There are only five people waiting on the eastbound Central line platform at Bank; four Australian backpackers and Mark, who is standing in front of a Maximuscle poster with his iPod headphones in his ears.
The tube rumbles into the station and the doors open. Mark sits down opposite a man with long greasy hair who has a guitar case between his legs. Next to Mark, an Indian man with a droopy moustache folds up a copy of the Metro and drops it over his shoulder into the narrow gap between his head and the window. The tube arrives at Liverpool Street and jolts to a stop.
Mark taps his Oyster card on the reader and proceeds up the steps onto the overland station’s bright, busy concourse. A suited man on crutches is limping his way towards Platform 17 through the fast-moving flow of commuters. Nobody is queuing in the thirty-bay ticket office. Above Mark’s head the giant electronic board displays the departure times of trains to Stansted Airport, Cambridge, Great Yarmouth and Norwich.
He queues at the cash machines at the foot of the stairs leading up to ground level and stares up at the parade of shops that overlook the concourse: Marks and Spencer, Tie Rack, Supercuts, Vodafone, and, directly ahead of him, McDonald’s and Pret A Manger. Mark withdraws £20, checks his watch and treats himself to a strawberry and granola breakfast pot in Pret.
A crowd of office workers have gathered outside The Broker, the pub on the corner of Liverpool Street and Old Broad Street. There’s a lot of shoulder shrugging and glum expressions. Mark watches as the doors are unbolted and they file in. He looks at his watch again. It is 11 a.m. ‘Someone’s celebrating,’ he says to himself as he licks his plastic spoon clean.
In a quiet corner of Starbucks, a woman in a long coat is crying into her mobile phone. Her mascara is running. Mark orders a venti white chocolate mocha to take away and wanders around the corner to his office.
There are four television crews outside filming ashen-faced MenDax employees leaving the building, carrying their possessions in filing boxes. A bald man with a fawn trench coat slung over his arm pushes a TV cameraman out of his path. The woman who follows him out of the revolving doors doesn’t say a word when a reporter asks her what the atmosphere is like inside. A bemused-looking graduate is telling ITN that this was meant to be his first day.
A microphone is thrust under Mark’s nose and he is asked for his reaction to the news. He knocks it out of the way and points to his earphones. He pushes his way inside against the tide of departing staff, swipes his ID card and waits by the lifts.
The doors on the far left roll back and its passengers spill out into the reception. Two tubby men are arguing. Mark gets into the empty lift and selects the twelfth floor.
The Scandinavian markets department is deserted. The computers are off and it’s silent. Mark pulls his headphones out. Amy’s handbag is on her desk next to an uneaten croissant. A scarf is draped over the back of her chair. He plugs his dead BlackBerry into the charger on his desk and turns on his PC, sipping his coffee as the computer boots up.
Amy walks in through the glass doors. Her eyes are streaming and she’s holding a packet of tissues.
‘I thought you might have been here earlier,’ she says to Mark, dabbing her nose.
‘I had a meeting.’
‘With Runoff?’
‘No. One of my clients.’
‘How much did they have invested?’ Amy asks, taking another tissue from the packet.
‘Not much at the moment,’ Mark says focussing on his computer screen. ‘I was trying to get them to put in another ten million.’ Suddenly he stops. ‘WOOHW WOOHW WOOHW WOOHW WOOHW! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!’ he shouts.
He turns his computer screen to Amy. MenDax Wealth Management collapses is the top story on the BBC Business website. He rocks back in his seat with his mouth wide open.
‘Christ, Mark. Please tell me you’re joking. Where have you been? Haven’t you read the emails? It was even on the news.’
‘I’ve had meetings.’
‘Don’t talk crap, Mark. Why do you think there are television cameras outside? Why do you think everyone downstairs is clearing their desks and going home? Why do you think there’s nobody here and I’ve been crying? Are you really that fucking unobservant?’
‘Don’t swear at me, Amy. I thought you were upset about something.’
‘I am upset, Mark. I’m upset because I haven’t got a job. And if I haven’t got a job, I can’t pay my mortgage.’ Amy starts crying again.
‘I’m too busy to watch the news.’
‘Busy? Busy doing what? No wonder this company has gone bust with clowns like you working here.’
‘What do you mean gone bust? And I’m not a clown.’
‘What bit about going bust don’t you understand?’
‘It can’t be. We’ve got loads of money.’
‘Not any more. Anyway we never had money. It all belonged to other people.’
‘But surely we’ve got something.’
‘Loansbanki collapsed over the weekend.’
