Lost Reunions

By Shuhin Ali

Hot-shot 29-year-old investment banker Max Turner is handsome, wealthy and at the top of his game. But he is dogged by an overwhelming feeling of guilt and shame. What happened to the bright-eyed graduate determined to make the world a better place? Why does he fail to show up to the annual reunions of his closest friends from university? As the banking world is plunged into the financial crisis a chance encounter with one of his old university friends, Neela Ahmed, propels Max on an unexpected route to Bangladesh, where his unlikely friendship with a garment factory worker will change his life forever.

The author will make a donation of $0.50 to the Bangladesh Rural Development Foundation for each copy sold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shuhin Ali
• Release date: Nov 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301704224

Shuhin Ali

Shuhin Ali was born in 1983 in Cheshire, England. Shuhin lives and works in London and continues to write fiction.

Book preview

Lost Reunions

Shuhin Ali

Published by Shuhin Ali

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Shuhin Ali

The right of Shuhin Ali to be identified as the Author of the work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase you own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. The views and opinions in this work of fiction are not necessarily the views and opinions of the author.

Cover design by Andy Fielding

For my family

Chapter 1

Max awoke to the panicked thumping of his heart, again. He inhaled deeply to calm himself. To his right lay a woman. It was Stacey, her skin golden from the tan she’d picked up during the photo shoot in the Maldives. He thought he had come home alone. His recollection of his birthday celebrations was hazy. He needed to clear his head. He got out of bed.

Stacey reached for his hand. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

‘For a quick swim,’ he replied, a hint of Mancunian coating his voice.

He pulled on his dressing gown and sauntered out of the bedroom and over to the dining area, feeling the coldness of the wood flooring on the soles of his feet. His black notebook lay on the table, its leather corners beginning to wear away. On his twenty-fifth birthday he had noted down his net worth on the last page of the notebook. It was something he had done out of curiosity after reaching the quarter-century milestone. He did the same on his next birthday and it had since become a ritual. Now he was all but obsessed with making sure the numbers grew each year.

Yesterday’s entry read: ‘Aged twenty-nine. Net worth: two million, six hundred thousand pounds.’ Twenty nine years old, how the years are flying by,’ he said forcing a smile.

Rereading the back page used to make him proud of what he had achieved and excited for the year ahead. But those emotions had become subdued recently.

He shifted his gaze around his flat, taking in the shiny marble worktops in the kitchen, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Bang & Olufsen home-entertainment centre and the luxuriously comfy leather sofas. Resting his palms against the expansive window, he stared out at the Thames for a few seconds, feeling a shiver up his spine.

Once again that depressing feeling of guilt and shame that had become more familiar to him over the past few months.

Quickly, he brushed the shadows aside. I’ve worked hard for all of this, he reminded himself. I fucking deserve it!

Standing in the lift, he squinted at the brightness of the ceiling lights, then pressed Floor 21 for the swimming pool and gym. In the mirror he noticed the bags underneath his pale blue eyes and how unkempt his blonde hair was.

After a couple of lengths the freezing water began to feel refreshing. Max continued to swim but felt out of breath sooner than usual. He shouldn’t have drunk so much last night and maybe should have gone a little easier on the cocaine as well. Aged twenty-nine. Net worth: two million, six hundred thousand pounds. In his head he did the calculations: a bank balance of one million, three hundred and seventy thousand pounds; his central London penthouse flat – one million, one hundred thousand pounds; the Bentley Continental GT that he’d bought for one hundred and forty thousand pounds just before Christmas.

The guilt resurfaced, dragging with it a sense of self-loathing.

Those two emotions had a habit of creeping up on him and clinging on tightly. He hated the way they made him feel about himself. He was not going to let them take hold.

Pushing himself harder, he swam faster, his hands forcefully piercing the surface of the water. He threw himself underwater, swam an entire length, kicked off the wall and turned to swim another length. The air was trying to burst out of his lungs. He was swimming too fast, he needed to come up for a breath. But now the pain in his lungs drowned out that self-loathing. Another minute and he’d be able to drown it out forever. An eternal silence.

Instantly he jumped up for air, his competitive streak forcing him up. He wouldn’t let this beat him. He had never let anything beat him before and he wasn’t going to give in now.

