Viscera and Vicissitude

Monday lunchtime

Hector Bullivant wiped greasy lips and chin on the starched linen serviette he had just freed from between his ample paunch and his broad lap. The foie gras had been more than usually rich today. That was fitting, because Hector Bullivant was a more than usually rich man. One who could afford to lunch at the Savoy five times a week. Today’s crypto deal had netted him a seven figure sum by his morning coffee break and prompted him to order the insanely expensive wine. Across the table, Julian Lloyd sat back and sipped his glass of chilled Montrachet, nodding in satisfaction. The two men had just spent more on today’s lunch than most households spend on food in a fortnight. In fact, at the Savoy that Wednesday, a quiet observer, blonde and grey suited, was thinking exactly that thought, among others.

Lloyd took another sip of Montrachet. “Wish I’d had the pâté now. Looked bloody delicious. You always come out on top, don’t you, Hector. If you fell in a tub of horse manure you’d come out clean.”

Bullivant smiled - more of a complacent sneer, really - and raised his own glass. “Here’s to my unerring success, both at lunch and in the world of business. Cheers.”

Their glasses touched and they drank. There was no rush to get back to the office. The lunches had become a staple; neither man missed more than one a month. Their personal assistants knew better than to book anything else on their calendars between one and four.

Lloyd set down his empty glass. “How the fuck do you do it, Hector? Nine million quid on the spin of a revolver barrel. Your kettle hadn’t bloody boiled before you raked your spoils in. What is it, intuition? You land on your bloody feet every time.”

Julian Lloyd and Hector Bullivant had done well in rival investment firms, based in the fifty-two storey Leadenhall Building in the City of London, affectionately known as the Cheese Grater on account of its wedge-shaped form factor. Bullivant’s company, Bulstrode Financial Partners, leased office space on the fifty-second floor. Lloyd, a comparative underling, worked with Sprake Trust on a corner of the forty-third.

“No it sodding well is not intuition, Julian. Intuition is for women. I do not trust my gut. I use my rational mind to make decisions that matter. That’s why I’m where I am today.”

Julian looked dispassionately at his lunch companion. Back end of his forties, overweight. Stellar track record when it came to investments, specialising in cryptocurrencies and foreign pension funds. For Julian, every pound invested meant a calculated risk. Not so with Hector. The lucky devil simply could not lose. Every deal he did paid off. He must have a sixth sense; probably a seventh and an eighth.

“Come on, Hector. Don’t tell me you never go with your gut. You must have a special guiding spirit.”

Hector Bullivant clicked his fingers and the waiter was there. “Two large brandies.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Julian, the only spirit I need comes from a bottle. And the only time my gut makes me go anywhere is after my mother-in-law’s God-awful cooking. I’ve told you. I think it all out logically and make the right decision based on careful, rational thought. Look down next time you go to the bathroom. If you see balls there, intuition is not for you. Forget it.”

The two bowl glasses of Rémy Martin appeared and both men drank.

Monday afternoon

The express elevator swished upward, its passenger relishing the privilege. Hector Bullivant rode alone, having left Julian Lloyd to use the slower, stop-at-every floor lift. “Fifty-second floor,” announced the electronic, female voice, like a mature BBC radio presenter, cadence falling in steps with each syllable pair, with ‘floor’ a reassuring, confident finish. Bullivant enjoyed being reminded that his office was on the top floor, above everyone else’s. He was grateful that the synthesized voice did not carry an audible faux smile at the end of each sentence, as many airline safety video voice-overs did. “Fifty-second floor” came out as a triumphant, yet understated, territorial claim; a “We’re here, in our rightful place.”

Hector was surprised to see his personal assistant was not alone as the lift doors opened. An elegant lady, grey business suit, Vuitton Monogram handbag tucked under her left arm, its short gold chain not quite touching the straight, blonde hair that almost reached her shoulder.

“Mr Bullivant does not normally see callers without an appointment, Ms Bland,” declared his PA, shaking her head and holding out her hand to return the business card.

Warmth seemed to radiate from the visitor. Hector Bullivant felt a twinge of impending disappointment, as though he might be about to miss something. He really was not sure why. Ordinarily, he would have marched straight into his own office, eyes front, leaving his PA to dispatch the cold caller. Today, he found himself drawn to this handsome, poised woman, who had, after all, come to see him, offering an hour when he would be the sole focus of her world. He did not know why, but she made him feel good and he did not want her to go. He found himself muttering, “Er, it’s all right, Patricia. Ms, er, Bland can come on in. This way, Ms Bland.”

Surprised at himself and with no idea what he was going to talk to this woman about, Hector sat not in his high-backed, leather desk chair, but at one of the pair of armchairs on either side of the glass-topped occasional table, having first waited for Ms Bland to perch lightly on its twin. She declined his offer of a drink with a demure drop of the chin.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr Bullivant,” she began. “I’ll get straight to business, if I may. You deal in crypto, don’t you.”

