M
ark stands in the sunshine outside Pizza Galleria on Piccadilly and checks the venue on his BlackBerry. A long queue snakes out along the pavement. He peers up and down the line, pushes through the restaurant’s doors and joins it at the front, ignoring complaints from the people behind him. A bearded waiter hands him a single-sheet menu and asks if it’s a table for one.
Mark says there should be a booking for Harry Todd. The waiter consults the maître d’ and Mark follows him down the spiral staircase.
Twenty tables have been crammed into the lower floor, most of them occupied by bloated tourists. The atmosphere is stuffy and opposite the stairs, three red-faced chefs are frantically sliding pizzas in and out of industrial-sized stainless steel ovens.
Mark takes off his suit jacket and loosens his silver tie. The waiter shuffles his way past a crying child whose highchair juts out into the gangway and points Mark to a table at the back where a morbidly obese, balding man in his fifties is mopping his brow with a serviette. He is wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt and a red tie.
‘Harry?’
The man wipes the sweat out of his eyes and puts his tinted glasses back on.
‘Hello. You must be Mark. Pleasure to meet you.’
His mountainous stomach gets trapped under the table as he rises from his seat, jolting the cutlery.
‘Hi,’ Mark says, wiping his hand after they have shaken. ‘I’m a bit late. I took a cab from the office and the traffic was bad.’
‘Oh that’s no problem,’ Harry says. ‘I was delayed as well. Person under a train at Peckham Rye.’
‘Oh.’
They sit down and Harry peruses the menu.
‘It’s hot in here,’ Mark says, tugging at the collar of his shirt.
‘It certainly is. I don’t get on well with the heat. It’s probably not so much of a problem for a fit young man like yourself.’
‘It’s a bit hot, even for me.’ Mark sucks his stomach in.
‘I hope you don’t mind the restaurant. I know it’s not exactly The Ritz. My secretary suggested it. You do like pizza don’t you?’
‘Yeah, I do. The Ritz is down the road for future reference.’
A loud American woman on the next table tells her friend to look in the guidebook and find out if Buckingham Palace was where Princess Diana lived.
An eastern European waitress asks Mark and Harry what they’d like to drink. Harry, with Mark’s approval, orders a bottle of Chardonnay and a jug of iced tap water.
‘So, Harry, let’s talk business. Justin filled me in with a few details but obviously I’d rather hear it from you so I’m clear about how we can work together.’
The wine arrives as Harry begins to explain and he invites Mark to sample it. Mark swills it around in his mouth and swallows it.
‘Yeah fine,’ he says.
‘You must drink a lot of wine, in your line of work,’ Harry says. ‘All the client lunches and what have you.’
‘Drinking wine’s an important part of the job. That and champagne.’
Two sideburns of sweat have formed beside Harry’s ears. He
chuckles
and wipes them away with the back of his hairy hand.
‘So, tell me more about the Kent and Sussex Agency,’ Mark says, pressing.
‘The Kent and East Sussex Regional Development Agency,’ Harry corrects him. ‘Well, the KESRDA is a government-sponsored public body which helps aid economic development and regeneration, develop business competitiveness and improve skills. That sort of thing.’ He has a swig of water.
‘How can we help you then?’
‘Since we were set up nine years ago we’ve built up quite a surplus of public money, as it were, and we’ve decided that we should invest it rather than just letting it sit in the bank. Hopefully that’s where you’ll be able to help us.’
‘And what’s your job?’
‘I’m the financial director.’
Mark gulps a large mouthful of wine. ‘Whether we can help you or not depends on the amount of money we’re talking about.’
Harry takes a pen out of his shirt pocket, writes a figure on a fresh serviette and pushes it across the table.
‘FIFTY MILLION!’ Mark shouts.
Conversations stop at the surrounding tables and diners turn to stare at them.
‘No,’ Harry says, pausing as the chatter resumes, ‘you’ve added an extra naught. It’s five million. Please keep your voice down.’
‘I’m definitely the man to talk to,’ Mark says, composing himself.
The waitress asks if they are ready to order. After much
consideration
, Harry plumps for a fifteen-inch American hot pizza, a side order of garlic dough balls and a Caesar salad. She reads back the order and turns to Mark.