‘What?’
‘Loansbanki went into receivership. It’s now owned by the Icelandic government. How can you not have seen that anywhere?’
‘So? Surely we’ll get all the money back.’
‘No. We probably won’t get any of it back.’
‘But not all of our money was in Loansbanki was it?’
‘No, Mark. Not all of it, just ninety-six per cent.’
‘What, this can’t be right. There must be something we can do.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, don’t we need to have a meeting with Justin or something?’
‘Mark, MenDax has shut down. It no longer exists. We don’t have jobs. There’s no company to have a meeting about, you idiot.’
Mark closes the webpage. ‘Where are the others? Justin must be gutted. Hasn’t he just bought a new house?’
‘Forget Justin, Mark. He sensed this was coming.’
‘He’s already got a new job.’
‘What do you mean he’s got a new job? Where?’
‘He’s working for Runoff Investment Securities.’
‘Who?’
‘They’re American. A private wealth management company. They’re based in New York, but they’re opening a London office which Justin is going to be running. Have you heard of Reggie Runoff? Big American financier.’
‘Yes, of course. How do you know this?’
‘Ian told me. He came in earlier to pick up his stuff.’ Amy sniffs.
‘How did he know?’
‘Him and Julia are going to work there as well.’
‘What?’ Mark’s jaw drops even further and his eyes narrow until they are tiny slits.
‘Justin’s taking them with him. This must have been going on for months. I thought the three of them kept disappearing together for meetings. They were probably having interviews. I thought you’d be with them actually.’
‘Why, because I was Justin’s number two?’
‘No, because you were out of the office so much.’
Mark turns on his BlackBerry and reads the emails confirming what Amy has told him. ‘Have you phoned Justin?’
‘What would I want to talk to him for?’
‘I’m going to call him. This can’t be right. He wouldn’t do this. We must be going there as well. We were best mates.’
Mark calls his former boss and leaves a message asking him to call him when he has a moment.
‘He wasn’t your mate, Mark,’ Amy says.
‘Yes he was. Think of all the nights out we went on. We are mates.’
‘Those were just to keep you sweet.’
‘No they weren’t. He used to tell me I’d be his successor. He said I’d have fifty staff under me by Christmas.’
‘Is that why he gave you the smallest bonus in the department?’
‘What? That’s not true. I got more than you did. And anyway my bonus was only that size because my salary was going to treble when we bought those other companies.’
‘What other companies?’ Amy says, shaking her head.
‘I’m not sure, Justin didn’t say.’
‘Mark, go and look in Justin’s office.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s left the bonus structure on his desk, just in case we don’t get the message that he doesn’t want us.’
‘How do you know they’re right?’
‘My bonus is right. It’s the second smallest.’
‘But it wasn’t that much was it?’
‘Go and look for yourself.’
Mark rushes into Justin’s office. All of the personal items - the framed certificates, the family photographs, the portrait, the putter, even the coat stand - have gone. In the middle of the desk is a single sheet of A4 with the names of the five department members and their 2008 bonus payments. Mark falls forward onto the desk, propping himself up with his outstretched arms. His head hangs and his eyes are closed.
After several minutes he pushes himself up and walks back to Amy at a funereal pace. His face is colourless.
‘I feel sick,’ he says, falling onto his chair. ‘This is my 9/11.’
‘I’m sorry, Mark. I don’t want you to think I’m rubbing it in.’
Mark shakes his head. ‘Sixty-five grand for Ian. Ian. That sap.’
‘He was trying to get me to buy shares as well. He must have hated me.’ Amy wipes her eyes.
‘He gave you forty grand though. He told me I’d got one of the biggest. I think I’m going to be sick.’
Mark drags his fingers down his face, temporarily deforming his features, and then pulls his bin under his mouth and dry wretches. Amy watches in mild disgust.
‘I think your phone’s buzzing,’ she says.
Mark’s mobile is next to his keyboard. ‘It’s a text from Justin.’
‘What does it say?’
He reads the message and then holds it up for Amy. It says: MenDax has closed. Your unemployed, you twat. Good luck in life.
‘Little shitbag,’ she says. ‘And he’s used the wrong you’re. It should be apostrophe R E. Just about sums him up.’
Mark and Amy sit in silence. Mark opens his email inbox and deletes everything apart from an email from Mankini, which he forwards to his private account.
