SCENE FOUR

SCENE FOUR

An eleven-year-old girl, Cathy, is having breakfast at one end of a long table. A second place is laid by her. Her cereal box is anomalous amid the silver and crystal containing coffee, milk, juice. There are expensive flowers on the table and also a fresh-folded Financial Times.

Jerry enters, laughing into his cell phone. He is five years older. He’s wearing chinos and a polo shirt.

Jerry Hey, what a coincidence... ! Enjoy your dinner, my friend.

He ends the call and, kissing Cathy, sits down.

Morning, Lollipop. How was the birthday party?

He has two phones, one personal, one business. He unfolds the Financial Times, glancing at a story below the fold.

Cathy We went on the London Eye, and had pizza and afterwards The Lion King.

Jerry (impressed) (!)

Cathy Dad, what’s coincidence?

Jerry A coincidence? You know what a coincidence is, it’s like a long shot...

Cathy A long shot?

Jerry ...No, wait, a coincidence is two things happening at the same time.

Cathy There’s lots of things happening at the same time all the time.

Jerry That’s true. So normally you don’t bother to call that a coincidence, but if two things which you don’t normally expect to happen at the same time, happen at the same time...

Cathy Like your friend having dinner when you’re having breakfast? You don’t expect that.

Jerry You do if he’s in Japan, where it’s dinnertime. But say you’re walking down the street and you bump into your school friend, you’d call that a coincidence, you’d say, ‘Fancy seeing you here! What a coincidence!’

Cathy Specially if I was walking down the street in Japan.

Jerry Especially then. You’d say, ‘Wow, that’s a one-chance-in-a-million coincidence!’ But there’s reasons why you were both in the same place at the same time, so in another way the million-to-one coincidence had to happen. You just didn’t have the information.

Cathy Like what?

Jerry Suppose your school friend was Japanese, and suppose you were both crazy about... dinosaurs. Then, maybe, instead of a million times, you’d only have to go to Japan a hundred times before you bumped into her at the dinosaur park in Tokyo. Though I wouldn’t bet on it personally.

Cathy I would. I could win a hundred pounds.

Jerry Or lose your pound.

Cathy Hm. Yes.

Jerry You need more information. Everything that makes the coincidence smaller and smaller till you decide it’s worth betting your pound, is information.

Cathy Did you have more information?

Jerry Oh, yes.

Cathy Did you bet on your coincidence?

Jerry Oh, yes. In fact, it wasn’t really a coincidence any more, and I didn’t need to go to Japan.

Cathy Hm. Will you show me how?

Jerry I will.

His phone burps. He glances, cancels it.

Eat up. The car’s downstairs and Marie-Cecile has got your bag.

Cathy Can I sit in front with Arthur?

Jerry No, Sam has to sit in front.

Cathy Why?

Jerry Because Sam is in charge, and he wants you in the back with Marie-Cecile.

Cathy Boo. If Mummy says I can, does it mean I can?

Jerry Definitely.

He glances again at the paper. Cathy produces a girly mobile phone, prods at the keys. Jerry accepts a call on his phone. Their voices more or less dovetail.

Hannah, good morning, but that’s it, goodbye.

He adds a laugh, then interrupts.

Because I’m not talking to you. You wrote yourself into Siberia.

Cathy (without preamble) Can I sit in front with Arthur?

Mummy gives her a blast down the phone. Cathy slumps under the cares of the world, like Hilary doing boredom.

Jerry It was inaccurate online, and you’re not looking pretty-in-pink, either.

He tosses aside the Financial Times.

Cathy All right! I was only asking!

Jerry When Krohl Capital calls the top of the market, we won’t be calling it in a blog, you bottom-feeder.

Cathy We went on the London Eye.

Jerry You should have listened to me.

Cathy He’s on the phone.

Jerry Have a nice winter.

Cathy Mum...

Jerry ends the call, and takes Cathy’s phone to talk into.

Rude!

Jerry Hi, sweetheart, don’t wait dinner, in fact don’t wait up.

Hold on.

(To Cathy.) Did you give Sally her present?

Cathy nods.

Yes.

No, I’d rather wake up in the country.

He checks his phone.

Here she is. Big kiss.

Jerry returns Cathy’s phone to her, and answers his own.

Cathy Mummy...

Jerry Simon.

Cathy Am I an orphan?

Jerry, listening to Simon, reacts to Cathy.

Jerry What?

