No Tears E-Book

David Charters

• Herausgeber: Elliott & Thompson
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 270

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2010

Beschreibung

We all know the truth about the Square Mile... Don't we? What goes on in the City is the stuff of legend. Degrading interview processes. Booxy lunches that last well into the early hours. High-risk decisions made whilst still suffering from the night before. Humiliating firings in front of colleagues. A former senior investment banker, David Charters has seen it all. In No Tears, his cult collection of City-based short stories, he finally reveals the secrets of the Square Mile with brutal honesty. It's all you'd imagine it to be - and worse.

Leseprobe

Contents

Foreword

Diary

Dinner Party

Team Move

Infatuation

Smart People

Takeover

Regrets

Misdial

The Big Break

Signing Ceremony

Ambition

Expenses

Riff-raff

Bonus Round

Baggage

Off-site

After Dark

If You Can’t Take a Joke

Inside Track

2 HOT

Playing the Game

Lawsuit

Words

May Day 2010

Merger

Equal Opportunities

Redundant

The Right Position

Foreword

NO TEARS originally appeared in 2002, when investment banking as I knew it had undergone what we then thought of as a major crisis, with the ending of the dot com boom and the bursting of the tech bubble.

If we thought that was a crisis, we hadn’t seen anything yet. The last couple of years, since the collapse of Lehman, have made veterans of us all. And yet amazingly, investment banking has bounced back, confounding its critics as it survived and prospered on the back of huge infusions of state funding and roaring equity markets. In the face of attacks from politicians and the green-eyed commentariat alike, investment bankers have emerged, Teflon-like in their immunity to any attempt to get between them and the financial incentives that drive them so powerfully.

The stories in this collection are for the most part, I hope, timeless in their encapsulation of the worst aspects of all the worst people who pursue a career in investment banking. Some additional stories have been added to the original collection, and some minor updating has been undertaken, but in essence the combination of huge reward alongside massive risk – personal and professional – remains unchanged. In this best and worst of businesses the fault lines in human nature are brutally exposed, for better or worse.

David Charters

London, 2010

TALES FROM THESQUARE MILE

Diary

0415 HRS. My driver drops me at home. It’s been a long day in the City. First we had dinner at Orso’s, then on to Stringfellow’s and finally Ali’s Bar. I’m mentally exhausted and emotionally drained. I run for the bathroom, trying not to wake my wife.

0430 hrs. After I’ve cleaned up I quietly enter the bedroom, remove my jacket and tie and start to undo my trousers. My wife stirs, looks up and puts the light on. Fuck. ‘Early start,’ I lie. ‘6 a.m. conference call with Tokyo.’ I re-zip my trousers, re-tie my tie, put my jacket on and head back downstairs. I’m too drunk to drive so I call a cab.

0545 hrs. Alone in the office with nothing to do, head still fuzzy, feeling ill. I try to remember who I was with last night and what I might have done or said. I find some big Amex slips in my pocket. Better remember to charge them to a client account. Fuck. I need to slow down. This could get out of hand.

0615 hrs. I’m so bored I start going through other people’s desks. Nothing. Boring bastards. Or maybe they’re just too smart. On the other hand, we don’t attract the brightest things on two legs at Société Financière de Paris, so maybe I was right the first time. I try to play computer games to while away the time, but I start to feel sick.

0830 hrs. Must have fallen asleep. The phones are ringing but none of the team is here. Can’t complain. I don’t go in for macho face-time in the office and don’t expect the team to either. Let the fucking phones ring.

0855 hrs. One phone keeps ringing. Should I answer it? I finally summon the determination and hit the button at the second attempt. ‘SFP,’ I bark aggressively. The caller hangs up. This freaks me out. Who the fuck rings up at five to nine in the morning, lets the phone ring and ring and then hangs up when you answer? Could be some bastard checking up on me. Fuck. Better watch out.