Amy is going through her desk drawers, throwing old bits of stationery and MenDax promotional material in the bin. She takes down the family photograph she has pinned to the right of her computer and slips it inside a Louise Bagshawe novel she has never started. She places the small make-up bag and mirror she kept at work into her handbag and offers Mark her croissant. Her desk is completely clear. There is no sign of her ever having been there.
‘What are you going to do about your laptop?’ she asks.
‘I haven’t thought about it. I don’t want it. I’ve got a better one at home. I might just leave it on a train for somebody else to have.’
‘Like the first two you had? I think I might take mine home.’
‘You can’t, can you?’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s stealing.’
‘I couldn’t care less. What are they going to do? Sack me? If they want it back, they can come and get it.’
Mark shuts down his computer and throws the empty file on his desk in the bin. His desk drawers contain one copy of the Metro from November 2007 and a brochure from Porsche, both of which he disposes of.
‘Why didn’t someone stop this happening?’ Mark asks, glumly tapping a pencil on the desk.
‘Like who?’
‘The directors.’
‘The directors are the ones who have got us into this mess.’
‘It’s not their fault really though is it?’
‘Mark, of course it’s their fault. We had virtually all our money invested in one bank. Our fortunes were inexorably linked to Loansbanki. If they failed we failed. They’re a bunch of selfish, brainless morons.’
‘Come on, they’re not morons are they? They’re rich and successful businessmen.’
‘Rich and successful? Mark, why are you defending these people? It’s because of them we’ve lost our jobs. All of our investors have lost their money. They’ve milked this company for every penny. Do you know how much the board paid themselves in bonuses last year?’
‘Um, no.’
‘Over five hundred million. Five hundred million! For running a company that was completely reliant on the success of one corrupt bank. It’s madness.’
‘Yeah, but they deserved that money then.’
‘Why?’ Amy’s scowling.
‘Because they did. It’s how money works. You have to take risks.’
‘They didn’t take a risk. What they did was plain fucking stupidity.’
‘No it wasn’t. The investors knew the risks.’
‘Mark, people came to us thinking that their money would be safe. Not that we’d just stick the whole lot in one high interest bank account and hope for the best.’
‘They were taking a chance. Anyway, how about the hundreds of people working downstairs? I thought it was just us who used Loansbanki?’
‘It was initially. But the returns were so good the senior management eventually channelled all of the incoming money there. Money that wasn’t there originally, they had transferred.’
Mark stares out of the window. Every few seconds another person carrying a brown box crosses the road and disappears into Liverpool Street. There are a crowd of people drinking on the street outside The Broker. Mark’s mobile phone is buzzing. It’s Uncle John. He ignores it.
‘Shall we go for a drink?’ Amy suggests.
‘OK. I’ve got time for one,’ Mark says, with no hint of irony.
They push their chairs under their desks and take in the deserted office. Amy sighs despondently and puts her coat on.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Mark says. ‘We’ll get new jobs, no problem.’
He turns the lights off and they head out through the glass doors for the last time.
Outside, a smug BBC reporter asks the pair for the reaction to the collapse. Mark says he doesn’t work for MenDax and carries on past.
The pub is packed. Some people are already drunk. A loud, bearded man in his fifties is drinking champagne with a group of indistinguishable male financiers who go outside in ones and twos to smoke. In one corner sit members of the MenDax post room team. They’re all wearing company polo shirts and looking miserable.
Mark orders a Magners and buys Amy a vodka and orange. Amy talks about how, even when Lehman Brothers fell, she never thought they were vulnerable. She says that there are so many people unemployed now that competition for jobs is enormous. Mark tells her to stop being so depressing.
She asks Mark what he is going to do. He says that he’ll either get a job somewhere else through one of his contacts or go on holiday for a while. She finishes her drink and says she’s going. Mark asks her to stay longer, but she says she needs to update her CV. Mark downs the rest of his cider and follows her out of the door and across to the tube station. She tells Mark that she wants to be on her own, says she’ll call him and leaves him standing at the ticket barriers.
He wanders in shock along Bishopsgate and up Threadneedle Street, towards Bank. He then purchases a sandwich and a Mars bar from Boots and sits on a bench outside the Royal Exchange, by the statue of Wellington. When he finishes his lunch he remains there, eyes fixed on the Bank of England, for almost an hour.
A clock chimes to signal two o’clock and Mark strides off down Poultry. He goes into Austin Reed, buys himself a new shirt and tie on his MenDax American Express card and gets on the Northern line back to Clapham.