His hair still damp from the shower, Max slid open the door of his walk-in wardrobe. Carefully selecting his navy Gieves & Hawkes suit, a pale blue Versace shirt and dark blue Versace tie, he decided to wear his Cartier watch and give the Rolex a rest. He brought the ensemble together as though all of those strands of wool and cotton had been stitched together solely for him to wear.

In the kitchen Stacey had made two cappuccinos, and a couple of slices of toast for herself. Standing by the quasi artistic cappuccino maker, she looked over to Max on the sofa. ‘I love this little coffee machine. Where can I get one?’

‘Imported from Italy,’ Max replied through a mouthful of porridge.

‘Hmm, Italy. I think I’ll give that one a miss then.’ She ran her hand along the marble worktop as she walked through the kitchen.

Shovelling spoonfuls of porridge into his mouth, Max looked at Stacey. She was wearing last night’s dress, her long brown hair as neat as it had been the previous evening. Why were you at my birthday party, he wondered to himself, and how the hell have you ended up in my flat, again?

‘So what did you think of the party?’ he said.

‘It was great. You’ll have to thank Ernesto for passing on your invitation. He said you couldn’t do it yourself because you’ve been so busy at work.’

‘Ernesto? Yeah, I’ll make sure I thank him for you.’ He should have known Ernesto had something to do with this. There would be plenty of time to deal with him at work.

Stacey came over and sat next to him on the sofa. An uncomfortable silence gathered around them. She gazed at him, shrugged her shoulders and smiled. Finding it difficult to lie, he gave her the truth.

‘I didn’t ask Ernesto to invite you to the party.’

Stacey’s smile slowly fell off her face. ‘Then why did he send me an invite in your name?’ she enunciated slowly.

‘I don’t know. Maybe because he’s Ernesto and sometimes he’s not the bri—’

‘Hold on a minute, why didn’t you invite me? And why haven’t you called me? Before last night I hadn’t seen or heard from you in weeks!’ Stacey got up and stalked towards the door.

‘Stacey, come on, don’t walk off. Sit down.’

Stacey hesitated. ‘All right, I’ll sit down. Not because you asked me to but because I want to!’ She glared at Max.

‘Firstly, we only went out a couple of times, so it’s not as if you’re my girlfriend.’

Stacey raised her eyebrows and shook her head disapprovingly.

‘And secondly, the reason I haven’t been in touch is – and I mean this in the nicest possible way – I just don’t have a great deal of spare time and I didn’t really want to spend it with you.’ As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he could have phrased them differently, but it was true.

‘What the fuck does that mean? I’m boring? I’m stupid? I’m not good enough for you? You think you’re so much better than everyone else with all your fancy, expensive crap!’

‘Stacey, calm down.’

She stood up, hand on hip. ‘Take a look at me. I can have anyone I want, anyone, and you’ve just lost out!’ She stormed over to the kitchen, picked up the cappuccino maker and smashed it onto the floor, turned around and strutted towards the front door.

‘Wanker!’ she vindictively spat out.

In an attempt to get in the last word, Max turned to see her heading out the door and shouted the first thing that came into his head. ‘Great ass!’

He took a look around his flat. What fancy expensive crap? But in the back of his mind he agreed with Stacey.

Once again that tinge of guilt resurfaced glossed with shame.

He hoped – and if he had been religious, he would certainly have prayed – that his day wouldn’t carry on the way it had started. If today went well, he would be held in the same regard as a select few and envied by the vast majority of his peers. It could be a real game changer, an induction to the hall of fame. Leaning his head back on the sofa, he looked up at the ceiling as if about to recite a prayer. ‘Forget about all this,’ he whispered. ‘You’ve got a big day ahead of you.’

And with that he picked up the shattered cappuccino maker and dropped it into a black bin bag.

Max arrived at the offices of Chatham Edwards Investment Bank just before 8am, a late start by his standards. The bright sunshine pierced the glass walls and filled the interior with thick shafts of natural light. The place was already buzzing with people. As Max entered, almost every set of eyes fixed on him. If charisma gave off light, then a mere glimpse of Max would be blinding, like gazing up at the sun on a blazing summer’s day. He had it in abundance – enough to get his name etched into history – the way John F Kennedy had it, the way Muhammad Ali had it.