0930 hrs. The team have finally started to drift in. They’re all hungover. Somebody says it was my fault for insisting on them all attending birthday drinks for Samantha at The Avenue. ‘Who the fuck is Samantha?’ Apparently the blonde temp with the big personality who was with us last week. I’d forgotten about The Avenue.

0945 hrs. They’re all here now, the lazy bastards. One or two look very ill. At least they made the effort. I cancel the morning meeting.

1015 hrs. My secretary brings me a coffee in my office, remarks it seems very stuffy, would I mind if she turns up the air-conditioning? Fuck. I go out to Pink’s and buy a clean shirt and underwear, then on to Boots to get shaving kit, and disappear to the directors’ washroom. When I get back, she says it seems much cooler now, perhaps she should turn the air-con back down. I settle down to read the paper.

1130 hrs. Weekly directors’ meeting. I make sure I’m early, so that I can sit close to Simon, though not too close in case he thinks the air-conditioning needs turning up too. I make a big thing about the Client Marketing Initiative that I’m leading on at group level for the Division. It’s all bullshit, no one believes in it, but they all wait for Simon’s reaction and then nod vigorously when he seems to agree. Phew, made it for another week.

1230 hrs. Christ, I need a drink. Thank God, I’ve got lunch today with Jimmy Smith from Swiss Credit. He knows how to have lunch. I take a cab to the City Club.

1530 hrs. Hallelujah! Saved. I feel warm, relaxed, at ease again. That was a freakish morning. I’m tired, but at least I’ve rejoined the human race. When I get back to my desk I fire off some emails about the Client Marketing Initiative, the need for cross-marketing on a multi-product, inter-divisional basis if we are to compete with the Americans, the lessons to be drawn from recent marketing failures, and suggest it’s all reviewed at an off-site – where? – yes, brilliant! – in South Africa in April. Simon’s half South African and I know he’ll kill for a chance to be down there for the rugby. A fine afternoon’s work. My secretary brings me my Sporting Life and I get down to serious business, just in time for the four o’clock from Sandown.

1630 hrs. Review time. Two of the graduate trainees have completed their probationary period in the department. Edwards is a spotty creep with a PhD and a high opinion of himself. Works damned hard and doesn’t always come out for a drink when I summon the team to drink with me. Diane, on the other hand, is a darling, incredibly cute, something of a flirt, sends me the most outrageous e-mails. I extend his probationary period for another six months, he almost bursts into tears. I nearly lose it, try desperately to think of terminal illnesses, bankruptcy, losing my car parking space underneath the building, anything not to laugh. I tell Diane she’s made it. She is overwhelmed, agrees to dinner to review her career options and how far she might go from here. Must think carefully how I play that one.

1745 hrs. Simon wants to do the off-site in South Africa. He wants me to lead on it, sends an e-mail to all the Directors, urging full co-operation in this important initiative. I instruct the whole team to work on an agenda and a presentation for me to give. I want it ready for the morning, so that I can show it to Simon. Then I head off to meet Adam Whitehead from Hellerbank for drinks.

1930 hrs. Three martinis later and I’m flying again. I try to recall what I told my wife about this evening. Fuck. Did I tell her anything? Did she tell me anything? Fuck.

2250 hrs. I’m lost. Staggered out of dinner and caught a cab, but threw up in the back and the driver ordered me out. Fuck.

0130 hrs. I’m trying to work out how to use my mobile. It isn’t normally this hard. Fuck. I push a button. I hear a vaguely familiar voice. ‘Taxi desk, please.’ Then the voice starts shouting at me, ‘For God’s sake – it’s me! Where the hell are you? We were due at the Evans’s for supper at eight. I’ve been calling you all evening. No-one knows where you are.’ Fuck. I’ve got to slow down. One of these days this could get out of hand.

Dinner Party

‘RICHARD, HOW GOOD to see you!’

‘Lucy, darling – as gorgeous as ever! I’m sorry I’m so late – I got stuck in the office. Here, these are for you.’

He handed her an enormous bunch of lilies selected by his secretary and gave her a peck on the cheek. She showed him into the dining room.