*
The International Bank of Scotland’s City branch is so vast and ornate that it takes Mark several minutes to locate the customer services desk. Once there, he tells Shelley – who is around forty and has a monotone voice - he wants to meet whoever is in charge of small business loans. She asks if he has an appointment. He says that he didn’t think he’d need one. She asks him to take a seat.
Mark sits and places his red ‘Business’ folder on the table next to him. Shelley knocks on a giant arched door at the other end of the bank and goes in.
Mark reads over his business plan once again and avoids looking at the stream of stern-faced suit-wearers who file past. A cashier is trying to explain to a confused old lady that this isn’t NatWest.
Shelley paces back over to Mark and tells him that someone can see him, but he’ll have to wait an hour. To her surprise, he says that’s fine.
Fred, a slim, confident Scot with short grey hair and a narrow, joyless face, shakes Mark’s hand and welcomes him into his office. The walls are covered with gilt-framed John Constable landscapes and behind the antique mahogany desk is a tartan-covered gold throne. A set of skis are resting in the corner next to a full-size stuffed tiger. There is no computer.
Mark is invited to take a seat and offered a glass of mineral water. Fred settles down on his throne and apologises for keeping Mark so long.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Mark says.
‘Shelley didn’t really explain why you wanted to see me, so perhaps you could tell me a little about yourself and how you think we can be of assistance.’
Mark has a drink and clears his throat. ‘Basically, I’m a young entrepreneur looking for a backer. My background is in high finance and I’ve got a degree in business and I want to borrow a small amount of money to help launch my next venture.’
‘OK,’ Fred says. ‘What is your business?’
‘I’m going to open a chain of luxury ice cream parlours around London and in all other major cities in Europe: Paris, Madrid, Barcelona, Berlin, Amsterdam, Los Angeles, Las Vegas.’
‘Right,’ says Fred, with a wry smile. ‘That’s certainly very ambitious.’
‘Obviously not all at once though. I want to launch in London and then build from there.’
‘What’s your interest in ice cream? Do you have any experience of the ice cream trade?’
‘I have conducted extensive market research and there’s a gaping hole in the market to be exploited. Everyone loves ice cream, but at the moment the only places you can buy ice creams from are corner shops or those vans run by pikeys. People don’t want to have to walk the streets eating their ice creams, and the USP of my business is that not only will we sell amazing ice cream - the real luxury stuff in thousands of flavours - we’ll give the customer somewhere luxurious to sit and enjoy it. Think of it as being like a luxury ice cream restaurant.’
‘I think I understand the concept,’ Fred says. ‘What market research have you done?’
‘I carried out a survey in some of the most popular areas of London and the results were almost unanimous. I went to places like Clapham Common, Battersea Park, Hyde Park and I asked people if they like ice cream and everyone said “yes”.’
‘But that’s not a basis for starting a business, that’s just a straw poll. What research have you done into the ice cream market?’
‘Lots. Do you know how many places there are exclusively selling upmarket ice cream in London?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll tell you - none.’
‘But why do you think that is? What proof have you got of the demand for an upmarket ice cream parlour?’
‘The sales of ice cream are going up and up every year in shops and supermarkets. The average person in Britain consumes one hundred litres of ice cream a year yet there is no shop or restaurant that caters exclusively for ice cream lovers.’
Fred purses his lips. ‘One hundred litres? That sounds like a lot.’
‘It is a lot. If I can attract just a fraction of that custom I’d have a massively profitable business. Also, two hundred million rich tourists visit London every year. I’d absolutely clean up in the summer. I aim to make my chain an iconic luxury brand. I’m not selling them ice cream; I’m selling them a lifestyle. It’s a lifestyle brand. If you buy one of my ice creams, it says something about you as a person.’
‘What is your target market?’
‘The rich. That’s why I’ve already decided where I’m going to launch my first outlet.’
‘Where?’
‘On the King’s Road, in that row of shops between Sloane Square and the Saatchi Gallery. It’s one of the richest streets in the world. People who shop there have lots of money, and a lot of them have children, and children love ice cream.’
‘Shop rents on the King’s Road are very expensive.’
‘Three hundred and fifty thousand a year.’
‘How are you going to get these people into your shop?’
‘By being a luxury brand that rich people would want to be associated with. It’s essential that the business attracts the right sort of customer which is why I’d place my products right at the top end of the market. I’m not going to be selling cones for a pound, I’ll be selling the best ice cream money can buy at prices only a select number of people can afford.’
‘But aren’t you limiting your market that way, if only a fraction of people can afford to buy your product?’
