happen, because even when you got to a scary bit the story knew where it was heading and it couldn’t be stopped no matter how much you wanted it to be. And the good thing was you knew it would turn out happily in the end.
But she shook her head sadly and said, “No. Wind it, Mummy, wind it!” Soon after, my daughter transferred her allegiance to Barney the Dinosaur, whose
Adults want to rewind life too. It’s just that along the way we lose the capacity to shout it out loud. “Wind it, wind it.”
39 Endgame
Edwin Morgan Forster, one of the City’s oldest financial institutions, triumphed at the fifth annual Equality Now awards on Tuesday night, winning the category for Most Improved Company for its commitment to diversity.The firm scored highly in an annual benchmarking survey conducted by Equality Yes! an organization committed to gender parity whose members include 81 percent of the FTSE 100 companies.The judges were particularly impressed by the volume of business generated by Katharine Reddy, EMF’s youngest female manager, and Momo Gumeratne, a twenty-four-year-old Sri Lankan graduate of the London School of Economics. Unfortunately, the two women were unable to attend the ceremony, but the award was collected by Rod Task, EMF Head of Marketing. In his acceptance speech, Task said, “There is a good deal of evidence that mixed gender teams are critical to effective team functioning. EMF is at the forefront of bringing women into major roles in the financial community.”Striking a less positive note on the evening was Catherine Mulroyd, chair of Women Mean Business. “These awards are not telling the whole story,” said Mulroyd. “It’s hard enough to reach a position of real influence as a woman in the Square Mile without wrecking your career by opening your mouth to criticize the culture. Equality for women remains a marginal issue for most City firms. It seems pointless for banks to spend vast sums on training female recruits, only to lose them because they do not have flex time or any of the things that could keep mothers on board.”Asked if the old-boy culture was a thing of the past, Task pointed out that he was from Australia and was therefore very much part of the new-boy network: “The girls have done just great this year and I’m proud of them.”
My father gave the performance of his life during the presentation to Chris Bunce of the biodegradable nappy. Debra, who was present throughout in her capacity as legal adviser, told me that Dad was not only sober but clearly relished the part of maverick inventor. His master stroke, Deb said, came when Bunce offered to write a check there and then and Joe, who had spent a lifetime trying to wheedle checks out of people, said that he and his lawyer would be meeting a number of interested parties over the coming days, but naturally they would keep EMF informed.
I had explained to Dad that I thought I had found some venture capital for his invention, but it would require him to pretend to be someone else and to tell some minor untruths. In almost any other father-daughter relationship, this would have been a bizarre exchange, but for us it felt like the natural culmination of years of pretense, an acknowledgment that forgery is woven into the Reddy DNA along with blue eyes and a facility with numbers.
“He’s a brilliant guy, your dad,” said Winston, who acted as chauffeur for the nappy entrepreneur in a black BMW with tinted windows that he had borrowed from a man he described as his uncle. “Joe’s a really great tipper.”
“Yes, with my money.”
Three days later, Bunce signed over the cash. Swaggering in from lunch that afternoon, he told his deputy, Veronica Pick, that she should pay attention to his amazing coup; this was where men scored over women, acting decisively, scenting a great opportunity and not getting bogged down in the fine print.
“Oh, you did your due diligence, did you?” asked Veronica sweetly.
“What d’you mean?” said Bunce.
“Due diligence,” said Veronica. “Checking the directors’ credentials are what they say they are, sussing out plant and production viability, veracity of bank references….But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you about any of that.”
“If I need your advice I’ll ask for it,” said Bunce.
Nor could he resist gloating to me the next morning as we gathered in the conference room, one hand massaging his manhood as though it were Aladdin’s lamp. “Found this brilliant new nappy product, Kate. Gonna make us a shitload of money — geddit? Shitload! Just your kind of thing, Mum, pity I got there first.”
I bestowed upon him my most maternal smile.
The money Bunce invested was enough to cover the business’s debts and therefore to pay off my father’s creditors. No sooner had it landed in J. R. Powers’s account than it was gone. As I had predicted, neither that nor Momo’s formal complaint of sexual harassment was quite sufficient to sink Bunce for good at EMF.
That was taken care of a few days later when an interview that Edwin Morgan Forster’s Head of Venture Capital had given to the investigative TV journalist Alice Lloyd appeared in a national tabloid newspaper under the headline PORN AGAIN! (HOW CITY’S MR. BIG KEEPS IT UP).
Alice had taken Bunce to a favorite media haunt in Soho. After ingesting quantities of drugs legal and illegal, he became very forthcoming, and the sighting of a young soap star across the room sent him over the edge. “I’d like to have her on my website,” he told Alice. “Actually, I’d like to have her anywhere she likes it.”
Boasting about his ability to pick winners, Bunce cited a recent investment in a certain biodegradable nappy, which he reckoned was “gonna be bigger than fucking Viagra.”
The City can always act to neutralize bad smells within the Square Mile, but when the stench reaches beyond, to the sensitive nostrils of clients and opinion-formers, retribution is swift and merciless.
The morning after the article appeared, Candy and I stood and watched as Chris Bunce was called into Robin Cooper-Clark’s office, escorted by two security guards to his desk, which he was given three minutes to clear, and then finally marched out of the building.
“Anybody got that falconer’s number?” shouted Candy. “There’s a rat in the street.”
In the ladies’ washroom a few minutes later, I found Momo Gumeratne crying, her face buried in the roller towel. “Happy crying,” she insisted, between hiccups.
And me? I was glad he was gone, of course. But without noticing it, I had started to find Bunce more sad than bad.
At lunchtime, Momo and I took a cab to Bond Street. I told her it was important work-related business, which it was.
My assistant was puzzled. “What are we doing in a shoe shop, Kate?”
“Well, we’re looking for a glass slipper that can take the highest possible pressure per square millimeter and doesn’t fall off at midnight. Failing that, we’ll take these, and these — oh, and those brown boots are great. Excuse me, do you have these in a four?”
“Are your feet size 4?” asks Momo dubiously.
“No, yours are.”
“But I can’t possibly.”
Twenty minutes later, we were standing at the cash desk with four boxes. Faced with the choice between the tan kitten heels and the navy slingbacks, we chose both. And then we took the black stilettos because they were too beautiful not to own and the toffee boots, which were a total bargain.
“I love the black ones,” she says, “but I can’t actually walk in them.”