‘Everybody, I’d like you to meet one of my oldest friends – Richard was at Oxford with me, but now he’s a partner at Hardman Stoney, the American investment bank in the City. Richard, this is Gavin and his wife Sheila. Gavin writes for the Guardian, and Sheila’s a full-time mum! And this is Arthur, who works with me in the library at the LSE, and his partner Josh, who’s in therapy. Josh is a super-duper cook and he’s prepared the pudding tonight. And this is Alison. Alison works for the probation service.’

Richard nodded and shook hands and said hello and asked himself for the thousandth time why, in a moment of insane weakness, he had ever agreed to come to dinner. And why, for God’s sake, hadn’t he cancelled? Partners of Hardman Stoney were notorious for their social faux pas, turning up on social occasions late or not at all. Why hadn’t he simply cancelled?

In part, he supposed, it was curiosity. Once upon a time, Lucy and he had briefly been an item, and he was curious to know how she had fared in the years that had passed. She looked older now, and dowdy, and he wondered where her earlier beauty had gone. Perhaps it had never been there in the first place. Her house in Hackney was tiny and shabby and was in a part of town that he had never visited before. He felt distinctly over-dressed in the company of her friends. He was in a double-breasted, pinstriped suit, complete with Hermès tie and Patek Philippe watch, and they were in corduroys, denims, open shirts and rolled up sleeves. Josh was smoking what appeared to be a joint. Richard took it all in, but said nothing. They were all looking at him.

‘I’m sorry to be so late. I got stuck in the office.’ He shrugged. They looked at him blankly.

Lucy intervened. ‘Don’t worry, I kept you a plate of pasta, and Josh doesn’t mind holding the pudding while you eat, do you Josh, darling?’

Josh ignored her and carried on staring at Richard.

The pasta was half cold, stodgy and almost tasteless. He ploughed his way through it in silence. Lucy could feel the tension.

‘So Richard, why don’t you tell us all about your work? It must be wonderful, flying all over the world at the drop of a hat, Concorde to New York, trips to Hong Kong, Tokyo, Frankfurt…’

‘It’s okay. It’s not as glamorous as people think.’

‘Oh really?’ It was Josh. ‘The last time I flew Concorde I thought it was terribly glam. What did everybody else think?’

They all laughed.

‘Everybody, please, this is so unfair.’ Lucy was concerned for her guest. ‘It’s no use you all ganging up on Richard just because he’s rich and talented and successful. It’s not your fault you earn such mega-bonuses, is it, darling?’ she said, touching him playfully on the knee.

He smiled, uncertain how to respond, wishing he was somewhere – anywhere – else. It was clear that Lucy had been drinking, but he wondered if they had all been smoking joints.

‘So how much do you earn, Richard?’ It was Alison, the probation officer. He looked at her, taking in the barely concealed hostility. To hell with it, he thought, why should we always be on the receiving end?

‘Oh, in an average year about the same as two hundred probation officers, I suppose – assuming they all get performance bonuses, of course. I am right in thinking you’re eligible for £500 annual performance incentives, aren’t I?’

She sat back in her chair and almost hissed at him.

He looked thoughtful. ‘That means, with sixty partners in the London office…’ He paused, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a calculator, into which he tapped some numbers. ‘We could cover the salaries of twelve thousand probation officers for a year. Interesting, isn’t it? How many probation officers are there in the service as a whole?’

Before she could answer, Josh came through from the kitchen, carrying dessert.

‘How wonderful!’ beamed Lucy, seizing on the distraction. ‘Look, everybody, isn’t Josh brilliant?’

She kissed Josh on the cheek and Alison subsided into silence. Sheila turned to Richard.

‘What exactly do you do, Richard?’

He paused to collect his thoughts while Josh handed round the crème brulée.

‘Well, I buy businesses. Not for our clients, you understand, for ourselves. I act as principal, not as an adviser to other people.’

Alison looked up. ‘Principle? Did you say principle? That’s a laugh.’