‘No, I don’t think so. If I made it too cheap, my shops would be overrun by teenagers and people with nowhere else to go. I want to make it look and feel more like a Bond Street jewellers. I want people to think twice before coming in.’
‘How much are you planning to charge for your ice creams?’
‘A cone would be at least ten pounds. A bowl of ice cream and a seat at a table would start at around twenty-five pounds per head.’
‘And you think people would pay that?’
‘Yes, definitely. My target customer is the woman who has just spent three grand on a handbag, or the man who’s just bought himself a new Jacob Perville suit in Peter Jones and needs to take the kids somewhere for a treat. If people will pay three grand for a handbag, or two hundred grand for a car, they’ll pay a tenner for an ice cream.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘I know how the rich think.’
Fred links his hands and brings his index fingers to his chin. ‘Would you just sell ice cream? Do you think that people would buy ice cream in the middle of winter?’
‘Ah, I’ve already thought of that. You know how in the summer Star-bucks sell iced coffee, frappuccinos and other cold drinks? Well, I’d serve ice cream warm.’
‘Warm, how would that work? Surely by its very nature it’s a cold dish?’
‘No, warm ice cream would be a huge seller. It would obviously still be cold to an extent, but I’d create new flavours which would warm people up, using brandy and other ingredients. Think of dry white wine. Wine is wet, but it can be dry at the same time. My ice cream would work to a similar theory. We’d have a designated winter range. People would love the innovation and the novelty. I’d also serve drinks of course: coffee, lemonade, tea, whatever people wanted depending on the time of year. Another factor is global warming. Scientists predict that in five years’ time the average temperature will increase by around three degrees per year and when the weather gets hotter, people want to eat something that cools them down.’
Fred clicks his gold pen. ‘Who’s actually going to supply the product?’
‘I’m in negotiations with several suppliers at the moment. One in Manchester and another based in Cornwall who makes bespoke flavours.’
‘And how far have you got with negotiations with them?’
‘I’m in the process of drawing up contracts.’
‘So you already have some financial backing?’
‘Yes. I have two private investors who have put in three hundred thousand each.’
‘And who are they, may I ask?’
‘My uncle and his business partner.’
Fred writes that down on his pad and then scribbles something else out. He looks intensely at Mark. ‘You said you were an entrepreneur, Mark, but what actual experience have you got of running a business?’
‘Yes,’ Mark says and drinks some more water.
‘Can you tell me what exactly?’
‘At the moment I’m a junior director at Runoff Investment Securities.’
‘Yes, but that’s not your business is it?’
‘No, that’s my nine-to-five job. I’ve worked there since university to get experience in a corporate environment as I thought that was vital to my development as a businessman, but I also have another company that I run in my spare time. I’m a property developer.’
‘And how long have you been doing that?’
‘For a couple of years. I buy properties, mostly abroad, renovate them and then sell them on.’
‘And you do that on your own?’
‘No, with a business partner, Craig Tennant, he looks after the business on a day-to-day basis. I’m the majority shareholder and make all the big decisions.’
‘And has your property business been making a profit?’
‘Err, yes, we turned over £1.34 million last financial year.’
‘That’s a lot for a two-person operation.’
‘But we have a team of contractors employed almost twelve months a year, so it’s far more than just the two of us.’
‘And you posted a profit?’
‘Yes. Last year it was five hundred thousand.’
‘You made a five hundred thousand pound profit on a £1.34 million turnover? And I would be able to see the accounts of this business would I?’
‘Err, yes, I’ll bring them in one day.’
Fred pauses. ‘You seem very young to have had such a successful career so far. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘That is young.’
‘Yes, but look at Alan Sugar or Richard Branson, they were much younger than me when they were millionaires.’
‘Perhaps. So I take it that you have already invested heavily in this new idea?’
‘Yes. Thousands.’
‘And you want the bank to invest some extra capital just to push you over the line?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Can I see your business plan?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Mark opens his folder and hands Fred a single sheet with a single paragraph printed followed by a short column of figures.
Fred reads. ‘Mark, this isn’t a business plan.’
‘That’s the simplified version. The long plan runs to over ten pages.’
‘That would have been what I wanted to see.’ Fred glances back down at the sheet. ‘It says here that your running costs would be over one million pounds a year. You’d have to sell a lot of ice creams to make that back.’
‘Yeah, but I’ve factored that in, haven’t I, in the figures.’
‘Yes, you estimate you’ll sell, on average, one thousand ice creams a day at an average price of twelve pounds.’
‘Yes, that gives me an income of four million three hundred and twenty thousand per outlet per year. That’s a massive profit.’
