshake.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ one of the blondes finally says, implying the meeting is over.
‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you. Have a good day,’ I say, smiling professionally at the MD and leaving the room.
The first cab in the line in front of the building takes me back home to the crappy mattress, which now feels like the most comfortable bed ever, and I pass out. I did everything I could today …
A phone call wakes me up.
‘Ciao, Katya. This is Cara. I’ve just had a call from Bruno. He would like me to tell you that his colleagues were impressed by you and your market knowledge. They would like to make you an offer,’ she says cheerfully.
‘Oh my God!’ I force the scream I imagined I’d produce on hearing those words, but it comes out hoarse. ‘That’s fantastic news!’
‘We did it!’ she exclaims. ‘You’ll receive the formal offer within the next few days. They’d like you to start as soon as possible. The corporate apartment is already waiting for you. Exciting!’ Her voice sounds like a loud bell in my fragile head.
‘Amazing, I’m so delighted.’ I try to match Cara’s tone.
‘You did really well. They were really impressed with your strategic view of Russian–Venezuelan current affairs. You can celebrate now. I’ll deal with all the formalities for you.’
‘Grazie mille. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.’ We keep exchanging compliments until she finally hangs up.
‘I got the offer!’ I immediately message Gabi.
‘OMG. We should totally celebrate,’ she texts back.
‘Of course!’ I respond.
A few hours later, after my prolonged siesta, we meet at the British Luxury Club. A few drinks and lines later, whilst Gabi is dog-licking some Paris Hilton clone, I accidently fall on a tall mulatto with funky curly hair and a designer jacket, and break his exclusive, one-of-a-kind Alexander McQueen sunglasses.
After having a stoned discussion about his shades, we snog in the same fashion as Gabi and her companion. Hours later I wake up with my blue-eyed stud at his hotel in Bond Street and in the evening fly to his beach house in Trinidad and Tobago, where he produces music for Destiny’s Child … or so he says.
‘The world is your oyster,’ Richard texts me when I inform him of my whereabouts.
The drug haze sweeps over me - until one morning I wake up and realize I need to be in Moscow the next day …