‘No, Alison,’ he smiled as patronisingly as he could. ‘Principal.’ He emphasised the last syllable as strongly as he could. ‘There’s a very important difference. Principals can act without having regard to principles, always providing they don’t actually break the law or do anything that would bring the firm into disrepute. Our principle is to maximise returns for the firm. We buy businesses, put in new management, strip out costs, then sell them on for a profit. Our principle is the principle of enlightened self-interest. Didn’t you ever see the movie Wall Street? Do you remember that great Michael Douglas speech – “Greed is good”… or is it “God”? – I can never remember!’

He helped himself to a large spoonful of dessert. ‘Mmm… this is excellent. Well done, Josh!’

He could feel them scowling at him, though Lucy tried to keep the conversation going, desperately hoping to salvage the evening.

‘But Richard, you still haven’t really explained to those of us who don’t work in the City, what your job actually involves from day to day?’

‘He strips out costs,’ interrupted Gavin. ‘It means he fires people to increase profits.’

Richard looked at Gavin, weighing him up carefully. He had to be careful, he was starting to enjoy himself too much. He took a sip of wine and tried not to grimace. He checked the bottle, which was standing on the sideboard. It brought back memories of student days.

‘Well, technically speaking that’s not quite right. A business might have any amount of under-utilised assets tied up in it – buildings, land, plant and machinery, for example… and, of course, people. What we try to do is slim the business down so that it’s as efficient as possible. We take a long hard look at it, get out our calculators, and do what’s commercially expedient.’

Gavin threw down his spoon.

‘Oh, God – I don’t believe it! You City people make me sick. Do you ever think of the social consequences of what you do? If you “slim down” a factory, let’s say in a small town in the northeast, where there’s high unemployment, what do those people actually do? Do you have any idea what high unemployment does to divorce rates? Do you know what happens to suicides? Or mental illness? Or drug and alcohol abuse? Or crime? Or child abuse? Well, do you?!’

Richard stared at him, wide-eyed, his eyes suddenly opened by Gavin’s revelation. It was time to go. If he did not leave now, this would definitely get physical.

‘Gavin, you’re quite right! I’ve never seen it that way before, but you’re so, so right. How can I have been so blind?’ He turned to Lucy. ‘Lucy, I’m so sorry, but I have to go. I have to get back to the office. I need to get this stuff down on paper. Thank you for a wonderful evening.’ He kissed her on the cheek and turned to Josh. ‘And Josh, the dessert was superb, you’re a star.’ He leant forward and kissed Josh on the cheek. Josh scowled back at him. ‘But what Gavin’s said demands action. Hardman Stoney has a whole stack of investments in the northeast, seven companies, if I’m not mistaken, and I’ve never really thought about them in the way Gavin described tonight.’ He turned to Gavin. ‘Gavin, you’re absolutely right. Those small towns must be hotbeds of social upheaval, crime, drug abuse, what did you say – oh yes, alcohol abuse,’ he looked at Alison, ‘wife beating. In fact it’s clear to me that those places simply aren’t suitable for us to be doing business in.’ They were staring at him, baffled. ‘From now on, I’ll ensure that we hold the Annual General Meetings of all those businesses down here in London. Management committees too. It’ll save on travel costs, and will mean we don’t have to risk going up there.’ He reached across the table and slapped Gavin on the shoulder, before heading for the door. ‘Lucy – thanks again. Gavin – thanks for the insight – the less my team and I see of those places in future, the happier we shall be!’ He winked and closed the door a split second before Gavin’s wine glass smashed into it.

Team Move

‘1 MILLION A year, guaranteed for three years.’

‘Jesus Christ! You’ve got my attention.’

She could not help smiling, and sat back in her chair, taking a moment to sip her wine. She had deliberately insisted on a corner table where they could not be overheard. She had been nervous approaching Mark, her deputy, in case it backfired. If he went running off to tell the board, she would be in deep water.

‘You’d still be my number two, but you’d join as a managing director on a base salary of a hundred and thirty. All the usual perks, plus I told them they’d have to give you the car of your choice, knowing what a speed freak you are.’

