73Promises, promises
Thirty-ve, thirty-six, thirty-seven. Please Brenda, I was silently
begging, keep your jacket on. Jerry bared his teeth, keeping his
gaze xed on head of compliance. ‘Come on,’ he muttered, ‘it
must be eighty degrees in there.’
Forty seconds. I’d been holding my breath because of the tension.
My maximum exposure was £400, which was £20 multiplied by
twenty seconds. And after that, my upside was unlimited.
Forty-nine seconds in and disaster struck. No! Brenda picked up
a manila le and fanned herself. ‘Looks like you’ll be making a
visit to the cash point soon.’
‘Don’t be so sure, Jerry. In six – no, ve – seconds I’ll be in the
kill zone.’
‘Don’t think so, mate.’ And, immediately he’d nished, Brenda
suddenly stood up and struggled to slip her green jacket from her
bulky shoulders.
‘Stop the clock!’ Jerry shouted out. ‘I make that four seconds. You
owe me eighty quid. Cash only, I’m afraid.’
But I’d stopped listening. A woman with long black hair elegantly
waved her manicured hands in front of her beautiful face. The
rst time I saw Perrine’s face was while I was losing money.
Sad to say, this was to prove an omen.
The time value of money
Perrine had been brought up in Paris, Madrid and Milan. She’d
studied art history in Turin and philosophy at Columbia. From a
purely rational point of view, it wasn’t entirely clear what Perrine
brought to Saiwai in terms of hard business skills. But I – like 90
per cent of Saiwai’s male staff – had fallen head over heels in love.
I smiled every time she mangled English, which was her third
or fourth language. Jerry was playing devil’s avocado with the
market. Old-time risk-averse investors were dinosaurs voting for
Christmas.