He sat down at his desk beside the rest of the Mergers and Acquisitions team that he headed up. Ernesto, who sat next to Max, leant over and in his Spanish accent said, ‘You look better than I thought you would considering all the champagne last night.’

‘My morning would have been a lot better if it hadn’t been for you!’

‘What do you mean? I have only spoken ten words to you this morning.’

‘Stacey! That’s what I mean.’

‘Ah yes.’ Ernesto smirked at his friend and boss.

‘Ah no, Ernesto. Me and you are going for lunch today at 12.30. We’ll talk then.’

Since joining Chatham Edwards as a wide-eyed graduate, Max had rapidly excelled, outshining his peers and superiors alike. With each promotion came more money and, like his cars, his lifestyle became faster and more ostentatious. North London bistros turned into West London fine dining. He soon moved out of the cold box room he’d rented in a shared house in Mile End when he first arrived in London and into a flat of his own. He continued to upgrade every six months as his expectations and standards became more extravagant. Unwittingly he had gone from being the boy who wanted to change the world through finance to the man everyone around him wanted to become.

His talent marked him out like a Premiership footballer in a local Sunday league and had not gone unnoticed. The previous year he’d been promoted to vice president of Mergers and Acquisitions. He was great at drawing out the best in those he worked with: his intellect, attention to detail and uncompromising work ethic commanded the respect of his colleagues and managers. He was what every self-help-book reader was trying to become: attractive, confident, successful and wealthy. He had the aura of an heir, the heir to the throne in M&A.

Junior staff and interns bombarded the human resources department with their applications to work with Max and his team. His reputation was awesome and his inclusive management style offered his staff a genuine chance to realise their ambitions and potential. Max told himself that this was why they were one of the most respected teams at the bank, but the real reason was him. He was the reason they were one of the most highly regarded teams in the City, Docklands and probably the whole of Europe, let alone Chatham Edwards Investment Bank.

David Roberts, the elderly president of the M&A department, called Max into his office.

Max looked intently at the acne-scarred face of his boss, at the framed Harvard University MBA that hung on the wall behind him like a hunting trophy and then at the clock next to it. It read 11.45.

‘It’s a big day for you today, Maxwell. Quite a milestone in your career. Nervous?’ David Roberts asked.

‘No, not really. Excited, I’d say.’

‘No nerves? I don’t believe you,’ David Roberts said in his slow monotonous voice. ‘I remember the first ten billion pound deal I completed – over twelve years ago now. I couldn’t sleep for days before the shareholders deadline. My wife was fed up with me pacing around the house at all hours, and then I couldn’t sleep for a couple more days afterwards, what with all that adrenaline and excitement. That’s when I knew I’d finally made it.’

While Max sat wondering why he’d been called in to David Roberts’ office, his boss continued his monologue.

‘The market’s tough at the moment and it’s getting harder and harder for companies to find the credit to fund these deals. Just between the two of us, I think this could be the last big deal we see for a while. And I don’t mean just here at Chatham Edwards, but from the Square Mile to Wall Street. No need to worry, though. I can see a lot more smaller deals going through as the recession takes hold – and believe me, when the recession comes she’ll throw all the weak companies up in the air to be preyed upon by the strong, the strong being anyone with cash. Remember, Maxwell, in a recession cash is king.’

He paused suddenly, and looked at his next in line. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, Maxwell, how are you? You’ve seemed a little distant over the last few months, a lot quieter. You don’t seem your vivacious self.’

Most people were intimidated by David Roberts, finding his stature and position within the institution overpowering. They sat in his office as if summoned by the headmaster before a caning. But Max saw Roberts as one of his contemporaries, someone to intellectually challenge.

‘I don’t think I’ve been distant, just focused on getting this deal finalised. I’ve been trying to make sure that every detail has been scrutinised.’

‘Yes, of course. But if there is anything on your mind, my door is always open. We are a big family here, Maxwell. We look out for each other.’

‘Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.’

After almost forty-five minutes of listening to David Roberts, he needed a dose of fresh air. He signalled to Ernesto to join him for lunch.