He laughed.

‘Are you serious? Any car?’

‘Well, within reason. I specifically mentioned the new 911, and they said it wouldn’t be a problem.’

He looked at her curiously.

‘How long have you been planning this?’

It was her turn to laugh.

‘They first approached me through a headhunter six months ago. I played hard to get, but I soon realised they were serious. Barton’s don’t have a convertible team at all, and we’re one of the top three teams in the City by pretty much any measure. But I couldn’t do it on my own. I need you, and I need most of the rest of the team.’

‘A team move? They want to lift the whole team?’

She nodded.

‘Lock, stock and barrel. They’ll take everyone we think we need.’

‘Okay, so how do we do it?’

She paused. This was the tricky bit.

‘Well, I won’t pretend it’ll be easy. And I’m counting on you to play a pivotal role. The difficulty I face is that as a managing director my legal and contractual responsibilities are much more onerous than yours. If I act against the firm’s best interests, they can nail me. And to be frank I have a higher profile. You’re in a much better position. And the team look to you for day-to-day leadership. You hired most of them before I even joined the firm. Sure, they respect me, but I was just the hotshot the firm brought in to stir things up. You’d been there for almost five years before I even started. Do you feel up to it?’

He paused, looking pensive. Oh God, she thought to herself, I hope I haven’t blown it.

He nodded.

‘Sure. I can do it.’

He called across to the waiter, indicating his empty gin and tonic glass.

‘Waiter – mine’s a large one!’

She had heard him say that a dozen times before, and laughed now with relief as much as genuine humour.

‘Well it would be, wouldn’t it? Now, let’s think who to approach first.’

They met again a few days later. She would not discuss it at all in the office, and was paranoid about the lawsuits that would surely fly if it leaked.

‘How’s it going?’

He laughed.

‘So far, it’s easy. Jack, Nico and Ben are on board. All three will need guarantees, but two years will be fine. Ben will have to go up to senior manager. I said we’d raise their base salaries by twenty per cent. I’m waiting to hear back from Sandy.’

‘Brilliant, well done! Any problems with Sandy?’

‘There won’t be once I tell him the rest of us are off to Barton’s whatever he decides.’

‘Okay, keep me posted. What else do we need to worry about?’

‘I want to see my offer letter from Barton’s. I can’t take the risk of resigning without it.’

‘I know, leave it to me. Let’s get together again on Monday night.’

She sat in the corner worrying, checking and rechecking her watch. He arrived fifteen minutes late, breathless.

‘Sorry, got held up. I was chatting to Roger.’

‘Any problems?’

‘None at all, it’s sweet as can be. Sandy, Ian and Martin are on board. Roger, too, I think, but he wants to sleep on it overnight.’

‘Have you got the numbers?’

‘Sure – here.’

He handed over a list of what he had agreed with the team. Against each name was a title and job description, base salary and guaranteed bonus number, with either a two or a three against it to indicate the number of years that would be guaranteed. She glanced down the list. For a moment he looked concerned.

‘It’s a lot, but it’s right for the team.’

She smiled, looking at the totals at the bottom of the list.

‘Don’t worry, it’s well within budget. If we can do this so cheaply we may have to look again at our own packages.’

He looked at her, hesitated and then asked, ‘What is your package?’

She looked surprised, and he thought he saw the faintest hint of a blush.

‘Mark, I can’t tell you that. It wouldn’t be right. I shall still be your boss, after all.’

‘I know, but I feel right now as if I’m the one taking all the risks. I feel as if I should be more like your partner in all this than your number two.’

‘Mark, let’s get something straight. I’m the boss. You’re my number two. An important number two, but still number two. I’ve got you a fabulous package. Think what you’ll be able to do with that kind of money. If you’re not sure you want to do this, say so now.’

‘Of course I still want to do it, but you forget I’m having all these conversations and I haven’t even seen my offer letter yet.’

‘Leave that with me. I’m on the case.’

Over a week passed before they met again.