There was no rising tone. Dodging the question, Hector replied, “I run an investment company. We exist to grow our clients’ capital. We do that in various ways, through a number of market opportunities.”

The visitor continued as though Hector had confirmed. “My company offers guidance and advice to those navigating the turbulent, shark-infested waters of the crypto world. The market is more than volatile, as I’m sure you know. It is fickle and perverse; impulsive and far less predictable than the conventional stock market.”

Hector felt his eyes glazing over. Typical packaged sales pitch.

“Ms Bland, I am sure you are an expert in your field. However, I would like to point out that I made several million pounds on a crypto currency deal this very morning. I know how to handle myself and how to protect my investors’ interests. Is there any thing else I can help you with today?”

Ms Bland shook her head gently. “Mr Bullivant, it is I who can help you. Too many investors have crashed and burned, thinking they can go it alone in the crypto minefield. This morning, you made approximately nine million pounds on a fast-turnaround exchange in Scimitar and US dollars. The Greenback stayed stable and Scimitar blasted up tenfold in value. You sold at the right moment.”

Hector was momentarily speechless. It was as though this woman had been watching his every move. It had been as she described it. His team had been monitoring a number of crypto currencies and he had been alerted to a steep drop in Scimitar’s value. He had immediately bought a few hundred thousand US dollars’ worth and had been satisfied to see the immediate meteoric rise of his investment. When the climb had begun to slow, Hector had sold. With a fleeting pang of conscience, he realised much of his profit came from naïve speculators looking for nothing more complicated than a steeply-rising crypto currency, whereupon they shovelled their savings into it. More often than not, the crypto plummeted as fast as it had risen, leaving smarter investors like Hector to pocket the loot. Again, he was conscious of his visitor’s personable warmth. Her voice reminded him of his mother. Positive vibes emanated from this woman. She knew her onions. Her aura made people feel safe around her. Maybe, although it was unlikely, he could learn something from her, though she would have to convince him first.

Ms Bland went on. “Today, you were extremely fortunate. What could have been an embarrassment worked out well for you. But I feel I have a duty to point out how reckless you were and what the consequences could have been.”

With a supreme effort, Hector found his voice. “Ms Bland, are you sure you won’t have a drink? I usually have one at about this time.”

Again, the polite drop of the chin and a slight shake of her head. “Thank you, no. But please don’t let me stop you.”

Hector, accustomed to being in charge in his own space, felt he had no option but to get up and pour himself a Scotch. This really was a most unusual afternoon. Having assured Julian Lloyd he used his gut only for processing food, he had so far broken just about every rule in his own book. He had invited this woman into his office on impulse. Now, he still felt drawn to her, despite her direct criticism of his decision-making competence in the financial world. Hector tilted the lead crystal decanter and, drink in hand, sat down once more.

“The issue is this, Mr Bullivant. All your experience is with the traditional stock market. You can’t apply the same rules to the crypto world. It’s a different universe. It all works on a far faster timescale. Villains are invisible, even when they are right behind you, breathing down your neck, noting everything you do. The buggers force up the value of whatever crypto you’re interested in, by raising a bunch of false buy or sell orders that can send the price into orbit. Mugs are attracted by the fast rise. Bubbles pop very fast on that side of the looking glass, even faster when the fraudsters cancel their orders and the currently bombs back to where it was, as they run over the hills and far away with their ill-gotten gains. If you’re serious about trading in crypto, Hector, you need me to stop that happening to you.”

The memory of his mother flowed over Hector again. Every word Ms Bland uttered reminded him of her. The sense of security and trust felt exactly the same. Hector luxuriated in the warm glow for a moment, before the rational side of him came to his defence. He drained his Scotch in a single swallow and rose to his feet.

“Thank you, Ms Bland. It was very kind of you to visit. I have a full schedule this afternoon; I wish I could spare you more time.”

Ms Bland also stood. “I believe you will soon wish you had, Mr Bullivant. Good afternoon.”

She was gone. Hector needed every ounce of his rational willpower to stop himself charging after her and begging her to come back.

Friday morning

There would be neither foie gras nor Montrachet at lunch today. Fortunately for Hector, Julian Lloyd was not in the office this morning, having sent Hector a text to say he’d tested positive for COVID-19. Another victim of Omicron, Hector decided. He quickly sent Julian a text, wishing him and his family well, looking forward to lunch upon his recovery. Although, Hector feared, lunch from now on might have to be a much more modest affair than of late.