Cathy (to phone) An orphan. Sally said if you’re adopted it means you’re an orphan.

Jerry Does this look like an orphanage?

His attention returns to his phone. Jerry is not thrown by the interruption, which in no way introduces an emotional note. Cathy’s responses are matter-of-fact, casual.

Cathy Uh-huh... uh-huh...

Jerry So here’s what, Simon.

Cathy Uh-huh.

Jerry I’ll write you a cheque for a hundred and ten million. Then you can stop worrying about me, and I can stop worrying about you.

Cathy Okay.

Jerry Only, don’t ask to come back in.

Cathy (losing interest) Okay.

Jerry Well, it’s your call.

Cathy Uh, pizza. And we went to The Lion King... (Yes, excellent.)...

Jerry I don’t know – because she’s a journalist.

Cathy All right, I’ll ask him. ’Bye, Mummy.

Jerry I’m gone.

They both end their calls.

(Mutters.) Wanker.

So ask me.

Cathy What?

Jerry Do you want to ask me something?

Cathy Why?

Jerry You said –

Cathy Oh. I have to ask Sam to stop in the village for dog biscuits.

Beat.

Jerry Dog biscuits. Right.

He picks up speed.

I’ve got a meeting with some people coming. Give me a kiss and get going.

Cathy What kind of people?

Jerry People kind. Don’t I get a kiss?

Cathy gives him a kiss.

Cathy Will you show me where you work?

Jerry I will.

Cathy Soon?

Jerry When you find it interesting. But I’ll take you to a place I know where there’s lots of interesting things, machines, monkeys...

Cathy When?

Jerry Soon, Cathy.

Cathy Okay. ’Bye, Daddy.

Jerry Sayonara.

Cathy goes. Jerry’s phone burps. He looks and listens.

Yeah. No, the dining room. And let me know when my visitors are in the lift.

He closes the call. He empties his cup, refills it.

Amal enters. He’s dressed to ape Jerry, but with a linen jacket. A lot richer than last seen. From haircut to shoes there has been a transformation. He is lightly nervous but breezy with it.

Amal Jerry. Beautiful apartment!

Jerry Shut the fuck up, and where do you get off calling me by my first name, you miserable piece of shit?

Amal faints, crashing over the furniture.

Christ.

Jerry lifts Amal up on to a chair. Amal is already coming round.

All right.

You need to put your head between your knees.

Amal obeys. Jerry strides back and forth, waiting. Amal sits up, and makes to stand up.

Sit down. Want to ask you something. What did you pay for that watch?

Amal Seven grand, sir.

Jerry Exactly how much?

Amal Seven thousand, one hundred and forty pounds.

Jerry What do you pay for a haircut?

Amal A hundred and fifty including a tip.

Jerry And this is – what? – five years since you came in with your arse falling out of your trousers, and found money pouring through the door. Do you know what brings that money through the door?

Amal makes a helpless gesture.

Confidence. Belief.

Amal Can I say something, please?

Jerry No, you can’t. You’re not here to say anything. (Taking a folded letter from his pocket.) You’re here to read this and sign it. It says you agree not to look for or accept a job outside the firm for two years, with no salary increase, no bonus, and meanwhile you sit in your corner and share your limp-dick, short-the-market wisdom with nobody except your supervisor – with a sign round your neck saying ‘Arsehole’, but that’s not in the letter. Then maybe you’ll think twice before dumping your unbelief with our name on it on a scumbag analyst selling his dope to high-rollers like for example our clients for whom pessimism is the bubonic plague, you brain-dead quant. What in fuck’s name did you think you were doing?

Amal Getting your attention.

Jerry Well, you got it. Can you stand up?

Amal Yes, sir.

Jerry Then, sign and walk.

Amal takes a fountain pen from his pocket. He talks while he gets the pen ready and signs and folds the letter and gives it back.

Amal Two years? The arsehole sign will be around a lot of people’s necks before two years. The market is acting stupid, and the models are out of whack because we don’t know how to build a stupid computer. The market is a belief system with a short memory, and it’s leveraged on highly correlated billion-dollar bets – and trillions on side-bets – which are going to go wrong together. You pay me for my research.

He gives the folded letter back to Jerry.

Jerry I don’t pay you to post it like a fridge magnet on the reception desk.

Amal But I wasn’t wrong.

Jerry You were early, which is the same thing.

Amal (beat) You’re going short the market?

Jerry Use the service stairs.

Amal leaves.

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