‘What’s going on? Why the delay? We’re losing momentum and I need those offer letters to give to the team. Doing things this way is fine, but if the guys are expected to come in on our coat tails without even having interviews with the Barton’s people, then they need those letters. Where are they?’

‘Relax. I’ve got them. Well, almost all of them. Here.’

She passed a stack of envelopes across the table. He leafed through them and looked up at her.

‘Where’s mine?’

‘Ours are both delayed. It’s nothing to worry about. Because we’re joining as MD’s our appointments have to be blessed by their senior appointments board. It’s a formality. We’ll have ours by the end of the week.’

He looked her in the eye.

‘Jane, just how certain are you of this? Once I start handing these out, the team will go ahead and resign, and we could be hung out to dry.’

She laughed.

‘Look, I’ve met the guys from Barton’s. They’re serious people, long-term, heavyweight, they don’t dick people about. You distribute the letters to the team, and I tell you what, I’ll resign anyway, even without my offer letter. You go in after me.’

He looked at her.

‘Okay, it’s a risk, but let’s do it.’

He raised his glass to her.

‘Success!’

‘Wealth!’

The chairman’s office was on the twentieth floor, with a spectacular view across the City to St. Paul’s. She took a deep breath, knocked and entered.

‘Ah, Miss Leach. How are things on the convertible desk?’

‘Very good, thank you, Sir Arnold.’

She was surprised to see Mike Hatchett, the Group Legal Adviser, sitting in the corner.

‘Sir Arnold, I wanted to have a word with you, preferably in private, if I may.’

‘By all means, my dear, but first I have something to say to you.’

She was startled.

‘I’m afraid, my dear, I have bad news for you. I’m having to let you go. You see, you’ve been rather naughty, haven’t you?’

She swallowed. What did he know? Who had leaked it? She had no choice now, she was committed. She would have to carry on regardless.

‘Sir Arnold, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I may as well say to you what I intended anyway. I’m resigning. I have here a formal letter of resignation.’

She placed an envelope on his desk. He looked at her and without opening the envelope, picked it up and dropped it in the bin by the desk.

‘No, my dear, you’re not resigning. I’m dismissing you from the firm for cause. Effective immediately. Mike has an envelope for you here, outlining the legal and financial implications of the termination of your employment. Obviously you lose your stock options, your unvested shares, and your pension rights. I’m afraid you tried to be too clever. And that doesn’t always pay, you know.’

She heard the door opening behind her and turned to see who had entered.

‘Mark! What are you doing here? I haven’t finished yet.’

Mark was smiling.

‘I think you are finished, Jane. I think you’re completely finished. You see, the team aren’t going anywhere. You played a stupid, dumb, greedy game. I never rated you from the moment you arrived, and I don’t rate you now. You wanted me to poach you a team, and then you would have hung me out to dry. Left me behind. Well, I’m not as stupid as you think.’ He looked towards Sir Arnold. ‘I value loyalty, and so does this firm. I don’t need to move to Barton’s to get a world-class package, and neither do the team.’

‘Not at all,’ said Sir Arnold, moving to stand beside Mark and put his arm around his shoulder. ‘We have a world-class convertible team, and we’re very proud of them. A pay-rise has been long overdue and I’m very happy to sanction it.’ He beamed at Mark.

She gasped, feeling a rush of blood to the head. She reached inside her handbag and pulled out a piece of paper.

‘Here! Look at this list! Your blue-eyed boy wrote out a list of all the people in the team with packages, guarantees, the works!’

‘I know he did,’ said Sir Arnold, puzzled. ‘And I know exactly how you came by it.’

He walked over to his desk, opened a drawer and took out a folder. He pulled out an identical list from the folder.

‘This is the list that I commissioned Mark to produce. I needed to know exactly what was necessary to keep the team. That, and the knowledge that your previous share of the bonus pool would be prorated around them. Really, my dear. You don’t think we were born yesterday, do you?’

Mark smiled.

