BANKING ON TOM CHAPTER 1

 BANKING ON TOM CHAPTER 1

IRISH BUSINESS BANK 

 

MONDAY 17TH FEBRUARY 1992

 

The harsh February rain buffeted the double-glazed windows that overlooked an angry sea in Sandycove, County Dublin. The 6.00 a.m. alarm sounded as Tom Nolan was washing his teeth. He looked into the mirror that revealed a blotchy, jowelled jaw, the product of long, stressful hours at work washed down with fine Bordeaux wines.

 

He slapped the alarm off. Twenty years of working in Irish Business Bank had aged him forty. Twenty years of marriage to Janet had probably aged him more. Once a slim and vivacious air-hostess, she had become an overweight alcoholic who retreated with a bottle of vodka to her bedroom from early evening onward.

 

Tom took a quick shower but could not bear to look in the mirror at his once athletic frame now resembling Michelin man. ‘Must get rid of that full length mirror’ he thought to himself. Indeed there were many changes he might make to the once pristine detached house. Years of Tom working too long and too late in the office, when not entertaining clients and many years of Janet doing little other than drinking had resulted in the upmarket pad ‘The Billows” lose some of its charm. Clients and friends were no longer invited round to the house but to fancy restaurants either in town or in the necklace of pretty villages along Dublin’s southern bay.

 

Tom put on what he described as his uniform. A pinstripe suit, a white shirt monogramed with ‘TN”, golden cuff links and a Leinster Rugby tie. He had played at out half for the province in his early twenties – a lifetime ago, or so it seemed. He made his way down the heavily carpeted stairs. There was little chance of waking his teenage daughters who had sided with the mother years ago and now spoke to him only to ask for money for school skiing trips. Needless to say they went to the most expensive and insufferable girls' secondary school in Dublin. 

 

The engine of the racing green Jaguar XJ8 Vanden Plas gave a throaty growl. He hit the accelerator spinning the powerful wheels as they churned the gravel of the expensive driveway. His neighbours, mostly retired stockbrokers and medical specialists would not rise for another two hours. He pointed the powerful car in the direction of the City Centre through leafy Dublin suburbs. His journey took him along the coast with its white and yellow twinkling lights. He passed through a sleeping Dun Laoghaire enjoying the quiet, special moments of the day when he had the road and the world to himself.

 

Jim Whitty, the security man was dressed immaculately, with the IBB logo in gold on epaulettes, lifted the barrier that led to the car park. Jim was a gnarled man in his early seventies. He had been with the bank in its various forms for over fifty years. He had seen new owners come and go, different directors come and go, different signs over the building. The only constant was Jim.

 

‘Wet day, Mr. Nolan’. Jim could not bring himself to address the Director of Banking  other than Mr. Nolan. He belonged to a generation that cherished authority and still believed in it, despite disappointments.

‘Hard to believe we are technically in Celtic Spring’ Tom replied with a rueful smile.

 

Tom put on the coffee percolator and looked at the monthly report that had been faxed overnight from Head Office in London. He was finding it increasingly difficult to understand the accounts. What was simple banking had become more complex in the past two years as the parent company, British Business Bank, BBB, tried to increase profitability by trading in ever more exotic and complex products. He was under pressure to chase profits and follow suit. To date he had managed to side step this pressure with the skill born of his rugby days. He knew he was running out of road. Some younger buck would be looking for his job or London would give him a gold watch and a  retirement package meant to assuage his grief on the golf course, the scrap heap for middle aged bank managers. It was only a matter of time before his record of quiet plodding ,consistent, modest profits would be questioned. And found wanting.

 

Dawn had not broken through the windows of the penthouse apartment in ritzy Ballsbridge, Dublin’s most expensive district. Maura Devine snuggled into Kevin under the duvet. She pressed her bare breast into his naked back. This was normally enough to get an eager response. She was anxious to keep the passion in their recent marriage – aware of the pitfalls of lazy familiarity that had ruined their first marriages which both had ended messily a decade ago.