‘I’ll have a green salad,’ he says. ‘I’m on a diet.’
‘You don’t need to diet,’ Harry says, as the waitress darts back to the kitchen. ‘But that’s beside the point. Mark, this is obviously a substantial amount of money. We can’t afford to take risks. I don’t know how much experience you’ve got in dealing with sums of this size-’
‘Lots,’ Mark interjects. ‘I’ve got lots of experience.’
‘What we’re looking for is really quite simple. We want our money to be safe, and to make decent returns. Nothing astronomical. Just better than we’d get with a bank. We don’t want any undue risks.’
‘Harry, we never take undue risks. We’re Europe’s leading wealth management company. We have decades of experience of managing enormous quantities of money. My department alone looks after over ten billion pounds of investments. You don’t build up a reputation like ours without a solid track record.’
‘I realise that. It was one of the reasons we approached you.’ Harry drinks and licks his lips. ‘How long have you worked for MenDax, Mark? You seem quite young, if you don’t mind me saying. Not that that’s a bad thing.’
‘Four years. I joined straight from university.’
‘Which university were you at?’
Mark stalls. ‘Cambridge,’ he says finally.
‘Cambridge? I thought you seemed like a bright lad. What did you study?’
‘Business. And economics. Business and economics.’
‘My son was at university in Cambridge as well, but not real
Cambridge
. He was at UEEC - the University of Eastern England
Cambridge
. Have you heard of it?’
‘Um, yes. What does he do now?’
‘He’s unemployed at the moment.’
Mark grunts and drinks a whole glass of water. There is a long silence.
‘If we did choose to invest with you,’ Harry says, ‘what would you do with the money?’
‘Invest it in Scandinavia – it’s MenDax’s specialist area.’
‘And what’s your role? Are you just the first contact or would you be managing our account?’
‘Oh, I’d be personally managing your account. We don’t send out salesmen to rope you in like some companies do. You deal with the
decision
makers from day one.’
‘Good.’
‘I’m an executive investment fund manager for Scandinavian markets, which means I only manage a small number of specialist accounts. Most investment companies have people managing up to a hundred accounts each. At MenDax, we manage no more than five so we can give them the time and attention the client deserves.’
‘What other accounts do you look after?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you. It’s confidential.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ Harry says. ‘It’s good to know we can trust you.’
‘Trust is one of our key values. Everything we discuss is strictly
confidential
. With many of our competitors, you’re just a name or number. With MenDax, I’ll be available to you twenty-four seven, even at
weekends
. It’s part of the our ethos to build personal relationships with our investors.’
‘How do you do that?’ Dark sweat patches have started to emerge from under the arms of Harry’s shirt.
‘Regular meetings, frequent investment reports, etcetera. Also with MenDax you can withdraw your money at a moment’s notice. With many of our competitors you would have to give them up to six months.’
‘That’s certainly a plus.’ Harry excuses himself and wipes his face
with his monogrammed handkerchief. ‘Would you invest the money
purely
in Scandinavia? What’s the attraction?’
‘The attraction is simple. Scandinavian banks have been deregulated and are able to offer far more attractive high-yield investment products than anywhere else in the world. It’s called the iceberg economy, are you familiar with the term?’
‘No. Why’s it called that?’
‘Because it’s rock solid and far bigger than it appears on the surface.’
Harry grins and rubs the sweat patches below his breasts.
‘We would look to invest your money in perhaps two or three
products
and we can absolutely guarantee excellent returns,’ Mark adds.
‘From my experience of investment, Mark, I thought it was
important
to have a diverse portfolio. We don’t want all of our eggs in one or two baskets.’
‘No, not at all, Harry. We build you a personal investment
programme
. We can put together an incredibly diverse portfolio; the only common denominator is that they are linked to the continued
profitability
of the Scandinavian economy.’ Mark leans back in his chair. ‘In the same way all English investment packages link back to the stability of the Bank of England.’
‘Which banks do you invest with?’
‘Loansbanki, that’s the biggest in Iceland, and usually Glitchnir. Although it depends on who is giving the best returns at the time. I can email you when I’ve done an in-depth analysis.’