‘Don’t worry, Jane – I’m sure it was really you who Barton’s were after, and not the team. Mind you, without a team, you might have to do some of the work yourself!’ He laughed. ‘I’m sure you’ll cope.’

Infatuation

From: Alex Spears

Sent: 26 March 2009 08:11

To: Julia Peters

Subject: Last night

How are you? I guess we all had a bit too much to drink last night. I’m feeling gruesome this morning. I feel like I made a bit of a fool of myself, but these things have a way of happening to me. For what it’s worth, I meant what I said, and I’d love to see you again, if you feel up to it. There’s a new wine bar on the Fulham Road called Lomo’s – it’s not far from your place and I’ve heard it’s really cool. Let me know if you fancy meeting up there one evening.

Regards,

Alex

From: Julia Peters

Sent: 26 March 2009 11:37

To: Alex Spears

Subject: Re Last night

I’m fine. I guess I was a bit surprised, that’s all. Those vodka shots didn’t help. My head’s killing me. I’d like to meet up again, but just for a drink. Let’s try to take it easy. I feel kind of weird about the whole thing, what with you being head of the team and a managing director. I’ve heard of Lomo’s – it sounds good, but definitely NO MORE VODKA!!!!

Regards,

Julia

From: Alex Spears

Sent: 26 March 2009 11:49

To: Julia Peters

Subject: Re Re Last night

Fantastic! Does tomorrow evening work for you? I’ll make sure you’re not on lates. How about 7 o’clock sharp at Lomo’s?

Regards,

Alex

From: Julia Peters

Sent: 3 April 2009 08:50

To: Alex Spears

Subject: Wow!

How are you? Last night was amazing. I’m sitting here blushing just thinking about it. I still feel kind of weird, but wonderful at the same time. Has anyone ever told you you’re amazing?!!!!!!

J Julia

xxxxxx

From: Alex Spears

Sent: 3 April 2009 09:05

To: Julia Peters

Subject: Re Wow!

Now I’m the one trying not to blush. I keep wanting to look at you and grin! You don’t know how hard it is for me with you sitting just twenty feet away. Open plan offices are great, but sometimes I just wish I could shut myself away somewhere. You were WICKED last night. I’m so glad we got together. Don’t change!!!

Luv, Alex xxxxxxxx

P.S. What are you doing tonight?

From: Julia Peters

Sent: 3 April 2009 09:11

To: Alex Spears

Subject: Re Re Wow!

I hope what I’m doing is seeing my lover. I can’t wait to get out of here tonight. Time just seems to drag and d – r – a – g. Where shall we eat? Or shall I cook for you? My mother says I do the finest beef Wellington in the western world. Would you like me to cook for you?

Love and hugs,

J Julia

xxxxxxx

From: Alex Spears

Sent: 3 April 2009 09:15

To: Julia Peters

Subject: Re Re Re Wow!

Whoa girl! Cooking sounds great, but I can cook too, you know, and too much beef Wellington will have me looking like a sumo wrestler. And I don’t think you’d like that, would you? I wouldn’t want to squash you – well, maybe a little! I’ll have to catch you later. I’ve got to go upstairs to the MDs’ weekly bullshit session.

Seeyalater.

Alex

Xxxxxxx

From: Julia Peters

Sent: 17 April 2009 08:20

To: Alex Spears

Subject: That was cool

Alex darling, that was fun, fun, fun! I love your house. You are soooooo lucky. And so am I. And Gordon Ramsay is a great restaurant. But did you see how the waiter looked when I kissed you? I know you still feel self-conscious, but I DON’T. I feel great. I’m in love and I’m proud of it, and I don’t care if the whole world knows – even if my lover-boss is terrified of finding a client or some stupid colleague sitting at the next table! Imagine if it was Sir Oliver? He’d be so shocked!!!!! I want to stay at your house again. It felt as if we were a real couple, we could just be ourselves without worrying about other people. Tell me you love me and want to hold me tight.

Love,

J Julia

xxxxxxxxxxxx

From: Alex Spears

Sent: 17 April 2009 08:51

To: Julia Peters