 

Was she imagining it, or was there a lack of intensity in their love making in recent weeks? She knew the animal passions would flare out over the years but it was partly a cry for recognition she was now seeking. She had begun to get worried. Even when Kevin turned over and made love, it seemed a little mechanical, born more out of duty than care.

 

She reflected that the summary lovemaking might suit her fine. She had an appointment at 7.30 with a very attractive instructor in the expensive gym close to her new employer IBB. She had been appointed Head of Compliance of which she knew very little. She felt the need to compensate for what she lacked in technical ability with a figure-hugging skirt and an executive slit that barely but perceptibly revealed her shapely legs, just above the knee.

 

Her job in IBB was important to her. She had found and left four jobs in five years. While at one level it looked as if her career was in an ever-ascending ark she knew she had to make a success of this job. This was a kind of last chance saloon. A number of the more established staff were upset about her parachuting in above them. None less than Steph Wood, Head of Administration. Rightly or wrongly Maura only worried about the people above her in the organisation and barely noticed those below and cared less.

 

It never took Steph long to dress. As a senior manager in IBB she could have chosen not to wear the unflattering Bank uniform worn by grades below her. But she had given up looking alluring shortly into her career. Although pretty in a chubby way, her pride and fine intelligence propelled her to look for advancement through her ability and hard work. Slowly at first, then more quickly, recognition arrived and soon after promotions followed.

She rose to head of administration and compliance in the Bank. Her salary and borrowing powers through the bank would have allowed her move out of her parents’ imposing house in genteel Rathgar but she had little demands and had grown comfortable with the consistency and predictability of her life, personal and professional.

 

That is until miss lacy knickers arrived on the scene some six months ago. Maura Devine had appeared out of nowhere and as a complete surprise. She was the choice of Head Office in London. She had impressed Ben Osborne Head of Strategy with her guff and well turned-out business suits. Maura’s CV was opaque to say the least. No one could pin down what exactly she had done. She had worked in different companies and different industries, most recently in advertising where she met her new husband Kevin O’Gorman, Managing Director of Adsome Advertising Agency an up-and-coming business in the frothy world of PR. It wasn’t clear why she had joined Adsome or why she had left. But she certainly must have talked a good talk in interviews. Getting jobs didn’t seem to be a problem for Maura. Holding onto to them was the challenge.

 

On her first day Maura arrived in a figure-hugging suit and a plunging blouse armed with a title Head of Strategy. No one in Dublin was quite sure what that meant but were willing to give London the benefit of the doubt, even if their credibility was wearing a little thin. Dublin senior management felt they would keep their ammunition for more important battles. It became quickly apparent there was no need for a Head of Strategy in Dublin.  All the Department heads knew what they were doing and where they were going. Consultant speak did not sit well with anyone. So Head Office came up with a new ruse. Head of Compliance. Even though Steph had been head of compliance for a decade and the Central Bank had every confidence in her, Maura ended up doing a job which Steph had been doing as part of her portfolio. To add insult to injury Maura was promoted to Director with a bigger salary than Steph. Steph who had been happy with salary and conditions was no longer happy with anything.

 

Tom was asked to intervene and play peacemaker. He had a long and solid relationship with Steph who respected him. He managed to get Steph to communicate with Maura. Words between them were few and far between. Steph gathered all the compliance files and dumped them on Maura’s desk and muttered ‘Good luck with that’. She turned on the flat heels of her sensible shoes and left.

 

Steph gazed at her navy-blue uniform and decided today would be different. She had once read about a heroine who when depressed just went into town and bought some pretty clothes. She picked a lacy blouse that pronounced her generous bosom and a flattering skirt that disguised her ample hips.

 

Over breakfast her ageing father who had been showing signs of Alzheimer’s looked up over his cup of tea. His blue eyes smiled. ‘Ah, Christmas Party tonight?’. Steph felt there was little point in explaining it was February and that she was experiencing a middle aged breakdown.