Christmas at the Cupcake Café

Austin couldn’t deny that this was proving an eyeopener.

Merv Ferani, vice president of Kingall Lowestein, one of the largest Wall Street banks still standing, was manoeuvring him through the tables of the oak-panelled dining room, following the shapely form of the most beautiful waitress Austin had ever seen. Well, maybe she wasn’t a waitress. She had been standing at the front desk, checking names off on a list and being very rude to the people in front of her, but when Merv had marched in – he was very short, very fat and wore flamboyant bow ties – she had come over all smiles and gushing and eyed Austin up in a very forward way he found completely unnerving. He wasn’t used to very beautiful people being nice to him. He was used to quite normal-looking people asking him to please take his son off the bus.

They threaded their way through the tables, all of which were filled with affluent-looking people: men in expensive suits with pointed shoes; beautiful women, sometimes with much older, much less beautiful men. Merv stopped often to shake hands, exchange witticisms Austin didn’t understand and clasp people on the shoulder. To one or two he introduced Austin – ‘he’s just come over from London’ – and they would nod and ask if he knew so-and-so at Goldman Sachs or someone at Barclays and he’d have to shake his head and try not to blurt out that he was in charge of small business loans at a very small branch on Stoke Newington High Street.

Finally they reached their table. Two more waiters came dashing up to pull out their seats and pour them some water. Merv glanced in passing at the heavy embossed menu, then tossed it to one side.

‘Ah, what the hell. It’s getting towards that time of year. I love Christmas food. Let’s see if they do anything Christmassy. And a bottle of claret, the 2007 if they have it. Same for you?’

He cocked an eyebrow at Austin, whose stomach still thought it was night-time and was therefore more than happy to oblige. He did wonder, though, what would have happened if he’d asked for a green salad. He’d certainly have failed a test in some way.

The dinner plates were the size of heads. Austin wondered how much he was going to have to eat.

‘So, Austin,’ said Merv, starting in on the bread basket. Austin supposed that when you hit a certain level of wealth and success, you were just allowed to eat however you wanted. Manners were for little people.

It had happened very suddenly the previous afternoon. Austin had been in the offices of KL, feeling rather anxious about everything. The place was full of sharp-looking young men who must have been about his age but looked rather more groomed, worked out, somehow smooth; perfectly shaved with weirdly shiny skin and buffed fingernails, in expensive suits and shined shoes. (The only time Austin had ever been in a gym had been to pick Darny up from Scouts, and that had only lasted till Darny insisted that it was against his human rights to be sent to a quasi-paramilitary organisation.) And that was before you even got to the women. The women in New York were the most terrifying specimens Austin had ever seen. They didn’t even seem vaguely on the same planet as everyone else. They had incredibly muscular legs that ended in really sharp stiletto heels, and pointy elbows and pointy faces and they moved fast, like giant insects. They were beautiful, of course, Austin couldn’t deny that. They just seemed somehow other-worldly. Still, they had all looked over at him when he came in and had been very friendly. Austin wasn’t used to being scrutinised by women who looked like they could be models when they were finished with their banking careers. It was unnerving.

Another Brit, Kelvin, had walked him round. Austin knew Kelvin a little from before, from various courses they’d taken together when the bank was still stubbornly trying to promote Austin and Austin was still stubbornly trying to resist it. Back when he thought working in the bank was some kind of temporary manoeuvre.

Austin was impressed to see that Kelvin had lost weight, smartened up and generally seemed different. He’d even adopted a strange kind of transatlantic accent. Austin thought this made him sound a bit like Lulu, but didn’t want to mention it.

‘So you’re liking it here, then?’

Kelvin smiled broadly. ‘Well, the hours are a bit of a killer. But the lifestyle … amazing. The women, the bars, the parties … it’s like Christmas all year, man.’

Austin really didn’t want to say ‘man’ at the end of his sentences.

‘Okay. Um. Kelvin.’

Kelvin lowered his voice. ‘They’re short on men here, you know. As soon as they hear the accent and you lay it on a bit thick and pretend you know Prince William, they’re all over you.’

Austin frowned. ‘Kelvin, you were born in Hackney Marshes.’

‘Still London, isn’t it?’

They rounded the corner into the main trading floor. Austin looked around carefully.

‘Where the magic happens, bro.’

Austin only had one bro, who was almost as annoying as Kelvin.

‘Hmm,’ he said.

Kelvin winked broadly at one of the girls on the floor, who was tapping ferociously on her computer whilst on the telephone, but still managed to find the time to shake back her beautiful long black hair that looked like something out of a shampoo advert. The huge open-plan room was a hive of frenzied, scurrying activity: men standing up and shouting into phones, a ticker running overhead on an LCD display, people dashing about with files and looking busy.

‘Yup, here’s where the magic happens.’

‘Hmm,’ said Austin again.

‘What’s the matter? You’re not impressed?’

‘Not really,’ said Austin, a bit glumly. This was only a finding-out visit, and it was already obvious to him that he wouldn’t fit in here in a hundred years, so he might as well say what he thought. ‘I can’t believe you’re still pulling all this bullshit like it’s 2007.’

He pointed at a flashily-dressed trader bellowing into a telephone. ‘Come on! We’ve tried all this shouting bollocks before and it didn’t work then. This is a total waste of time. I bet no one in here really understands what a derivative is or why it’s such a terrible idea, except three quants in a back office taking five minutes off playing World of Warcraft. Banks have spent years pulling the wool over their own eyes. It’s not sustainable, and we know it now. Why isn’t the money flowing properly? To help real businesses, real people grow and build and make things? Because that castle-in-the-air stuff fell right down. Still, nice suit, Kelvin.’