‘Mark, experience tells me that people just won’t buy any kind of luxury product at that price in that quantity.’
‘They will. Think about how much money people spend on alcohol.’
‘Yes, but having a drink is all part of socialising. People will not sit in your ice cream parlour all night and have ten ice creams.’
‘They will when I build it. You wouldn’t have thought people would sit around drinking coffee or eating pizza or fish and chips but they’re all successful markets.’
‘Yes, but a pizza or fish and chips is a substantial meal at a far cheaper price. Also I think there’s the health aspect to consider. People are very health conscious these days. They won’t want to be seen to be pumping themselves and their children full of ice cream.’
‘The average person in Britain is morbidly obese. I don’t know if you’ve been to an Asda or Lidl recently. Those people would lap up my idea.’
‘But the average Asda or Lidl customer isn’t your target consumer, or am I wrong?’
‘No, that’s the genius. They would aspire to eat at one of my parlours. They’d save up and go there as a special treat. Once they were inside, they’d be so blown away by what was on offer they wouldn’t be able to help themselves.’
‘Mark, I’m finding your pitch very confusing. I simply cannot see how this would be a viable business.’
‘How about Starbucks then? Do you not think that’s a viable business either?’
‘Starbucks would not sell many coffees if they were in excess of ten pounds each.’
‘You don’t know that. They have a loyal customer base that would go there whatever it cost. People in the City who queue up at Starbucks every morning haven’t got a clue how much it costs, they just hand over the cash.’
‘Mark, I think you’re underestimating the consumer,’ Fred says, shaking his head. ‘Members of the general public would not spend small fortunes on ice cream, particularly in a country where the weather is primarily cold and wet.’
‘I don’t agree. It would all be about marketing. If you can give me a small amount of financial backing, I’d get the first place up and running and it would be a huge hit. I’d make ice cream sexy. I’d have the waitresses they have in the best nightclubs dressed up in skimpy outfits. It would give the place a touch of class and elegance.’
‘I don’t think a few girls in skimpy outfits is the difference between a successful business and a failure. How much of an investment are you looking for?’
‘Only seven hundred thousand,’ Mark says.
Fred laughs. ‘That’s completely out of the question.’
‘But I read that you were meant to be helping new businesses, to kick-start the economy.’
‘We loan the average small business around twenty thousand pounds. Seven hundred thousand pounds is an incredible amount of money. In fact I have never been asked for anywhere near that amount from a start-up in the entire time I’ve worked for IBS.’
‘But I could repay that within two years.’
‘Mark you have not presented me with any evidence that you could repay it. Your business plan is pure fantasy and I’m astonished that you even think we’d consider loaning you any money when you take such an amateurish approach.’
‘I am not an amateur. I know about money and business. You can’t spot a good investment.’
‘Mark, the International Bank of Scotland has a responsibility to its shareholders. We are a business. We don’t just hand out great big lumps of cash to everyone who walks through our doors and asks for it. I have to make a judgement. If someone comes in with a sound business plan, asking for a level of investment that I deem suitable then we will offer support. However, this is not the case with you. If I gave you what is frankly a staggering amount of money I would be hauled up in front of the board. We have to make sure that when we do invest, we do so to people we feel would make good use of the money. There is no evidence to suggest that your business would succeed, particularly in such an uncertain climate, so I’m afraid we won’t be able to help.’
‘I can’t believe this,’ Mark says, snatching back his business plan. ‘I’ve offered you a golden opportunity to support a young, gifted entrepreneur and you’re not interested. No wonder the economy is in trouble.’
‘Mark, please don’t be angry. If you expand your business plan and do some more research into the market and downgrade your demands, particularly if you’re going to continue to look for support from the banks, you may find that in the long run someone may want to invest.’
‘They will. You’ll see.’
‘Well, I hope they do. I can see you’ve got a lot of passion for the business.’ Fred gets up from his seat, tweaks his gold watch and offers his hand to Mark, who takes it fleetingly. ‘Oh and Mark, one last thing you may like to consider; I’d think about changing the company’s name. I don’t think Fatman Scoops really sets the right tone.’
‘I was going to change that anyway,’ Mark says, tucking his folder under his arm. ‘I’m going to called it Licked Out.’
Craig is watching Sky Sports News when Mark gets home.
‘You look knackered. Tough day?’ Craig asks.
‘You could say that.’ Mark chucks his folder into his room and gets an apple from the fridge. ‘You haven’t seen the news today have you?’
‘No. Why, what’s happened?’