‘Good. What type of returns are we talking about?’ Harry tops up Mark’s wine glass.
‘In the current economic climate, you could reasonably expect twenty per cent per annum, before commission,’ Mark says, holding Harry’s gaze.
Harry looks astonished. ‘Twenty per cent per annum? That’s
unbelievable
. How?’
‘I’m afraid how we do it is confidential until you become an investor. We have built a reputation around strategic investment excellence. We have to protect our,’ Mark taps the side of his head, ‘knowledge.’
‘Of course. I understand.’
When the food arrives, there isn’t enough room for everything Harry has
ordered, so another table is pulled over. Somehow he manages to stuff a dough ball into his mouth before the waitress has put the plate down.
‘Would you like to know more about MenDax?’ Mark asks, breaking the silence. He undoes his cufflinks and rolls up his sleeves.
‘OK. Fill me in.’ Harry accidently spits a fleck of dough into the water jug and pops two more balls into his mouth even though he’s still chewing the first one.
‘The company was founded seven years ago by Steffen Men who was a futures trader on the DAX, hence MenDax. The DAX is like the
German
version of the FTSE 100.’
‘I know what the DAX is, Mark.’
‘Yes, of course. We deal with both big institutional investors and high-value private clients, and our HQ is in London but we’ve also got offices in Berlin, Zurich and New York. We’re Europe’s most
profitable
investment company per head per capita per annum. That’s the important thing to remember. Last tax year we made more money than Monaco and-’
‘Actually, Mark,’ Harry says as he drops a sun-dried tomato onto his stomach, picks it up and eats it, ‘why don’t you send me that on an email?’
‘Sure.’
‘Good. Anyway, enough of all this business talk. Tuck in.’
Harry hacks away at his pizza with the blunt cutlery and shovels chunks into his mouth. He then pours his salad onto the remaining half of his pizza, folds it in two and devours it as Mark tries not to look.
‘What time do they expect you back at the office?’ Harry asks,
picking
food out of his teeth.
‘I’m not going back until later. I’ve got another meeting this
afternoon
.’
‘You’re a busy man, clearly. I’ve told my team not to expect me back as I’m off to the Oval later to watch the cricket.’
‘Actually, I’m sure we’ve got a box at the Oval… and that’s another benefit of investing with us. Each year you’ll get tickets for the
internationals
. In fact, if there’s space for another corporate guest for the Test match, I’ll definitely get you in. If you’re serious about investing, of course.’
‘Oh, I’m serious. Now I know what you mean by MenDax building strong personal relationships.’
‘Good. Um, Harry,’ Mark says, changing tone, ‘I’ve left my watch in my gym bag, have you got the time?’
Harry lifts his glasses and checks his gold Casio. ‘It’s two forty-two.’
‘Shit, I’m going to have to go. I won’t have time for dessert. I’ve got to be somewhere before three. Harry, do you mind covering this? I’ll pay for the next one.’
‘It’s a shame you have to rush off.’
‘Yes, it’s just that I’ve got another client to meet and he’s only in the UK for one day a month.’
‘You go, Mark.’
Mark unrolls his sleeves and adjusts his tie as Harry, whose shirt is a patchwork of damp stains, gets up to shake hands. Mark gives him a limp business card from the stack in his wallet, thanks him for lunch and hurries off.
He dodges through a group of French school children who have congregated outside the restaurant and rushes towards Green Park. The sun is burning down and he’s breathing heavily. The clock on the spire of St James’s Church says ten to three. He runs as far as the Royal
Academy
and stops again to catch his breath at a bus stop. Spotting a gap in the traffic, he lumbers across the road, narrowly avoiding a motorcycle courier, and hails a taxi.
‘The Churchberry,’ he pants.
‘What, hang on mate, that’s two hundred yards up the road, you can walk it,’ the cabbie shouts out the passenger window.
‘I can’t. I’ll give you a tenner.’
‘Get in.’
Mark sits alone at a table on the edge of the dining room and, thanks to the air conditioning, has started to cool down. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling and on the wall beside him is a portrait of King Charles II on horseback. At the next table along, three glamorous elderly ladies are sharing tea and scones.