Ten minutes later they were sitting in a sushi bar, facing the conveyor belt and watching the food slowly drift past them on colour-coded plates. Ernesto peered through the red frames of his small rectangular glasses and picked up a plate of spiced tuna. Max finished a mouthful of salmon roll.

‘You owe me a cappuccino maker,’ he said.

‘Why would I owe you a cappuccino maker? I didn’t even know you drank cappuccinos.’ Ernesto sipped his orange juice in an attempt to wash away the heat of the spiced tuna.

‘Stacey smashed it into pieces before she stormed out this morning.’

‘Hmm, Stacey breaks your cappuccino maker and I have to buy you a new one. I’m confused.’

‘Well, if you hadn’t been playing Cilla Black, she wouldn’t have been in my flat this morning.’

‘What is Cillablack? I’ve never heard this word before.’

‘It’s not a word, you ignorant Spaniard – she’s a person. But that doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is that if you hadn’t invited Stacey to my party last night, I would have had a peaceful morning.’

‘You’re a grown man, Max. I didn’t make you do anything and, if I remember correctly, I never forced you two to go home together.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘No. The point is you woke up next to a model this morning – next to Stacey Moran! You are pissed off because of this? Look around you! Most of the guys in here have never even spoken to a woman like Stacey. Take that bloke over there.’ Ernesto indicated a man sitting on his own next to the window, almost certainly an advertising sales consultant. ‘The only time he is ever likely to come across a woman like Stacey is when he sees her in a magazine and fantasises about her for the rest of the day. Get real, Max. What’s wrong with you? Is everything okay?’

‘Of course everything is okay. And I’m not pissed off – I just wanted to know why you said the invite was from me?’

‘Honestly, I think you have been acting strange recently – meek. Instead of coming out to parties, you spend most of your spare time in the office. The meek don’t inherit the world, you know. They just become poor and lonely. I thought it would be good for you to relax, have some fun like the old Max, no? I knew if I told Stacey the invite was from you, she would come to the party. It was just a gesture from a friend to cheer you up.’

‘What do you mean, the old Max? I am the old Max! I don’t need cheering up,’ Max protested, even though he knew he had changed, slightly.

Some of the glamour had faded from his lifestyle: fewer nights out in restaurants and bars, his trips to Savile Row less frequent. Instead he’d been focusing on his work. Work distracted him from his old friends guilt and shame, emotions that could leap out and hit him with the force of a hammer at any time.

Ernesto interrupted Max’s thoughts. ‘Anyway, if you want a cappuccino in the morning, do what the rest of us do and buy one on your way into the office.’

‘I’m not going to sell out and patronise one of those franchise coffee shops.’ Max’s old dislike of the corporate world, a legacy of his idealistic youth, tumbled from his mouth spontaneously, surprising even him. For the smallest of moments he even seemed a little embarrassed, as though he had blasphemed.

‘Sell out?’ Ernesto said, with confusion and a furrowed brow. ‘You work for an investment bank, not Greenpeace! What exactly would you be selling out from?’

Max didn’t reply but shot Ernesto an angry look and continued eating his sushi.

Ernesto changed the subject. ‘Did David mention anything about the deal when you spoke to him earlier?’

‘No, but there’s still a few hours before the Grafton Rail shareholders have to accept the Star Rail bid. And if they don’t accept, then I guess we’ll have get back to work with Star Rail to compose a better deal.’

‘This is the big one. You’ve put a lot of work into this.’ Ernesto compressed the jealousy in his voice, but it burned like a hot coal in the pit of his stomach.

‘Yeah, I’ve been trying to get beyond the ten-figure deals for years now. That’s what all the late nights have been for. But it’s not just me – we’ve all put a lot into this, the whole team.’

Ernesto smiled. His jealousy dissipated and a feeling of pride surfaced in its place. That was why Max’s team worked so hard for him. They knew that their achievements and successes would be shared, and that Max would ensure that when the spotlight shone on him it would be big enough to illuminate his whole team and not just himself.

‘What next after that?’ Ernesto asked.

‘We just keep going. Bigger international deals. But David reckons there’s a big recession on the horizon. He says the banks will keep their money in their pockets and these big deals could dry up.’