It had started to go bent on Tuesday. Another crypto, HeaviCoin, had accelerated skyward, inviting substantial investment, including sixty percent of Bulstrode’s liquid assets. Success seemed certain, until HeaviCoin had suddenly, around ten o’clock in the morning, lived up spectacularly to its name and bombed below its purchase price. Bulstrode, and practically every other buyer, leapt out and left a vacuum for pin money from amateur mugs, all of whom accompanied RMS Titanic to bottomless depths that same afternoon.

Wednesday had been no better. The reports from the open plan floor became much sparser, the middle team reluctant to report on their failed attempts to turn the situation around. By Thursday, Hector had issued a ban on crypto purchase without his personal authorisation. Two failed deals followed and, by Friday morning, Bulstrode was a millimetre away from the red line.

Hector admitted to himself he had behaved like a desperate gambler, staking his shirt on bet after bet, convinced the losing streak had to end, certain his luck must change. If only the world were so fair, he thought.

What could he do? There was nothing left to speculate with. No float to split among high risk, high return investments, where one success could bail out half a dozen crashing failures.

Better not go to the Savoy today. Instead, Hector chose the Craft Beer Company in St Mary Axe, a stone’s throw from the Leadenhall Building. Walking up to the bar, he ordered a gin and tonic and the hot lunch of the day, steak and kidney pie with vegetables and mash or chips. He chose mash. Turning from the bar with his drink, he froze. It was her. Ms Bland. No mistake. Same suit.

Friday lunchtime

Before Hector could look away, her eyes locked with his. “Mr Bullivant,” she exclaimed, rising. “What a pleasant coincidence. Please will you join us?”

Again, the warmth, the inflection that conjured his mother’s loving smile, the compelling sense of calm, competent assuredness. Hector’s legs walked across to the table, his will powerless to stop them.

“Hector, this is Florian. Florian, Hector. I believe you both work in the same field. Investment. Hector, I was just bringing Florian up to speed on the matters we discussed earlier this week.”

The men bumped fists, exchanging wry smiles. Hector had not met Florian before; hardly surprising, given the number of investment bankers in the City and the infrequency of their visiting pubs under the current circumstances.

Again, Hector sat through Ms Bland’s lecture on crypto currencies and the most common mistakes investors made. Hector recalled his scepticism at their first meeting, wishing he had suppressed it and gone with her advice. He began to lose focus as she trotted through the script, although he was still conscious of her presence, her motherly aura of comfort, and his conviction that she was absolutely to be trusted. Had someone asked him to defend those feelings in rational terms, he would not have known where to start.

Finally, she proffered the solution Hector and Florian both needed so badly. A new crypto currency, THXCoin, looked extremely promising and could offer them a welcome return on a modest investment. To back up her claim, she cited the case of Ahmed Alamoudy from the United Arab Emirates, who had invested 1 USD for a laugh and had collected 1138 USD that same afternoon.

Everything in Hector’s rational mind said no. Yet, he was still irrationally drawn to Ms Bland. For a moment, he wondered if she might be secreting pheromones. Anyway, against all his principles, he raked in some cash and invested what he could in THXCoin. By teatime, both he and Florian were out of the woods, with over a thousandfold return on what they had put in. Hector suppressed his momentary sympathy for the poor suckers whose loss had financed their success.

Like the three ghosts who visited Ebenezer Scrooge, Ms Bland and her revelation were Hector’s epiphany. With a little creative accounting and borrowing from a few loyal friends, the two had raised enough to buy some THXCoin and lived to invest another day. Neither of them thought to thank Ms Bland, whom they probably would not have been able to find, anyway. It had occurred to neither than she had been the one who found and rescued them.

Monday lunchtime

“Would you care to taste the Montrachet, sir?”

“No; please pour,” replied Julian Lloyd.

The wine waiter filled Hector’s glass, then Julian’s, the liquid’s light gurgle the only impediment to the thick silence between them.

Each sipped and approved. Both studied the online menu on their smart phones and tapped in their orders.

“How’s business?” Julian asked.

Hector’s eyes narrowed. “Fine,” he replied.

Julian failed to suppress a mild smirk. “Glad to hear it’s looking up. Ms Bland bailed you out then?”

Their starters arrived before Hector could reply. Pâté for Hector; mushroom soup for Julian.

“Tell me, Hector,” said Julian as he wiped his mouth, “do you order your lunch with rational deduction, or does your gut guide you?” His eyes danced, sparkling.

“Fuck off, Julian,” Hector replied. “You’ll not draw me like that. Yes, the blonde Ms Blande led me out of the shit heap. I have mended my ways. Sometimes you have to follow your intuition. If I’m honest, I guess I always have. It’s just taken me until now to admit it. And it’s taken Ms Bland to show me how.”

Julian Lloyd’s brain raced for a riposte but he failed to find one. The two men continued with their meal and, thereafter, with their successful careers.