Debbie was looking at me intently. Then her face creased into a broad smile. 'You're weird. No you're not, you're nuts. You should see a psychiatrist immediately before you end up as a Hamilton Mark II. You are the one with an attitude problem.'
She stood up and wiped the grass off her dress. 'Anyway, I have got to go back to the office to polish my nails and you have got to charge into battle for your lord and master. Let's go.'
We walked back to the office in much better spirits. It was difficult for Debbie to be depressed for long.
I stopped at the coffee machine to replenish my caffeine level. As the gritty brown liquid flowed into my plastic cup, Rob came up beside me. 'Did you see Reuters?'
'No,' I said, my curiosity aroused.
'Have a look.' He grinned at me. Bad news I thought.
I returned to my desk and looked. There was a message on the screen that Congress was considering a change in the United States's double-taxation treaty with the Netherlands Antilles, a favourite tax haven and domicile for entities which issued bonds. IBM, General Electric and AT &T had all issued bonds through their Netherlands Antilles subsidiaries, as had a lot of less well-known borrowers.
I sighed. We would have to analyse these tax changes. Someone would have to go through the prospectus of every Netherlands Antilles issuer in our portfolio. It was a pig of a job.
'Debbie? A very interesting situation has just arisen…'
Debbie interrupted. With her legal background, and the time she had spent in De Jong's administration department, she was uniquely qualified, and she knew it. 'I know what you want me to do. You want me to read every Netherlands Antilles prospectus ever printed.'
'Well, er…'
'Don't deny it. The things I do for this firm. Morons like you blow bucketfuls of money on silly trades, and I get left to do the really glamorous stuff.'
But she seemed in good humour as she set off to collect the prospectuses.
Rob had followed me to my desk and perched himself on it, cup of coffee in hand. He grinned at Debbie's retreating figure, and began idly leafing through some of the research which had accumulated on my desk. Boring stuff. He had his own pile to go through, should he be so inclined.
'Can I help you?' I asked.
'No. Oh no. Just looking.' Rob said.
After a minute or so, he said, 'Up to anything?'
'Not really. This and that. And you?'
'Nothing much.'
'Are you doing anything interesting today?' he asked.
'Just the usual.' I wasn't going to help him.
Silence. More leafing through pages. Rob coughed slightly. 'Did I hear you say Cash Callaghan was coming in with his sidekick today?' he asked.
So that was it. 'Yes,' I answered.
'By "his sidekick", do you mean Cathy Lasenby?'
'I think that was her name. Why do you ask?' I smiled. I could guess very well why Rob asked. He had an intense passion for women. It was not the sort of passion that lies inside most young single men. It was not at all physical. Rob was always in love. The more unattainable the object of his love, the better. In fact, whenever he got too near to consummating his desire, his ardour would cool, and he would find someone new. He had only just recovered from Claire Duhamel. Having finally persuaded her to have dinner with him, he had been driven wild with jealousy by her constant references to a boyfriend in Paris. She had told him that Gaston was the only man for her. He had been inconsolable for two weeks.
He carried his energy and enthusiasm into areas other than his love life. He was a very emotional trader. He had a 'feel' for a market. He would claim his views were based on logic, but that was just rationalisation on his part. He either loved the market or he hated it. He was by no means always right, and when he got it wrong the world was a very dark place. However, like Gordon our chartist, he got it right more often than he got it wrong, which was the important thing.
Looking at him, you would never have guessed that he was tormented by such strong emotions. He looked very ordinary; light brown to fair hair, a chubby face, a little under medium height. But the frankness with which he displayed his passions had a certain charm. Women found him 'sweet' and seemed to be drawn to him, at least at first. I must admit that over the last few months I had found myself developing quite an affection for him. He was fun when he was making money, and I had learned to avoid him when he wasn't. I am afraid to say I often found his romantic tussles amusing, there was always a new crisis to hear about.
Rob ignored my expression. 'I've always been fascinated by junk bonds. It sounds as though it will be an interesting meeting. Do you mind if I join?'
I laughed. 'No, of course not. It's at three o'clock. Plenty of time to get to the flower shop across the road.'
Rob scowled at that, but couldn't prevent his scowl spreading into a grin as he walked away. I was looking forward to the meeting. Partly I was eager to be getting my teeth into some credit analysis again. Partly I was curious to see the woman who had aroused so much interest in Rob.
They arrived at three on the dot. It was difficult to imagine two more different people. Cash led the way, bustling his short, slightly overweight frame through the door of the conference room and bellowing hallos in his hoarse, loud Brooklyn voice. Cash Callaghan, originally Charles Callaghan, had established a reputation in New York that he had built upon since he had moved to London. He was the 'top producer' in Bloomfield Weiss, meaning he sold more bonds than any of the other hundred or so salesmen at the firm. His life style matched this success. The name 'Cash' reflected the large amounts of cash he earned, and the large amounts he so obviously spent. If ever anyone was larger than life, it was he. His personality seemed to fill any room he was in. His good humour and his throaty chuckle drew people towards him. He made you feel that you were a special friend of his, and that it was an honour to be a friend of someone so popular, who had so many other friends who were not quite as important to him as you. You wanted to please him, show him you appreciated his friendship. You did business with him.
Everyone felt this pull, myself included. I did my best to fight it. I didn't trust him. Partly it was because his small, blue piggy eyes seemed totally detached from his wide grin and bright white teeth. When he and everyone around him were smiling and laughing, those hard little eyes would be darting around, weighing up those around him, looking for opportunities to make the sale. Partly it was because I had suspected him of trying to pull one over on me once or twice. No doubt he succeeded with other clients, and no doubt they were still drawn back to doing business with him.
Behind this rush of energy came Cathy. She was tall and walked into the room with an awkward, angular grace. Her dark hair was tied tightly back behind her neck. She wore a crisp white blouse under an expensive looking blue suit, with a delicate set of small pearl earrings. She had a figure designed to wear elegant clothes, slim with sharp edges. But I couldn't help noticing her eyes; large and brown, they carefully avoided contact with anyone in the room. I could see what Rob meant. She had a mixture of untouchable beauty and vulnerability that must have been giving him all sorts of problems.
As we sat down, Cash began, 'Paul, I'd like you to meet my new colleague Cathy Lasenby. Cathy, this is Paul Murray, one of our more successful clients.' With this a broad grin in my direction. 'Rob, I believe you have met before.'
Cathy gave us both a thin smile, barely twitching the corners of her mouth. I nodded to her, and Rob smiled inanely and mumbled something incomprehensible in her direction.