‘Well, even if the banks stop throwing their money about, there are still the sovereign funds of China and the Middle East. They’ll keep investing.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Max.

‘And once you pull this one off, all the big deals will be coming to you.’

‘They’ll be coming to the team, Ernesto, to all of us.’

Max raised his glass of iced mineral water. ‘To cash.’

Ernesto mirrored his actions and they toasted their success.

As the two men walked back through the offices of Chatham Edwards to the M&A department – side by side, which only served to emphasise Ernesto’s shorter stature – the whole office began to clap and congratulate Max. He theatrically accepted their praise, bowing and laughing as he went. It was as though he had just won an award and was making his way onto the stage to collect his trophy. He shook hands and flashed his smile as his colleagues stood to the left and right of him, like a guard of honour.

Ernesto followed in Max’s slipstream, a remora fish to his shark, collecting the scraps of adulation that trailed behind and shaking the odd hand. When Max reached his team he congratulated them individually. Julia, Patrick and Kevin couldn’t contain their smiles.

As satisfied as Max was with the outcome, he had expected to feel happier. Bursting with joy, even; ready to jump around the office. Instead, it felt anticlimactic. Like opening an unwanted present on Christmas morning.

David Roberts came out of his office and the clapping quietened down. He looked at Max and his team, then turned to the whole office.

‘As you can tell, the deal’s completed. Star Rail has acquired Grafton Rail and Grafton Rail has now delisted from the FTSE.’

Everyone clapped again and a few wolf whistles sounded out from the crowd.

‘I’m aware that you were all out for Maxwell’s birthday last night, so I’ll give you all a bit of time to recover and we’ll celebrate this achievement next week.’

He then turned to Max with a gleaming smile and solemnly shook his hand. ‘Welcome to the ten billion pound club, Maxwell.’

Chapter 2

A week had passed since the completion of the deal and Max continued with his normal routine, taking his early morning swim, shaving, and sifting carefully through his wardrobe to make sure he was immaculately dressed. But every day he woke up feeling emptier, like another piece of him had dissolved away during the night.

It was the end of the week and he sat at his desk feeling dejected, almost cheated. He didn’t want to finish for the weekend. He just wanted to look at the numbers. Create a financial model, calculate, recalculate and then remodel, hoping it would give him the answers as to why he felt this way.

It was difficult to look himself in the eye these days. He was afraid that the man staring back at him from the bathroom mirror or the glass stuck to the walls of a City wine bar would snarl at him, or chastise him for the man he was. More than that, he feared he would not even recognise his own reflection.

The one thing he was certain about in his life was his job. He loved his job completely. He had dedicated himself to it for almost a decade and he had excelled. So why didn’t the biggest achievement of his career fill him with elation?

Chatham Edwards had organised a party for the M&A department to celebrate the Star Rail deal. They had hired out the whole of the first floor at the Arctic Lounge, a cocktail and tapas bar in Soho that wanted to attract the young, clever and beautiful crowd but was competing with every other bar and restaurant on Wardour Street trying to do the same.

Max would rather have gone home and lain on his sofa listening to his own music, but he and his team were the guests of honour. If he wasn’t going to celebrate for himself, he felt he should at least celebrate for his team. They had been rapturous all week; it was a dream come true for them. Had this happened to him when he was in their position, he would probably have felt the same.

He didn’t bother to go home and change but stayed a little late at work, then headed straight over to the party from the office.

The decor of the Arctic Lounge was so white it made him shiver. White tables, white leather chairs, a white bar and white walls. It certainly lived up to its name, Max thought, as he made for the stairs. If they wanted to make you feel like you were in an igloo, then they had succeeded.

Making his entrance to the party, he greeted familiar faces and faked a laugh when some of them joked that they thought he had locked himself in the office for the weekend. Even though he’d come to the party without changing out of his work suit, he was still the best-dressed person in the room, suave and soigné.

At the bar two barmaids rushed over to take his order. One almost shoulder barged the other out of the way to make sure she could serve him.

‘Hi, my name’s Natalie, what would you like to drink?’ She flashed a wide smile and tried to hold his stare.

He ran his eyes down the cocktail list. ‘You don’t do an Old Fashioned?’

‘We’re only meant to serve the cocktails on the